by Geneva Lee
“Miss Southerly?” A tall woman approaches us as we near the elevator.
“Emma,” I offer. I'm making all sorts of new friends today.
“Thank you, officer. I have her from here,” she tells him.
I can’t help but notice Mobie strutting over to the receptionist. He leans down and starts to chat her up. I love a happy ending.
“I’m Detective Mackey.” She pushes the button the elevator panel. “I apologize for dragging you down here on a Saturday.”
Peeling my eyes from the fledgling romance in the lobby, I give her my attention. Mackey sports the typical blunt bob of a career woman with not much time to care about her hair and make-up. But her black suit is tailored precisely to her trim body, which means she cares enough to shop and exercise.
“It's not a problem. Bodies don't keep, do they?” I wince as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Nervous humor strikes again.
To my relief, she ignores my tasteless joke. When the elevator delivers us to the second floor, she waits for me to exit. “Can I get you a coffee or a soda?”
“No thanks.” I rub my palms on the skirt of my dress. The interview room looks like they stole it from a police procedural, and it’s making my hands sweat. Apparently my body is feeling guilt by proximity.
The chair’s metal legs scrape mercilessly against the tile floor as she takes the seat across from mine. “I’ll get to the point. We simply need a statement from you about last night. Just what you remember and who you saw.”
“Honestly, I didn't see much. I was being anti-social.” Why does such an easy request feel so hard? I guess when you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to share either.
“Anti-social,” she repeats, scribbling something into a black notebook. “So you were alone in the house?”
“No! I was with someone,” I correct her quickly, even if having a partner in trespassing doesn’t exactly make it right. “We just weren't at the party. We looked around.”
And now I sound like I was casing the joint.
“Can you tell me the name of this person? I'll just need to corroborate his or her story. This is all routine. We need to get a picture of the evening's events and who was where.” Her pencil stays poised over the pad of paper.
“His,” I answer. If Jameson isn’t already dealing with this mess, I’m about to throw him into the mix. I don’t feel too bad, considering he didn’t leave a note. “I only know his first name. Jameson. We were just hanging out. I made us some food in the kitchen and we went for a swim.”
And kissed. A lot. I keep that tidbit to myself. It’s fun enough admitting I made myself at home. She doesn’t need the details of my sexscapades.
“I see.” Detective Mackey pauses and makes another note. I crane my neck trying to read it. “Jameson. Do you know his last name?”
“No.” I also don’t have his phone number, I add silently. Maybe last night wasn’t as electric as I thought it was. Or maybe he’d been more drunk than I’d realized.
“If we showed you some pictures could you possibly identify him?” Detective Mackey’s next question interrupts me analysis.
“Are you interested in him?” I ask slowly as realization creeps in.
“We’re simply following up.” Her face remains passive but her eyes study me. “Could you identify him?”
Jameson couldn’t have anything to with this, but, honestly, the most I know about him is how his tongue feels down my throat.
“I got a pretty decent look at him.” Understatement of the year. “I should be able to.”
“Is there anything else you remember about that night? Anyone you saw?” she presses.
She’s serious but I can’t help laughing. “Are you kidding? Most of my school. Monroe's dad when we first came in. Some security guys.”
“We?” Mackey perks up at this revelation. “Who were you with?”
“I came to the party with my best friend, Josie, but we got separated. She left early.”
Which is why I'm here, and she isn’t.
“So you didn’t come with Jameson?”
“No, we met at the party. I’ve never seen him before last night.” With all the circles we’re running around this topic, I hope this counts as my daily cardio.
“Were you drinking?”
I’m surprised it took her this long to ask. Of course, that's what they would think, especially given that the whole party was a scene out of teens gone wild. It might be nice to blame my decision to spend the night making out with a random guy on tequila but I can’t, even if she probably won’t believe me. “Nope. All my poor choices are the result of my own stupidity.”
She doesn’t even smile, but there’s probably not much room for a sense of humor in her vocation.
“Excuse me. I’ll only be a moment and then we can wrap this up.”
Rocking my chair onto its back legs, I study the room. There’s the two way mirror that fools no one. Who knew that was a real thing? One window, a table, chairs, and four pastel green walls that are likely meant to be calming but just remind me of puke. Life on the inside isn’t so bad. No worse than being stuck in a doctor’s office. It’s more purgatory than hell.
My gaze drifts to the hallway, waiting for her to return. A few people pass by and one stops. Jonas waves timidly at me from the other side of the glass. He’s dressed in sweats and t-shirt, and dark hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead. I can imagine Officer Mobie rolling up to greet him at the lacrosse field. The sport is his one true love no matter what Monroe thinks. Jonas left this morning, too, which means they’ll want his statement. Thank God Hugo is on a plane.
If Jonas was there, he might remember more than I did. I stand up and walk toward the door. Since he’s so close to the family there’s a good chance that he’ll know more than I’ve been told, but as I reach for the handle, Monroe appears.
I shrink away. Not because I don’t want her to see me, but because of how she looks. Monroe once came to a big lacrosse match with the flu and no one knew until she threw up all over the referee. She doesn’t do public appearances without full hair and make-up. Today she’s a mess though. Mascara remnants ring her eyes and her golden locks are thrown into an unbrushed ponytail. Jonas wraps his arms around her and she melts against him.
I’ve never seen her look so small or so vulnerable.
Backing up from the door, I accidentally catch her eye. She shoves Jonas away and points at the window. Detective Mackey rushes toward her, and although I can’t hear what’s being said, I can guess from the scarlet shade Monroe turns as she continues to yell. After a few minutes of enduring her mute, tonsil gymnastics, Jonas coaxes her away from the window.
Detective Mackey ducks back into the interview room, setting a file folder on the table. strait-laced It’s a state I like to call the Monroe effect.
“You have a fan,” she says.
“We just love each other.” I can only hope her curiosity doesn’t extend to more questions about my relationship with Monroe.
“She seemed confused as to why you're here. According to her, you were asked to leave the party.” Mackey waits with her finger poised on the folder’s edge.
Maybe I should start sewing my scarlet M now. Uninvited party guest? Check. Don’t know the full name of my alibi? Check. Caught sneaking out by doting boyfriend? Check. I might convict myself.
“She did ask me to leave, but I got lost looking for my friend.”
“That’s how you met Jameson. Did he ask you to stay?”
“He’s very persuasive.” The truth is that he didn’t convince me at all. He didn’t ask me to stay with him or raid the Wests’ pantry or swim in their pool. Thanks to him I’d left a trail of fingerprints that Hansel and Gretel could follow all over that penthouse.
“Can you tell me who this is?” She flips open the folder to a picture of Jameson. Just not my Jameson.
It’s him, but not the boy I met last night. He’s smiling in this picture, dressed in a button-down and pressed
slacks, as he stands in front of a very expensive looking sports car. He seems happy but as I study the picture, I spot the distance in his eyes. They’re vacant as if he’s simply going through the motions. But the most puzzling aspect of the photo is that his arm is around Monroe. She’s beaming at the camera, hugging him tightly.
“That's Jameson,” I answer in a quiet voice, pushing the photo back to her. I don’t want it to be the truth.
Mackey purses her lips and looks to the mirror on the other side of the room.
“Is someone behind that? Like on TV?” I wave at it. I’ve been here for over an hour and I have more questions than answers. I hope whoever is back there has more figured out than I do. “Do I pass the test?”
“Yes, you do as a matter of fact.”
I turn back to her. “I was only joking. I tend to eat foot when I'm nervous.”
“You're free to go, Emma.” She puts the photo back into the folder and stands up.
“Wait. That's it?” I’d expected hours of grilling. Maybe a light or two shined in my face. Now she’s saying I can just walk out of here.
She stops at the door and peers over at me. Distrust flashes in her eyes but she quickly hides it. “Unless you have something you want to tell us…”
“I’ve told you everything.” I’m officially out of patience.
“We might need you to come in again. Please let us know if you'll be traveling.” She opens the door but I just gawk at her.
“I’m going to see my mother in Palm Springs in a few weeks.” I force myself onto my feet. The next question I have for her I don’t want answered sitting down. “Am I suspect or something?”
“Everyone who was there last night is a person of interest.” It’s a stock answer that does nothing to assuage the panic welling in me.
“That's a very long list.”
“Yes, it is.” She gestures toward the door. Pulling out her phone, she taps the screen not bothering to look at me. She’s through with me.
For now.
My head is still spinning when I step into the corridor. Before Detective Mackey can disappear, I call after her. “Detective?”
“Yes?”
“I don't even know what happened. Was someone murdered? Who? If I’m a person of interest, I’d like to know.” This doesn’t feel like an unreasonable request after answering all her questions.
“Yes, someone was murdered,” she confirms as she clips her phone back on her belt. “At the moment, we're waiting to release that information.”
“I guess I’ll wait for the press conference.” Nothing like being questioned for a crime you know nothing about.
Mackey presses her lips into a thin line. Not a smile or a wave or even a goodbye. When she’s gone I slump against the wall. There’s absolutely no way I’m asking for a ride home in a police car. I’m guessing that Monroe isn’t going to offer. More than transportation, I need someone to help sort through my feelings.
Emma: I need you to pick me up.
Josie: Sure. Where?
Emma: Promise you won't freak out.
Josie: Now I'm definitely going to freak out.
Emma: At the Belle Mère police station.
Chapter Nine
It takes her so long to respond that I almost call to make certain she hasn’t fainted. I’m going to wind up calling an Uber so I can go peel her off the floor.
Josie: On my way.
She’ll have figured out why I’m here. It wouldn’t take a genius to do that, but maybe a genius could sort out exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.
Footsteps shuffle closer and I discover Jonas clutching a Styrofoam cup. He holds it out to me. “I thought you could use this.”
“I’m good.” I fiddle with my phone for a few seconds, trying to ignore the awkward silence that’s so obvious I can almost hear it. “Did you get a mug shot?”
“Um, no.”
“Me either.” I abandon my phone to my blackhole of a purse. “All those questions and nothing to show the grandkids.”
Jonas chuckles and takes the wall next to me. It’s odd being so close to him after all this time. It’s been nearly two years since we broke up, and I’ve spent each of those days pretending he meant nothing to me. Today there’s no flutter in my stomach or pangs in my chest. He’s become someone I used to know.
I’d spent years thinking I loved him, and although I’d never admit it, even if I was being tortured, I wondered what would happen if he broke up with Monroe. But there’s no electricity, no unseen force tugging me to him now. I guess I hadn’t let myself get close enough to realize my feelings for him were an illusion. Now we’re here and there’s nothing to say to one another.
“So did you do it?” I ask conversationally. “If we’re stuck together we might as well compare rap sheets.”
“No!” Jonas stares at me, horror-stricken. “I would never hurt Monroe or her family.”
I can’t say the same when it comes to Monroe, but I bite my tongue. A police station probably isn’t the best place to crack that joke. It might go over worse than saying the word bomb at an airport, and I don’t think I can handle a cavity search on top of everything else this day has brought.
“I’m kidding,” I reassure him. “I’m not even sure what they think we did.”
“Us?” He tilts his head and a few dark strands flop over his forehead. “Nothing. They have a suspect already.”
“Who?” I’d been right when I guessed he would know something. Now I just have to get him to fess up. Maybe I could borrow the interrogation room.
“Don't you know—” He struggles to find the words. It makes me want to draw him a map. If he’s sitting on the answers to what’s gone on in the last twenty-four hours I want to know. But before I can get anything out of him, Monroe rounds the corner and he does his best impression of a clam.
“What are you doing here? Haven't you done enough?” She marches straight up to me and sticks her face inches from my own.
I want to tell her to brush her teeth, but I take the high road. It’s not a favor she’ll ever return for me. She probably got woken up by a homicide squad this morning. Instead I cross my arms, pointing my elbows out in case she decides to move any closer. “I haven't done anything except crash your stupid party. I don't even know why I'm here.”
I can take the high road but being nice to her is another story, even though this close I can see her eyes are bloodshot from crying.
“Don't play dumb. It makes all of us look bad when girls act stupid.” Jonas grabs her hand but she shakes him off.
“Not acting, sugar. I really don't know,” I inform her. Maybe I need to write clueless on a Post-It note and stick it to my forehead.
“You’re not even worth yelling at,” she mutters, sounding more tired than annoyed. She pulls away, turning her attention to Jonas, and grabbing my coffee out of his hands. Taking one sip, she scrunches her nose as if she expected it to be Starbucks. “That's terrible. They reached mom, so they said I could go home…”
She trails off as her voice cracks. I’m torn between wanting to melt into the wall and sneaking away. Watching your enemy break down isn’t as thrilling as I might have suspected. It’s just awkward. Right now I wish I was actually invisible to her, so that I could sneak out without prompting another round. She shakes her head once as if willing away tears. “Mom won't be back until tomorrow.”
From now on I’m taking a vow of social celibacy. My only friends will be on my recommended watch list. Yes, I will miss out on nights like that night—and boys who can kiss like Jameson.
Jameson who might be a murderer, I remind myself, before I take a mental vacay down memory lane. Jameson who might be dead. It hurts to even consider it. But the truth is I don’t know anything about Jameson, particularly why he was there last night, but Detective Mackey seems very interested in him. If my boy barometer is that off it might be best if I stay at home from now until the only thing that excites me is the local Bingo night.
&nbs
p; “You can stay at my place. My parents are in Maui,” he says, rubbing her shoulder in a soothing gesture.
Yesterday afternoon it would have made me physically ill to be near this, but today I’m almost glad he’s here to take care of her. It’s as if I stepped through a funhouse mirror. Suddenly I’m over Jonas and worrying about Monroe. I need to get out of here before I join the pep squad and start wearing cardigans.
“I can't believe he actually did it,” she whispers, obviously forgetting I’m still within earshot. “They didn't get along, but this? I have no idea when they're going to release Jameson. If they're going to…”
I take a step closer at the sound of his name, and Monroe’s silver eyes narrow. “What are you looking at?”
But I’m not looking at her, I’m listening to her. “Jameson.”
I don’t know what reaction I expect to get out of her when I say his name. I simply can’t help myself.
“Yes, you've helped him get away with murder.”
Jameson. Murderer. The words crash into me but I don’t feel them. They’re as empty as the hollow pit left from where my stomach dropped out. I kissed him. I liked him. Until this moment, I’d mostly been able to dismiss all the strange questions I was asked this afternoon. Now the pieces are starting to fit, and as the whole picture comes into focus, I realize I’m in it. I’m not merely some girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“You don't know that he did it.” That’s Jonas—always the mediator. Would he still believe that if he knew that I’d woken up alone this morning?
Stomach acid bubbles into my throat and I swallow it—and the urge to vomit—down.
“Who else then? You? Her?” She shoves her thumb in my direction.
“They think Jameson did it?” I’m asking a question but I don’t want the answers.
“Are you having some type of fit?” Monroe hisses, hurling a disgusted look my direction. “Yes, JamIE killed our father.”
My family calls me Jamie. Everything clicks into place, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall. The photo of Jameson with Monroe. Everything Jameson said the night before. Jameson is Monroe's brother. Nathaniel's son.
