I stumble over a recliner with the footrest still up, then make it to the kitchen. “Find anything?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think she’s bedfast like she claims. She’d have to get around pretty well to keep some of this stuff on top shelves.”
“She probably has a housekeeper.”
“True. How about you? Anything?”
“Way too many pictures of Caroline.” I open a cupboard by the fridge. I try to imagine how the murder might have taken place. “She pretends she can’t get out of that wheelchair, but she can. So maybe she got up early that morning. She could have had a blowout argument with her husband—about money, or about those checks to Rita, or a million other things married people argue over. She makes her way to the barn. Jeremy’s bat was there, so she grabbed it.” I’m picturing the whole thing: Caroline in a cotton nightgown, pink flowers and white lace. She’s screaming at her husband. She sees the bat, lunges for it, and—
“Hope, we have to finish up and get out of here.”
Chase is right. I need evidence. “I’ll take the den we passed when we came in. You take the bedroom. Check the bottoms of her shoes!” I cross back through the living room to the den, or study.
Before I reach the desk, Chase cries, “They’re back!”
I hear gravel crunch in the driveway. The sound of a car engine is drowned out by brakes. The engine cuts off.
“Great,” Chase mutters.
Please! I’m not sure if it’s a prayer or a wish. I grab Chase’s hand and pull him to the back door.
“What are you doing?” He tries to tug his hand away, but I hold on.
“Quiet!” I stumble and bump into the couch. It hurts my hip, but I keep going until we’re outside. I shut the door, then the screen. Reaching up, I straighten a lock of Chase’s hair, then smooth my own. “Let me do the talking.”
“Why? Hope, what—?”
I shush him and wait.
A car door slams. And another.
Part of me wants to run and hide. But Chase’s car sits six feet away in plain sight. I hear their footsteps on the front porch. A blend of voices. The front door being unlocked. Opened. They’re inside.
I haven’t let go of Chase’s hand. With another wordless prayer, the kind I may have inherited from Jeremy, I reach up and knock on the screen door, hard.
“Hope?” Chase whispers.
I ignore him and keep banging on the door, my heart thudding against my chest with every knock. “Hello? Anybody home?” I open the screen and bang even harder on the door, shouting, “Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Johnson?”
I hear footsteps storm through the house toward us. The back door opens, and Sheriff Wells frowns down at us. “What in blue Hades are you two doing here?”
Chase opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. “Sheriff Wells? I was starting to think nobody was home.”
He ignores me. “Answer me, Chase! What are you doing here?”
“Don’t be mad, Dad. We just—”
“We just wanted to ask Mrs. Johnson a couple of questions.” Somehow, my voice is strong, friendly even.
“You what?” Sheriff Wells shouts. He glances back over his shoulder, then lowers his voice. “I can’t believe you’re this stupid.”
Chase flinches.
“We didn’t mean to cause anybody trouble,” I say reasonably. “It’s just that Mrs. Johnson said some things in court today that hurt Jeremy, and I thought if I could just talk to her for a minute—”
Sheriff Wells glares at me. “You want to ask her questions? Hasn’t your family done enough?”
“Dad!” Chase steps in front of me, like he thinks his dad might come after me. I wouldn’t be surprised. He looks mad enough to spit nails.
The sheriff takes a deep breath, sucking in anger through his teeth. “Look, miss, I have nothing against you. But you better leave this poor woman alone.”
“Poor woman?” I’d like to tell him what I really think about this poor woman.
He turns to me, and if looks could kill, the sheriff would be on trial for murder. “I just came from the doctor with her. Mrs. Johnson isn’t expected to live out the year. So you can tell your brother’s lawyer that she won’t be around long enough to collect that insurance money, much less spend it.”
In spite of everything, and even though I don’t want to, I feel sad for her. I wonder how long she’s known.
The sheriff straight-arms Chase in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. Then he turns to me. His bushy eyebrows meet above his nose, and his upper lip curls to show teeth. “You kids leave it alone, you hear? Leave it alone!”
“We hear, Dad,” Chase says. He takes my hand and tugs me toward the car.
I let him. I let him because suddenly cold fear is slicing through me like sharp knives.
We drive a long way in silence, leaving the barn and the Johnson house behind us. A couple of times, I glance over at Chase, but it’s like he doesn’t even know I’m in the car with him. That’s how far away he seems. His forehead is wrinkled, and every now and then he rolls his lips over his teeth and makes a weird noise, almost like he’s fighting himself. I’d give a lot to know what’s going on inside his head, but I’m afraid to ask.
Finally, Chase speaks without looking at me. “My dad’s right, you know.”
“Right about what?”
“She didn’t do it.”
“Mrs. Johnson? Of course she did it! We just didn’t have time to—”
But he’s shaking his head and won’t let me finish. “To what? Find some kind of smoking gun? The police already have the weapon. And that woman, no matter how nasty she is to your brother, didn’t kill anybody. She’s dying, Hope. You heard what they said.”
“Maybe she’s not dying. Maybe she paid the doctor to—”
“Don’t even go there. This isn’t some big conspiracy, with the doctors and my dad and Mrs. Johnson all in on it together.”
“I didn’t say it was. But she’s the one with a motive—the only one with a motive.”
“The only one? How about Rita? Or Bob? Or T.J.?”
I don’t know why he’s so angry. “I can’t believe any of them would have killed Coach and let Jeremy be blamed for it.”
“Fine. If you can’t believe it, then I guess it isn’t true.” His sarcasm stings. “So get Jeremy’s attorney to use Mrs. Johnson for reasonable doubt, but I’m telling you nobody’s going to believe she did it for the insurance money. Why would she? You heard my dad. She won’t be around to spend any of it. And all you’re doing is ruining the little time she has left. But don’t listen to me. You won’t listen to anybody anyway.”
My throat burns. I don’t know what I did to make him so angry, why he’s changed on me all of a sudden. “Why are you doing this?” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed sand.
“Enough is enough, Hope. Dad’s right. We’ve done enough.”
“I haven’t done enough until I get Jeremy out of prison!”
“Don’t shout at me.”
I hadn’t realized I was shouting. I take a deep breath. I hate this. We’ve been so close, so together in everything. “Chase, what is it? Is it your dad? Are you afraid of what he’ll do when you both get home?”
“Yeah, I am.” He glares over at me, and for a second he doesn’t look like Chase. His green eyes are black. He has his father’s mouth. “He’s really mad, Hope. And maybe he’s got good reason. I don’t know what he’ll do this time. Just be glad you don’t have to go home to him.”
“Right. Because I have it so much better going home to Rita.”
“You don’t understand how good you’ve got it having a mother who doesn’t care, instead of too many parents who care too much.”
That hurts. I know Rita doesn’t care, but it stings to hear Chase say it. I sting back. “Fine. I didn’t realize you were so scared of Sheriff Daddy. Just take me home.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
We don’t speak until he pulls up in front of my ho
use. I pop the seat belt before he comes to a stop. I’m so mad that I’m fighting tears. “Thanks for the ride,” I mutter.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry.” I slam the door and stomp up the sidewalk.
Then I wheel around. “I was doing all right taking care of Jeremy on my own. I don’t need you, or T.J., or anybody else to help me now! It’s always been just me and Jeremy. I should have known better than to—” A lump fills my throat and blocks the words. So I turn and run into the house, slamming the door behind me.
Once inside, I can’t stop shaking. I collapse to the floor and cover my head with my hands, letting my hair make a tent around my face, shutting me off from everything and everyone.
31
A noise makes me look up. A sob, or a sniffle. Rita’s sprawled on the floor, leaning against the couch. In her lap is a shoe box, and in front of her, spread out in a semicircle, are photographs. She holds one up and cocks her head to the side. I don’t think she knows I’m here. At first I think she must be drunk, but I don’t see a glass or a bottle.
My mother is crying. She is, in fact, sobbing.
“Rita? What happened?”
She doesn’t answer.
I move in closer. She’s holding a baby picture, taken at a hospital. The baby wearing a white pointy cap and wrapped in a white blanket looks like every other baby I’ve seen in hospital photos. Only somehow I know it’s Jeremy.
I sit beside her and finger through the photos scattered on the carpet. Half a dozen look like the one she’s holding, Jeremy a couple of minutes old. But there are other pictures of Jeremy—outside on a lawn somewhere, in the back of a faded car, in a building with other kids his size, no older than two. I’ve never seen these pictures. Where did she get them? How did she manage to hold on to them? Why did she?
“He’s my boy,” she says, not looking at me. “My own little boy.”
I don’t know what to say. This isn’t the Rita I know. It makes me think of what Chase said about me: The Hope I know …, something about how the Hope he knew wouldn’t give up on Jeremy. And the Chase I just left in the car, was he the Chase I know? The sickly Caroline Johnson on the stand, was she the same woman who screamed her hate at her husband? The T.J. who ran away without looking back, who scared me, was he the same T.J. who brought me mermaid tears and ate lunch with me at school every day?
I pick through the pictures of Jeremy. This is the Jeremy I know, sweet, innocent.
Are we different people every single moment of our lives?
“I have to testify for Jeremy,” Rita says, not taking her eyes off a photo of a much younger Rita and her son.
“What? Why?”
“I’m Raymond’s star witness.”
“Wait. Did Raymond call and tell you he wants you to testify?”
“Yep. Saved the best till last.” She leans back and takes a deep breath that turns into a cough.
I think I may hurl. Rita’s going to testify? And she’s the last person the jury will hear from? I don’t understand why Raymond would do this, even with his stupid kitchen-sink strategy … unless Caroline Johnson really did that much damage.
“Rita, did you and Raymond rehearse what you’re going to say?”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the same hand that’s holding the photograph of Jer and her. “I got to get to Raymond’s.”
I call Bob and ask him to drive her. Rita isn’t drunk. She hasn’t been drinking. But she’s shaking, shaken and stirred. I don’t trust her behind the wheel of a car.
I volunteer to cover for them at the restaurant, but Bob says he doesn’t need me. In twenty minutes, I have Rita dressed and ready.
“Don’t you leave the house again!” she calls to me on her way to Bob’s car. “Not like you ever do anything I say,” she mutters. Then she’s gone.
I put away the pictures of Jeremy. With Rita gone, the house turns up its noise volume—a hum from the fan becomes a roar; water leaking in the toilet, a waterfall; and the fridge groans like it’s being tortured. I lock the doors and windows, trying not to think about the stalker. What if he knows I’m alone, really alone now? No Rita, no T.J., and no Chase.
Exhausted, I lie down on my squeaky mattress, and my thoughts go to Chase. I miss him already—not just his help, but him. I miss his slow smile, like he’s grinning against his better judgment. And the way his voice gets deeper when he’s trying to explain about his life in Boston. Raising my hand, I think about how his large fingers feel interlocked with my small ones.
What have I done?
Chase has been so good to me. Did I really accuse him of caving to his “daddy”? He didn’t have to help me in the first place. But he did, even when his dad tried to keep him away from me.
I need to apologize. If I never see him again, he has to know how grateful I am for everything he’s done. I don’t think I could have made it this far without him.
Since the last person I called was Chase, I take out my cell and hit Send. His phone goes directly to voice mail. No way I can say what I want to say on a recorder. I hang up. In a few minutes, I try again. And again. I don’t know how many times I dial Chase over the next hour. Finally, I give up and decide I can, at least, text him. He’ll have to read that, and I can delete before sending if I screw it up. I punch in: I’m sorry. Hope. Then I change it to: I’m sorry! Hopeless.
I send it and wait, staring at the screen until it goes blank. I picture Chase hearing the beep. He glances at the number, sees it’s me, and …
No answer.
I try again: Please, Chase. Can’t we talk?
I send it and go back to waiting. Jeremy and I used to text each other before Jer lost his cell. Our exchanges were as fast as phone calls.
I’m not giving up. Chase said it himself. The Hope he knows is no quitter. I send another text: Meet me tonight? Now? I don’t want him to come to my house, and I sure don’t want to go to his. So I keep typing: At school? Driving practice? He’ll know what I mean. He’ll remember that day when we were so close we read each other’s thoughts, when he didn’t get mad at me, even after I wrecked his car.
I wait for a reply. While I’m at it, I should text T.J. too. We were friends for a long time. I stare at the screen, trying to think of a message for him. But I can’t.
My phone beeps. It’s Chase. I have a message: OK.
It takes me five minutes to change into jeans and brush my hair. I’m as nervous as if it’s our first date. I try to tell myself not to get my hopes up. He’s agreed to talk. Nothing else.
I hurry outside and up the walk in the direction of the school. It’s muggy out, and a cloud of gnats hovers around me. I shoo them away and keep going.
Behind me a car starts up. Headlights pop on and shine through me, turning my shadow into a jagged ghost.
Coincidence. But I walk a little faster.
The car creeps along behind me. I want it to speed up. I want the lights to vanish when I turn onto Walnut Street. But the headlights stay with me, like two giant flashlights keeping me in their sights. I walk faster. It’s all I can do not to break into a run.
The car pulls up beside me, keeping pace with me. Then I hear a voice: “Hope?”
“Chase! How did you—?”
“Get in.” He’s ducking low from the driver’s side so we can see each other.
I climb in, my heart still jittery, maybe more so. Then I scoot as close as I can get to him. “Chase, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know. Me too.” He reaches out an arm, and I fall into him.
I close my eyes and let myself soak up everything about this moment, his strong arms around me, my head on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. I want to dissolve into him, to lose myself in Chase Wells.
Suddenly I pull away so I can see his face. “Were you out here the whole time?”
“Yeah. As soon as Dad finished yelling at me—which only happened because he had to go in to work—I came over here. I
was pretty sure he was never going to have a patrol car on your street, so I thought I’d better keep an eye on things myself, in case that pickup came back.”
“You’ve been guarding me? Even after I said those horrible things to you?” I snuggle closer.
“I admit I was pretty mad when I drove away, but not mad enough to leave you for the stalker.” He grins down at me. I want to freeze that look, the dimples, the warmth.
“Nice to know you wouldn’t throw me to the stalker in a fit of anger.” I stretch up and kiss him, then pull back. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“You called me? Sorry. Dad played the big-bad-father card before he stormed out. I’m grounded—yeah, right—and phoneless. He made me turn in my cell. I’ll get it back. Don’t worry.”
“Wait a minute. He took your cell?”
“Yeah. I’m surprised he didn’t take the keys to the car, my driver’s license, and—”
“But you’re here.” Something’s wrong. Really wrong.
He squints at me. “Don’t look so worried. I haven’t been grounded since I was ten. He’ll get over it.”
“But how did you know to come and meet me?”
“Meet you? What do you mean?”
My mind is spinning, trying to piece together the messages. “I sent you a text. We’re supposed to be meeting at the school parking lot.”
“Didn’t get the message, Hope. I didn’t have the phone. I just saw you leave because I was guarding the—”
“But you answered. You texted me back and said okay.”
Chase’s face changes. Even his eyes seem to darken. He takes me by the shoulders and eases me back into the passenger seat. “Hope, that wasn’t me.”
Neither of us says a word until I can’t stand the silence. “Chase, if you didn’t send the message …” But I can’t finish it.
So he does. “My dad did.” He stares at his hands. “I was afraid of that.”
“But why would he do that? Why would he tell me to meet you at the school?”
Chase still won’t look at me. “I don’t know.”
The Silence of Murder Page 20