I stare at my uncle, his mouth partway open, breathing heavily. He’d seemed excited about getting to spend time with me, eating my favorite pizza, and I consider waking him. But today had been a big day, and tomorrow was going to be even bigger, and, ultimately I’m just too tired. Leaving him asleep in his chair, I trudge upstairs.
I tumble tiredly into bed, but can’t fall asleep, my mind racing. It’s actually a fairly simple plan, and once I’ve completed it, I’ll wash my hands of the case. Charlie’s dad and his officers can take over. Arrest Greg and throw him in jail for what he’s done. Maybe once Greg sees all the evidence the police are about to get from me, he’ll confess and it’ll all be over.
Uncle Bill stirs downstairs. By the time he turns off the TV and comes upstairs, I’ve turned away and closed my eyes. I sense him pause in the doorway, looking in on me. Maybe I hear him softly say my name to see if I’m still awake, but I don’t respond, don’t move.
After a couple of minutes, he sighs and walks down the hall to his bedroom.
I toss and turn for a long time after that, but eventually, I fall into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Despite a night of restless sleep, I’m ready to go. I know it’s mostly nervous adrenaline that’s energizing me, and later today I’ll probably crash, but for now, I’m okay. I find a note from Uncle Bill sitting on the kitchen table. It reads: Sorry, but I have to be at work even earlier than usual all this week. Hope you got your assignment finished last night. If I can help, let me know. See you tonight.
I hate lying to him.
He left out cereal for me, but my stomach is too tied up in knots to eat anything.
Last night, I attached each piece of evidence with a note explaining its significance before returning it to the bag: Inside a clear sandwich bag, the cross necklace that Amy never goes anywhere without found at the scene of the crime. The backpack used to kill her when there were books in it, with her blood on it. The smaller bag containing the clothing worn by Greg when he killed her, also with Amy’s blood on them. Even the trash he’d put in with the clothes. Finally, a typed letter explaining exactly what I saw that day at Miller’s Park. A letter I left unsigned.
With any luck, this will be enough to make Greg confess his crime, and the police won’t have to know my identity. But I’ve thought about it now, and if this is not enough, and I have to reveal myself in order to testify, then so be it. I will. If that happens, I will not mention Charlie’s name or her involvement in this, DNA or no DNA. I haven’t told her that, but my mind is made up. If not coming forward sooner turns out to be a problem, then it will fall on me. Not Charlie.
Grabbing the bag, I go outside, glancing around to see if anybody is watching me before closing the front door.
The plan Charlie and I devised is simple. It’s also the best we could come up with.
It turns out Charlie had been thinking ahead to this particular situation and had bought a burner phone, the kind with only a certain amount of call time available on them and not connected to any name, if you don’t want it to be. The plan is I’ll use it to make only one call, then I’ll throw it away. The police will show up, find the bag where I told them it’d be, and that’ll be it. My job as private detective will be finished. Case closed. I’ll get to school just in time for the first period bell to ring.
Charlie had wanted to do something to help, but I’d convinced her it was best done by one person, and that person was me. All she had to do was go to school as usual and act surprised when her dad showed up to arrest Greg Matthes.
The place we chose to leave the bag was where the old strip mall used to be. I try to take a route that has as few people as possible. The ones I do pass don’t seem to pay any attention to me. Once I get there, I place the bag behind the old sandwich shop. A red ribbon flutters around the neck of the bag—a sign I devised to let the police know what to look for.
I find a spot across the street where I can see the bag from behind a wire fence and not be easily seen. Taking a deep breath, I call the police station—not 911 like last time, but the main number.
“Milton Police Department. Officer Mallory speaking.”
I open my mouth, and, at first, I’m afraid my voice isn’t going to work. And then it all comes pouring out. “Amy Sloan was killed last Friday afternoon after school by Greg Matthes at Miller’s Park. The reason the police didn’t find her body was because he moved it. No one knows she’s missing because they thought she was away at church camp. But—”
“Just a minute,” the voice on the other end says. “Who is—”
“I’ve left the proof you need behind what used to be Amos’s Sandwich Shop on Pell Street,” I continue. “A bag with a red ribbon. It’s there now. Please hurry.”
I hang up and shove the cell into my pants pocket. Better I throw it away someplace far from here.
According to the plan, I should be walking to school now. But there’s something else I didn’t tell Charlie: I’d decided this morning I wasn’t going to leave right after the call. I need to stay here, hidden, to make sure the police find the bag. What if I leave and there’s a mix-up? Like the police officer I spoke to not getting the bag’s location right. Or someone else wanders by before the police arrive, sees the bag, and takes it. It’s risky, I know, but I need to make sure things go as planned.
I’m sure only minutes go by, but they feel like hours. How long does it take for the police to get here? Milton is not that big. Is it possible the officer didn’t believe me? Maybe he thinks it’s another prank, so they’re not coming.
No, they’re the police. They can’t let something like this go without at least checking it out.
I keep waiting. A guy comes into view a couple blocks away and keeps walking until he stops near where I left the bag. I raise up on my haunches. He’s only stopped to light a cigarette, thank God. He tosses the used match then moves on. That would be just great if his careless match caught the bag on fire, but after a minute I see no sign of flames.
More time passes. Still nothing. My left leg is starting to hurt. I shift position. Should I call again?
A siren blares in the distance, growing louder. I didn’t think about the police using a siren, but of course they would, something as important as this. My whole body shakes in anticipation—and when I think about it, fear.
They’re almost here. I won’t leave until I’m sure they’ve actually found it.
I shift my position again. The siren is getting louder.
My cell phone buzzes. Not the burner cell still in my pocket. My cell.
Charlie’s name pops up on the screen. “Why are you—?”
“Don’t make the call!” Her voice is frantic.
“What? I—”
“Did you make the call?”
Something hard and cold forms in my stomach. “Yes. A few minutes ago.”
“Oh crap, oh shit!”
Charlie never curses. “What’s going on?” I ask her, a painful thrum starting in my chest.
“She’s not dead.”
There’s a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the sirens. “What?”
“Greg didn’t kill Amy.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I just saw her. She’s here at school.”
The ringing is drowned out by the actual police siren. Not far now.
“Amy Sloan is alive!”
Chapter Twenty
Before the shooting started, before standing in line with Charlie for snow cones, I remember the two of us getting off the Tilt-a-Whirl, holding on to each other to get our balance.
“That was fun,” Charlie said.
“That was dangerous,” I countered.
“Danger’s part of the fun.”
“Did you feel how rickety it was? I thought we were going to fly off the track.”
My stomach was still a little queasy.
“Like I said. Danger is part—”
“We should report that ride to your father. I’ll bet it hasn’t been inspected since our parents were our age.”
“Well, look at you, acting like a crybaby.”
I pull back. “Crybaby?”
“Sorry. I meant wimp.”
“Oh yeah?” I can see her fighting to keep from laughing. I’m doing the same.
“Is that all you can say?”
I gave her a playful push. She laughed and pushed me back, almost knocking me off my feet, and she grabbed my arm to steady me.
Her fingers on my skin, even if it was just to stop me from falling on my butt, sent a tingle shooting through me. We’ve been friends for forever, but I’d been noticing that tingle more and more lately. Was I just imagining her holding on to me a little longer than necessary before letting go?
“This is the year you said you’d do the zip line,” Charlie commanded. “I say we do that one next.”
“Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that.”
“You did. You’re not gonna wimp out on me now, are you?”
“What, did you just learn that word yesterday?”
“We’re doing the zip line next.”
“First we get a snow cone.”
Before she had a chance to object, I added, “Or are you going to wimp out?”
That stopped her. She frowned at me. “As I remember, I promised I’d stand in the snow cone line with you.”
In a singsong voice, I said, “Wimp, wimp, wimpy wimp…”
“All right, all right,” she said, laughing. Something else I’d been noticing lately: how much I enjoyed her laugh. “I’ll get in line with you. Then the zip line. But first I gotta pee.”
“You’re not going to run out on me, are you?” I jeered as she turned toward one of the lines of temporary Porta Potties set up about a hundred yards away.
“Stay here and find out for yourself.” Then off she went. I found myself staring at her long, muscled legs as she ran. Something in the way she moved screamed confidence. And grace. I couldn’t believe I’d never realized that about her before.
Self-consciously I turned away, inadvertently stepping into the path of someone trying to walk past me. A man moving quickly, with his head down, wearing a jacket that seemed too heavy for the hot day. His arms were wrapped around his waist as if he was holding something in. All this I took in just before we collided, the man letting out a woomf sound. We both came close to falling but managed to stay upright. Still, he dropped something—a brown paper bag with something inside it lying on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” I said and reached for the bag, my fingers taking hold. I started to pick it up, intent on giving it to him.
“I’ve got it!” the man barked, roughly shoving me aside, the bag and its contents falling from my grasp. For less than a second, I saw the edge of something peek out before he had it in his hand and straightened up, shoving the bag back into his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Asshole,” the man grumbled. Surprised, I backed off, and he retreated, hunched over as if afraid the bag would fall out of his jacket again.
I stared as he walked away. Though I hadn’t seen what was in the bag, I’d felt it, for the second or so I’d had my fingers around it. The way he was protecting it now bothered me.
“Miss me?” Charlie popped up beside me, giving me a nudge.
“Did you see that guy?” I said.
“What guy?” But she wasn’t looking.
“That guy over there,” I said, pointing.
She followed my finger. “What guy are you talking about?”
He was too far away now. “We bumped into each other,” I told her. “He dropped something, and when I tried to pick it up for him, he got all defensive about it. Shoved me out of the way to get it.”
“So what was it?”
“I don’t know. I just barely touched it. Why would he be so weird about it?”
Charlie shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Where’s your dad?” I asked suddenly, looking around.
She shrugged again, glancing around half-heartedly. “I don’t know. People bump into each other all the time. Is there something else he did?”
“He called me an asshole.”
“Oh, by all means then, let’s find my dad. That’s a jailable offense. A life sentence.”
When I didn’t respond, Charlie said, “You’re just delaying getting on the zip line.”
The guy was completely out of sight. Charlie was probably right. It was nothing. “All right, let’s go.”
Charlie pointed. “The zip line is off in that direction.”
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Snow cones first.”
A couple of minutes later, I was in line bantering back and forth with Charlie, anticipating a bubble-gum-flavored snow cone, no longer thinking about the strange guy I’d bumped into. Until six people had been shot, and I saw him again, dead on the ground, a gun by his side.
Chapter Twenty-One
“We should never have let it get this far,” Charlie moans.
We’ve been here five minutes, and that’s the first thing she’s said. We’d decided it was best not to talk about it at school. I’ve waited on pins and needles all day. We walked to my house, saying nothing along the way. Since we’ve gotten here, Charlie has done nothing but pace the living room, wearing an expression on her face that says shut up, I’m thinking.
So I’ve just been sitting and watching her—and waiting. I may be able to read her expression, but I’ve never seen her this intense. This upset.
She repeats her path across the living room carpet a few more times, then suddenly stops in front of me. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.
My mouth drops open a little. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She stares at me, then turns away and starts pacing again.
“You want something to drink?” I try.
Her expression turns fierce. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” I say.
“Why are you acting like this is no big deal?”
“I’m not. I just… We need to sit down and talk about this eventually. And I’m thirsty.”
I get up and walk into the kitchen. In many ways, this is a duplicate of what happened when I told her what I had seen at Miller’s Park. Except our roles are reversed. Now Charlie is the one out of control, and I’m trying to calm her down.
Charlie hasn’t responded to my question, but I still pull out two ginger ales. Back in the living room, I extend one. She hesitates, then snatches it from my hand. Following my lead, she sits on the couch, emptying half the can in one long gulp.
It clanks on the coffee table. She asks, “The evidence is safe?”
“I’ve still got it.”
“And you’re sure the police didn’t see you?”
“I’m sure.”
Right after Charlie’s call, and with the police siren wailing down my neck, I raced out from behind the wire fence, grabbed the bag of evidence, and ran away before they arrived. If I’d taken a minute longer, I would have been caught with the bag in hand. If I’d taken thirty seconds beyond that, I probably would have been seen tossing the bag over the fence. But neither happened.
By the time the police cruiser pulled up to the rear of the old sandwich shop, I was back behind the fence, scrunched down. I recognized the officer as the same one who had given Tommy Zimmerman the ticket in front of Greg Matthes’s house a couple days ago. And as soon as she reached where the bag was supposed to be, her back to me, I tore out of there. Slowing down to a fast walk after a couple blocks, I took a different way home and put the evidence back in its hiding place. Then I raced for school, hearin
g the first period bell ring as I walked into the building. Fortunately, my first class is close to the main door. Maybe a couple of students in the classroom noticed I was out of breath as I walked in, but nobody was staring at me. Everything seemed normal.
Until I saw Police Chief Walker escorting Amy Sloan and Greg Matthes down a hallway filled with surprised, murmuring students. By the end of the day, everyone was talking about the massive prank that had been pulled on the police. And on Amy and Greg.
“You have to get rid of the evidence,” Charlie says.
“I will.”
“Take it somewhere and burn it. Or throw away each of the things in a different place so they’re not found together.”
“I thought I’d return the cross to her,” I say. “Mail it to her anonymously.”
“No.”
“Or slip it into her locker through the slats.”
Her hands fly up into the air so fast I duck. “Are you crazy? No!”
“But it means a lot to her. You said yourself, she never goes anywhere without it.”
“Obviously, I was wrong.”
“Maybe—” Charlie glares at me, and I shut my mouth.
I wait a full minute, then say, “Let’s talk about it, Charlie. Let’s figure it out.”
“Figure out why we’re such idiots, you mean?”
“We were trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing was minding our own business.”
“Charlie, I know what I saw.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, really. You’re sure about that?”
I start to respond, then falter. Maybe I deserved that. But still…
“She had a cut on her forehead,” I point out. “Looked like it needed a couple stitches.”
“Which she said she got at camp,” Charlie counters. “I heard she told people she got it walking into a branch out on a hike. That she laughed about it.”
Charlie jumps up and paces some more. “Really. How can you be so calm, Alden?”
I’m asking myself that same question. Actually, my chest feels like someone is inside trying to get out using a sledgehammer. But I’m not used to seeing Charlie this stressed out, so I guess I figure somebody’s got to stay calm.
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