The Collectors (Karma Police Book 3)

by Sean Platt

  Is this why she tried to kill herself?

  “Fuck!” I stare at the ground, feeling rage, frustration, and helplessness pounding through me.

  “Wait a second,” I say, Billy’s memories filling in a few details. “Chelsea didn’t have a boyfriend. I mean, she’s never had a boyfriend. So, who do you think she recorded this for?”

  “Maybe she had a boyfriend we don’t know about? Hell, if it happened before she turned eighteen, maybe we can get it taken down, at least from the most popular porn sites.”

  “I think I’d know if my sister had a boyfriend.”

  “I dunno. With your dad being like he is, I can see her not wanting to tell anyone.”

  “But she knows I wouldn’t judge her or tell anyone. We get along.”

  “I dunno.” Pete’s eyes widen, and he looks at me.

  “What?”

  “I might be able to find out who did this.”

  “How?”

  “Just let me work my contacts,” he says with a glint in his eyes. Pete enjoys playing detective almost as much as he loves gossip. If anyone in school can find out who’s behind this, it’s Billy’s best friend. “I’ll see what I come up with and get back to you at lunch.”

  **

  The next few hours are hell.

  Kids coming up to me with false consolation, asking questions about Chelsea’s welfare, some even asking if she left a note. I don’t trust any of them.

  How many of those same kids were laughing at her, calling my sister a slut behind her back? How many of them shared this video? How many of these so-called friends are only pretenders? How many are to blame for her suicide attempt?

  I hate them all, though I know it isn’t fair. I can’t tell sincerity from charade with these private school kids. They’re all so damn good at living behind a facade.

  I spend Billy’s class time trying to coax more memories that might help me learn why I’m here, or who is behind this sick video, but I’m not getting anything useful.

  At lunch, I head straight to the cafeteria where Pete and Billy always meet for lunch. They sometimes eat with other kids, but it’s usually the two of them since there are three lunch periods and most of Pete’s drama friends — the group he hangs out with most — are in the other periods.

  When I see him, he races toward me, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  “OMG,” he says, pulling me away from the lunch line. He drags me out of the cafeteria, finding a spot in the common area out of earshot from anyone.

  “What did you find out?”

  “I think I know who did it.”

  “No way. Who?”

  “You’ve got to promise not to do anything crazy.”

  I shove him in the chest, not hard, but not exactly playful. “Tell me!”

  “Well, everyone I talked to said they heard about the video from Rocco. He was practically a one-man advertising campaign.”

  Anthony Rocco is a cornerback on the school’s football team — an obnoxious, entitled asshole made even more obnoxious and entitled because of his parents’ wealth. He’s also a giant, at least a foot taller than Billy, with at least fifty pounds more muscle on his frame. And even more relevant: Rocco’s rumored to have date raped a few girls. Nobody knows if it’s only hearsay, or if his father, a high-profile lawyer, managed to pay the girls’ families off to keep things at a whisper. Regardless, he’s a known sexist pig, and could easily be behind this video.

  I start walking back to the cafeteria.

  “Billy? Billy? What are you doing?”

  I keep walking, my eyes scanning the lunchroom.

  I see Rocco toward the back of the room, sitting in a swarm of jocks and cheerleaders, the insincere blonde and redhead who approached me this morning among them.

  Rocco is big and tan, with short dark hair and a wide smile. He looks like he failed at least five times, and should be playing college ball.

  Even though I’m a good eight tables away, they’re looking up at me, smiles on their smug faces, some of them giggling.

  Rage courses through me.

  Pete runs up behind me. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

  I ignore him.

  I march forward, eyes locked on Rocco, heart racing and knees shaking. I ignore the fear, fueled by rage.

  I make it to the table and am vaguely aware of Pete falling back a bit behind me. History says he’ll have my back if this comes to a fight, but he’s clearly uncomfortable taking on a fair share of the football team. But before I can consider the logic of what I’m about to do, I’m standing at the table, glaring at the jocks.

  Blake Wellington, the six-foot-two blond-haired, blue-eyed quarterback is sitting next to Rocco. Even if he hadn’t been blessed with his model good looks or his talent with a ball, he’d still have won the gene lottery by virtue of being born to Dean Wellington, one of Oregon’s largest landowners.

  Before I can choke out a word to Rocco, Blake eyes me up and down and says, “You lost, Preacher Boy?”

  Laughter from the others.

  I glare at the blonde and redhead. The blonde meets my gaze, almost challenging me to say something while the redhead stares at the floor.

  I ignore Blake and turn to Rocco. “Why did you do that?”

  He looks at me, thick eyebrows furrowed in a knot. “Do what?”

  Everyone’s looking at me. I feel like half of them are dying to hear me say something about the video.

  “You know what.”

  “No, I don’t,” he says, standing up.

  “The video,” I say, practically whispering the word. “Why did you make her do that?”

  Rocco looks genuinely surprised. “Make her? You talking about the little porn video your sister made? You think I made her do that?”

  His emphasis on the word I instead of made makes me wonder if I’m accusing the wrong person.

  “I heard that you made her do it.” The words sound so frail on their way out of my mouth that I’m instantly regretting not thinking this through. The fact that a half-wit jock is outsmarting me, assuming that somewhere out there I’m an adult of reasonable intelligence, makes me want to retreat with my tail between my legs.

  But I can’t let these morons win, and need to find out who did this to Chelsea.

  “She told me,” I lie before I can think of something more clever.

  Rocco leaps over the table so fast I barely have time to back up.

  He’s on me in seconds, hands around my throat.

  “Then the little slut lied!”

  “Whoa, whoa, let’s all calm down,” Pete says, trying to put a hand between Rocco and me.

  Rocco lets go of me long enough to shove Pete.

  He stumbles back but manages to stay on his feet. Then Pete raises his fists, challenging Rocco.

  I don’t want him getting his ass kicked because of me, so I stand between them.

  Rocco glares at me, his smug smile curling into something ugly, daring me to do something.

  I oblige and take a swing.

  I’m surprised when he doesn’t dodge my fist, and my blow finds his jaw.

  Rocco falls back, covering his face in surprise.

  Four of the jocks leap to their feet.

  Rocco grunts, “I’m gonna kill you!”

  Shit is about to get real.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, gentlemen!” Blake stands, launches himself over the table like Rocco, and steps in front of me, a barrier to Rocco’s aggression.

  Blake’s eyes are intense, but his smile is friendly as he puts his hands on Rocco’s chest. “Chill, chill. Kid’s sister is in a coma; he’s not thinking straight.”

  He looks back at me as a silent message to stand down, or he’ll let Rocco and the others beat our asses.

  Suddenly, a tall black man in thick glasses with a shiny bald head is making a beeline toward us. Dean Pritchard.

  His voice is deep, his eyes serious. “What’s going on here?”

  I’m tempted to tell him,
but what do I say? Do I tell him about the video? I suddenly realize how much I’m in over my head, being impetuous with another person’s life, possibly an entire family’s welfare, if this video goes viral beyond the school — assuming it hasn’t already.

  Blake says, “Everything is fine. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, but it’s okay. Billy’s been through a lot the past two days.”

  Dean Pritchard looks me up and down. “That right, Billy?”

  A loud voice inside me is screaming, Say something!, but I can’t. I need to slow down and think about my next move. Do I tell an adult about the video? Or Billy’s parents? What if Chelsea comes out of her coma to disappointed parents who shame her further?

  “Are you okay, Billy?” Pritchard asks after I say nothing.

  I swallow and finally meet his eyes, nodding. “Yeah, just a misunderstanding.”

  Dean Pritchard looks at me, then at Blake. I’m wondering if he’s buying Wellington’s bullshit. He looks like he’s thinking about it. Maybe thinking about dragging us all to his office where we can get to the bottom of whatever this is. But then his lips tighten, and he says, “Okay, well why don’t you all separate.”

  Surprised, I nod.

  Pete and I turn, leaving the scene of my embarrassment. I can feel Rocco and his friends’ gazes on our backs.

  Once we make it back to the common area, Pete leads us down a few hallways until we find one that’s quiet.

  He leans against the wall and sinks to the ground. “Oh my God, what happened to promising not to do anything stupid?”

  “You said not to do anything crazy,” I remind him with a grin, “you never said not to do anything stupid.”

  “Sorry, I assumed suicidal was on the list under crazy.”

  His eyes widen as he realizes he just used what I imagine will now forever be called “the s-word” in Billy’s company if Chelsea doesn’t pull through. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But seriously, what the hell was that?”

  “I dunno. I just wanted to know who was responsible.”

  “Have you ever watched a detective story? The detective never goes straight at the suspect, not without some evidence, or something! Man, the art of subtlety is lost on you, Billy Boy.”

  “I had something … your word. If you say Rocco is the one who did it, I trust you.”

  “Well, shit, I didn’t say I knew for certain! I think it’s him, yeah, but I don’t know.”

  “So, what was I supposed to do?”

  “I figured we’d tell someone, maybe the police or something. Let them investigate. But now you probably screwed that all up. If it is him, he’s probably gonna go home and delete anything on his computer, phone, whatever he used, and we won’t have dick.”

  “Shit!”

  I look down, staring at the tile floor.

  Suddenly, I hear movement.

  I look up to see the redhead cheerleader cautiously approaching.

  Pete sits up straight, defensive. “What do you want, Becca?”

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” she says, meeting my eyes. For all her friend’s insincerity, I get the opposite from Becca. She seems genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah, me too,” I say, my eyes up from the floor and now staring at the wall, not wanting to look at her for reasons I’m not sure of. Maybe I still don’t trust her. And nothing would pain me more than to offer one of Chelsea’s enemies Billy’s naive trust.

  “Listen,” she says, “I don’t know what you think Rocco did — if he actually recorded the video, or what. But I don’t think it was him.”

  I stand and finally meet her eyes. Pete rises beside me and says, “What do you mean? He’s been passing it around like Skittles.”

  “Yeah, Rocco and a lot of other guys have been. But that doesn’t mean they recorded the video.”

  “So,” I say, “who do you think did it?”

  “Someone she was sleeping with.”

  “My sister wasn’t sleeping with anyone. She didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, my voice growing louder.

  “There are rumors that Chelsea was sleeping with one of the teachers.”

  “What?”

  Pete echoes my thought. “I haven’t heard that, and I hear everything!”

  “I don’t know how many people know. Fewer than the number who know about the video, but I think it’s something you should probably look into.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Ms. Valencia, her art teacher.”

  “No way,” I say. “Chelsea’s not gay. And she certainly isn’t sleeping with a teacher!”

  Becca looks down. “I don’t know what to tell you so that you’ll believe me. I just thought you’d like to know, and so maybe you don’t go getting yourself killed by Rocco.”

  “What do you care?” I ask. “They’re your friends, not me.”

  “Yeah,” she says, looking at her crossed feet, “but that doesn’t mean I want to see you get hurt, or that I like some of the stuff they do. I liked Chelsea. We haven’t been friends for a couple of years, but that doesn’t mean I hate her or think she’s a dyke, or a slut, or deserves this bullshit.”

  “If you like my sister, then why are you friends with these assholes who think it’s funny to slut shame her, to spread her video around until she tries to kill herself?”

  Becca looks back up. “I wish I had a good answer. Sorry.”

  And with that, she turns around and walks away.

  I look at Pete, who, for once, is speechless.

  **

  Billy’s dad picks me up, on the phone — again. Still talking to his agent. I wonder if he is always this disconnected from his kids, or if this is an anomaly due to the family’s world crumbling around them.

  It’s just as well. I still haven’t decided how to tell him about the video, or if I even should.

  He drops me off at home and says he’s going to the hospital with Mom. This gives me time to search Chelsea’s room, see if I can find anything to verify that she was sleeping with Ms. Valencia.

  As I cross the threshold into her room — a tidy room with eggshell-white walls, pastel accents, and soft-edged white furniture with clean angles and uncluttered surfaces — I think about all the bedrooms I’ve been an interloper in. After a while, one blends right into another. But all bedrooms are a place to keep treasures, particularly secrets of the heart — private loves, old flames, obsessions — tucked in the pages of journals, love letters buried in the closet, way in the back, or mementos buried in plain sight. Enter someone’s bedroom, and you’ll find what resides in their heart.

  If Chelsea was sleeping with her teacher, I’m guessing I’ll find the evidence here.

  I start in the usual places, desk, closet, under the mattress and bed, but find nothing incriminating.

  There’s nothing in her computer, either, at least not that jumps out with a cursory search.

  Since Chelsea, like Billy, is a neat freak, it doesn’t take long to go through her stuff, yet after thirty minutes, I’ve found nothing.

  I sit on her bed, frustrated, looking around the room for any spot I might have missed or didn’t think to look.

  Lying on her bed, I feel a lump beneath the blanket.

  I reach down and find Pinky, a stuffed pink unicorn she got as a child and has slept with ever since.

  I look at the unicorn, tears welling in my eyes as memories of Chelsea and Billy’s lives flash by. Billy, being four years younger, always looked up to his sister. As children, they’d been inseparable; Chelsea loved having a baby brother and, once he could walk, brought him with her wherever she went. When Billy was four, his sister bought him a “boy’s version” of the unicorn, a blue one, which he named Bluey, even if it wasn’t a real name. They often had “campouts” indoors, setting up makeshift tents made of sheets and blankets in the living room, where they’d play with their unicorns.


  Suddenly, another memory.

  During one of their campouts, Pinky told Billy about a loose floorboard in her hallway between their bedrooms where she could pass super-secret spy messages to Bluey. They used the spot for a couple of years passing “secrets” to each other. Then, around the time that Chelsea went to seventh grade, the messages stopped. Suddenly, she was too busy to play Unicorn Spies with her brother.

  I get up from her bed, then go to the hallway and search for the loose board.

  My heart races as my fingers find the wooden plank.

  I pull it up at the edge.

  Inside the small dark space, I see a blue hardbound book: Chelsea’s diary.

  **

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Billy’s parents to come home. The diary is sitting closed before me.

  I’ve learned two things from the journal.

  One — Chelsea was sleeping with Ms. Valencia. Not just sleeping with her, but in love with her. Had been since the beginning of the school year, though she didn’t start sleeping with her until two months ago, well after she turned eighteen, something Ms. Valencia insisted upon, even though Chelsea wanted to be with her earlier.

  Two — she was coerced into stripping on camera. A few weeks ago, someone, she doesn’t know who, messaged Chelsea with photos of her and the teacher taken from just outside a hotel room window. They said if she didn’t “perform” for them, they’d leak the photos to “every news site known to man.”

  Scared, Chelsea did as she was told.

  The last page in her diary she wrote to Billy:

  Billy,

  I knew you’d find this. Please don’t show Mom and Dad. They’ll be furious. They’ll try and get Ms. Valencia fired, or worse. You know how Dad gets.

  But I want YOU to know the truth.

  YOU deserve to know why I had to do it.

  Yes, the rumors are true. I am gay. I know you won’t care because you’re not like Mom and Dad. And your best friend is Pete, who is the gayest gay dude ever.

  Ms. Valencia was the first person to make me feel like I wasn’t a freak. The first person who made me feel okay with who I am.