referring to some convenience store holdup gone wrong.
“You make it sound like it’s significant,” I say.
“I’m not a police officer. I’m sure they’ve considered it.”
“Can you stop talking around it and just tell me what happened?”
“A girl was strangled in her bed.”
I almost drop her. She gasps and holds on.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are full of something like guilt, like maybe she feels bad for telling me this.
Or maybe she feels bad for not telling me earlier. I have no idea.
I don’t know what to say. She’s right—the cops have probably considered a connection. I don’t exactly want to buy any of them a cup of coffee, but I feel fairly sure they’re not completely incompetent.
“Is that all you know?” I finally ask.
She hesitates. “Pretty much. I knew the girl. She lived about twenty minutes from here. We took ballet together. But—she was a kid. She had just turned fifteen. Your mom—” Her face twists, and I know she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. “It was different.”
“ How different?”
She pulls away from me a little, and I realize I must sound fierce. I can’t help it.
“How different?” I repeat, less harshly this time.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know all the details. I heard it was a boyfriend or someone who knew her, but . . . it was never solved.”
Stan would know. I can’t believe he hasn’t mentioned this to me. I wonder if it’s deliberate. We found some solid ground last night, but maybe it was only solid to me. Maybe he’s still playing everything close to the chest. This unravels my feelings about our entire conversation, especially how easily he deflected my questions about what he was doing that night.
I want to put my fist through a tree trunk.
Charlotte watches me, but she doesn’t say anything. I can almost feel her pulse pounding through her body, and it’s a touch too fast.
She’s still afraid of me.
She’s not asking me to put her down, so I keep walking.
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “I should start lining up an alibi for that murder, too.”
“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” she says. “I thought—I thought you knew—”
I shake my head. “I don’t know anything anymore, Charlotte. Not a damn thing.”
We’ve come to the tree line behind Stan’s house, and before I walk out of the woods, I check the driveway for any sign of a news van. All clear.
Also absent: Stan’s car.
“Shit.” I ease her feet to the ground and now I do slam my hand into a tree. “ Shit .”
“What?”
“Stan’s gone.”
“You don’t have a car?”
“If I had a car, you think I’d be walking through the woods to get to the grocery store?”
“Shit,” she agrees, and the word doesn’t sound right from her mouth, like profanity is a new thing. Despite everything, that makes me smile. It takes a bite out of my tension.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing. What do you want to do?”
She looks at the house, and then back at the woods. It’s taken us about fifteen minutes to walk here from there, and I can see her doing the math in her head.
“My mother doesn’t know I was buying the flour at the local store,” she says. “We don’t usually shop there. But she might assume it. She needed me right back. I was hoping Stan could drive me home and I could make up some story about a flat tire and falling in the mud.”
“You didn’t have a flat tire.”
She makes a face. “That, too.”
“I could run back and stab it.” I can’t believe I’m suggesting this. I imagine the headline. Local teen suspected of murder caught vandalizing car.
Her face lights for a second, but then she sobers. “I think that would generate more questions. And I don’t want anyone to see you.” She heaves a big sigh. “Can we get out of the heat, at least?”
I hesitate. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to bring her inside. It’s ridiculous, especially when you consider that we’ve been
“You make it sound like it’s significant,” I say.
“I’m not a police officer. I’m sure they’ve considered it.”
“Can you stop talking around it and just tell me what happened?”
“A girl was strangled in her bed.”
I almost drop her. She gasps and holds on.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are full of something like guilt, like maybe she feels bad for telling me this.
Or maybe she feels bad for not telling me earlier. I have no idea.
I don’t know what to say. She’s right—the cops have probably considered a connection. I don’t exactly want to buy any of them a cup of coffee, but I feel fairly sure they’re not completely incompetent.
“Is that all you know?” I finally ask.
She hesitates. “Pretty much. I knew the girl. She lived about twenty minutes from here. We took ballet together. But—she was a kid. She had just turned fifteen. Your mom—” Her face twists, and I know she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. “It was different.”
“ How different?”
She pulls away from me a little, and I realize I must sound fierce. I can’t help it.
“How different?” I repeat, less harshly this time.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know all the details. I heard it was a boyfriend or someone who knew her, but . . . it was never solved.”
Stan would know. I can’t believe he hasn’t mentioned this to me. I wonder if it’s deliberate. We found some solid ground last night, but maybe it was only solid to me. Maybe he’s still playing everything close to the chest. This unravels my feelings about our entire conversation, especially how easily he deflected my questions about what he was doing that night.
I want to put my fist through a tree trunk.
Charlotte watches me, but she doesn’t say anything. I can almost feel her pulse pounding through her body, and it’s a touch too fast.
She’s still afraid of me.
She’s not asking me to put her down, so I keep walking.
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “I should start lining up an alibi for that murder, too.”
“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” she says. “I thought—I thought you knew—”
I shake my head. “I don’t know anything anymore, Charlotte. Not a damn thing.”
We’ve come to the tree line behind Stan’s house, and before I walk out of the woods, I check the driveway for any sign of a news van. All clear.
Also absent: Stan’s car.
“Shit.” I ease her feet to the ground and now I do slam my hand into a tree. “ Shit .”
“What?”
“Stan’s gone.”
“You don’t have a car?”
“If I had a car, you think I’d be walking through the woods to get to the grocery store?”
“Shit,” she agrees, and the word doesn’t sound right from her mouth, like profanity is a new thing. Despite everything, that makes me smile. It takes a bite out of my tension.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing. What do you want to do?”
She looks at the house, and then back at the woods. It’s taken us about fifteen minutes to walk here from there, and I can see her doing the math in her head.
“My mother doesn’t know I was buying the flour at the local store,” she says. “We don’t usually shop there. But she might assume it. She needed me right back. I was hoping Stan could drive me home and I could make up some story about a flat tire and falling in the mud.”
“You didn’t have a flat tire.”
She makes a face. “That, too.”
“I could run back and stab it.” I can’t believe I’m suggesting this. I imagine the headline. Local teen suspected of murder caught vandalizing car.
Her face lights for a second, but then she sobers. “I think that would generate more questions. And I don’t want anyone to see you.” She heaves a big sigh. “Can we get out of the heat, at least?”
I hesitate. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to bring her inside. It’s ridiculous, especially when you consider that we’ve been
Similar Books
