A few lights come on in the Matthes house. Other than that, I don’t see much sign of movement. I wonder what he’s doing in there, what he’s thinking.
More time passes.
A good investigator is always patient. But ready for anything.
Eventually, I pull out a book of crossword puzzles I keep in my backpack. With half of my attention on the book, the other half on the house across the street, I hunker down and wait for something to happen.
Chapter Seventeen
Before the shooting started, I was standing in line with Charlie to buy a snow cone. I’d always enjoyed going to the annual fair since the town of Milton started it when Charlie and I were seven. We were both in good moods that day, our hair mussed after having ridden a few of the fair rides, saving the zip line for last. But I couldn’t spend the day at the fair without a snow cone. Or two or three.
“Soft-serve ice cream is better,” Charlie was saying.
“Nope,” I said, a grin on my face. This argument was a yearly ritual, a game we played—maybe this year she was finally going to give in and get a snow cone.
“A snow cone is just crushed, flavored ice.” Charlie countered. “Soft serve is smooth and delicious, and a lot easier to eat.”
“Soft serve is very good,” I continued. “But when you’re at a fair, you’ve got to have a snow cone. It’s only natural.”
“Natural,” Charlie scoffed, but with a grin on her face as well. “What does that mean?” This summer her long brown arms had really started to show the results of the weight lifting she’d started doing. “Ice cream is better period, fair or no fair.”
“I do not agree,” I said laughing. “And how would you know? You’ve never even had a snow cone.”
“Yes, I have,” she insisted.
“When?”
“When I was six. Bubble gum, that disgusting flavor you like. It made me throw up.”
I shook my head. “It did not.”
“Yep, it sure did.”
“That was ten years ago. You’d probably like it now.”
She made a face. “You sound like my mother.”
“She thinks you should try a snow cone?”
“No, brussels sprouts.”
“Oh. Well, still…”
“Do you like brussels sprouts?”
How did we start talking about vegetables? “No.”
“Did you like them when you were six?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.” She brushed her hands together, like it was a done deal.
“It’s not the same thing.”
“How is it different?”
“You don’t have to have bubble gum. You can have another flavor.”
“All the flavors suck.”
We went on like that as the line got smaller. Some people probably thought we were having a real fight, but we weren’t. This was fun. We could argue about anything. After bingeing the original Twilight Zone, we argued over which was the best episode. Then after bingeing Rod Serling’s other show, we argued over which episodes of Night Gallery were good enough to be in Twilight Zone and which ones weren’t. Sometimes Charlie could get into it a bit too much, but not that day at the fair. That day she was funny and teasing. I had known her all my life, had grown up with her, but, for the first time, I was noticing how beautiful she was. How great her smile was, and how much her deep-blue eyes lit up when she laughed. For the first time, I was wondering what she would say if, after we got our snow cones and took a walk to eat them, I asked her if I could kiss her.
We were only one customer away from being served, the closest she’d ever gotten, when Charlie blurted out, “Nope, I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “Look, you’re almost there.”
“My taste buds are screaming for ice cream. Besides, you don’t want me to throw up on you, do you?”
“You won’t throw up. I promise.”
She cupped her ear. “I hear it calling to me. Here I come, ice cream! I’m coming to eat you.”
“Charlie…” I said, but I was laughing, and leaning in, she said, “When you’re lying on the ground, sick and dying from the snow cone you just ate, remember, you could have had soft serve with me.” Then she surprised me with a kiss on the cheek, and before I could react, she was running off in the opposite direction.
The spot where she’d kissed me was burning as I placed my hand against it, as if it to keep it there for as long as I could, until the man serving behind the stand leaned out and said, “Hey, Romeo, you want a snow cone or not?”
After stepping out of line and taking several delicious mouthfuls of sweet bubble gum ice, I saw my mom and dad not too far away. They saw me and waved, and I waved back, intending to go find Charlie when Dad motioned me to come over.
“Having fun?” Dad asked when I reached them.
I nodded, my mouth full.
“Where’s Charlie?” Mom asked.
“She’s getting ice cream. I’m going to go meet up with her. After we finish, we’re going to ride the zip line.”
“Before you go,” Dad said, “we have something to tell you. Good news I think you’ll really like.”
“What?” I asked.
I remember Dad placed his hand on my shoulder, and the smiles on both his and Mom’s faces were so big, whatever it was had to be really good.
But before he could tell me, his expression changed. One minute he was smiling, the next his eyes widened, and before I knew what was happening, he shouted, “Get down!” He grabbed me, my snow cone flying out of my hand, and he was trying to cover me with his body while pushing me to the ground, only I didn’t go down, not at first; I got tangled in my own feet as I heard one shot ring out, then another, and he let go of me, as if something had yanked his hand away. I tried to get my balance before more shots sounded, louder than before, and people began to yell, then scream, then finally gravity won out and, like a marionette with its strings cut, I started to fall.
Chapter Eighteen
The sky has started to darken when I see one of the garage doors opening, and a car pulls out with Greg’s mom and sister. That leaves only Greg’s dad in there with him, though I haven’t seen him, so I can’t be sure. I’d moved to a different spot in the park, sitting on the grass, my back against a tree, but I can still see the Matthes house clearly. The park is empty, and has been for the last hour, so there’s no one to question what I’m doing.
I stopped doing crosswords over an hour ago, content to just watch even though nothing much has happened. All I know is Greg could have incriminating evidence I’m not aware of yet. I don’t know what, but something.
Or maybe there’s nothing more to find, and I’m wasting my time. Truth is, I’m not getting much done. And it’s looking like Greg is staying in for the night.
I should get moving. Go home. A good investigator may need to be thorough and patient, but big homework assignment or no big homework assignment, Uncle Bill is going to start wondering. I’m not going to learn anything more tonight.
Charlie is right. We need to tell her father. Get the police involved.
Time to go.
My cell phone rings. Not my uncle; it’s Charlie.
“I haven’t learned anything new,” I say into the phone. “I’m going to—”
“Get back here,” Charlie hisses into my ear.
“Get back where? Your house?”
“I’m in the Mattheses’ backyard. Behind the shed.”
I almost drop my phone. “You’re where?”
“Shhh, keep your voice down.”
“Why… How did you… I’m across the street. I can see the front of the house. I didn’t see you.”
“I climbed over the back fence, from the property behind theirs. Will you hurry up and get over here?”
I hang up
and grab my backpack. I consider getting into their yard the same way Charlie did, but that would take longer. Charlie made it clear I need to get over there as quick as I can.
Taking in a deep breath, I run across the street to the same fence door I’d used yesterday, twice. The door makes a timid screech as I open it, and my heart feels like it stops. I listen, hear nothing. My phone buzzes, and I look down to see a text from Charlie: RUN NOW!
Another breath and I take off through the backyard, praying Greg isn’t looking out his back window. When I make it to the shed, Charlie’s arm suddenly appears and yanks me out of sight of the house. Losing my balance, I fall to the ground. On hands and knees, I take a minute to get my breath.
“You took long enough,” I hear Charlie say.
“What if…what if he saw me?” I manage.
“He didn’t. He’s not in his room. But he will be shortly.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was getting antsy waiting to hear from you,” Charlie says. “I figured you could use some help. I decided to take a chance that you’d ended up at his house. When I saw you across the street, I figured I’d be more useful back here.”
“You saw me?”
“Course I did. You weren’t all that hidden. I’m sure Greg hasn’t seen you, though.”
“How long have you been back here?”
She shrugs. “About a half hour.” She points toward the house. “He’s been in his room most of the time.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You’d already made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to.”
“What about your mom and dad?”
“They think I’m studying with you. You got me through math, remember? They’re never going to give me a hard time about you and I studying together.”
“But what if they call my house and my uncle tells them—”
“They’d call my cell phone first, you know that. Listen. He’s been looking for his backpack.”
“What?”
“He’s frantic. Looked inside his closet, took a lot of stuff out of there, didn’t find it. Then he started tearing up his room. No luck, of course.” Suddenly, she points. “Hey, he’s back.”
I see Greg through the window, walking into his room carrying what looks like a dark-green garbage bag.
“I knew it!” Charlie exclaims.
“Knew what?”
“Look.”
Greg picks up clothes and shoves them into the bag. A shirt, a pair of jeans, a light tan jacket that looks familiar, a belt, white socks, and even a pair of sneakers.
“How much you want to bet those are the clothes he was wearing when you saw him kill Amy?” Charlie says. “Probably has blood on them, so he’s getting rid of them.”
My gaze returns to the window. “Why does he still have them?” I say.
“Because he’s no great criminal mind. Maybe he thought he could wash them, but the blood wouldn’t come out. Like with his backpack. Now he’s finally given in and wants to get rid of all of it. Look.”
Now he’s emptying a trash can into the bag. He leaves the room for a moment then comes back, the bag looking heavier. Must be more trash in there to mix in with the incriminating clothing.
He puts the bag down and, putting his hands on his hips, looks around the room. For a moment or two he doesn’t move. At one point he seems to look out the window, and my instinct is to pull back. But I quickly realize he’s not peering out.
Then he walks into his open closet. “He’s looking again,” Charlie utters as he steps out of view. “Hoping he just missed it somehow.”
He’s back in a couple of minutes, a fresh look of distress on his face. He moves to the window, and this time we both pull back. He stares out for several seconds before turning away.
“I guess he realizes he should have thrown away the backpack earlier. But it’s too late now.” She gives a sinister-sounding chuckle.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” I ask.
“Well, he might think his parents found it and will confront him about it. So he’ll try to come up with a story to explain the blood. It’ll be hard to convince them it’s his, since he doesn’t have any sign of a wound on him.” Charlie thinks for a moment. “Actually, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
Then, in a soft voice, she says, “We’ve got you, sucker.”
Greg is not moving and seems to be thinking.
“Now what?” I say.
“He probably wants to search the rest of the house, but he can’t, not with his dad home,” Charlie speculates.
“Or maybe he’s figured out somebody else besides his parents has it,” I say.
“Maybe. But there’s no way to know it’s us.”
I think back to returning here last night to look for my notebook, but decide not to say anything.
“Get ready to move,” Charlie says. I look at the window; Greg’s tying up the trash bag. “As soon as he leaves his room, run with me to the fence door.”
Greg glances around his room one more time, as if the backpack might suddenly reappear out of thin air. When he finally leaves, we take off, running to the fence. Charlie pauses only a second before she undoes the latch, and we slip through to the front of the house, no screech this time.
“Quick, over here,” I tell her, remembering the bushes I’d hid behind in the neighbors’ yard last night. I lead the way, the two of us crouching down just in time as Greg comes out of the front door, tied-up bag in hand.
Clearly, trash pickup is tomorrow, what with all the trash cans sitting by the curb up and down the street. Greg walks to the can in front of his house, grabs the top of the cover, then hesitates, looking around at the other trash cans lining the street.
“He’s realizing it might be too risky to throw the clothes away in their own trash can,” Charlie whispers. “He’s wondering if he can get away with tossing it into one of his neighbors’ containers.”
Greg tries to look casual as he begins to walk away from us down the sidewalk, toward other trash cans. “Pay attention to what can he picks,” Charlie orders.
All at once, headlights appear from around the block. Greg stops, then makes an abrupt turn back toward us. The headlights slow, and I realize the car is preparing to turn into the Mattheses’ driveway. Greg’s mother and sister returning home.
“Too late,” Charlie says, sounding downright gleeful. “He couldn’t very well explain to his mother why he was throwing away trash in his neighbor’s can. Bad for him, easier for us.”
The headlights illuminate Greg just as he reaches his family’s trash can and opens the lid.
Reaching in, he pulls out two bags that were already in there, drops the bag he’d brought out into the can, then drops the other bags on top of it. Replacing the lid, he turns and waves as his mother’s car passes him in the driveway, then, with a quick glance back at the trash can, he walks to the front door of the house. There, like a good son, he waits for them to come out of the garage.
Greg asks his sister, “How’d it go?” I don’t make out her answer as they all go into the house.
Neither Charlie or I move for about a minute. Then Charlie whispers into my ear, “Let’s go!”
Quickly, we dart out from behind the bush and run to the trash can. Charlie yanks open the lid, and I reach in and pull out the two top bags. Charlie pulls out the bag we want, and I toss the other two back in. We run across the street and into the playground.
We crouch down, and Charlie unties the bag.
“What if Greg comes back out later to move the bag to one of his neighbors’ cans like he planned?” I ask.
“He won’t. Too much risk now that his entire family’s home.” Charlie looks into the bag. “Ta-daaa,” she calls out, pulling out a shirt. “Notice the telltale bloodstain.” The sky has settled into ni
ght, so I turn on the flashlight app on my phone. The beam allows us to make out the splash of brown on the front.
“How come it’s not red?” I ask Charlie.
“Spilled blood like this changes color after time,” she answers.
Blood can also be found on the jeans at the belt loops and more on the belt itself. We find some near the zipper of the jacket as well, a small amount, but enough that Greg decided to chuck it. There’s blood on the sneakers, too, and even the socks. We stare at the clothing laid out in front of us in silence. Seeing Amy’s blood on Greg’s clothes like this feels somehow different than finding it on his backpack, even if it was the murder weapon. Her blood on Greg’s clothing makes it feel more sobering, more intimate. More real than it already did.
Charlie lets out a big sigh. “We better get this over to your house.”
We start walking. By the time we’re in sight of my house, we have a plan in place for tomorrow.
“We could get all the evidence and take it to my dad right now,” Charlie says.
I let out a tired sigh. “It’s late.”
“He won’t care with something as important as this.”
“Come on, Charlie, I’m tired, I want to go to sleep. Let’s stick to the plan. Do it tomorrow. Anonymously. It’s better he doesn’t know it came from us.”
“Our DNA is on the evidence, too, you know.”
That makes me hesitate. “We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”
I can tell Charlie wants to say more, but she stops and just nods.
“I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve done it,” I tell her.
Charlie waves and heads off in the direction of her house.
Glancing through the front window, I see Uncle Bill asleep in his usual spot. Moving carefully, I make it up to my room without waking him. After stuffing the bag of Greg’s clothes into the far corner of my closet, I walk quietly downstairs and into the kitchen. More than half the pizza sits in its box on the kitchen table. I consider heating up a couple of pieces, but I end up just wrapping the pieces in tin foil and putting them in the refrigerator.
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