“Don’t,” I said automatically. I was having a hard enough time stomping down the sympathy any normal person would feel for a lonely, scared guy on the run. I couldn’t deal with throwing our complicated relationship into the mix, too. I was focused on finding out who had killed Courtney and Kaylee. That was it. Dead bodies I could deal with. My feelings toward my ex-boyfriend? I was still a little too chicken to delve too deeply into those.
But Josh didn’t back down so easily.
“Please listen. This may be the only chance I get to say this.”
I took a deep breath, reminded myself he was pond scum, and steeled myself to hear the worst. “Fine. What?”
He licked his lips. “I was wrong. I hurt you, and I can never tell you how sorry I am. I know I can’t take it back, even though I would do anything to,” he said, leaning forward. “I really would. These last few days, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and, Hartley, I just want you to know that I realize how much I hurt you. I betrayed your trust. And I will never forgive myself.”
That was by far the most intelligent thing I had ever heard Josh say. What do you know, being on the run had made him grow up. And grow a soul. A really deep, articulate one.
I stared at a spot of lint on my comforter, blinking back a piece of dust in my eye. (Yes, dust. It was not tears. I had allergies. Probably from having hidden under Chase’s bed. No way were they tears, and no way did they mean I had any feelings whatsoever for Josh.)
“Hart,” he went on, his voice lower as he leaned forward. “Is there any way that we could possibly start over . . . ? I mean, I know we can’t go back to where we were. But maybe we could go forward?”
I blinked hard (Freakin’ dust!) and took a deep breath that was surprisingly shaky. I opened my mouth to answer.
Only I never got the chance.
“Freeze!”
My bedroom door flew open so hard it rattled on its hinges, the doorknob denting the wall behind it. Two armed police officers burst through, both holding menacing black guns straight-armed in front of them.
I screamed again. And despite their suggestion to freeze, I couldn’t help instinctively jumping off the bed and scrambling as far into the back wall away from those guns as I could go.
Luckily for my inability to freeze, the police weren’t so much interested in me as they were the guy still sitting on my bed like a deer in the headlights.
“Hands over your head!” the first cop shouted at Josh.
Josh complied, shooting both up as high as they could go.
“Don’t shoot. Please, God, I didn’t kill anyone. Don’t shoot!” he pleaded, his voice rising two octaves.
“Josh DuPont?” a familiar voice asked. I looked up from the shiny black guns (With difficulty. Amazing how deadly weapons in your bedroom tend to draw your attention.) to find the round frame of Detective Raley filling my doorway. Behind him, Mom hovered, her hand over her mouth in shock.
“Are you Josh DuPont?” Raley asked again.
Josh nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down, his hands still high above his head.
Raley crossed the room in one quick stride, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt and clamping Josh’s hands behind his back. “Josh DuPont, you’re under arrest for the murders of both Courtney Cline and Kaylee Clark. You have the right to remain silent.”
Josh looked at me, fear and pleading in his eyes.
I looked at the black guns again, wishing the cops would holster them already.
And Raley looked like the cat that ate the canary and all his friends, a gleam of satisfaction lighting his eyes, a smirk creasing his freckled cheeks. All those hours of watching my inert front door had finally paid off. Raley had got his man.
NINETEEN
LAST YEAR MY MOM SURPRISED ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY WITH tickets to see Legally Blonde the musical up in San Francisco. I’d never seen the movie, but it sounded like fun—bubbly blond, lots of cool costumes, and a day out with Mom in SF. Cool.
I had fallen in love with the musical. Elle Woods was this totally cute, totally fun girl who was actually supersmart underneath it all. An upbeat person who everyone underestimated. It was a classic don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover story.
Elle became my new hero.
Which is why I felt so stupid when I realized that Raley had pulled an Elle on me. With his typical cop looks, donut-guzzling belly, and fatherly demeanor, I had pegged him as a dumb cop on the wrong track. It turns out he’d actually been a pretty smart cop on the wrong track.
Of course he’d followed me to the football field the night Kaylee died. Of course he realized I must have climbed out my bedroom window. And, of course, he realized that if I could climb out, Josh could easily climb in. In fact, it turns out he’d watched Josh climb in on Wednesday night as well, only he’d been waiting for arrest warrants to come through, so he could be certain that once he picked Josh up, he wasn’t going to lose him again. Turns out, you can’t legally hold a suspect unless you charge him with something. At least, that’s what Cody Banks texted to Jessica Hanson the following morning, explaining what Josh’s parents had been told by their high-priced attorney who, despite the $50,000 (or $75,000 depending on whether you believed Kyle’s text or Erin Carter’s) retainer they’d given him upon returning from Alaska last night, had been unable to get Josh out on bail. So, until his trial date Josh was residing in the Santa Clara County juvenile detention facility.
And by Monday morning, his arrest had once again put yours truly front and center on the tongues (and mobile devices) of the gossip-minded at HHH.
To be honest, by this point I was so used to being the HHH leper that I hardly even cared. In fact, I didn’t mind the gossip. I was totally fine with it.
I was fine with the way I could hear my name whispered a dozen times as I walked down the hall. Hey, it meant everyone knew my name. Look at how popular I suddenly was! The sidelong looks and pointing from across the quad? I was turning heads. Isn’t that what every girl wants? And the way conversation stopped every time I walked into the room? Made it that much easier to hear my own thoughts. It was all totally fine.
I was sure that in another week some other tragedy, like Cole Perkins’s enormous zit right before homecoming, would capture everyone’s collective attention and the Girl Who Dated Killers and Found Dead Bodies would be a thing of the past. Until then, I was so freakin’ fine being the star of HHH tabloid texts it wasn’t even funny.
So engrossed in my fineness was I that as I rounded the corner to the east wing I almost smacked right into the polyester-clad form of Mary Bessie.
“Hartley,” she said, tilting her head ninety degrees to the left. “How are you, dear?”
I took a deep breath.
“Fine.”
“You can feel fine, but fine is not a feeling.”
I opened my mouth to tell her how fine my feelings were and what a load of crap that was.
But what came out instead was a choked sob.
“It’s true. I do have feelings!”
“Oh, honey,” she said, enveloping me in a hug that smelled like patchouli oil and Fancy Feast. “Let it out. Let it all out.”
For once, I did as I was told. I hiccupped another big sob. “I don’t want Josh to be sorry! I’m not a CSI! I hate being a leper!”
I was aware that I was making no sense. But, thankfully, it seemed that Ms. Bessie was either used to incoherent teens or just didn’t much care so long as I was doing the requisite crying.
“Come into my office,” she said, putting an arm around me. “I have tea.”
“Okay.” I sniffed. “I like tea.” What can I say? My life had crumbled to the point where all it took to break me was the offer of chamomile brewed on a hot plate.
I followed her down the hall and into a room next to the janitor’s closet. It was small, just large enough for a desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookcase filled, I noticed, with volumes on psychology and cat care. A hanging plant was precariously balanced from the ceiling tile
s in the corner. I had to hand it to Ms. Bessie for trying to make a former storeroom seem homey and inviting.
On her desk sat a collection of tchotchkes—a PEZ dispenser shaped like an elephant, a Beanie Baby, a pencil holder that looked like a hobbit, and a picture frame decorated with multicolored buttons glued onto Popsicle sticks.
“Your baby?” I asked, pointing to the frame.
“Yes!” Her face lit up with a big smile that showed off two rows of crooked teeth. She flipped the frame around so that I could see the picture. A Volkswagen Beetle with a large tabby cat sitting on the hood.
“Her name is Priscilla. She’s my pride and joy. My little fur baby,” she said, making kissy faces at the photo.
And I was the one who needed counseling?
“She’s . . . cute.”
“Thanks. I find that felines make great companions. They love you unconditionally even if you don’t make the most money in the world and prefer to help young people with their problems instead of becoming the doctor your mother always dreamed of.”
“Uh-huh.” Suddenly, I felt a whole lot better about my life.
The phone on her desk rang.
“I’m so sorry. Let me just take this then we can chat,” Ms. Bessie said. She grabbed the receiver with a cheerful “Mary Bessie here” that was almost done in song. She paused as she listened to the caller on the other end. “Well, when did she last take her meds?” she asked. Another pause. “Some side effects are normal,” she went on.
I tuned her out and concentrated on sipping my tea. It was hot and strong, having simmered on the hot plate at the edge of her desk since God knows when. I took another sip. I had to admit, it did have a bit of a comforting effect. The warm liquid flowing down my throat somehow cleansed the taste of tears away. And as it hit my belly, it calmed the anxiety bubble that had taken root ever since guys with guns had burst into my bedroom on Saturday night. And the heat of the cup against my palms was nice. Warm was a good feeling. One that was tangible, identifiable. Safe. Unlike the thousand different unidentifiable feelings warring in my belly when I thought of Josh, Raley, Chase, and this whole mess I’d gotten myself into.
Yes, I had feelings. And they were not fine. They were a freaking mess. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d been about to say to Josh when Raley and his goons had burst in. The look in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice . . . I mean, we all make mistakes, right? Sure, some of them are larger and more deadly than others, but the thought of Josh in a prison cell had left me tossing and turning all weekend.
Not to mention the fact that the police arresting a guy for murder on my bed had made my mom freak out so badly she’d called my dad and they’d spent the next two hours tag-team lecturing me on speakerphone about how I would never be allowed to look at a guy again until I was thirty, let alone date. And having my own car? No way. Going away to college and living in a dorm? Way too risky. At one point Mom even suggested having me implanted with a homing chip, and Dad actually considered it for a moment before telling me I was officially grounded until the end of my natural life. Or until I turned eighteen, whichever came first (and judging by the way he was growling at me, it was a toss-up).
And, as if that weren’t enough, Chase had texted me.
You lied to me.
As soon as the cops had left, and I was free from the Lecture to End All Lectures, I had called Sam and told her everything, still shaking as I recalled the gleaming black of real guns pointed at me and the click of Josh’s handcuffs. Of course, Sam had immediately called Kyle, who had texted half the water polo team, and in an hour’s time, everyone on the Verizon network knew.
Including Chase.
The truth was, I’d lied to a lot of people in the past week. As much as I’d been pissed at Josh for lying to me, I’d turned around and become what I’d hated him for. Granted, I hadn’t professed my undying love to Chase, then gotten naked with some guy behind his back. But I had promised him my partnership. And I had hid Josh from him. I was pretty sure he knew I’d been hiding Josh the whole time, but I guess the confirmation was the difference between wondering what a condom wrapper was doing in your boyfriend’s locker and seeing video footage of him with Courtney Cline behind the bassoon rack.
I’d spent all Saturday night plagued by disturbing dreams of people chanting “liar, liar, pants on fire,” Josh’s puppy dog eyes, Chase driving at a breakneck speed away from me in his dented Camaro, and Courtney Cline’s puffy face, her tongue protruding from her mouth as she asked me why I couldn’t find her justice.
I took another sip of chamomile.
But the tea would make it all better.
I glanced again at the picture of Priscilla. Maybe I should get a cat. I could dig being a crazy cat lady. Priscilla looked nice. Nonjudgmental. Maybe Ms. Bessie was onto something here.
I looked at the picture. Sipped my chamomile. Looked at the cat on the hood of the car again. It was one of those older Beetles that you hardly ever see on the road anymore, most having broken down in surrender sometime during the seventies. But it was cute. Distinctive, kinda like Ms. Bessie.
I took another sip of tea, wondering what kind of car I might have gotten if I hadn’t been grounded until the end of time. What car would fit me? A cute Beetle? A sporty Jeep like Josh’s? A speedy little Camaro like Chase’s?
And suddenly it hit me.
Sam and I had borrowed a car to drive to Josh’s house after school. With such a short window of time, the killer must have driven to Josh’s house as well, if he’d gotten there before us. No way could he have had time to walk there from school, kill Courtney, and leave before we pulled up.
Which meant he had to have a car.
Which meant he had to have parked it somewhere on Josh’s street.
I popped up from my seat, making for the door.
“Hartley?” Ms. Bessie called. “Where are you going?” she asked, covering the phone receiver with one hand.
“I’m great. You know what, that tea totally worked.” I looked down. In my haste, I’d almost walked out with her “Feelings Are Our Friends” mug. I set it down on her desk. “Thanks. I feel ten times better. You are so good at your job,” I said, waving behind me as I backpedaled out the door.
“Oh. Well, okay . . . I guess,” she said, waving after me.
The second I was free, I dug my phone from my book bag, ignoring the bell echoing off the walls, signaling the end of first period. People rushed by me on both sides, running to their next classes as I typed in Chase’s number. I impatiently tapped my foot against the linoleum floor as it rang three times on the other end. I swear I could feel him reading the screen on his end and mentally debating whether or not he wanted to take a call from a total liar. Apparently, he went with not, as the call was tossed to his voice mail. But I was hot on an idea to bust this case wide open, and I was not going to be deterred by voice mail. I dialed again. This time he picked up on the second ring.
“What?”
I swallowed down the lump of regret and glossed over the less than friendly greeting.
“I need to see your pictures again. The ones you took the day of Courtney’s murder.”
I could feel him frowning on the other end. “Why?”
“There may be evidence in them. Where are you? Can we meet at your place?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable having you there.”
Okay, I deserved that.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied, I like your Star Wars sheets, you’re not that bad of a driver, and I swear on my new Very Cherry lip gloss that I will never lie to you again.”
I thought I heard a muffled laugh on the other end, but when his voice came back it was as deadpan as ever. “What evidence?”
I took that as a good sign.
“The killer had to have driven to Josh’s house, which means his car must have been parked nearby while he was killing Courtney.”
“Okay . . .” he hedged.
“And, by the time S
am and I got there, he was gone.”
“Which means, his car would be, too,” Chase said. I could feel his mental gears clicking into rotation.
“Which means,” I said, “we need to look at the pictures and see which car was on the street at two thirty—”
“And gone by three fifteen!”
“Exactly!”
“I’m on it. I’ve got the pictures on my camera at home. I’ll ditch my next class and go look them up.”
“Text me as soon as you find something.”
“Done,” he said, and hung up.
Whether it was the chamomile or the good long cry or the fact that Chase was once again speaking to me, I had a little spring in my step as I walked to second period, only five minutes late. I might be a leper, but I was a leper with a clue.
TWENTY
I WAS ALMOST GLAD TO HAVE P.E. SECOND PERIOD SO that I could burn off my excess energy. Though, I had to admit, I was totally preoccupied during volleyball with listening for my phone to ring from my bag on the bench. So preoccupied that I got hit in the head by a spike. Twice. After the second time Coach Chapin took pity on me and let me sit out.
At the end of the period, I stood beside my locker and stared at my phone for a full minute and a half, willing it to buzz to life with news from Chase. No such luck. I was still willing with all my might when a familiar voice hailed me from down the hall.
“Hartley? Hartley Grace Featherstone? Can I have a minute?”
I looked up to find Diane Dancy bearing down on me, her intern and cameraman in tow.
I did a quick look left, then right for any means of escape, but she had me cornered against banks of lockers on both sides. And before I could slip past her, the little red light on the camera was lit, the lens was pointed my way, and Diane was shooting rapid-fire questions my way.
“What was it like watching the police arrest your boyfriend for murder?” she asked, shoving a microphone in my face. “Has he contacted you? Will you be at his trial? Is he still claiming innocence?”
I blinked at her, trying to decide which question to answer first. “Um . . .”
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