by Jen Nadol
“This is ridiculous,” I told him, scooting down in my seat.
“It’s almost dark,” Trip said, shutting off the car. “He won’t notice you unless you’re obvious.”
“Yeah. Until you open the car door and I’m spotlighted by the overhead.”
Trip reached up and clicked the light off. “Better?”
“No,” I said, feeling completely stupid. Trip slammed the door, and I heard his boots crunch up the gravel driveway. He’d left his window cracked a tiny bit. Like you do when you leave your dog in the car, I thought. How long was I going to have to sit like this?
I heard a screen door slam shut across the street a minute or so later and lifted my head a bit, figuring Trip had gone inside. Instead I saw the shapes of them, sitting on the front stoop of Galen’s porch. I wished I’d had the sense to at least adjust the mirrors before Trip had gone over there. I could have watched them if I’d gotten the angles right. As it was, I could only catch a hum of voices every now and then. A bark of laughter.
Being there, waiting helplessly, reminded me eerily of that night I’d met Natalie’s dad. Thankfully, I didn’t have to retrieve Trip.
After about fifteen minutes the screen door slammed again, something I’m sure the Riddocks’ neighbors loved, and I heard Trip’s boots coming closer. He slid into the car and puffed on his hands as the engine warmed back up.
“So?” I was still slumped beside him, just in case Riddock looked out the window.
“He says he didn’t go up there,” Trip said.
“At all?”
“Not that night.” Trip shook his head, pulling away from the curb. “Said he thought about it but ended up driving Warrick and Douglass home and didn’t feel like going back across town and up the mountain afterward.”
“Well, so there it is.” Trip turned the corner, and I pushed back up to a normal position. “I guess you got bad info. Who’d you hear it from?”
Trip hesitated. “An unnamed source.”
“What?” I looked at him. “You’re not going to tell me?”
“He didn’t want word getting around.”
“Trip. For God’s sake, who am I going to tell?”
He shot me an appraising look. “You better not, Ri. If word gets back to Galen—”
“I’m not going to,” I said, exasperated. “Who was it?”
“Richie.”
“Milosevich?”
“Yeah,” Trip said, and then added, “and he’s not the type to make shit up.”
Especially not something like that. Richie Milosevich was a quiet mousy kid who’d somehow scored the spot of kicker on the football team. It’d be a big risk for him to rat out someone like Galen Riddock. But even bigger to do it if it weren’t true. “You think Riddock’s lying?”
“Definitely possible,” Trip said.
“How’d it even come up?” I asked.
“Richie pulled me aside,” Trip said. “Knew I was friends with Nat.”
“But how’d he know Galen was up there?”
Trip thought for a second. “He didn’t say. I guess I assumed he’d overheard someone talking about it. I think he lives up that way. Maybe he saw him?”
“At, like, two in the morning?” I asked. “His sister’s the one who—”
“Overdosed last year,” Trip finished. “Yeah.”
I remembered what my mom had said, about Richie’s dad flipping out after his daughter had died. But how did all that fit with Galen and Nat’s dad?
“Why’d he tell you?” I asked finally. “Why not go to the police?”
Trip cocked his head. “That’s a good question,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s over them, after the stuff with his sister last year?”
“Or maybe he saw your heroics at the Dash—with Nat’s dad—and figured it was right up your alley.”
“Maybe,” Trip agreed. He turned toward town. “Let’s keep it to ourselves for now. I don’t want people talking or Nat getting all tweaked up about nothing. Want to go grab a bite at the Hull?”
“Nah,” I said, knowing I had exactly one dollar in my wallet. “I probably shouldn’t.” But it was like Trip could read my mind.
“It’s on me, Ri. Don’t be lame.” He turned down the street toward the Hull without waiting for my response. “It’s Friday night and I’m starving.”
CHAPTER 15
I DIDN'T EVEN REALIZE I was looking for Richie Milosevich the following week until he was there, two feet ahead of me, walking down the hallway toward art. He was one of those kids I probably passed twenty times a week and never noticed. And vice versa. We just weren’t on each other’s radar. Until now.
He stopped to talk to a guy who was in my history class, and I paused, pretending to be looking in my backpack for a book.
“Didja see his goal against United?” Richie asked.
The other guy nodded. “Sick, right?”
They yammered on about soccer, a sport I, and the rest of Buford, couldn’t have cared less about. Vaguely I remembered Trip telling me that was how Richie had wound up playing football. The soccer team had disbanded because they hadn’t been able to field a full squad. Richie and the other guy chatted for another few minutes, then moved on. I zipped my bag up, sticking with Richie, even though he was walking away from the lunchroom, where I meant to go.
He was tall and skinny, pale like most of us Northerners. I tried to remember if I’d ever had a conversation with him, or even heard his voice—deeper than you’d expect—before eavesdropping on him. I didn’t think so.
We turned down another corridor, leading toward the back door, and I stopped, seeing Moose and his gang of thugs at the other end. He was still angry, had spent a good part of this weekend at work giving me the evil eye. I really wasn’t up for any more of that and was about to turn back toward the lunchroom, when I saw him wave to Richie.
I leaned against the wall, watching, hoping they wouldn’t notice me as Richie went over to talk to him. Their conversation was short. A few sentences, a smile. A fist bump.
Not at all what I’d have expected.
***
I walked into the lunchroom still wondering about Richie and Moose. Tannis and Sarah were already at our table. “Hey,” I greeted, turning to slide in next to Tannis.
“Hold it,” she said. “That one’s reserved.”
“Oh.” I started to get up. “For who?”
“Tom Brady. Have you seen him?” She eyed the cafeteria doors. “He’s very late.”
“And very married,” Sarah added.
“Maybe that’s the holdup,” Tannis said. She shoveled in a mouthful of food.
I sat back down, elbowing Tannis. “You’re a dork, Janssen.”
Across the room Trip and Natalie came in, and a slight hush fell over the room as people stared. I watched them weave through tables, knowing by the wooden way Nat walked and how Trip stayed so close that something was wrong.
Sarah did too. “What happened, Nat?”
“The police called me this morning,” Nat said, dropping her lunch bag onto the table.
“They didn’t change their minds about clearing you, did they?” Tannis blurted.
“No.” Nat scowled. “They’re ‘pursuing leads,’ whatever that means.”
“That they still don’t know jack,” Trip said.
“I guess,” Nat said, sitting. “But they’re done with the house, and they’re releasing it to me.” Her hands were visibly trembling. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
I was surprised the police would do that, just turn over the place where her dad had been murdered. But I guess they couldn’t keep it, and Nat was the sole beneficiary, not that there was much benefit to it.
“What do you want to do with it?” Trip asked.
“Burn it?” Nat made a sound halfway between a sob and a snort.
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“What about your things?” Trip asked.
Natalie waved a hand dismissively.
“Nat,” Sarah said gently, “I know you don’t care now, but you’ve got to get your stuff.”
Trip chimed in. “Your trophies and medals are all there.”
“And your scrapbook,” Sarah added. “Your dad’s stuff too. I know it’s the last thing you want to think about, but someday you’re going to want it. All of it.”
Nat’s face was a grimace of sadness and anger. She tried to stifle it all behind her hands, but the tears ran over.
Sarah put an arm around her, tugged her close, squeezing. “We’ll help,” she said. “We’ll all go together.”
CHAPTER 16
I HAD CHILLS AS I walked up the weed-choked path to Natalie’s front door. I thought about the last time I’d been here—police everywhere—and the time before that, with Moose.
“You okay?” Tannis whispered.
I don’t know if I’d flinched or stopped or what, but I knew I looked a little queasy. “Not really.”
She nodded. “Me either.”
I gave her a half smile, and she rewarded me with a punch on the shoulder that, in light of what we were about to do, actually felt good. Normal.
The five of us stopped by the single front step. Yellow police tape was still strung across the door.
“You’re sure this is okay?” Trip asked Nat.
“They said it was mine,” Nat said dully, making no move to touch the tape.
“I didn’t mean that,” Trip said. “I meant you. Are you okay to go in there?”
Natalie shook her head. “No.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s just try to do this quick, okay?” She gritted her teeth, then swiped away the yellow tape and reached for the handle. Locked. Nat fumbled in her purse for the key, found it, dropped it, picked it up. But she was shaking too hard to get it into the lock.
“Hey.” Trip put his hands over hers. “D’you want me to go in first? You take a minute, maybe catch your breath?”
Nat nodded quickly, handing him the keys, and bolted for the front yard. Sarah followed and put her arm around Nat, talking quietly to her.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I said to Trip.
He was watching Nat and Sarah. “Maybe,” he said, turning to me, “but we’re here now, and I don’t really want to come back. Let’s just get her clothes and ski stuff and the other things she asked for.”
“Right,” I agreed.
Trip fit the key into the lock and pushed in the front door. I was completely unprepared for what we saw.
The walls were splashed with blood and the sofa cushions dark with it. Numbered Post-its were everywhere—taped to walls, laid on floors. Faint dust from what must have been fingerprint kits covered the flat surfaces of the table and window frames. “Holy shit,” Trip murmured. It was like the police had closed the door behind them the night of the murder and never come back. Which, I guess, is pretty much exactly what they’d done.
“Are you going in or what?” Tannis said impatiently. She was too far away to see inside, standing below the step with Sarah, who’d come back over to us.
I couldn’t believe the police had given the trailer back to Natalie like this, without any kind of warning. What if she’d walked in first? I swiveled my head, suddenly afraid that she was behind me, able to see this mess, but she stood by the edge of the road, looking out across toward the spot where I’d waited for Moose and Wynn way back when.
Trip turned to me. “Dude.”
“I can’t believe they didn’t tell her,” I said quietly.
“Tell her what?” Tannis all but yelled.
“Shhh!”
But Nat had heard. “Tell me what?” She started walking toward us.
“Nat . . . ,” Trip began, then faltered.
“Stop,” I said. I was so afraid she’d come closer. I was barely keeping my lunch down. She couldn’t see this. I felt a white-hot anger at the police. Bob and Lincoln. Idiots, Trip had called them. Understatement of the year. How could they? I struggled to keep my voice even. “You don’t want to go in, Nat,” I said. “It’s not . . .” I took a breath. “It’s still a crime scene,” I said. “Like that night.”
She blanched, took a step back like I’d hit her or like the truth had suddenly billowed out from the cracked-open door, pushing her away.
“Why don’t you just . . . I don’t know . . . take a walk or sit a little? And we’ll grab your stuff. . . .” I was trying to sound as confident and in-charge as Trip had when he’d taken the keys from her, but my voice was high and thin, the words bubbling up, on the edge of nonsensical. Natalie looked like she was on another planet. I don’t think a word I said after “that night” got through. I felt Tannis beside me, pushing past to look inside.
“Oh. God,” she whispered, placing a hand on the doorframe to steady herself.
“You okay?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Tannis?”
She threw up.
“Oh, Jesus,” Trip said.
The four of us stood there watching her retch over the side of the front step. Natalie looked like she might join in.
“Hey.” Trip put his hand gingerly on Tannis’s back. “Why don’t you go out there too? With Nat?”
“Uh-huh.” Tannis nodded, stumbling down toward Natalie, who stood, motionless, in the yard.
Sarah came forward. “Let me see.”
Trip opened the door and stepped inside, letting Sarah peer past him. She sucked in her breath as she got her first view of the room.
The walls looked like a much angrier version of the physics closet. Like Jackson Pollock on a rampage. Splatter painting, my mom used to call it. Except this wasn’t paint or ketchup or whatever Mr. Ruskovich had used at school. It was dark, much darker than I’d imagined and than they showed on TV. Brown. If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone had thrown a bucket of mud against the wall. Reddish mud, like I hear they have out West somewhere.
I followed Trip in, my knee joints feeling loose and saggy. I had to stop and lean against the wall by the door after checking to be sure it was clean.
I couldn’t stop looking at it.
The remains of that night.
Of Natalie’s dad.
Not really, of course, because his real remains were underground. But this was all that was left up here.
I was having a hard time reining in my thoughts, much less controlling my body.
“What’s wrong with the cops?” Sarah’s voice was low and furious. “How could they send her back here? Why didn’t they clean this up?”
“Exactly,” I said weakly.
“I don’t think the cops do that,” Trip said. “I saw it on TV. The family has to hire, like, a special cleaning service or something. But I can’t believe they didn’t tell her that. They’re obviously bigger morons than we gave them credit for. Let’s just grab the stuff and leave,” Trip said. “Before she decides to come in. I’ll find Nat’s room and get her trophies and ski stuff. I’ll know what’s important.”
“I’ll come with you and grab her clothes,” Sarah said.
“So I guess I’ll . . .” What? Vomit? Leave? I was pretty sure neither was the right answer but I couldn’t come up with much else.
“Why don’t you find the other stuff Nat asked for?” Trip suggested. “Her mom’s vase, the boxes in her dad’s room, the picture she wants. Just see if there’s anything else . . .” He surveyed the living room, finally realizing how Nat had lived. And that a drug den wasn’t the type of place where you generally found a lot of memorabilia. “I don’t know. Just look for, like, anything important.”
I scanned the living room quickly after they walked away, but it was pretty barren. Chairs, a few tables, a TV stand. I looked at the sofa and the
blood-sprayed wall again, thinking about Galen Riddock. Trying to picture him there, pointing a gun. It was hard to imagine.
I wandered over to the window, paused to watch Nat and Tannis. They’d moved over to the shed by the woods. Natalie was fiddling with the lock, and Tannis was kind of leaning against the little building. On the road a car slid into view, and I felt an electric jolt, immediately recognizing it. It had been cruising slowly but sped up as it drew abreast of Trip’s car.
Moose.
What the fuck was he doing up here?
There was no one to see. No business to conduct.
He’d been here that night, had told me so himself. Holy crap. We’d gone to question Galen, but what about Moose?
I tried picturing him shooting Mr. Cleary—fidgety, scrawny Moose. I couldn’t do it. Plus, I knew the cops had already grilled him and let him go.
Down the hall Trip and Sarah were opening and closing drawers. I pulled myself away from the window, remembering that I was supposed to be doing . . . something.
I peeked into the dingy kitchen, then a small bathroom where Nat would have been going that night, just as she realized something was wrong. I saw Trip and Sarah working in Nat’s tidy little space. Then I found her dad’s room.
Clothes were in heaps on the floor, a lot of them visibly dirty. Dresser drawers hung open; the bed was unmade, with sheets that looked badly in need of washing. I didn’t want to think about that.
Some of the mess in the room might have been from the police—their little notes and numbers and fingerprint dust were everywhere—but I guessed most of it was probably just the way Nat’s dad had lived.
I sifted through some stuff on the nightstand, then opened the drawer. There was a picture of Natalie in there. I picked it up, realizing my mistake as soon as I saw the clothes. Not Natalie, just someone who looked nearly identical. Her mom. It had to be. She was standing beside a muscle car, had her hand on the hood, was laughing into the camera. She was little like Nat, petite but not fragile-looking. She looked sweet. Not like someone who’d abandon her daughter. Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess.
I slipped it into my backpack and opened the closet. More clothes on the floor, empty food cartons. There was a cardboard box toward the back. The police had dusted and opened it, I saw. I lifted the flaps and realized what the cops must have—this hadn’t been touched in at least ten years. It had nothing to do with the crime but held just the things Natalie would probably want to keep. Letters from her dad to her mom. Pictures of their wedding.
