“Witnesses say Ethan arrived at the St. Clare’s residence at approximately midnight. Then he just disappears,” he said, looking straight at me. “No one can remember seeing him for a good twenty to thirty minutes before you found Jim Wilder. That’s what we call window of opportunity, Delilah.”
“But I saw him.” Garrison’s eyes were hard, but he was listening. “I saw him,” I repeated more confidently, “and so did Bruce Diamond and at least seven other people.”
Garrison pulled out a pad and jotted something down. “About what time was this?”
“Around a quarter after,” I said.
“And where were you?”
“In the basement.”
“And what were you all doing in the basement?”
“Playing truth or dare.”
“Delilah,” Mom gasped, “I hope there weren’t any cherries,” but I ignored her. This was too important.
“I’m going to need those names.” Once I’d recited them, Garrison flipped the notepad shut. “One more thing,” he said and narrowed his eyes. “Did that boy get fresh with you?”
“Is that an official question?” I retorted, trying to tone down my embarrassment.
“Unofficial,” Garrison said. “But I’d like to know the answer anyway.”
“So, would I,” Mrs. Thimble added.
“Me, too,” Mom said. “George, did you know about this? Ronnie?”
George and Ronnie remained conspicuously silent, looking anywhere but at Mom.
“Well,” Mrs. Thimble murmured. “Guess that answers that question.”
Garrison was still staring, pulling the protective big brother routine, acting like he had all the time in the world.
“The answer’s no, okay?” Goodness, it was like being stared down by the Pope. “Wilder didn’t get fresh or anything. It wasn’t a big deal.” George glanced at me sidelong. Okay, so it was a big deal, at least to me. That kiss had been explosive. But I wasn’t about to say it out loud. This conversation had already gotten way off track. “So, Garrison, what now? What’s going to happen to Wilder?”
“We’ll see if the stories match up,” he said, preparing to leave. “If they do, you might have saved that family a lot of unnecessary grief.”
The bell on the door was still chiming as a voice said, “Garrison! Oh, thank God.”
Jessica Stubbs strode in, looking tense but focused. Her dress was pressed, wrinkle-free as usual, her hair fixed to her neck in a tidy bun. She was as put together as Willie was disheveled, but at the moment her face was tight with distress. And who could blame her? According to Mrs. Thimble, Willie had been arrested less than an hour ago. There were only a few customers in the bakery, but every single one of them noticed her arrival. Everyone was waiting to hear what she’d say.
“Garrison.” She stopped in front of him, readjusted the strap of the purse on her shoulder. “I need to speak to you. Willie didn’t do this.”
Garrison held up a hand. “Jessica, now you know I can’t talk about this here. Let’s just go down to the station and—”
“No, you don’t understand,” she interrupted. “He’s trying to protect me. I had the gun. Last Friday, I had it, not Willie.” Garrison was shocked into silence as Jessica continued. “I’d taken it so I could get some practice in down at the range while Willie went over to Whiskey River. Just ask the bartender, name’s Ted. He’ll tell you Willie was there all night, passed out in the back until around three in the morning. That’s when Ted called me, told me to come and pick up my husband, they were closing. So see, he couldn’t have been the one. Willie didn’t shoot Jim.”
By the time she was through, Officer Garrison, Bowie’s #1 Cop, was back. “I’m going to need to see that gun, Jessica.”
“I can’t help you there.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “Why not?”
“It was stolen. Now, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “It’s the truth. I was out in the car, ready to go, when I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. Took me ten seconds to go back inside, and when I came out, the gun was gone.”
“You left your car unlocked?”
“Until now, I thought it was a good neighborhood.”
“Right,” Garrison cleared his throat. “Like I said, I’d better take you down to the station and get your statement. But first I’ve got to go next door. Maybe you could wait here—”
“He’s not there,” I said. I figured Garrison could go find out for himself, but why not tell him? Wilder hadn’t been to the music store all weekend, not since the shooting.
“Well, where is he?” Garrison looked like he wanted to curse.
“He hasn’t come back to work.” Aunt B obviously didn’t appreciate his tone. “I’d assume he’s at home, taking care of his father. You might want to start there.”
“Alright, then,” he said, flushed. “Jessica, let’s go. I’ll drop you off on the way.”
“Wait, there’s something else.” Jessica took a deep breath. “I thought you’d need to know. That gun had a full cylinder. Now, that’s six chambers in all. When I go to the range, I like to get my money’s worth.”
The pink walls of the bakery seemed inappropriately cheery in the midst of that bombshell.
Garrison was first to speak, and when he did, his voice was little more than a whisper.
“So,” he said quietly, “what you’re telling me is there are more—”
“Bullets,” Jessica finished. “Yes, there were more bullets in the gun.”
Garrison did curse then, shuffling her out without further comment, leaving us to ponder the consequences. We could all count. The reverend had been shot twice, so that left four. Four bullets still unaccounted for, still in the possession of someone clearly willing to use them. The Bowie police would need to find the gunman and find him fast.
But I wasn’t going to just sit around and do nothing.
That night, I got out all the info I’d collected on Anne Wilder’s death. I cracked open the Mercy Hope memory book again and laid it on my bed. I’d gone back to the library and made a copy of the Telegraph article. I put that right next to the memory book along with a list of the info I’d learned on my visit to the police station. Next, I pulled up the three websites where they’d mentioned Anne in articles about teen suicide. I even took another look at the conspiracy nut blog.
It wasn’t a lot.
New facts didn’t just appear out of nowhere. But the reverend’s shooting was similar enough to throw my curiosity into overdrive. Was this revenge? Had Jim been the one to kill Anne? It wasn’t that big a leap from hitting your kids to killing them, but what caused it? Was it an accident? Had someone finally decided to get retribution—or was it something completely different?
Flipping through the memory book, I paused on the Wilder family photo then kept going. The next picture of Anne was the S.C.A.L.P. photo.
I looked closer. Who was that with her?
The grainy quality made all the faces look distorted, blurry. The only reason I even knew it was Anne was because she was wearing the same flowery dress she’d had on in her family photo. No matter how hard I looked I couldn’t make out the face.
I went back to the articles again.
Whoever was running the conspiracy blog had made a timeline. At each marker, there was a little gravestone and a thumbsized picture for each of the dead teens. Just before Anne was another girl named Valerie Tripp, who’d OD’d on sleeping pills. Shaking my head, I clicked on the headstone right after Anne…and got a shock when Dave Diamond’s face popped up.
But that wasn’t right. Dave’s death had been peculiar sure, but not suicide. His brakes had failed just as he was crossing some train tracks on the Southside of town. He was listed here as having killed himself nearly three months after Anne.
Hadn’t Bruce mentioned something about them dating?
I clicked on Dave’s photo and looked at the memory book again.
The guy next to her just looked like another smu
dge in a BHS letterman. No matter how hard I stared I couldn’t make out a face. Dave Diamond’s name was listed as a member of S.C.A.L.P., but so were a lot of athletes. That blur could’ve been anyone.
I went over everything, but I still couldn’t figure it out. The problem here, I thought, was motive. No one seemed motivated enough to kill Anne Wilder, so it was just easier for people to blame Ethan, the delinquent, the bad boy. And everyone who didn’t believe that thought it was suicide.
Too bad I didn’t buy either one of those options.
It felt like I was close. I was missing something, but I didn’t know what. All I needed was that one missing piece, and I’d solve the mystery.
I just hoped I could do it before people hanged Ethan as a scapegoat.
#
The first thing I heard walking into Chemistry was, “It’s his sister all over again. That boy has it in for anyone in his family.” Then, “He shouldn’t be allowed back in school. Remember when he decked McCreary? Talk about anger management issues.” And finally, “Wilder’s a psychopath, a total freaking psychopath.”
George was scowling. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “But I thought you liked scandal?”
“I do, D. You know I do.” She shook her head. “But this is just...wrong.” We watched the rumor mill in motion, listening as the comments got more and more damning. “He didn’t do it, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “But that doesn’t matter. Not to them.”
Rapier was at the front of the room, talking with a couple other coaches as the final bell rang.
And Wilder walked in.
Everyone stared, but he didn’t pause. Wilder kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked to his seat, took out his book and opened it to today’s chapter.
After a moment, Rapier said, “Alright, everybody, lab today. Stations on the left side of the room still aren’t working, so you’re pairing up again. Worksheets up front.”
George went to get our worksheet. Wilder and Dwayne pulled their stools over. Dwayne sat farther away this time, giving Wilder lots of space, crowding George, which she didn’t seem too thrilled about when she came back. The whole thing made me mad. He was acting like an idiot. They all were, making as if Wilder was dangerous or something.
“Hey, Wilder,” I said, hoping to break the ice.
All that came back was a muted “Hey.”
He didn’t call me Doherty, didn’t even look at me.
I couldn’t help but be disappointed. It was the first time I’d seen him since George’s party, since our kiss. And yes, even with all that happened afterward, the kiss was what stood out in my mind, a brilliant spark before all that darkness. I wasn’t sure what I’d thought. I knew he probably hadn’t considered it as earth shattering as I did. But his indifference, his absolute silence, I wasn’t prepared for. Was I supposed to just let it go? Try and talk to him again? In this situation, I wasn’t sure what to do.
Then I noticed something.
His book was open. He was looking down, but he hadn’t turned the page in a while.
I looked at his face. There was nothing to see; he was blank as usual. But his eyes weren’t moving. He was studiously avoiding looking at anything in particular. I ducked trying to catch his gaze, but nothing. A second later a small note landed on our table, right in front of him. Glancing up, I saw the backs of my classmates. Every now and then someone would look back, but I couldn’t tell who’d thrown it. Wilder didn’t move. Cautiously, I unfolded the paper.
There were four words: BURN IN HELL MURDERER.
I balled the paper up in my fist.
Whispers. They were still whispering.
Wilder sat immobile beside me, but his silence suddenly made sense. He thought this was his cross to bear, his battle to fight. He thought he was alone.
But he was wrong.
At the first touch of my fingers, his head snapped in my direction, but he didn’t pull away. I kept my eyes on his the entire time, as my palm came to rest against his under the table, as I laced our fingers together, gave a gentle squeeze. He didn’t have to feel the same. I just wanted him to know. In this one, he wasn’t alone. There were people who knew the truth, people who believed it wasn’t his fault.
Holding on a moment longer, making sure he got the message, I gave him a small smile and started to take back my hand.
But he caught me. His hand tightened on mine and didn’t let go until the end of the period.
Like an absolute girl, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How his skin had felt, rough yet reassuring. How his fingers were so much longer. Most of all how he’d stopped me from letting go. That was my favorite part. My classes went by in a blur, the end of the day taking me by surprise. Bruce was waiting at my locker when I got there.
“Doherty,” he said, looking a little nervous.
“Hey,” I said, moving to put my books away. “What’s up?”
He shrugged. “Nothing...so, did the police come talk to you?”
“They did.”
“They ask you about Wilder?”
“Pretty much.” I closed my locker then turned to face Bruce. “You told them the truth, right?”
“Of course,” he said indignantly. “It’s just....”
“Just what?”
“Everyone thinks he did it. They really think...I mean, if we hadn’t seen Wilder, if we hadn’t all been there just minutes before....”
“I know,” I sighed.
“It’s a good thing we were,” Bruce said. “Who knows what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea. It would’ve probably been like four years ago.”
Bruce looked surprised. “So, you don’t think he was the one who shot Anne?”
“Do you?” I asked.
He thought it over then shook his head. “Nah, I never really bought Wilder as the murdering type.”
Nice to know I wasn’t the only one. “Well, there you go,” I said. “I’ll see you later, Diamond.”
Bruce placed his hand on my arm, and I looked up in confusion.
“Look, I know you and Wilder have something going on.” He shook his head, leveling me with a stare so keen it ended my protests before they began. “Just be careful, okay? Wilder’s not a bad guy, but trouble follows him around like a shadow. I don’t want to see anything happen to you, Doherty.”
He released me, the warning echoing in my ears. But even if I’d wanted to listen, which I didn’t, my heart wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t stay away from Wilder if I tried. I was in too deep to give him up now. Even if Bruce was right, I knew I would face any threat, battle any trouble that came for Wilder or anyone I loved.
I grimaced.
Oh, God, I did not just think that. Only kids who liked to play princess and girls who got pregnant at sixteen believed they were in love after only one kiss.
Trouble was one thing, but love?
I wasn’t so sure I could handle that one.
CHAPTER 19
The church had ordered extras, two additional trays of everything. Mercy Hope was celebrating Jim Wilder’s first day back. Whether they were there for God or to see the reverend’s wounds firsthand, the holy folks of Bowie turned out in record numbers, and Southern Charm Confections was there to accommodate. This time we didn’t forget the tea.
Aunt B nodded, checking out our work. Conference rooms were meant to be dull, but we’d made this one sparkle. The food itself was festive, but the fancy tablecloths, the napkins folded to look like roses, those took it over the top. We’d even added colorful streamers.
“Alright, one more trip ought to do it,” Aunt B said. “Think you can handle another tea bin?”
My arms were about to fall off, but I smiled. “Sure. Ronnie?”
“Girl, I got this.” Ronnie grinned. “Haven’t even broken a sweat.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. Okay, so I’d been sweating
like a pig for the last twenty minutes. Did he have to rub it in?
“Hey, it’s okay,” Ronnie said then flexed. “Not everyone has guns like these bad boys. Besides, girls are supposed to glisten.”
“Your sarcasm isn’t attractive.”
“Well, neither is the perspiration dripping down your chin, but what’s there to do?”
I rammed him with my shoulder but immediately regretted it. Groaning, I shuffled outside, rubbing my poor arm. Tea would be the death of me, I was sure of it.
Passing the heart of the church, I purposefully lagged behind, partly because the bin was so heavy, partly to catch a glimpse of Jim Wilder. His stance was altered by the cane he was using to support himself, movements stiff, labored. He looked a little paler than usual, definitely more fatigued. But he was standing upright, his voice as loud and demanding as usual.
“What I want to talk about today is accountability.” He stared out at his avid audience. “Sinner or saint, we must all be held accountable. It’s not God’s way to forget, so when you do wrong, you have to pay for it. Repentance is everything to our Lord. We must always remember to ask for forgiveness.”
I watched as the reverend prowled slowly across the raised platform.
“By now,” he said, “I’m sure most of you have heard, but some may be wondering: What’s he doing with that?”—a brief lift of his cane—”Why’s he walking so funny? Well, I’ll tell you. Last Friday, someone shot me, and the truth is I’m still having a little trouble getting around.”
An elephant could’ve run pell-mell through the room, but nobody would’ve paid it any mind. Jim Wilder had his congregation on the edge of their seats. This is what they’d all come for.
“Willie Stubbs, would you come up here a minute?”
Willie appeared, and to my surprise, he actually seemed sober. He went to stand next to Jim, wearing a suit and tie I’d never seen him wear before. There was plenty of whispering and several suspicious stares directed his way.
“Like I was saying,” the reverend continued, “when responsibility falls at our feet, we must repent or be damned. It is God’s way, the only way. But I want everyone present to hear this.”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 19
