What could possibly matter to Anjelica?
Only if Anjelica’s father really and truly had killed Frannie Bailey could Anjelica have a reason for wanting Rose to answer questions. But Rose knew nothing about that murder; she never had; she had always taken the same stance and said the same things. Anjelica had been there. The two girls were in agreement. They had seen nothing.
Alan had said the same thing, though. We
need to talk.
Why would Rose need to talk to either of them?
Why would they need to talk to her?
“Just ten minutes, Rose, please?” said Anjelica. She looked tired and drawn. “Fifteen at the most. We’ll slip out the side door. We’ll sit in my car and talk.”
Rose felt her silence slipping away, her grip on saying nothing growing slack and weak. How strange and awful, if she were to admit her secret to Anjelica, a stranger who had barely shown basic friendliness, never mind depth of heart. But she never cut class and next was history, which she loved, and talking with Anjelica could only be unpleasant. She shook her head no.
“Rose,” said Anjelica, “I read your diary. I read it when you went riding with the stable hands, just before my father and I drove you back to your house. I read every word you wrote.”
Alan Finney was sitting in European history.
Because Alan hated studying and had several hundred more interesting things to do, he paid close attention in class, so as to avoid the subject again in the evening.
The history teacher had gotten stranded on the Napoleonic Wars, where she lingered long and lovingly. This left her barely a month of the school year into which she must squash two hundred years of history. It was not going well. Wars, peace treaties, prime ministers, empires, and navies slammed into one another and raced on into the next generation.
Alan stared out the window, which he never permitted himself to do, because views out the window were too satisfying. Start gazing out windows, you started to go deaf to the lecture, and then you had to study at home.
Out the window, Alan saw Rose Lymond and Anjelica Lofft walking toward the student parking lot.
He recognized Anjelica because she had been featured in a teen magazine a year ago, and of all people, Tabor had bought the magazine and shown the pictures around. Anjelica was beautiful and rich, but so were lots of girls. The difference was that the boys had a tiny association with Anjelica; the band had kicked her out of the Lymonds’ cellar the day she came to play with Rose.
What a sweet phrase: to play with Rose. It conjured up happy, smiling children pretending to ride ponies or explore rain forests. But there could be nothing sweet about Anjelica Lofft coaxing Rose Lymond to leave the high school with her.
In his second phone call, Tabor had told Alan about the attempted hit-and-run during Rose’s trash detail. “What could it be about?” Tabor had moaned. “Who would try to hit my sister with his car? And why would she lie about it?”
European history cluttered Alan’s mind. The breathing and fidgeting and muttering of the class, the scrape of pencils and the click of laptops offended him, chewed at his thoughts.
Who
would
try to run Rose over? thought Alan. It must be a Lofft. And maybe it isn’t Milton who would like to run Rose down. Maybe it’s Anjelica.
He tilted his chair back to keep Rose in sight as the two girls crossed the parking lot and then the parking lot itself tipped Alan’s memory. All those cars. All the traffic and all the tie-ups that knotted the roads around the school every day at two forty-five. Kids gunning their engines, jumping the lights, passing on the right even if it meant driving on lawns or crushing innocent shrubs.
Passing on the right, thought Alan.
He stood up way too fast, something he was usually careful not to do because he was too large for the desks and chairs in the high school classrooms. He kicked over his desk and nearly tripped over this chair.
“Alan,” said the teacher.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping over backpacks and book bags and purses and legs. “I’ll explain later.” Which was a lie. He wasn’t going to explain a single thing later.
In the hall, he broke into a sprint.
Rose had written quite a lot about traffic, even though traffic had not been on her mind at all. Alan bet traffic wasn’t on her mind now, either.
The diary sprang into his mind as if a printer spewed out the pages.
I didn’t think we’d ever get to the lake estate. Even after we got on the thruway we had sixty miles to go. I was desperate to crawl into a bed and pull the covers over my head. Maybe in the morning it would turn out to be a bad dream. I was so upset and the drive lasted forever. Anjelica kept opening bags of chips and Mr. Lofft was furious at the traffic. We hit something and bumped over it and it felt as if the Navigator would tip over. Anjelica screamed and her own father swore at her.
My soul has hit something and bumped over it. Every breath I take, I’m going over another bump. But it’s morning as I write this, and it wasn’t a bad dream, and it isn’t a bump I can drive over.
There is a second secret, thought Alan. The bump in the road when Milton Lofft passed on the right. It’s the hit-and-run. The one the police accused me of. Accused Tabor of and even the whole band of.
The police were half right about everything. Milton Lofft is guilty of murder. Just not the murder of Frannie Bailey.
We’ll probably never know who murdered Frannie Bailey. Rose told the truth: Neither she nor Anjelica saw anything at Frannie Bailey’s house.
But both of them felt the bump when Milton Lofft drove over a pedestrian and kept going. Anjelica screamed. She probably actually saw it. Rose didn’t scream so she probably only felt it. I don’t suppose Rose even knows she wrote about the hit-and-run. She might not even know that any hit-and-run ever happened.
But Anjelica knows because, of course, she read the diary, too. Rose must have been writing the entire weekend, pouring out her shock. How furious it would make a Lofft to be ignored in favor of some stupid diary. Anjelica sneaked a peek the way I did.
So the person who tried to run Rose over on trash detail was Anjelica herself. She has to protect her father, thought Alan. Anjelica knew that, sooner or later, Rose would break down and talk. One good interrogation and out that sentence would come:
We hit something and bumped over it and it felt as if the Navigator would tip over.
Turning the first corner, Alan nearly crushed Chrissie Klein racing toward the same exit.
“Rose!” said Chrissie.
“With Anjelica,” agreed Alan.
Chrissie reached the door first and flung it open. “Did you read the diary?” she panted.
“Yes.”
“Scum.”
“Did you read it?” he demanded. “That makes you scum, too.”
“Yes,” said Chrissie, “but I’ve never denied being scum.”
Alan caught the door and they were outside and the air was sweet and mild after the stale recirculated air of the school.
“Talk about scum,” said Alan, pointing. “Anjelica’s driving out the back way. We can’t signal Rose. We’re not going to get there in time.”
“Do you have your car?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll follow them,” said Chrissie.
They flew to Alan’s car, leaped in, fastened seat belts, drove away leaving a patch, and got caught by traffic at the first intersection. The wait for lights to change was excruciating. “I bet Rose wouldn’t hang around like this,” said Chrissie. “Rose would just steal a quicker car and get going.”
They both laughed hysterically. The image of Rose in a stolen vehicle remained impossible.
At last they were through the intersection and speeding after Anjelica’s almost vanished Pathfinder. Alan was an excellent driver, taking extreme risks and going very fast, just like Tabor. Anjelica swung an abrupt left, forcing Alan to change lanes between two speeding semis. Chrissie was very respectful.
There were several gray cars ahead of them now. She was not sure which was Anjelica’s.
“It adds up to Milton Lofft being the driver in that hit-and-run,” said Alan.
“I saw the map when I read the old newspapers,” agreed Chrissie, “but I was too stupid to figure out that if Milton Lofft drove to Frannie Bailey’s, he’d be getting back on the turnpike way over there, so I didn’t pay attention to it.”
The light turned. The Explorer ripped forward. Far ahead of them, Anjelica was turning left near a McDonald’s arches.
“I think being a driver in a hit-and-run runs in the Lofft family,” Alan said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“The first day Rose had trash detail out on I-395, some car tried to run over her. It was probably Anjelica.”
Chrissie was shocked. She had not known. What else hadn’t Rose told her? But we haven’t been close in so long, she thought. Why should Rose tell me anything?
“But,” said Chrissie, “Rose didn’t write in her diary that she saw Milton Lofft run over an innocent pedestrian and keep going. She wrote that she felt a bump one block before a thruway entrance. The police can’t use that against Milton Lofft. Rose herself doesn’t even remember it. One line in a diary that doesn’t even exist anymore is not proof. So why would Anjelica be worried enough to run Rose over?”
But Alan was not listening to Chrissie. He was gripping the steering wheel even harder, shaken by a new thought. “A few days ago, Rose was walking to her great-grandmother’s. She freaked out when I pulled over to give her a ride. I thought she was afraid of Milton Lofft. But, Chrissie, she was afraid of me. Rose thought I was the one who tried to run her down. She even thought I was trying again.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Chrissie, who now immediately thought of Alan and whether
he
could be the bad guy.
Maybe Anjelica is
saving
Rose, thought Chrissie.
But from whom?
A
NJELICA TURNED INTO THE
drive-through lane of the McDonald’s. This did not seem like the act of a desperate killer. Although presumably even desperate killers got hungry.
Alan yanked his car between traffic to enter McDonald’s, rudely inserting himself in front of cars that deserved to be ahead of him and pulling up behind Anjelica so fast and so hard Chrissie was afraid they’d hit the Pathfinder. Alan released his seat belt, threw open the door, and raced to Anjelica, bending into her side window, which was down because she had just placed her order.
Anjelica was so startled she nearly drove through the car ahead of her.
But Alan was much more startled.
Anjelica Lofft was alone in her car.
Chrissie flung open her own door, leaped out, and raced to the passenger side of Anjelica’s car, ready to rescue Rose. The passenger seat was empty. Alan, gaping through Anjelica’s window, and Chrissie, gaping through the passenger side, stared at each other across Anjelica’s very annoyed face.
“Where is Rose?” yelled Chrissie.
The car behind Alan honked irritably, since his abandoned Explorer now blocked any future food order. Alan waved. The driver was not pacified but honked louder.
Anjelica glared at each of them in turn. “Who are you? Get your stupid heads out of my car.”
“Alan Finney,” said Alan.
“Chrissie Klein,” said Chrissie.
Anjelica’s jaw dropped. They had truly astonished her. Chrissie watched as Anjelica stacked Chrissie’s twelve-year-old self and Alan’s fourteen-year-old self against what they had become. It seemed to amuse her. “This better be good,” she said. “Get out from under my tires. I’ll pull into a parking space.”
Embarrassed and puzzled, Alan returned to the Explorer and found an empty space to park it in. Anjelica pulled out of the drive-through line and drove up next to him but did not get out.
Once more, Chrissie and Alan flanked her, stooping to look through her open windows. This time, Anjelica seemed neither hostile nor amused, just tired. She traced the circle of her steering wheel with her fingers.
“Where is Rose?” said Chrissie meekly.
Anjelica shrugged. “She was going to come for a drive with me, because I wanted to talk, but some man came up to us and asked her to go with him instead. So she did.”
They were dumbfounded.
Alan had just been thinking that somehow he and Chrissie had not spotted Rose quietly returning to school as Anjelica drove out the back. He felt like a fool. Maybe he and Chrissie could think up a good lie to explain themselves or maybe, like Rose, they should decide on silence. For whom would Rose Lymond cut school?
“Was it a cop?” asked Chrissie.
“I don’t think so,” said Anjelica. “Not in uniform, anyway.”
“Her brother, maybe?” Alan said, confusedly. “Tabor?”
“No, I would have recognized Tabor.”
“Then who was it?”
Anjelica shrugged again. “He didn’t say his name.”
“You can’t just shrug this off!” snapped Chrissie.
“Why are you so worked up?” said Anjelica.
“Rose’s life is in danger.”
Anjelica seemed genuinely irritated. “Don’t be silly.”
“Anjelica,” said Chrissie intensely, as if they still had classes together, and lunch, and long, intimate talks on the telephone. As if they were friends. “Somebody tried to kill Rose. They tried to run her over.”
Anjelica paled. Against the dark upholstery of her car, she seemed ghostlike and shrunken. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. She tried to lick her lips but her tongue had dried, and she was breathing hard.
“We thought it was you,” said Chrissie.
Anjelica stared at her in horror. Then she shook her head.
Chrissie and Alan stood helplessly, the secrets they had not known after all swirling between them. The truth was as elusive as it had been that Friday four years ago.
And Rose—Rose had vanished with a stranger. The only other man in the case was Milton Lofft, and it could not be Milton Lofft with whom Rose had driven away.
“Tell us about the guy,” said Alan.
“Early twenties. Blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Nothing much to look at.”
Neither Chrissie nor Alan had any idea who it might be.
“Why did you want to talk to Rose, anyway?” asked Chrissie, no longer sure that she knew.