A pause as Neil looked up the answer. “No. You’re thinking she killed Roberto? The great love of her life?”
“As long as we’re talking motive, what about ambition? Roberto was useful as a protector at Mother Del’s, and as a bully who eliminated all of her initial competition at the theater.”
“He forced Lola to quit.”
“While possibly starting his own business venture with de Vries. Which you gotta believe Anya knew something about, given her connection to both men.”
“Okay.”
“Bringing us to June of this year. When Anya is now a bona fide community star, working closely with the director on the next stage of her career and Roberto—”
“Is the whiny boyfriend complaining about her close relationship with de Vries?”
“Does Anya still need Roberto? Does de Vries still need him?”
“If de Vries is also banking on following Anya to New York, probably not. As they say, three is a crowd.”
“Roberto becomes expendable. And Anya is the perfect person to do it. Roberto certainly wouldn’t suspect her, even if she showed up with a fifth of whiskey in one hand and a firearm in the other. And the more she cried her broken heart out while pointing the finger at her rival—”
“Like any talented actress,” Neil agreed.
“—the quicker she gets away with it. She hides Roberto’s phone. Probably even pockets Roberto’s share of the illegal-photos cash as her future New York slush fund, which is why the police never found evidence of financial gain either. And as the coup de grâce, she sets up Lola to take the blame. The girl who’s sworn never to be a victim again.”
“But how does all that lead to Lola having sex with de Vries?”
“Girl warfare. Anya messes with Lola, Lola strikes back by hitting Anya where it hurts—seducing her creepy, future-meal-ticket boyfriend who we already know likes underage girls.”
“You’re assuming Anya knows de Vries had sex with Lola.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t be retaliation if Lola kept it quiet.”
“Lola tells Anya, sends a picture, something,” Neil muttered. “And within twenty-four hours, Lola is shot dead.”
“Up close and personal. An act of revenge.”
“Which Doug de Vries must alibi Anya for, because if not, Anya will rat him out for having sex with a thirteen-year-old.”
“Once again, she has opportunity and motive. With a convincing dramatic performance delivered to me, Phil, and Flora to finish covering her crime.”
“What about the shooting of Hector and Las Niñas Diablas?” Neil asked. “Phil told me she had an alibi for the entire day. Not to mention, why would she shoot at Hector?”
“I don’t know. Misdirection, theatrics. As long as we’re chasing a mystery shooter, we’re certainly not looking at her. As for her alibi, I just got done meeting with a CI who told me the community theater is a revolving door of cast and crew—all activity, no accountability. Meaning it’s not too far of a stretch to believe Anya snuck out. And while she has long blond hair, there’s gotta be a brunette wig somewhere in that theater. Which—” D.D. stopped. “Shit.”
“What?”
“The theater. Shit!”
“What?”
“Roxanna Baez. Flora and her friend located Roxy in the theater this morning. Perfect place to hide out, they said, who would ever think to check all the rooms, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Okay.”
“She wasn’t hiding out. Dollars to donuts”—D.D. raised her coffee cup—“Roxy already knows what we just figured out. She didn’t pick the theater for its easy access. She picked it to ambush Anya Seton. This is the problem with a CI with a previous relationship working the case: Flora and her friend both see Roxy as a victim, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of violence.”
“Where is Roxanna right now?” Neil demanded.
“In theory, stashed in a friend’s apartment.”
D.D. hung up, quickly dialed the number. But sure enough, no one answered.
D.D. downed her coffee, threw her vehicle into gear, and roared out of the parking lot.
Chapter 36
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part VII
How do you become a family again? When you have lost so much, how do you learn to trust enough to get it back?
My mother’s new apartment is small. Cleaner than the one she had shared with Hector, but only two bedrooms and stuck in an apartment complex filled with old people. They had agreed to her tenancy because she was a nurse, and they wanted someone with medical skills. In return, she had promised them we would be good kids. No loud noises, rambunctious laughter, or running wildly through the long, neutral-painted halls.
After the crowded din of Mother Del’s, this new, carefully constructed space seems unreal. Like a tan bubble where we hang in suspended animation, waiting for the illusion of normalcy to be yanked away. Lola and I share the larger room. Manny has his own room. My mother sleeps on the sofa, proud to have her kids in bedrooms again. She has found two cherry-red throw pillows for the tiny love seat. The only splash of color in the place.
Somedays, I stare at those pillows, as if they can tell me what happened to all of us. As if they can direct me to where we go from here.
Manny takes it all in stride. But then, he’s Manny. His foster parents have returned him with two bulging suitcases of toys. Iron Man figures, decks of Pokémon cards, endless supplies of Hot Wheels. My favorite moments are hanging with him after school. Let’s play Iron Man, let’s play Pokémon, let’s race! Manny chatters and hugs and plays. He fills the entire too-neutral apartment with his trusting heart and little-boy glee.
I wish I could be him. I wish I could crawl inside his head and spend an hour as happy-go-lucky Manny Baez. But I’m not that fortunate, and neither is Lola.
We do our best. We go to school. We sit where we’re told, we keep our heads down, we call no attention to ourselves. And the moment we return to the tiny apartment, we wordlessly go to work. Cooking, cleaning, assisting Manny with his homework. Even if our mom is home from her job at the hospital. We need to keep busy, we need to help out. While we study our mom, watching the gait of her walk, listening to the cadence of her speech.
One day, I discover Lola searching the cabinets beneath the sink in the bathroom. I don’t say anything because I’d just gotten done pawing through the coat closet. Both of us looking for bottles of booze. Any sign the world is about to end again. This time, we want to be prepared. Hence the packs we both keep at the ready next to our bed.
But weeks become months. Our mother makes the long bus ride to St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center in Brighton, then returns home again. If her working day is longer than she wants due to the commute, that’s okay. Nothing here Lola and I can’t handle. And, of course, Manny is always happy, quick to greet us with a hug before demanding to know what new game we’re going to play.
Sometimes, I wake up to the sound of Lola crying. Sometimes, she shakes me awake, telling me that I’m dreaming again. Sometimes, neither of us bothers with sleep at all: We simply lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling.
I try not to think of Mother Del’s. Wonder who’s comforting the babies. What new kid is probably being punished by Roberto and Anya right now. We got out. Our mother, despite the odds, came for us. It isn’t our fault most of the kids don’t have a mom and will never dream of such luxuries as a beige apartment in a senior-living building.
I catch Lola drinking several months after that. A bottle of tequila, of all things, which she’d stashed under the bed.
“Don’t you dare!” I snap at her, keeping my voice low, though our mom isn’t back from work and Manny is still playing with his action figures i
n the living room. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”
She smiles at me funny. “What do you mean? Boys will do anything I want. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” She arches her back suggestively.
I slap her. “You’re not that person, Lola Baez. We know who is. Don’t let them wreck you!”
“Too late,” my sister says. Then she puts her head in her hands and cries, while I dump the rest of the tequila down the sink, then carry the bottle out to the building recycling center because I’m worried the sight of it might send my mom over the edge.
But I lick the top. Before I ditch it. I lick the clear glass. I try to taste what my mother tasted, what apparently my sister tasted. I get nothing. Just a burning sensation on the tip of my tongue that causes me to shudder, then spit.
Which, perversely, makes me jealous. Because at least my mom and sister know one trick for letting go of their troubles. Whereas me, I can only continue to shoulder my load, carrying it around day after day after day.
Can you get back the things you’ve lost? Everyone talks about the resilience of youth. Manny certainly seems to have rebounded just fine. And maybe he gets that from our mom, because each day she presents a cheerful, determined front. I screwed up, kids. So sorry. My bad. Never again.
Only Lola and I remain adrift. Two dolls who can’t seem to get our limbs in working order. Some nights, I can feel the darkness roll off my sister in waves. And some nights, my own emptiness feels just as deep. In the mornings, we both get up, unpack, repack our bags. Then get on with our day.
Toward the end of the school year, June something of Year 1, as my mother calls it, the unexpected happens. I’m walking home when I happen to look up. There. Across the street. I see him immediately. Not close enough to make out his face, but I don’t need to see his eyes, his nose, his jaw. The constant bouncing motion tells me enough.
I go still. I stare straight at him. He looks right back. And I know instantly who’s comforting the babies. I know who Anya and Roberto are hurting. And I know who will never escape to a tiny beige apartment, because he has no mother left.
I never called. I never stopped by. I didn’t even invite him over to dinner, though I, of all people, know how badly he could use the break from Mother Del’s. Coming over to our apartment wouldn’t even be that difficult; he could simply meet my mom at St. Elizabeth’s, take the bus with her at the end of her shift.
But I’ve never suggested it. Never even said his name. I can’t. I’m too afraid any reminder of Mother Del’s will send Lola back over the edge. And as always, I put my sister first.
Now, I lift my hand in greeting.
He raises his hand in reply.
Neither of us makes a move to close the distance.
There’s family that you have. And there’s family that is made. Mike Davis is my family. He saw me when no one else did. He helped me when no one else dared. And he let me go because he knew I needed to take care of my sister, more than I could care about him. Care about anyone.
Standing across the street from him now, I bottle up all my confusion and pain and fear. And for just one moment, I will myself to find anything that’s bright, happy, and sparkling. I do it for the boy who still lives in the dark. For him, I imagine an electric blue ball crackling with goodwill and high energy. Then I fling it across the street to him.
From the girl who will never forget you. From the girl who still considers you a friend. From the girl you saved, and you should be proud of that because now she can save her own family.
All of that from me to the boy who can never stop bouncing.
When I open my eyes, Mike is gone. But I like to think he understood.
There’s the family that you have. And the family that you make. Maybe neither are perfect. But Mike and me, we’ve always been close enough.
Chapter 37
WHERE IS SHE?”
I was barely out the back door before Mike was in front of me, rocking up and down on his heels, drumming his fingers, clearly agitated.
“I went. She wasn’t there. I have food, water, supplies. I’m supposed to help. Is she okay? Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?”
I raised a calming hand. At the last moment, I realized I probably shouldn’t place it on his shoulder. He might spook and dash like a frightened colt straight into the fence.
“Roxy is safe,” I said.
“Have you seen her? She can’t go to Mother Del’s. Never be alone at Mother Del’s.”
“Of course not. Mike, are you okay?”
He stared at me, eyes overbright. I wondered again if he was on something. Or maybe off something, which in his case could be just as disruptive. I took a deep breath, willed some of my calmness into him.
“You’re a good friend to Roxy, aren’t you, Mike? For years you’ve been trying to help her. You knew where she was hiding out.”
Quick nod.
“Setting her up in the theater was very smart,” I continued smoothly. “Of course you couldn’t bring her to Mother Del’s. And both of you have good reason not to trust the police.”
His fingers slowed slightly in their beat against the tops of his legs.
“Things change, though. Given everything that’s happened, Roxanna needs the police on her side. She’s innocent. You know that. I know that. We need the police to see that, as well.”
He frowned, his gaze dashing around the yard, settling on anything but me.
“This morning, I arranged for Roxy to meet with Sergeant D. D. Warren, the Boston detective in charge of the case. The sergeant is starting to believe Roxy’s story. She also tested Roxy’s hands for gunpowder residue. Roxy tested clean. She didn’t hurt her family.”
“Roxy would never hurt her family.”
“What about Roberto? Would she hurt Roberto?”
Fingers drumming again, which didn’t surprise me. After talking to the school counselor, I had some new thoughts on this subject.
“Mike, did you and Roxy hear what Roberto told Ms. Lobdell Cass in her office that day? When Roberto was waiting to meet with the principal after having gotten in trouble for posting Roxy’s photo? Did you two hear Roberto threaten her?”
Mike flinched. He glanced at me. “Never get caught alone at Mother Del’s,” he said solemnly, which I took to mean yes.
“That must’ve been very frustrating. That Roberto bullied not only kids, but grown adults, as well.”
He bounced two times quick.
“Is that when you two decided something must be done? Roberto had already destroyed enough lives. Five years later, still hurting Lola and Roxy. And now going after someone as nice as Ms. Lobdell Cass.”
“We hated him,” Mike stated abruptly. “Some people are made for hating. Roberto was made for hating.”
“Anya thinks Lola and her gang arranged for Roberto’s suicide. But I spoke to them this morning. They say they didn’t do it, and I believe them. It was you and Roxy, wasn’t it? Roberto had to be stopped. And Ex-lax and sleeping pills weren’t going to be enough this time.”
Mike wouldn’t look at me. He jiggled his legs. He drummed his fingers. In his own way, I thought, this was as close to a confession as we were ever going to get.
“Have you seen Anya this morning?” I asked.
He jerked his attention back to me. “What?”
“Anya. Someone took a shot at me while I was talking to Lola’s gang a few hours ago. The shooter missed. I didn’t have time for a close enough look before she ran away.”
Mike flinched.
“Maybe when you went to the theater this morning, you saw Anya? Getting supplies—say, a brunette wig?”
He shook his head.
“Mike, Anya blames Lola and Roxy for everything. In her mind, they took the love of her life from her.”
Another head shake, as if trying to ward off my words.
/>
I tried again. “She’s been plotting revenge ever since—”
“She didn’t love him.”
“Who? Anya didn’t love Roberto?”
“She used him. He used her. That is not love.”
“To be honest, for some people, it’s close enough.”
“She has the director now. She doesn’t need Roberto anymore. Just ask Lola.”
The way Mike said that drew me up short. “What do you mean, ‘ask Lola’?”
“She knew Anya was with the director. She saw them together. In the theater. Naughty, naughty.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.
I think I got it. “Lola wanted revenge. She wanted to make Anya pay for everything she and Roberto had done. But Roberto was dead. So Lola went after Doug de Vries instead?”
“Lola took pictures. Lola sent pictures. Friday night. Roxy found them on the computer. Lola and the fat director. Ugly photos. Disturbing.” Mike frowned. “Roxy had to purge everything. She called me for help. I am good at computers. For Roxy, I came. For Roxy, I helped.”
“But you could only clear the computer’s memory, right? The pictures that were already sent . . . What goes out on the internet stays there.” A concept I knew too well.
He shrugged. “Roxy cried. She told Lola she was better than this. Lola told her to stop pretending. Roxy told her she couldn’t keep saving her. Lola told her she didn’t want to be saved. Lola left. Roxy did not talk any more. She sat in their room. She looked so sad. Once, I could help her. But not anymore. Once, we could save each other.” He paused, looked at me. “Not anymore.”
I understood. Five years later, Roxy and Lola’s world wasn’t getting better but worse.
Forget Roberto and Anya and their acts of revenge. Lola had debased herself with the theater director, then distributed exploitive photos of herself on their home computer. It was one thing for Roxy to try to save her younger sister from two older, bigger bullies. But how could you save someone from herself?