Slain (16 page)

“I did.”

“Then help me figure out who killed her. That’s all I want to do.”

“You’re trying to find the killer?” he asks.

“The police are useless,” I say. “They’re following all these crazy leads.”

He scoffs, shakes his head. “Of course they are. Idiots.” He leans forward, glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “It’s probably nothin’,” he says. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Just tell me.”

“I wasn’t even the one in charge of the job that got me put in here. Jay was. Why you think I’m sittin’ in here, stuck for life, and nobody else on the crew took that kinda heat?”

“I thought everybody went to prison?”

“Yeah, they did. But not everybody for as long as me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think there was a snitch. Maybe more than one. You look at who gets out first, my money’s on them. Bet they got a nice little deal from the feds.”

“I don’t get it. Why would that make them want to kill June?”

“To get back at me.”

“For what?”

“I dunno’. Same reason they all ganged up on me in the first place I guess.”

“And that would be?”

“Well, you’d have to ask them about that. Never made any sense to me.”

I’m getting frustrated. What he’s saying makes no sense. “But didn’t they already get what they wanted if they made you take the fall for the murders?”

“I told you it was a long shot.”

Something hits me then, something from the article.

“You’ve still got the money somewhere, don’t you?”

“Don’t be a goddamned fool.”

“Is it still around?”

“You think it was, I’d tell you?”

“What if one of the people in the Milk Gang thought June had it?”

“The Milk Gang. Jesus Christ. You been reading the papers, haven’t you?

“Did they know about June? Would anyone think she had it?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s about the end of that conversation,” he says. Which means yes, the money is still around somewhere. And no, he’s not telling me where. I’m not getting anywhere with this guy.

“You don’t seem like you really care about June at all,” I say.

“You don’t know nothin’ about me,” he says.

I can be hard too. “Yes, I do. I know all about you. June told me everything.” It’s not true, but I have to say it. “I think it was you.”

He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, bounces his leg up and down. I can’t tell if it’s a yes or a nervous tick. The tears come back.

“I would never, ever hurt her. I loved her. She was my baby, my girl.”

He swipes at his eyes. The image makes me think of a schoolboy with a scraped knee—the sweetest boy in class, who everyone wants to comfort or cheer for or love. Maybe it’s this, and not burly strength or animalistic rage, that’s his superpower.
 

“You don’t know what it’s like to love someone that much,” he says, reaching out and taking hold of my hand, trying to kill me with sincerity.
 

“It hurts you deep, especially when you’re not together. You just ache for that person.” He grips my hand tighter and rubs his thumb across the skin between my thumb and forefinger. It sends a shiver up my spine. “You look a little bit like her, you know, around the lips.”

I yank my hand away and try to calm my breath. Stay focused, Emma. Keep him focused.

“So you didn’t call in a favor? From anyone?”

“If June got herself killed, it’s probably because she got into somethin’ over her head. You gotta be careful who you trust.”

“Is that what got you locked up? Trusting the wrong people?”

He shakes his head and clams up again.
 

I’ve had enough. I get up to leave.

“Wait. Can I ask you somethin’?” he says. “Last time I saw her, she was tryin’ to give me some Jesus, and I said no.” He bites the side of his cheek. “You think you could give me some Jesus?”

“I…” I shake my head no. “No. I’m sorry.”

“H
OW
’
D
IT
GO
?” M
AY
asks when I meet her later to return her license. We’re at a truck stop off I-70, splitting a basket of fries.

“Sort of useless,” I say. “I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t really get much from him.”

“Hate to say I told you so, but yeah. He’s a dick.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yup.”

“Did he have any money hidden away somewhere?”

“Like from the robbery?”

“Yeah. Or anywhere, I guess.”

“Not that we ever saw. Money wasn’t exactly plentiful growing up. Why? You think it could have something to do with June?”

 
“I was just thinking that if he had something stashed away, maybe he told her, and maybe—“

“Maybe she got killed because somebody knew?”

“Yeah.”

“I doubt he would do that. He’s a selfish prick. Stole my piggy bank for a liquor run once; didn’t even apologize,” she swirls a fry through a plop of ketchup. “Did June seem like she had extra money?”

“No. Just the opposite. She was always pretending to forget her purse and getting someone else to pay for her.”

“That sounds about right. If she had it, she’d spend it. I remember this one time she blew all her birthday money on this discount prom dress. She was, like, eight years old maybe. The thing was ripped and didn’t even fit her. But once she saw it she had to have it. She’s always been like that. If she’d had money, you would have known.”

“But what about if someone else thought she did?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to shit on your ideas here, but I didn’t know where she was. I thought she was still living with my mom, and I’m her sister. How could somebody else find her? And why now? Why not a year ago? Two years ago?”

It’s a good point. I sit for a minute, thinking.

“So what about him? Is there some reason why he would want her dead?”

“Honestly, and it pains me to say this ‘cause I hate that asshole, but I don’t see it. I don’t see him being involved at all. It’s not his style. The only way he’d be behind it is if he had something to get out of it.”

“But he’s killed people before.”

“For money. June, though? The disgusting bastard is obsessed with her. He wouldn’t have wanted her dead.”

“What if he was jealous? She did ask him for his blessing, so he knew—“

“On the advice of somebody at your church. Who tells a kid she needs to ask a murderer for permission to get married? That’s seriously fucked up.”

“I know,” I say.
 

And I didn’t even tell her that June asked for his forgiveness about their past. What, exactly, did she think she had done wrong? A little part of me cringes. There are some people at church, not a lot, who might believe that any sexual contact between Lee and June would have been at least partially her fault, even as a child. It has to do with a verse in 1 Corinthians about not doing anything to cause your brother to stumble. So, since lust itself is a sin, causing someone to lust is a sin too. It’s the whole reason why women are expected to dress modestly. But applying that concept to what happened to June? That’s an older way of thinking, very dated and very legalistic. It still lurks around, though, the same way most people’s grandparents seem to be just a little bit racist.
 

June was so concerned about being good enough for Nicolas. Could someone have told June that to purify herself she needed to ask for forgiveness from Lee? The only people I can think of who think that way are a million years old, and I don’t know any reason why any of them would have had contact with June at all. So who would have put that idea in her head? Was it the mentor Lee mentioned? I didn’t even know anyone was mentoring her at all, although it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to offer to mentor a new Christian. I make a mental note to ask around about it.
 

“If Lee was jealous,” May says, “he would have gone after the guy, that Nicolas kid, not her.” She looks me straight in the eye. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think it was someone she knew. Someone who went to that church. The news is full of sick fucks who hang out at places like that.”

T
HE
ALARM
GOES
OFF
at 6:15 the next morning. Apparently, you still have to go to school when you’re a murder suspect. Especially one who wishes to appear innocent.

Before getting ready, I open an e-mail Jackson sent last night. A picture of the Empire State Building pops onto the screen, lit up golden against a dark-blue night. Then his message beneath it:

I’m going to kiss you here too.

My arms feel empty without you in them. When can I see you?

Love,

Jackson

I type a message back:

Soon. I promise.

Miss you so much it hurts.

Love,

Emma

After I send it, I shower and do my hair, wishing the school had just decided to stay closed for the rest of the year. They’re calling a special Chapel Day today for June. Usually, Wednesday is Chapel Day at SCHS, but they’re adding one today too. This means I have to wear a dress to school. And not just any dress will do. Like everything else at SCHS, there are specific rules. The depth of the neckline, the length of the sleeves, the tightness around the hips and chest, and especially the length of the hemline.
 

Every Wednesday all the girls have to kneel next to their desks first thing in the morning. If your dress doesn’t touch the floor you have two choices. You can either wait in the principal’s office for a parent to bring a replacement and miss your classes, or you can wear one of their skirts, which are pretty awful. They look like something from
Little House on the Prairie
. It’s super embarrassing, which is probably why they have them.

But do you know how hard it is to find a dress or skirt that goes all the way below your knee? Hard. You can’t shop at Forever 21, that’s for sure. It’s mostly stuff you’d find in the petite section at Macy’s, dresses that make all of us girls look like mini-executives, like we should be holding briefcases and carpooling and power-walking at lunch. I pick out a dress that won’t get me skirted and head out.

Mike picks me up. It’s part of the deal. He will drive me to school and home, and in between we will spend most of our time together. I am his disobedient child, and he must watch me to make sure I behave.

I wish Paige had ridden with him, but she didn’t. She probably wanted to give us some time to ourselves.

“Morning,” he says, his face bright and sunshiny as though everything between us is fine. I’ve always envied the ability some people have to lie to themselves.

“Hey.”

“I brought you some breakfast. Oatmeal and an iced coffee.” Mike is a utilitarian eater, and expects everyone else to be the same. He doesn’t understand likes and dislikes. He understands best and worst. At some point, someone told him that oatmeal is the best way to start a day, and so this is what he chooses for me. I’ve already had breakfast, and I hate oatmeal, but I sip the bitter iced coffee and thank him. Rejection of his gifts will only make it worse.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Okay,” he says, his eyes on the road, barely paying attention to me.

“Do you know if June had a spiritual mentor?”

“Why would I know that?” he says. “You led her to Christ, right?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t really mentoring her, at least I hadn’t been for a long time. Did she ever come to you and ask for advice about anything?”

“No. Why would she?”

“I don’t know, I just thought—“

“She did flash me once, though. She tried to make it seem like an accident, but it wasn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

He huffs, “Not so fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?”

“What happened?”
 

“We were on shift at the food bank together, stocking shelves in the back. Her shirt came unbuttoned, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. You should have seen the way she looked at me. She didn’t cover herself at all. It was like she just expected me to go after her or something.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you think I did, Emma? You and I were together. I turned away and told her to cover herself up and have some freaking self-respect. Which, in case you’re wondering, is what a real gentleman does.”

“What did she do?”

“Ran out of the room crying, like a little girl. It wasn’t long after that she and Nicolas got together. I guess if she couldn’t have me she decided to settle for your leftovers.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure how to process any of this. Could Mike be even more old school than I thought? Could this incident with June be enough to set him off?

“Honestly? I’m not all that sorry she’s gone. I mean, I didn’t want her to die or anything, but I didn’t like her. She was a bad influence on you. And she was definitely a bad influence on Nicolas. That’s why I told him to break up with her.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t listen. She had him so blinded. Did you know he was planning to propose?”

“Really?”

So Mike knew.

“Yeah. He can be kind of an idiot sometimes. I can see why things didn’t last between you two.”

At school, Mike drops me off at my first class.

“Okay. See you at lunch.” I take a step away and release his hand, but he doesn’t release mine. Instead, he pulls me back and kisses me. It’s our first kiss in a long time, and it’s not a mistake that it’s in view of everyone.

“Mr. Kent and Ms. Grant, that’s enough.” It’s Miss Hope, frowning in disapproval. Miss Hope isn’t just involved with the Dance Team and other Youth Ministries with Pastor Pete. She’s also the history teacher at our school. Psychology too. And this semester, for me, homeroom.
 

It’s a good thing this isn’t Principal Hendricks. If it was, we’d probably both have detention, and an uncomfortable chat with him and our parents about purity with a capitol P.