But it doesn’t seem like they’re interested anyway. They’re going through my photos, discussing Julian’s clothes, his weight loss, and the fact that he was taking a big risk by being out in broad daylight.
“He probably thought he could mix in with the high school foot traffic,” the detective says.
“Do you think he’s still in this area?” Mom asks.
Officer Nolan looks up from my laptop. Her hair is the color of cranberries. “My guess is no. Most escapees don’t tend to stay in one place for very long. They may lay low for a few days, for fear of getting caught on the run, but after that they tend to flee.”
“Okay, but when did this boy escape?” Mom asks.
“Eight days ago,” Officer Nolan says.
“That seems like a long time to lay low, wouldn’t you say?” Mom folds her arms, back to shooting eye daggers (thankfully not at me this time).
“Well, technically he isn’t laying low. The detention center he escaped from is two hours away from here by car.”
“Could he be staying with a friend?”
The officer fakes a smile. “Anything’s possible.”
“And you have how many professionals working on this?”
Before the officer can answer, Mom’s cell phone rings. She checks the screen and then silences the tone. “Okay, so are we done?” she asks.
“Just about,” the officer says.
Mom’s phone vibrates again. “Excuse me a moment.” She ducks into her bedroom to take the call, desperate to free an American student from a Syrian prison. No joke; my mom is a real-life superhero as founder of Project W, an international nonprofit organization that fights for the rights of women. My dad’s not too shabby either as president of the SHINE network, a place that gives second (or third or fourth) chances to those who need one.
I assist the officers by e-mailing my photos to their accounts. They leave shortly after, making me promise to contact them should I see the guy again.
Finally Mom emerges from her room. “What happened?”
I start to tell her about e-mailing the photos, but her phone vibrates yet again. She checks the screen. “I have to take this. Would you mind taking Gigi for a walk?”
Yes, I would. “No, I wouldn’t.” Still, I grab our neighbor’s keys—as well as a bottle of pepper spray (courtesy of Dad)—and head out the back.
The leaves crunch beneath my steps as I head down the bike path. Gigi is our neighbor’s bulldog. Her owner works as a nurse and often does double shifts, relying on us to make sure that Gigi gets exercise (and bathroom breaks).
It’s chilly out, mid-October, and the ground is barely visible with all the fallen leaves. Normally Dad takes care of the yard, but since he and Mom have separated, I’m left to pick up the slack, quite literally.
It’s nearing dusk. The smell of a nearby barbecue makes my stomach growl. I continue forward, thinking about the officers’ visit, reminding myself that there’s still plenty of daylight left, that the guy has probably fled the area, and that there’s pepper spray in my pocket.
The wind rakes through the tree limbs, rustling the leaves. Birds twitter. Twigs snap. I tell myself that these sounds are normal and this sudden flutter of anxiety is purely psychosomatic—the result of the officers’ probing.
But then I come to a sudden stop, able to hear branches breaking. It’s two full breaths before I continue forward again. The roof of Rita’s house peeks out over a cherry tree. I go to unlatch her gate, noticing something moving in the distance.
A tree shakes.
Its branches flutter.
There’s another snapping sound.
Gigi’s barking inside the house.
I pull the gate open. At the same moment I see someone—dark clothes, hunched posture, hooded sweatshirt—about ten yards away.
I tell myself it isn’t him. I mean, it can’t possibly be him.
My pulse racing, I scoot inside the gate, behind a tree, and pull the pepper spray from my pocket.
But it tumbles from my grip. And drops to the ground.
I look up again, my heart pounding, my head spinning, unsure if he’s seen me. He’s turned away now, his back toward me, headed for the center of town.
I race home—back down the path, across the yard, up the steps, and into the house—locking the door behind me: two bolts, plus the chain.
Mom’s holed up in her office, still talking on the phone.
“Mom?” I knock, pushing the door open. It hits the wall with a thwack.
“Yes,” she says into the phone, blocking her free ear with a finger.
“This is really important,” I persist.
“Could you hold on a moment, Genevieve?” Mom places her palm over the speaking part of the receiver and finally looks up. “What is it?”
“I really need to talk to you.”
“And I really need to free an innocent girl from prison. Can it wait a couple of minutes?”
“Not really.”
She holds up her index finger, indicating another minute. “What’s that, Genevieve?” She blows me a kiss. “I’ll be off in just a bit.”
I remain in the doorway for several seconds, listening to her ask questions about the accused girl’s whereabouts at the time of her supposed crime.
Finally, I go up to my room, grab my laptop, and open it on my bed. A quick Google search with the words “Julian Roman,” “Decker, MA,” “Fairmont County,” and “Roman murder” and several news stories pop up.
JUVENILE SUSPECT MISSING FROM DETENTION CENTER
WEBER, MA—A male, 16, was reported missing from the Fairmount County Juvenile Detention Facility. The suspect, Julian Roman of Decker, had last been seen in the center’s courtyard at approximately 4 p.m. on Tuesday, October 6th. An officer at the center reported Roman missing at 6:45 p.m. when he failed to show up for dinner. Roman, described by officers as quiet, keeping to himself and often writing in his journal, had been awaiting trial for the alleged murder of his father. Roman is reported to have dark hair, brown eyes, an athletic build, and to be six feet tall. He has a tattoo of a pickax on his wrist, and was last seen wearing an orange suit from the detention center. Anyone fitting his description should immediately be reported to the Weber Police Department.
BODIES FOUND—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED
DECKER, MA—The body of a forty-five-year-old man, Michael Roman, was discovered at the family home in Decker Village Park at approximately 7 p.m. on Saturday, May 4th. Police were called to the scene. Investigators say the victim suffered head injuries.
The body of a forty-two-year-old woman, Jennifer Roman, was also discovered at the time of the investigation. Ms. Roman’s body was found in the bathtub with the water still running. The cause of death is unconfirmed at this time.
The investigation is ongoing as officials wait for autopsy results.
INVESTIGATION CONTINUES IN DECKER VILLAGE HOMICIDE CASE
DECKER, MA—Autopsy results conclude that Michael Roman, 45, had been struck on the head with a blunt object on the afternoon of May 4th in his Decker Village Park home. The murder weapon has yet to be discovered. Mr. Roman was reportedly seen in front of the family home just prior to the estimated time of his death.
Autopsy results also conclude that Jennifer Roman, 42, died from asphyxia due to drowning. Roman’s body was discovered in the family’s bathtub. Results conclude that Roman had been under the influence of prescription medication, which may have contributed to her death. It’s unclear at this time whether she died before or after her husband.
Chief Investigator Pat Chalmers states, “There are no clear-cut answers in this case. However, we’re working hard to map out exactly what transpired during the last eight hours of this couple’s life.” If anyone has information pertaining to this investigation, please contact Investigator Pat Chalmers at the Decker Police Department.
TEEN ARRESTED FOR HOMICIDE
DECKER, MA—A 16-year-old juvenile male has been charged with the murder of h
is father, Michael Roman, 45, of Decker Village Park, three months after Roman’s body was discovered in the family home on May 4th, having been struck with an unidentified blunt object. Michael Roman’s son’s arrest follows an intensive investigation.
A fellow student of the teen suspect states, “Julian always talked about hating his father and wanting him dead. It was actually pretty scary.”
Another student adds: “Julian used to talk about getting rid of his dad. I wish I’d said something sooner. I just never thought he was serious.”
Jennifer Roman’s body was also discovered in the family home on May 4th. Mrs. Roman, 42, had reportedly died from drowning after taking an excess of prescription medication.
The teen suspect will stay at the Fairmount County Juvenile Detention Facility as he awaits trial.
An online comment in response to the last news article states: “This has got to be the most blatant corruption of justice I’ve seen to date. No murder weapon? Three months to make an arrest? And what seems obvious to be a murder-suicide situation? You say there are no clear-cut answers, but all you have for us taxpayers are incoherent quotes from a bunch of idiotic kids? Where are the facts of this case? Clearly this is yet another example of Weber and Decker police investigating at its finest. Why am I not surprised?”
I close my laptop and go back downstairs. Mom is still on the phone. I peek my head into her office, but she’s shouting now, into the receiver—something about due process and exculpatory evidence.
In the kitchen, I feed my confusion with leftover chow mein, straight out of the carton, while Officer Nolan’s business card stares up at me from the table. Maybe I shouldn’t wait for my mom to make the call.
But what if the guy I saw on the bike trail wasn’t Julian Roman after all? Or what if the person who commented on the news article has a point about Julian’s case being mismanaged?
Is that really my concern? Should I even care?
I reach the bottom of the Chinese food container, wishing there was an extra egg roll—or something—because I have way more questions in my head than Fung Wong’s has takeout.
Tuesday, October 13
Night
So I followed that girl from the train station, hoping I might be able to snatch her bag and take her camera. She obviously recognized me from the news—was probably planning to share her photos with the police. Part of me was also curious about her—about who she was, and why she bothered to take pictures rather than calling the police on the spot. I mean, she totally could’ve gotten my ass bagged.
I used to follow my dad too. My brother Steven and I both did. We’d hide in the bushes when he was out mowing the lawn, and then sneak after him when he’d go down the street for beer and cigarettes, ducking behind parked cars every few yards so he wouldn’t catch us spying.
Dad was my hero then, back when Steven and I were five. I used to try to do everything the same as him: finger-whistle, throw a Frisbee, slick back my hair, snap my fingers. Crazy to think that it was just a few years after that when I started fantasizing about his death.
I wake up late the following morning.
My alarm. Never. Went off.
I fly out of bed and pull on some clothes. “Mom?” I call, figuring she must be in her office. But her office is empty, and so is the kitchen.
I find a note on the table.
Good morning, Day!
I’m so sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk last night. Sorry I’m missing you this morning as well. I had to run out for an early meeting at the state house, but I promise we’ll talk tonight. Be sure to lock up, and have a great day! Good luck with your meeting.
Love,
Mom
xoxo
Beneath the notepad, there’s a box of powdered doughnuts (so much for all her preaching about eating only wholesome, unprocessed foods).
I scurry up the stairs, two steps at a time, able to hear a clamoring sound outside. I rush to the window, but I don’t see anything. Clearly I need to get a grip. But I didn’t sleep well. Plus, I have a French quiz today, not to mention the first meeting of Peace, Brains & Justice (PB&J for short), of which I’m the founding president. I’ve been planning the meeting for weeks, preparing what I will say and making posters to entice people to come, trying to heed my parents’ advice about putting my own personal stamp on the world.
With only ten minutes left before I’m supposed to leave for school, I pull my hair into a ponytail, hurry the cookies I made for the meeting into a container, and grab all my school stuff.
I head out the back door, catching a reflection of myself in the entryway mirror: no makeup, pasty-white face. There’s a knot in my hair and a grease stain on the front of my sweatshirt, right over my left nipple.
So. Not. Presidential-worthy.
I close the door behind me, accidentally dropping the container of cookies. Luckily the cover remains intact, but I’m not brave enough to check the aftermath within.
It’s still somewhat dark out. The moon sits in the center of a bright violet sky. I approach the bike path, able to feel anxiety stirring up inside me like a hot, bubbling cauldron.
A rustling noise startles me—like a shifting through the fallen leaves. I look all around—toward the back porch, at the windows of our barn, and around the perimeter of the yard—suddenly feeling like I’m being watched. But I don’t see anyone lurking.
Still, I take the main road in front of the house, knowing this route will add at least seven minutes to my trek but that it’s also the least likely to render me tied up in the back of a van en route to the nearest sinkhole. I haul ass the entire way, booting it for twelve blocks, hiking up the sledding hill, and cutting through the center of town.
Finally I make it to school, but I’m six minutes late and awarded with a big fat detention.
“Please,” I beg the school secretary. “Can’t detention wait until tomorrow? I have a meeting after school.”
“Should’ve thought about that beforehand,” she sings. There’s an evil smile across her spray-tanned face.
“Okay, but I’ve never been late before—like ever…in my more than two years here.”
“Sorry,” she says, still smiling. “See you at two thirty in the Detention Dungeon.”
Maybe a dungeon is where I belong, because I look like hell. And now I’ll be late for my meeting. Plus, my cookies are all crumbled.
But I almost don’t even care.
I’m just happy to not be alone.
I try my best to concentrate in classes, but between my lack of sleep, my train wreck of a morning, the PB&J launch meeting, and the fact that I’ll now be late for said meeting because I’ve been blessed with detention, I’m lucky to spell my Frenchified name correctly (Jour, for the record; the French word for day), never mind convert le plus-que-parfait to le futur antérieur.
“How did you do on the French quiz?” Jeannie asks, peeking at me over the rims of her tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The frames go nicely with her new haircut—a chin-length, purposely lopsided dark chocolate bob that makes her blue eyes pop. “Because I totally bombed the bonus.”
She, Tori, and I are sitting in our usual spot in the cafeteria—close enough to the exit doors that we can make a quick escape, but far enough from the kitchen that we don’t have to endure all the funky fumes.
“There was a bonus?” My stomach twists.
“Two bonuses, actually. Baudelaire questions…on the board. Didn’t you notice? Madame E announced it.”
I shake my head, with a sudden loss of appetite—and the cafeteria’s gelatinous fish chowder doesn’t help.
“Too busy thinking about your PB&J meeting today, am I right?” Her emerald-studded eyebrow shoots upward, accusingly. “This do-gooder organization is totally going to be the GPA-point-shrinker for you, isn’t it?”
“It’s supposed to be the college-application-booster, actually.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “I’m sure it’ll be huge. I mean, right?”
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“A meeting about sandwich condiments?” Tori snickers. “Where’s the sheet? Sign me up.”
“Exactly.” Jeannie smirks. “I mean, how could it fail? Plus, you did promise store-bought cookies, right?”
“And cookies go great with PB&J.” Tori winks, her eyelids lined with thick black cat’s-eye wings. Her style du jour is inspired by some rockabilly girl group from the ’50s (or so she says): short-sleeved blouse, waist-cinching belt, pencil skirt, and red leather pumps that match her lipstick.
“For your information, the cookies are homemade,” I tell them. “Plus, this meeting has nothing to do with food, and everything to do with social justice and human rights—with making the world a better place.”
“One sandwich at a time.” Tori wipes an invisible tear from her cheek.
“Ha-ha,” I drone, flicking a carrot disk in her direction. It lands in her Wilma Flintstone hair (tunnel of bangs, length pulled back in a bun). “Sorry.” I suck in a laugh.
Tori’s laughing too. She takes a fork to her hairspray-shellacked bangs and tries to stab the carrot out.
“Public forking…real classy,” Jeannie says.
“Ugh,” I groan. “The meeting today is going to flop.” I cover my face with my hands, accidentally plunking my elbow into the pool of ketchup—as if this day couldn’t get any messier.
“Because of your wardrobe selection?” Tori frowns at my grease-stained sweatshirt.
“More like because I didn’t get any sleep. Any chance the police came to either of your houses last night?”
“If only.” Tori gives her yogurt spoon a serious lick. “I could’ve used me a little hunky-officer-jumping-out-of-a-cake and/or-singing-me-a-telegram excitement.”
“I think you can take that as a no,” Jeannie says to me.
“Well, they came to my house,” I tell them.
“And we’re just hearing about it now?” Jeannie asks.
“Apparently, when we all went to the food mart after school the other day, the police caught us—or at least me—on the surveillance video at the same time that some guy who’d escaped from juvie was in there.”
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