“Yes, I do. It’s the police station, Jim. What could happen there?”
I hope exoneration.
* * *
The ride to the police station is quiet. Ms. Tannenhauf doesn’t play any music, so the car is filled with road noise and the engine of her white Toyota Camry. I twist my fingers in my lap, wishing that the drive wasn’t taking so long.
Ms. T keeps glancing at me, questions in her eyes. I don’t want to talk about Chase, though.
Before she can ask, I blurt out, “I signed a contract with my parents.”
I hope this small morsel will distract her from Chase. I don’t know how to answer her questions anyway. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a guy I hooked up with. He’s a guy who occupies my thoughts at an alarming rate. He’s a guy who makes my heart beat faster. He’s a guy who killed my sister.
Would anyone have answers to that?
“A contract? Like a behavioral contract?” Ms. T sounds excited.
“I found it on the internet,” I tell her. “Actually, I copied one word for word. I’ll probably be kicked out for plagiarizing.”
She smiles. “I think we can let it pass in this instance.”
“I hope so. It’s working so far. I’m back at the shelter and my parents agreed to let me apply to Iowa State.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“Yup.” I fall silent. I’ve exhausted my topics of conversation.
Ms. Tannenhauf starts up. “Beth, if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, my door is open. I’m just here to listen.”
The police station comes into view, and I think comically that I’ve never been so glad to see one.
“Thanks, Ms. T,” I say and tumble out of the car almost before she can come to a complete stop.
Inside, the Darling station is surprisingly quiet. I guess we don’t have much crime here. Over in the corner, I spot Chase’s mom. She stands when she sees me, recognizing me from that one time I came to the house.
“Katie!” she says in alarm. “What are you doing here?”
I feel sick. I know I need to tell her the truth about who I am, but I can’t get the words out. I’m rooted in place for several seconds, guilt churning in my stomach as I wonder how to respond.
In the end, I just say, “Where’s Chase?”
“He’s being held until my husband’s lawyer gets here.” Her fingers look red like mine, as if she’s been rubbing them nervously together, too.
Her answer isn’t good enough for me. There’s no reason for Chase to be “held.” No reason for him to be here at all.
Without another word, I hurry to the front desk. “I’m Elizabeth Jones—”
A loud gasp sounds from behind me.
Cringing, I do my best to ignore Mrs. Stanton and keep talking. “I need to make a statement about the incident at Darling High today.”
The male officer blinks at me. He’s so young I wonder if he’s a high school student. “Ah, okay.” He bends down and rummages in a drawer. He pulls out a piece of paper and slaps it on the counter. “Fill this out.”
“I need a pen.” I came here without my purse or bag or anything.
“Here’s one.” A quick hand slaps a pen on the counter.
I find the courage to glance over. Chase’s mom is at my side, but the hurt and betrayal I expect to see in her eyes isn’t there. She seems more confused than angry about my deception.
I grab the black pen and start filling out the form, scrawling my name and address, along with my age. The statement section is a box with about twenty lines. I gnaw on my bottom lip. What can I say to convince them that Chase is innocent? The officer didn’t seem to believe me. I guess I need specifics. Should I tell them about the kiss? God, I don’t want to, especially with Chase’s mom here. Will they check Jeff’s phone? I’d bet my college fund that he was the one who called pretending to be the probation officer. And he’s definitely the one who pulled the fire alarm.
I know these things are true, but how do I prove them? Luckily, I don’t have to.
A buzz sounds and I look up to see Chase coming through the heavy metal door.
“I didn’t give my statement yet,” I blurt out.
He shrugs. “You didn’t have to. My probation officer agreed that he never called me. The officer said someone played a prank.”
I’m hit with a flood of relief. “So you’re free to go?”
He nods, a brief, tight movement. I’ve never seen him this tense. Even when Troy’s been at his worst, leaning over and calling him Manson, Chase has been able to keep an aura of controlled calm.
I want to wrap my arms around him and hug him. But of course, I don’t. Instead, it’s his mom who steps past me to grab Chase. She doesn’t exactly hug him, but she squeezes his shoulders so tight that her knuckles turn white.
“Charlie,” she says in a choked voice.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his head hanging so low I can almost see the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
My heart cracks. I reach forward, but Ms. Tannenhauf pulls me back. I didn’t even realize she was in the station with us. That’s how focused I was on Chase.
“Let’s go,” Ms. T whispers.
Reluctantly, I let her lead me away, but the scene of Chase’s mother standing at arm’s length while Chase is bent over in apology is all I can see for the rest of the day.
23
There’s a strange beep when I step inside the house. I check my phone, but the screen is off, so I dismiss it. My head’s too full of the day’s activities to actively care about strange sounds coming from my phone. I probably imagined it anyway.
I’m starting to get paranoid. Every whisper and glance in my direction, I read as an indictment of my actions. Once I got back to school, my classmates alternated between whispering about how Chase got off because his dad was the mayor and how they couldn’t believe I stood up for him. Even Scarlett kept casting me dark looks.
Jeff tried to talk to me, probably to make sure I wouldn’t snitch, which made Scar madder for some reason. And the one person I wanted to show up never did. Chase must’ve gone home with his mom. Good call. I should’ve gone home, too. Ms. T offered to write me a pass, but I wanted to be at school—in case Chase showed up.
Not that he wants my support.
I hang up my jacket and notice my bag is slightly over into Rachel’s space. “Sorry, sis,” I whisper and nudge my bag over.
Behind me, I hear the chirp again. I glance up to see Mom walking through the back door.
“What’s with the sound? Is the microwave broken?”
Her eyes don’t meet mine. “Oh, that? Just a new security system your Dad installed today.” Her voice is high-pitched and anxious.
“Huh. So we hear this sound every time a door opens? That’s not annoying.”
“I’ll let your dad explain it.” She stands in the mudroom doorway, blocking the view of the kitchen. “What are you doing home so early?”
“School’s out.” Is she acting weirder than normal or is it just me? “Why are you home so early?” She usually gets off at five. It’s only three now.
Instead of answering me, she says, “Can you run to the store for me?”
“Right now? I just got home.” A couple of days ago, I would’ve celebrated a chance to escape the house and run an errand. Today, my head’s pounding and I just want to go to my room, shut my door and empty my mind.
“I need a few things for dinner.”
“Can I change first?”
“I really need an onion or I won’t be able to make dinner.” She is adamant.
I huff out a breath but stop arguing. When I open the door, I hear the beep again. There’s another faint echo that pings somewhere in the kitchen. I spot the red light above the door and roll my eyes. This seems like overkill, frankly.
W
e live in a safe neighborhood. There’s no reason for extra security measures. Besides, it’s not like we have anything of value to steal. Out of curiosity, I open and shut the door again. Each time, there’s a sound. And unlike the first time when I entered, there’s an echo.
Suspicious, I spin around and march to the kitchen. Mom’s on her phone, a pinched expression on her face.
“Do you get an alert on your phone every time a window or door is opened or closed?”
Guiltily, she drops her phone on the counter. “What did you say?”
Jaw dropping, I rush over and grab the phone. Sure enough, there’s a notification on her screen.
Mudroom door open, it says. And there’s a time stamp.
“Beth, let me explain—” she starts, but a loud knocking from upstairs catches our attention.
I glance up at the ceiling, then slowly back at her. “What’s going on up there? Is Dad home from work?” Like her, there’s no reason for him to be back this early.
“Yes, he took a half day,” she says hastily. “He probably just dropped something up there.”
That didn’t sound like an item being dropped. “Mom.” I take a calming breath. “Why did you want me to go to the store?”
“Because we need onions for—”
I’m done listening. I race upstairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny blinking light on every window I pass. My concern over the lights is wiped out when I reach my room.
Dad is walking out of it, and for one split second, our gazes meet and hold. Then I brush past him and gasp.
My room’s a mess. There’s stuff everywhere. The bed is rumpled. Pillows are on the floor. Drawers are dumped out. On my dresser is an old romance book I forgot I borrowed from Scar what seems like a decade ago and a box of condoms.
Dread is replaced by anger. So much for having my parents back. They’ve gone right back to their old overprotective tricks.
I whirl and see Mom at the doorway and notice for the first time that my door is gone. Again!
“What is this?” I yell. “Did you search my room? Why?”
“Beth...”
“Answer me!”
“Don’t yell at me,” she shouts back.
“Don’t yell at your mother!” Dad roars.
“Why did you search my room?” I’m so furious I can barely breathe. My eyes are stinging, throat so tight it’s difficult to talk. “What’s wrong with you guys?”
Mom hedges in. “We did this because we’re concerned about you being on drugs—”
“Drugs!” I screech. Oh my God, they’re certifiable. They’re fucking nuts.
“You went to the police station to protect that boy!” Dad thunders at me. His face is as red as I’m sure mine is. We’re both breathing hard, absolutely livid with each other. “Principal Geary called me at work to let me know that Donnelly pulled the fire alarm today—”
“He didn’t do it!” I clench my fists at my sides. Tears of impotence are threatening to fall.
“You’re defending him again!” Mom shakes her finger at me. “You are defending the boy that killed your sister! What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with you, Elizabeth? What is wrong with you?” she repeats in an anguished tone.
“You! You’re what’s wrong with me!”
I push past her, leaving the contents of my life exposed and scattered. I hear Dad’s shouts and Mom’s sobs on my way, but I don’t give a damn. I race outside, climb into my car and start driving.
When I stop, I find myself parked in front of Chase’s house.
I don’t know how I got here or why. I don’t know what I’m planning to do. The doors are shut and so are the windows. I see no movement.
Are there slamming doors and shouting going on inside? No, Chase doesn’t seem like the type of guy to lose his temper. It’s probably icy silence.
Meanwhile, my parents are going overboard, wondering if I’m taking drugs because I’m not picketing in front of the school and demanding that Chase be kicked out.
“Oh, Rachel, what should I do?” I moan miserably.
I press the latch for the sunglass compartment and pull out the photo I have hidden inside. Laying my head on the steering wheel, I stare at the image of Rachel and me. We’re leaning against each other, wearing our Lady Hawks club volleyball jerseys. A few of Rachel’s hairs have escaped her tight ponytail and, because of the sweat and humidity of the gym, she has tiny baby curls forming at her forehead.
She’s not smiling, but I can tell she’s happy. I don’t remember this day. I don’t remember what I felt like. I don’t remember what she may have said. The last really clear memory I have of her is the day before she died.
She wasn’t smiling then, either. Something was bothering her. I could hear her sighs through the walls. I sat outside her door, debating whether I should knock, but I was afraid of getting my head bitten off, so I didn’t.
And the next day she was dead.
I regret not knocking. I regret not taking the chance to speak to her one last time.
A tap on my window startles me. The picture falls from my fingers. I see Chase standing next to the car. He’s wearing the same clothes from school—a pair of dark cargo pants and an equally dark T-shirt. He’s thrown a long-sleeved green-and-blue flannel over the top. A black beanie covers his dirty-blond hair.
Eagerly, I roll down my window.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then his expression darkens. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
He brushes a finger under my eye and holds it up. I see a dot of wetness there.
“I cry all the time,” I say, swiping the backs of my hands over my face. “It’s a flaw. I don’t even want to cry and the tears fall. I think I have overlarge tear ducts or something. Rachel was the exact opposite. She never cried.”
Silence falls between us when I say her name.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“For saying Rachel’s name? Don’t be. I’m sorry you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about your sister. But I know why and I don’t blame you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I saw your car from the living room window. You staking me out?”
Somehow, despite the anger I’m still feeling inside toward my parents, I actually laugh. “You wish.” The humor dies fast, though. “Did you come out here to ask me to leave? Did your mom see me? Is she mad?”
“No. Disappointed, which is even worse.” He tries to smile, but he can’t. He’s too upset at himself. “It’d be better if she was like my dad, who pretends his son doesn’t exist. But instead, she keeps loving me and I keep...” He sighs heavily. “Screwing up,” he finishes. “Anyway, I came out to thank you for standing up for me today.”
“Really? I thought you’d be pissed because I’m making it worse.”
“No. I was wrong to say that before. Those guys want to flex on someone and I’m an easy target. I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were in their shoes.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” I know this.
The side of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I wouldn’t.” He ducks his head for a moment. When he looks up again, his smile is gone, but there’s something warm in his eyes that makes me tingle all over. “It feels good to not be alone.”
Those tingles turn electric. I curl my fingers around the steering wheel so I don’t do something dumb with them. “No one should be alone.”
We endure another uncomfortable silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs the toe of his boot against the asphalt. I squeeze the fake leather steering wheel so hard I’ll have a permanent indent on my palms from the stitching.
“How are things at home?” he finally asks.
“Fine,” I lie, because I can’t tell him that my parents are going nuts over the fire alarm situation. I can’t tell him tha
t they took away my door again, and that I fled like a fugitive after one of the worst arguments we’ve ever had. He’ll feel guilty and then never talk to me again. And that’s a loss I’m not ready to accept. “You?”
“There’ve been better days,” he admits. “The mayor isn’t happy. This incident is a mark on my school record, and if I get three of them, I’ll be out.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” I’m outraged again. “You were innocent!”
“They don’t know that for sure. The cops don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, but the school operates on a different level.” He shrugs, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Let it go,” he advises. “I’ll keep my nose clean and it won’t matter in the end.”
“What about Troy and Jeff?”
He shrugs again. “I stay out of their way.”
“You’ve stayed out of their way since school started. They’re the ones who are pushing themselves into your path.”
“Maybe so, but ignoring bullies is the best way to get rid of them. I know this from personal experience.” He emphasizes the word personal so I get the message that he’s referring to his time in juvie.
Rachel was always a person who believed in fairness. As long as a referee called a game fairly, she was okay with the outcome, even if the ref sucked. “He called it bad both ways,” she told me once after a game. “Can’t ask for more than that.”
I think she would’ve said that Chase had been punished and that we should all move on. I wonder if that can happen, though. For any of us.
I ask him, “Do you think that we—you and me—or my parents or your parents or the kids at school... Do you think any of us can put what happened to Rachel behind us?”
Chase takes a deep breath and ponders this. I like that he doesn’t answer immediately.
“Part of me would like that, but part of me believes it would be wrong. I don’t think I should ever forget my actions. If that means the bullies target me at school or I can’t get certain jobs or my future is somehow limited, I’m okay with that. I took someone’s life. Rachel can’t get a job or go to prom or sit in a class again.” He pauses and looks away.