Slain (22 page)

“So no, then?” I ask, angry. Of course they haven’t.
 

“We need a little more information,” Detective Simms says.

“You want me to draw you a map?” I ask, tired of jumping through their hoops. “Maybe give you his name and address and favorite animal and childhood best friend?”

“If you’ve got it, sure.” Boyer says without missing a beat. “Lucky break, by the way, getting hit by a car without breaking a single bone. If I were religious, I might call that a miracle.”

“What do you guys actually do for a living? Because they can’t possibly pay you for this.”

Boyer scowls at me. “Listen, kid, I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit to last me two lifetimes, okay? We got questions, and you’re gonna answer them.”

“I thought you couldn’t question me without my parents around?”

“Rules are different when you’re the victim of a crime. And that’s all you are, right?” Boyer says.

Simms steps in, probably stopping Boyer from punching me in the face. “All we want is to verify the information you gave our colleagues,” he says. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple minutes.”

I glare at them both. “Somebody tried to run me over three times and crushed my cell phone in the process. I’m sure you can see the pieces if you look in the street. They were driving a maroon car, four doors, no idea of the make and model, but the first three digits of the license plate were 8MK. That’s all I know.”

“Why didn’t the butcher, Fred Hughes, see this vehicle?” Boyer asks.

“How should I know? Why don’t you ask him?”

“We did,” Boyer says. “He said he didn’t see any car, just you.”
 

“What about the security camera? I saw one above the door,” I say.

“The camera only shows the door, not much beyond it. It didn’t see a vehicle,” Simms says.

“Okay. But I did see it, and I’m telling you it was maroon, four doors, license plate 8MK-something. I mean, how many cars could possibly fit that description?”

“We’ve got people checking into it,” Simms says. “How about you tell us what brought you to be in that area so late at night?”

Should I tell them or not? If I don’t, and he’s guilty, it will look exactly like what they’re thinking. Like I made it up. But if I do, and he’s innocent, then it could be even more damaging. To both of us.

“I just wanted a little fresh air,” I say.

“You got plenty of trails in that fancy neighborhood of yours. Why didn’t you walk down one of those?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I got a little nervous because you guys have been following me everywhere lately and everything I do seems to make you think I’m a killer?”

Boyer leans back in her chair, satisfied with herself. She shrugs. “Say we are keeping an eye on you,” she says. “Why should you be worried about what we see tonight?”

Simms shoots Boyer a “watch yourself” look, making me wonder exactly what the rules are right now, and if they’re really following them.

“If there’s anything you haven’t told us before, Miss Grant, now would be the time,” Boyer says.

There’s plenty more I could say, but I don’t. If Jackson was involved, I need to find out on my own first.

“You guys are useless. I’m done talking to you without my lawyer.”

I
T
’
S
AFTER
4
A
.
M
. when we leave the hospital. My mother wakes me at 6:30.

“Wha… ?” I ask, my speech slurred by exhaustion.
 

“I said wake up. It’s time to get ready for school.”

The glare I give her must be the glare-iest of my life. Or maybe not. I’m not sure I have any control over my face right now.

“On two hours sleep?” I ask.
 

“What you choose to do with your evenings has no effect on whether or not you go to school the next day.”

“But—“

“Now.”
 

She leaves. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Before I went to bed last night they grounded me for another month, which puts me on lockdown past graduation and into the summer. Hopefully I won’t be around that long. Is there still a chance for New York? I have to believe there is, or I won’t make it through even today.

It’s a fight to sit up, a fight to stand, a fight to haul myself to the shower. Every motion is slowed by my aching body, my swollen foot, and my heavy lids. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of how much bigger a fight it would be to stay home.

I throw on a baggy sweatshirt and yoga pants and throw my hair into a bun. With the laces as loose as possible, my foot just barely fits into my tennis shoes, as swollen as it is. Luckily the ACE bandage the doctor wrapped my ankle in last night is hidden by my pants. I can’t imagine having to explain all this to everyone at school, on top of everything else I’m dealing with.

Neither of my parents says anything to me as I slurp down my green tea. They don’t even look at me. There are bags under their eyes, but they zoom around like toddlers who know they’ll fall asleep if they stop moving. It’s a fight for them to be awake too. They’re making a point. The Grant family does not negotiate with terrorists, especially teenage ones. It’s infuriating, but there’s no way I’m going to be the first to back down.
 

They drive me to school early. The halls are nearly empty. Only the quiet movements of teachers in their classrooms.
 

It’s hard to recognize my reflection in my locker mirror. My face is puffy, dark half-moons hang under my eyes. If anyone else looked like this I’d probably think they were on drugs. The thought suddenly seems hilarious. I laugh.
 

“What’s so funny?” Mike stands two feet away.

“Everything,” I say, then stuff the laughter away. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“What’s the matter with you? You look like crap.”

I should keep a tally of how many times I want to smack him, so that I can accurately deliver after all this is over.

“Thanks for noticing,” I say. “I barely got any sleep last night.”

“You don’t have to get all snappy with me. I came early today so I could see you.”

“Okay,” I say.

He grabs my hand. “I’ve missed you.” He leans in, but I lean away.

“Mike.” My voice is a warning, not an invitation.

He doesn’t listen. Instead he kisses me, his mouth covering my lips entirely as he searches with his tongue. It’s revolting. I pull away.

“Mike. Knock it off.”

But he doesn’t, he presses me against the locker, his chest to mine. “It’s fine. There’s nobody here.” He kisses me again.

“I’m not doing this with you.” I say, and turn my head away again.

He grips my wrist tight. “Yes, you are,” he says. “You owe me.”

“Excuse me?” I say, trying to free my wrist from his grasp, but he’s holding it so tight. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Then he has my other hand too, and he’s pinning both of them above my head with just one of his, against the locker’s vent, its flaps digging into my flesh.
 

He whispers in my ear. “I want it too. I want what you gave him.”

His other hand darts down between my legs, that place he’s never been. I shove him with my knee as hard as I can, and he stumbles backward.
 

He looks up at me, breathing hard, his eyes nearly as shocked as mine.
 

“What’s wrong with you?” I say.

There’s a look on his face then, a realization of what he’s done. “I’m sorry. I crossed the line. I’m sorry.” But the tone of his voice is noble, not apologetic. He’s sorry for the wrong thing. He’s sorry he went too far, yes, but not because I didn’t want him too. He’s sorry because it’s further than he’s supposed to go in general. Further than God wants him to go. I’m not a part of the equation at all.

“Leave me alone, Mike. Seriously.” I walk away, limping on my bad foot.

“Emma, come on.” His voice is pleading. “I messed up, I’m sorry. Let me… At least let me apologize?”

I keep walking, but he’s right behind me.

“I got carried away, okay? But it’s only because I love you. I’m only trying to do what’s best for you,” he says.

“Really?” I say, turning to face him. “You…are…so…ridiculous! Do you know what a joke you are?”

My voice sounds hysterical. The words are mean, I know they are, but his actions and my pain and lack of sleep have reduced my filter to nothing.
 

He sputters, and his face twists into an expression I’ve never seen before. He looks like an ape, befuddled by a banana.
 

“No,
you
are,” he says with all the force of a child, unable to come up with anything better, pouting like he used to when Paige got a bigger slice of birthday cake.

A laugh explodes from my mouth. He’s wanted me to be afraid of him, and I have been. I’ve let him intimidate me into this stupid arrangement. But now? He looks like an idiot.

“Shut up,” he says.

But I can’t stop. My stomach hurts from it. I double over, use the locker wall for support. Ben and Chuck walk up.

“What’s up with her?” Chuck asks, a smile behind his voice.

“She’s acting all crazy,” Mike says.

“Okay,” Chuck says.

They all seem to stop, take a closer look at me. I’m not sure if they’ve ever seen me like this before—messy, tired, no makeup. My usual polish has disappeared.

“What’s going on with you, Emma?” Ben asks. “Like, for real?” The tone in his voice is curious. Not good curious, disappointed curious. If he sounds like that, then I must look even worse than I thought. The realization helps me out of my fit.

“Nothing…nothing,” I say, gulping deep breaths and wiping my eyes.

“She needs to get right with God, that’s what,” Mike says.

“Oh my god. You seriously have to stop. That’s what an insane person would say.” Only I’m the one who sounds insane and I know it.

Ben turns to Chuck. “Is she like, on something?”

Chuck shrugs.

“Oh my god, you guys,” I say. “You can’t be serious.”

Mike scoffs. “Listen to yourself, Emma. You’re so lost right now.”

I catch his eye and hold it. I can see his confidence waver. Not a lot, but enough. I grab his arm.

“I’m done pretending, okay? Leave me alone. Or you will regret it. I promise you.”

He yanks his arm away from me. “Maybe you’re the one with more to lose, Emma. Maybe you should think about that.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of that.

“I’m sorry, okay?” I say. But the look on his face tells me it’s too late.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, and the guys go.

I fall asleep in homeroom. I fall asleep in British lit. When Mr. Stearns has to yell my name to ask me about a passage in Leviticus I startle awake and almost scream. Usually something like that would make us all crack up, but today the whole class just stares wide eyed at the mess I am.
 

Paige whispers to me during quite study time.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“Clearly. But you’re more than tired, Emma. You’re limping. What’s going on?”

I don’t trust myself to just tell her about last night. If I open the bottle, it’s all going to spill out.

“I took a walk last night and fell. Had to go to the hospital. Didn’t get much sleep.”

“What did you say to Ben this morning? Do you know what people are saying?”

“No talking, ladies,” Mr. Stearns says.

Paige leans back in her desk but doesn’t stop staring at me. I excuse myself to the restroom and sleep in the handicapped stall until the final bell rings. When I wake up, my head feels a little clearer.

I wait for the din in the halls to die down then venture out, sneaking through the back exit instead of going to my mom’s office. When I’m sure there’s no police following I walk a few blocks to catch a bus back home, and find the spare key to my car so I can drive to Jackson’s house. There are some things we need to talk about.

E
VEN
THOUGH
IT
’
S
LESS
than ten miles away from my house, Jackson lives in the kind of neighborhood most people at church would call “seedy.” Which is a totally stupid thing to say, especially after you spend any time here. I have, and I’ve never felt any sort of danger at all. I doubt the crime stats are any different than my neighborhood.
 

But the people I’ve grown up with find things like gnomes on the lawn and motor homes in the driveway distasteful. I used to too, before I knew not to. Jackson laughed at me outright the first time we came here and I asked if there was gang activity in the area. I was such an asshole back then.

His house is a ranch with blue siding and white trim and a miniature Dutch windmill in the flower bed up front. There are three bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen on the main level, but you could fit most of that in just our family room. He lives here with his parents and two brothers. One of the brothers goes to community college and hogs most of the basement.

I see Jackson’s lime green 1972 Gran Torino in the driveway. His grandfather gave it to him a couple years ago, and he’s been working on restoring it ever since. It’s his baby. There’s no way he’d be anywhere without it.

I park on the sidewalk and walk up to the door. There’s a television blaring inside, or maybe a video game. There are lots of explosions. I’m hoping his parents aren’t home. I’ve never met them, and I’m not sure I want to, at least not now. I definitely don’t want today to be the first time. Besides, Jackson says there won’t be much to miss family-wise when we go. I’ve never asked him to explain.

 
I ring the doorbell, and the noise stops. Jackson opens the door. He’s wearing jeans and an old orange T-shirt. It’s the kind of clothes that make me wish I was a boy sometimes: anti-heel, anti-tights, anti-spanks.
 

When he sees it’s me, he breaks into a grin. “Em! What are you doing here?” He snatches me into his arms and lifts me right off the doorstep. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”