“You quit?” I said.
“You think I liked that hair? You think I liked those clothes?” he said. “You weren’t home from school yet when I came by your place yesterday to let you know I was quitting the bookstore. I don’t want to scare you but I saw de Groot has men watching your house.” When I didn’t look surprised, he said, “But you knew that.”
I shrugged.
“Wow. You’re not freaked out?” he said. “That’s ten points for poise.”
I flashed the menu he’d left for me. “This was pretty cryptic. You could’ve been waiting here for nothing.”
“I knew you’d get it. Besides . . .” Fisher gestured at piles of paperwork in front of him. “I had stuff to keep me busy while I waited.”
“What is all this?” I said.
“I have an exit routine I like to do when I leave a place,” he said.
“Oh . . . you’re out of River Heights, then?” I said.
“I have a new gig.” He held up a brochure for seaside condos. “Nice calm corporate gig someplace warm. I’m going in-house for a Big Oil outfit. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to retirement.”
I don’t know why, but I felt the urge to tell him. “I think I’m out of here too.”
“Oh?” Fisher said. “That Prentiss School? I didn’t realize you were applying. Well, congratulations. What does Digby think?”
I shrugged and tried to keep it breezy. “Digby knows I always hoped to finish out high school back in New York.”
“So you haven’t told him.” Fisher laughed when I winced. “That’ll be an interesting conversation.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Fisher was studying my face. “If you’re sure it’s what you really want to do. You don’t look so sure . . .”
“Well, when I applied months ago, I was sure that it was the right thing for me,” I said.
“And now?” Fisher said.
“Well, now . . . I’m finally starting to get used to this place. Starting over would be . . .” The thought of it exhausted me.
“Like, ‘All my stuff’s here anyway’? Sure. Inertia. I get it.” Fisher nodded. “But of course you’re going.”
“Everyone keeps saying that like I don’t know my own mind. It’s kind of rude,” I said. “I really don’t know if I’m going.”
“Okay. Let’s come at it from another angle,” Fisher said. “Why did you apply in the first place?”
“It’s a good school. They run mock college interviews. Loads of amazing speakers come in to talk about life after school. They have two full-time career counselors and because of who all the parents are, the seniors get rotated through really incredible work experience,” I said. “Between all that, someone might finally figure out what I’m good at.”
“Sold,” Fisher said. “Sounds good to me.”
“Sounds good to me too,” I said. “My mother’s excited. My father will be too, when I tell him.”
“Just you, then? You don’t look that excited,” Fisher said. “And of course, Digby won’t be excited.”
I shrugged. “Who knows? He might not even care. I don’t think friendship means the same thing to him as it does to other people,” I said.
“Uh-oh,” Fisher said. “What did he do this time?”
“He called us ‘tools in his toolbox,’” I said. “Pissed me off.”
“Yikes. Not the best way to say it. But to be fair . . .” Fisher said. “Kidnap victims’ families endure the worst things. To get through the things they need to get through, their ethical system kind of gets . . .”
“Eliminated?” I said.
“More like suspended,” Fisher said. “He’s learned to walk away from the direction his moral compass points him to because most of the time, the satisfaction he’s looking for is in the opposite direction. I’ve seen law-abiding people take out loans they know they’ll never pay back. Perfectly normal people hire hit men to murder the people who kidnapped their loved ones.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses for Digby,” I said.
“I’m not making excuses. But for your own sanity, try to understand the kind of psychological stress he’s experienced,” Fisher said. “Okay. End of lecture.”
“When are you leaving town?” I said.
“Next week,” he said.
“Does that mean you’re quitting Digby’s case?” I said.
“Not quitting. I’m just putting it on the back burner for the next little while,” he said.
“Fisher . . .” I wanted to tell him everything. About de Groot, about the deal Digby made . . . but the picture of his new apartment’s sea-view balconies looked like heaven and I didn’t want to ruin it for Fisher with tantalizing news about Sally. Especially since it could all mean nothing in the end.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Just . . .” I said. “I hope this isn’t the last time we see each other.”
“I doubt it,” Fisher said. “But since you mentioned wanting career counseling . . . here’s some. Think about my job.” When I laughed, he said, “I’m serious. Consider it. Money’s good. Money’s incredible, actually. Lots of travel. Crime is a growth industry . . .”
“I think this is more a conversation you should have with Digby, not me,” I said.
“Oh, he’s a smart kid, no doubt about that.” Fisher’s smile wavered and he tilted his head. “But what he really cares about is finding out what happened to his sister. I’m not sure he’d be half as good when he doesn’t have that to care about anymore.”
“But I think he generally enjoys being crafty and making fools of people,” I said. “Why would he ever stop that?”
“I didn’t say he’d stop being that guy but look, it’s like this . . .” Fisher said. “Everything Digby has done has been for Sally. All that focus . . . the stamina . . . would he have that if he weren’t looking for his sister? I don’t know. All these years, Sally’s been his Moby Dick, and nobody ever looks to Ahab for tips on fishing. You, on the other hand are the complete angler.” He pointed at me. “I want you.”
I had to laugh at Fisher’s intensity. “Moby Dick, the complete angler.” I pointed at him. “Fisher. Three fishing references. I get it.”
“Actually, I can’t stand fishing. Boring.” He shook my hand. “I hope I see you around, Zoe Webster.”
* * *
• • •
I’d just gotten myself a drink at my favorite coffee cart when I spotted Austin coming out of the bathroom. Before I could process what I was doing, I’d already ducked behind an instant photo booth.
Why am I hiding? I thought.
I stepped out feeling brave but when he looked up from his phone and almost caught me creeping, all the cool got sucked out of me and I dove back into my hiding place. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t ready for small talk and easy-breezy friend hugs. So I peeked around the corner and resumed spying on him instead.
Austin had gone back to his phone. Watching him, I finally let myself admit that I’d never liked the vacant strings-cut look his face got whenever he was texting or surfing. Like he had enough brainpower to either use his device or not be a zombie but not to do both at once.
My decision to cower behind the photo booth paid off when Allie came down the hall with some football guys and cheers, skipped up to Austin, and tweaked him in the side.
Austin laughed, they kissed, and my jealousy flared. But after the sting of seeing them together passed, I saw how Austin and Allie looked more of a pair than Austin and I ever did. Allie even got along with all his friends in a way I never managed to. Austin and Allie. Sitting in a tree. Doing all the cutesy things he could never get me to do with him. They belonged together. And I suppose that was fine.
But where did I belong?
SEVEN
I honestly wasn’t fully conscious of what I was doing
when instead of going home that night, I got on the bus to Digby’s place. I knew I hadn’t done the wrong thing forcing him to tell Felix, but at the same time, I knew that I’d broken some kind of unspoken Accomplice’s Oath. I needed to make it right.
I got to Digby’s bus stop without yet having formed a plan of how to start this conversation and when I got to his front yard, I seriously thought I should turn around and leave. Maybe he was right. Maybe we needed to be apart for a little while. But I kept walking to his house anyway.
By this time, I’d already climbed onto his porch and I was about to turn and walk away when I heard a loud crash from inside the house. I dithered, trying to figure out whether I should ring the bell. I decided against it and instead went around to the back.
I looked through their kitchen window and saw Digby and his mother, Val, at the sink, having an agitated back-and-forth over a sizzling pan he was still smothering with a charred apron. Val was crying and I could hear her shouting “Sorry” from where I was standing outside. When the fire was fully put out, Digby threw the burned pan in the sink and hugged his mom to calm her down. He eventually got her to stop crying and walked out of the kitchen.
I felt guilty about having stayed there watching them and I was just about to sneak away when I heard banging on the kitchen window. I stood up from my crouch to see Digby’s mom smiling at me.
Val opened the window and said, “Sorry, did we miss your ringing the bell?”
“No, I didn’t actually ring the bell,” I said. “I came back here because I heard a crash.”
“Oh . . . I see,” Val said. “Do you want to come in?”
“I should get home,” I said.
“Did you two fight?” Val said.
I nodded.
“That’s what I thought. I notice he’s been using his sleeping meds these days,” Val said. “He doesn’t like taking those and he only does it when something’s really bothering him.”
I didn’t want to start a conversation I couldn’t finish about Digby’s conversation with de Groot, so I just nodded again.
“The pills don’t work, by the way. The sleep he does get is garbage. I think it’d be better if he just solved whatever problem was bothering him.” She waved me toward the back door. “Come in,” she said. When I hesitated, she said, “Please come in. . . . He’s been sad all day, staring at messages on his phone that he refuses to respond to. He definitely won’t sleep again tonight if you don’t make up with him.” I still didn’t move, so she said, “And you don’t look too happy either.”
I finally gave up and nodded. “Okay.”
On my way to the door, Val said, “You know, since my daughter was taken, no one in this family has had an ordinary emotion. It’s almost a relief to see him pouting over a girl like a normal teenager.”
I didn’t have the heart to bust the fantasy of normalcy she’d built around me, so I said thank you and reached to take the bottle of water she was offering.
Before she let go of the bottle, Val said, “Not that I want him to have his heart broken. Be careful with him.”
* * *
• • •
I went upstairs but then lost my courage again outside Digby’s room. I stood pressed up against the wall, trying to figure out if I wanted to open with an apology just to get the ball rolling . . .
“Are you coming in or not, Princeton?” Digby said.
I froze.
“I know you’re out there,” he said. “I can smell your old-lady perfume from here.”
“Actually, it’s my hand lotion.” I entered his room. “You’re chewing on a Slim Jim and your bedroom smells like old dirty socks and yet you’re claiming you can smell the lavender in my hand lotion?”
“My great-aunt Ruth used to have the same one,” Digby said. “I’d know it anywhere.”
“So I eat like your great-aunt Ruth and now I smell like her too?” I said. “Considering you just made out with me . . . is there something weird there?”
“Great,” he said. “More stuff to bring up in therapy, I guess.”
And that was all the small talk we had in us. We both let it be awkward for a long beat.
“So,” Digby said. “I guess you’re here to . . . not apologize?”
“Something like that,” I said. “Did you apologize to Felix?”
“Actually, I did,” Digby said. “He gets it. He knows what this means to me.”
“Seriously?” I pointed at the scar on my chin—my souvenir from the first time he’d gotten me to break into a place with him. “So you’re implying that I don’t get what this means to you?”
“Okay, yeah, that was a crappy thing to say,” Digby said. “I didn’t mean that.” He came closer. “But I’m still angry.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself if I’d let you do a sleazebag thing like that to Felix,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure I could have. I’ve done a lot of sleazebag things,” he said. I could see I’d made my point, though, because his face softened and he moved even closer to me. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m straight-up just a sleazebag.”
“You aren’t,” I said. “You’re a better person than you think you are.”
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” he said.
Another awkward moment passed.
“Are we good?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Are we?”
He pulled off my scarf and kissed my neck.
“Digby.” I didn’t want to spoil the mood but I had to say it. “There’s something else. Musgrave came to talk to me yesterday. He wants us to steal my notebook from the evidence locker.”
“Stealing from the police . . . that’s interesting pillow talk, Princeton . . .” Digby kicked the door shut and led me to the bed saying, “But weirdly, I like it.”
I said, “He says the DA—”
“Ooh, now the district attorney is in the mix,” Digby said. He eased me down onto the mattress with him. “You know, I’ve always thought subpoena was a sexy word . . . say ‘subpoena,’ Princeton.”
I felt myself losing focus when he started to kiss my collarbone, so I tried to push off him. “This is serious, Digby.”
“Okay, sure, keep talking. I can multitask,” he said. “This is kind of the fantasy, actually. My special lady friend has a head for business and a bod for—”
“It was my diary.” It was such a relief to finally tell him.
Digby was so surprised, he pulled away and said, “Pardon?”
“The notebook I left in the bag with Coach’s—”
“Oh, no, I heard you.” Digby sat up. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. That’s your diary in police evidence?” When I nodded, he said, “And you’re just mentioning it now?”
“I was embarrassed,” I said.
“Well, is your name in it?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Who writes their name in their diary?”
“But they’d be able to figure it out from the other names in there. Triangulate Austin, Allie, Charlotte . . .” he said. “And, of course, me.”
“I didn’t use any names,” I said. “Only first initials.”
“Wait, I thought you said you weren’t keeping a diary,” he said. “‘Too busy’—isn’t that what you said?”
“Shut up,” I said. “There’s more.”
“What? Don’t tell me there are pictures in there.” When I didn’t answer fast enough, Digby practically yelled, “Pictures? You and Austin couldn’t even sext like regular people?”
“No, calm down. Not pictures,” I said. “What I was about to say before you drove yourself nuts just now is that Musgrave is giving his official statement the day after tomorrow. He says that if we don’t get my notebook out before then, he’s going to tell them that we were the ones who gave
him the bag.”
Digby’s eyes narrowed and he stared out the window for a while. And then he said, “Nope.”
“‘Nope’?” I said.
“He won’t do that,” Digby said.
I made skeptical noises.
“Let’s enter the Musgrave mindscape and game this situation, shall we?” Digby said. “What would happen if I were Musgrave and I now told the police that, actually, I didn’t bust Fogle and, really, a bunch of high school students had handed me the bag and the bust . . .” Digby pondered it for a second and then said, “Well, first of all, I’d look like an idiot for taking credit for the last three days since the bust. And. How’s it going to look that I worked with the guy for years without realizing what Coach was doing? He’ll want to claim he at least had a hunch during that time—”
I said, “Musgrave did not appreciate it when I pointed out that exact same fact to him . . .”
“On the other hand, if I were Musgrave, and I didn’t tell anyone about how I really got the bag . . . all I’d have to do is let the police believe whatever other, more likely, reason they themselves come up with about how a teeny bopper’s diary might’ve gotten into a bag lying around in a high school locker room. Like, maybe it fell in. Or, maybe Coach found it and stuck it in his bag . . .” Digby shrugged and smiled. “I mean, that lie practically tells itself. And then, in return, I get all the credit for cleaning up the school and probably I’ll get to be a cop again? Bam. Easy decision.”
“I have to admit, that’s a pretty good impression of an incredibly lazy person’s thought process,” I said. “Now I’m wondering if we’re doing the right thing turning him back into a cop.”
“Don’t worry,” Digby said. “He’ll screw himself back out of the job even before he has a chance to fail his physical.”
“So you really don’t think we need to go get it?” I said.
“That notebook is not going to be a deal-breaker, I promise you,” he said.
That reassured me enough to let him help me out of my jacket. Then I belatedly heard something he’d said a minute ago. “Wait. Did you really just call me your ‘special lady friend’?” I said.
Trouble Never Sleeps Page 6