Slain (11 page)

“Hi, folks. Sorry to hear about your troubles tonight,” Detective Simms says. Boyer is silent, taking in the scene, the usual scowl twisted on her mouth.
 

“Officer Handler? Could we speak to you?” Detective Boyer asks.

The officer who was talking to us goes to them.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Simms says.

 
They step outside. Bits of their muffled conversation seep through the door. …and you don’t think?, …okay, sure, …any signs of?, …what about? Puzzle pieces drifting in the air, but no picture to match them against.

Finally they’re back in.

“Could you show Officer Handler and myself the room, Mr. Grant?” Simms asks.

“Of course,” Dad says, and the three of them go upstairs. What if they had found it? What if they had seen that gun under my bed? I would have been arrested tonight.

“I know you’ve gone over this already, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear it straight from you.” Boyer says, straight-faced and unsympathetic.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?” Mom asks.

“It might.” Boyer says. “You got any more coffee back there, Mrs. Grant?” Boyer asks.

“Certainly,” Mom says.
 

When she’s gone, Boyer turns to me. “So you’re the only one home when, suddenly, somebody breaks in?”

“That’s not how it happened.”

“Okay, how did it happen?”

“I think they were here before me. I think they left before I got home. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Neighbors didn’t see anyone either. You close to your neighbors?”

“Sort of. I don’t know.”

“How about security? You know those guys? The ones your parents pay a fortune to patrol around their little gated community?”

“No. I mean, I’ve seen them before, but I don’t know them.”

“Cause they didn’t see anyone either. Seems weird to me that in a neighborhood like this no one sees any sign of an intruder, don’t you think?”

“Not really.”

“Also seems strange all this happened when your parents were out.”

“We were at the vigil. Tons of people saw us there. The guy would have known we’d be out.”

“What makes you say it was a man?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

“So this man breaks in, messes up your room, and only your room, but leaves no fingerprints and takes nothing, right?”

She’s looking at me like she knows about the gun. How could she know?

“I haven’t had a chance to really look.”

“But your computer’s up there, your jewelry, your TV, your iPad, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so I’m a thief, right? What kind of stuff do you think I’m after?”

“All that stuff, probably, which is why I don’t think it was a thief.”

“Who do you think it was?” She leans in, pretending to be interested.

“I think whoever broke in is the same person who killed June. I think they were trying to hurt me too.” I say.

Boyer leans back like she’s blown away by what I said, then she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Do you think someone has a reason to want to hurt you?”

“Do psychopaths need a reason?”

“So a random psychopath killed June, then broke into your bedroom to try to kill you too?”

“Maybe.”

“If that’s the case, Emma, then why didn’t they stick around to finish the job? You were all alone, right?”

“Maybe they got spooked. Maybe they didn’t know I was alone. Maybe—”

“You want to know what I think?” she asks, even though it’s not really a question. “I think after you walked home, alone, you came in and did this yourself.” Her eyes fix on me, examining my reaction.
 

I try to keep a straight face, but I’m panicking. Did she say I walked home? Could they be watching me?

I try to focus on what she didn’t say. She didn’t say Jackson dropped me off.

“How do you know I walked home?” I ask.

“That’s not important right now.”

They must be watching me. They must. But she isn’t saying anything about Jackson. Does she know? Or did they only see me once I got home? Maybe they’ve only been watching the house.

It must be that. It has to be. If she knew about Jackson, she’d definitely be asking about him. No question.

“Why would I mess up my own room? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I think you like attention, Emma. I saw that clip of you on the news tonight, singing your pretty little song at the vigil. You’re real sweet when the cameras are on, aren’t you?”
 

“That was—I was just trying to help.”

“I also think you’re scared. Scared people do stupid things, and at some point those stupid things put them behind bars. I always find the evidence, Emma. Always.”

It’s the closest thing to a threat I’ve heard her say out loud. But it’s refreshing in a way. At least I know now she has her mind made up about me.
 

“Get out of my house,” my mom says.
 

I don’t know how long she’s been in hearing distance, but she looks mad. Boyer gets up to leave just as my dad, Detective Simms, and Officer Handler come back downstairs. Mom turns to Dad.

“This woman is harassing our daughter,” she says.

“I think we’re done here, gentlemen,” Boyer says, then turns to my mother, “But you might want to ask your daughter why she was lying to you about getting dropped off by her boyfriend tonight.”

“What is she talking about?” Mom asks.

I stay silent. Boyer’s got a cocky smile on now. Her words are directed at my mother, but her eyes are on me.

“We had an officer driving by the house who saw her walking up the block alone. I had a daughter, I wouldn’t want her walking around alone at night.”

“Emma?” my mom’s face has gone white.

“Have a good night, folks.” Boyer says, and leaves. Detective Simms and Officer Handler follow her out. The door shuts behind them.

“What was she talking about?” Mom asks.

“I walked home.”

“From the diner?” She asks.

“From church. Mike and I got in a fight. I didn’t want you to worry.”

My mom looks at me hard and long. She can feel it, that there’s something off in my story. “You can’t do that, Emma. It’s too dangerous. Especially after what’s happened. We have no idea who’s responsible or where they are or anything.”

“Your mother is right,” my dad says. “If you need a ride, you call us. Period.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“But what I’m more concerned about is how that Boyer woman keeps turning the littlest thing into some major strike against Emma.“ My dad shakes his head. “This whole thing is getting ridiculous. I’m calling Terry.”

He heads out of the room, down the hall toward his study.

My mom is staring at me again. “Are you telling me everything, Emma? Because it feels like I’m missing something here. Why not call Paige for a ride? Or Katie? Or any of the other kids?”

“I just needed time to think, okay?” I say, irritated.

“This is very serious, Emma. If I find out you’re lying to me, there will be consequences.”

“I’m not.” I practically spit the words out at her as I race up to my room, feeling just as crappy about lying to her as I do that she’s doubting me.

I
CLOSE
THE
DOOR
to my bedroom, half relieved that the police are gone, and half terrified.

There’s no question about where the gun came from. It can’t be random. My earring near June’s dead body could have been a coincidence. But hiding the gun in my bedroom, trashing the place so I’d call the police and they’d find it? That was deliberate. Why would someone do this to me?

There’s only one answer: whoever killed June wants me to take the blame.

I’m scared. Scared and angry. Fist-through-a-wall, kick-you-in-the-face, scream-’til-my-throat-rips-open angry. Some asshole wants to have friends, fall in love, make their own plans while all my hopes fly away. No. I won’t let that happen.

I start to clean up, throwing stuff back in my closet, shoving things back into drawers.

I have to do something about all this, but what? First things first, I have to get rid of that gun. I consider the options.

I could keep the gun here, but that’s asking for trouble. Who knows how long I have until there’s an anonymous call to the police and they search the whole house? I got really lucky, finding it so fast. I don’t think the murderer wanted me to find it. Why would he? Unless he wanted me to touch it, transfer my fingerprints, but then why would he have put it inside the box? No, I wasn’t meant to know it was in my bedroom until the police found it there. I’m lucky they didn’t use the burglary as an excuse to search the whole house. Every moment that passes is one moment closer to the police banging my door down. I have to get rid of it soon. Tomorrow.

There’s the police, but that option seems even more ridiculous. I try to imagine how the scene would play out.
Hey, officers, funny thing, but I found the murder weapon in my room. Wasn’t there before, I swear!
If Detective Boyer thinks I’m guilty with no concrete evidence, if she thinks that I faked an intruder to get attention, then she’d be downright orgasmic if I told her about the gun. There’s no way.

I could bring it to my parents, but my stomach clenches at the thought. I imagine their eyes broken immediately by my guilt. Maybe they’d believe me. But then what would they do? They’d make me take it to the police.

Which leaves only one option. I have to get rid of it. But how? That car driving by the house when I came home couldn’t have been the coincidence they made it out to be. They must be watching, probably closer after tonight.

I’ve seen police officers go through a suspect’s trash on TV. That has to be based on something real, right? They’re probably monitoring everything that comes out of our house, looking for something just like this. They’d definitely notice if I just happened to stop by a dumpster on the way to school.
 

I can’t give it to a friend either, or it would put them in just as much danger as I’m in right now. I can’t even tell anyone. All my friends would just tell me to go to my parents or the police. And if I didn’t? They’d tell my parents themselves, even if they thought I was totally innocent, just to protect me. I would if I were them.

And then it hits me. I know exactly what I’ll do.

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
,
AFTER
my parents leave for work, I dig the shoebox out of the toy chest and open it up. Gingerly, using a towel to avoid leaving fingerprints, I lift the gun out and put it inside the backpack. Every twist and jostle of it makes my nerves twitch. I’ve never held a gun before, not once, and don’t know much about them. Is there a safety? Is it on? I can’t tell. If I drop it, will it fire? I’m extra careful just in case.

I take my loaded backpack and drive straight to the church, slowing at every bump and stoplight. What better place to find the murder weapon than in the church itself?

The main entrance is still closed, so I go through the administrative entrance. Mindy, the receptionist, greets me with a concerned smile.

“How are you holding up, sweetie?”

“Fine,” I say. It feels like there’s a sign on my forehead that says GUN! GUN! GUN!

“Well, me and Tom have been praying for you and your family every night.”

“Thanks,” I say. I shift my backpack nervously, trying not to fidget more than normal, but not remembering what normal is, like when you stare at a set of letters so long it stops being a word.

 
“It’s such a tough time for everyone, but especially your dad. The burden on those shoulders, I can’t even imagine. We are so lucky to have a strong man of God leading us, especially at a time like this.”

“Yeah,” I say. I know my dad has a lot on his plate right now, but the hero-worship stuff gets old fast. I’ve seen my dad, grouchy every day before he gets his coffee. I’ve smelled his disgusting morning breath from across the room and heard him fart just like everybody else.

“I hope you’re taking special care of your daddy right now. He needs it.”

I paste on my good-girl smile and say, “I sure am. In fact, I better go check on him right now. Nice to see you.”

I walk past her into the stairwell. The backpack jiggles on my shoulder with every step, making me feel like it could explode any minute.

I don’t go all the way up to the staff offices, where my parents are. Instead I walk straight through the administrative hall, stealing glances at all the people working in their offices. I’ll have to stop in to see my parents later, just in case anyone mentions they’ve seen me.
 

I make my way to the stairwell at the other end of the wing, then downstairs again, through the building, walking by the police tape in the lobby, and down toward the Youth Center. I expect it to be empty, but there are people in here—the Cleaning Ministry, a group of volunteers who cleans the church regularly. Today the group is bigger than usual. I guess there’s a lot of work to be done after everything that happened. A glance around shows there are still sleeping bags laid out, still backpacks everywhere and abandoned plates of pizza and cans of soda. I haven’t been in here since running out and seeing June’s body. Apparently, no one else has been back either.

“Hey, Emma, whatcha doin’ here?” The voice is from Rick Rasmussen, the church’s only staffed janitor and the leader of the Cleaning Ministry. “This part of the building isn’t really open yet.”

My heart stops for a nanosecond. But then he smiles, and I relax a little. He’s got a smile so wide that the skin around his eyes is permanently crinkled.
 

“Nothing. Just wandering around,” I say.

He fishes a hard candy out of his pocket for me, something he always does, which makes all the kids love him. “Well don’t you work too hard now,” he says, then grows somber. “Life’s too short.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

I leave the Youth Center and decide the next best place to hide it is in one of the adult Sunday school rooms. I find the biggest one, the one lined with couches and armchairs. Carefully, making sure to only touch the parts that are still wrapped in the towel, I pull the gun out and slide it underneath a couch, snatching the towel back at the last second and letting the gun land with a soft thud on the floor.