That leaves the backpack. I hoist it up and study it more thoroughly, not that there’s much to see. Except for the blood, and maybe a little wear and tear, it looks pretty much the way I remember it from Greg bringing it to school every day. I check the outside pockets again, then run my fingers inside the main part of the bag. Nothing. Frustrated, I yank out my hand.
Something gives, and I freeze. I peer into the backpack and see nothing. Feeling around again, I discover a gap at the very bottom of the backpack. Maybe I accidentally ripped it, but there doesn’t seem to be any frayed edges. I work my fingers into the gap as deeply as I can. The gap widens enough for me to get half of my hand in. It’s not a rip, it’s like somebody cut it to make an extra pocket, then covered it with a fake cardboard bottom. I push further, the hidden pocket widening, my fingers stretching. Finally, it pops open.
Bingo! I pull out a yellowish envelope held closed with a clasp. New evidence? My hands shake a little as I open the clasp and pull up the flap. Reaching in, I pull out a black cell phone. Frowning, I flip it around in my hands. Finding the power button, I push it and the phone turns on. Hmmm. So Greg had what I assume is a second cell. That’s not good. It usually means secrets, the kind that always mean trouble. The irony doesn’t escape me, Greg and me both using burner phones to hide secrets.
The cell is pretty basic, with no access to the internet or to email. Just calling and texting.
My chest is fluttering as I check the address book. The only phone number listed is for Greg Matthes. So this isn’t Greg’s phone. It’s Alycia Beaumont’s. And he was the only one she called on this phone? This is confirmed by the phone log. Each incoming and outgoing call is from or to the same number. I check text messages next. The only thread of messages is labeled Greg. There are a lot of them. Back and forth. Unfortunately, none of them are of the romantic kind. They are mostly messages with times, dates, and abbreviations for what are clearly locations, places for them to meet. Even though these texts were set up to be seen only by each other, they were still being cautious. Or maybe Greg insisted on it because of Amy. I don’t know if Alycia Beaumont had a boyfriend she was cheating on.
Between sports practices and all the time he spent with Amy, when did Greg have the time to meet up with Alycia for romantic interludes? It looks like they were getting together about once a week. Based on the texts, the week when I was following Greg, if I’d stayed on him one more day, I would’ve seen something. Come to think of it, how do I know for sure that these meetings were romantic, though what else could they be? There aren’t even any heart emojis or anything. I have a sudden thought and quickly scroll to the end of the thread. There it is! Alycia’s last text to Greg has them meeting this past Thursday at Miller’s Park. After school. Unlike all the other messages, for this one she adds, “I must see you.”
What about pictures? I click on the photo gallery, and only one picture pops up. It has both Alycia and Greg in a selfie taken by her. Judging by the expression on his face, he wasn’t expecting it. Okay, so at least I’ve got something that definitely shows them together.
There doesn’t seem to be anything more to check. Then I notice a stray icon. When I click on it a request for a password pops up. Interesting. I think about it, then type in Greg, but it doesn’t work. I try GregandAlycia. I try abbreviating his name, then abbreviating his and hers together, shortening them each time, mixing in an ampersand. Once I have it down to a simple G&A, six pictures pop up.
Whoa.
I click one by one on the first five pictures, and each one shows Alycia and Greg together. The first one shows them kissing. Looks like Alycia used a selfie stick to take the picture. Same with the next few, only with these they had their hands around and all over each other while dressed in only their underwear.
In the sixth and last picture, they’re lying in bed. The photo is not completely revealing, but it shows just enough to indicate they’re not wearing underwear. They’re not wearing anything at all.
I stab the power button, and the cell phone powers off. I slowly put the phone down on a table. From downstairs, I still hear Uncle Bill snoring. He could wake up any minute and drag himself upstairs to his bedroom. Moving quickly, almost frantically, I place the incriminating cell phone back into the backpack that I’m now sure has Alycia Beaumont’s blood on it. Then I return the backpack to the larger bag and put the bag back deep into the corner of my closet. No way am I going to get rid of this stuff now. I need time to think.
I should call Charlie. I grab my cell, pull up her name. Then I stop myself. I shouldn’t hit her with this new evidence just before she’s about to go to sleep. I’ll call her tomorrow morning before school.
I hear Uncle Bill moving downstairs, and by the time he’s up, I’m in bed, with the lights off, pretending to sleep.
I’ve got him, I keep telling myself. Greg Matthes killed Alycia Beaumont.
And I can prove it!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When all was said and done, no one could figure out why Alan Harder did it. Not the police, not the townspeople of Milton, not the talking heads for the two days it was covered by the cable news networks, not anyone. Harder had no connection with anyone who lived in Milton. And that included my parents.
Once they’d finished their investigation, the best Chief Matt Walker and his police force could determine was that Harder had wandered into Milton on Friday, the day before the fair. This was based on comments by Mr. Strong who said Harder had come into his convenience store late in the afternoon on Friday, bought a coffee and a pack of cigarettes, then left. Security cameras in the store confirmed it. A number of people jumped on the bandwagon, claiming, after the fact, to have seen him earlier on Friday just walking down the street. Two people swore they had seen Harder on that Friday sitting in the park and watching as the fair was being set up. But, ultimately, this could not be confirmed.
Alan Harder was thirty-two the day of the shooting. He didn’t have a driver’s license, bank account, credit card, or title to a car in his name. His social security number produced an address he hadn’t lived at in ten years. They did determine both his parents were dead, and he had no siblings. An aunt was found who lived in a nursing home in a nearby state. But only when she was lucid enough was she able to tell the police that she hadn’t seen her nephew in over ten years and knew nothing about his whereabouts since, or why he would do what he did.
Chief Walker still talks about finding out why someday. But Milton seems to have collectively shrugged its shoulders and accepted they’ll probably never know the reasons behind why he chose our town and the fair. People shake their heads, wonder what’s gone wrong with the world, and then go on with their lives.
Part of me would like to know why he did it. Part of me wonders if knowing would make any difference in my life.
Whether I ever find out or not, my parents are still dead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Another night of restless sleep has caused me to doubt again. Should I call Charlie? She’ll probably be pissed, but she’ll get over it once I tell her about the cell phone and pictures. Won’t she? I have my cell phone in my hand before I decide to wait. She wants space, I’ll give her space. She’s out of it. I’ll do this on my own.
Uncle Bill moves around downstairs. Last night he said he’d be out the door earlier than usual this morning to make up for leaving early yesterday. I consider going downstairs right now to tell him everything, but as I get out of bed, the front door closes, and he’s gone.
I haven’t opened my investigator’s notebook since I got it from behind the shed in the Mattheses’ backyard. I should have taken notes last night before bed. I pull it out from its drawer in my desk, sit on the chair, and write. It’s all in there. Everything I know. It makes sense. And yet, as I reread what I’ve written, I still have doubts about what I should do.
Finally, I pull out the evidence bag from the
closet. Open it. Stare inside. I reach in, finding the sandwich bag I’ve been keeping Amy’s silver cross necklace in. Pulling it out, I put it into an outside pocket of my backpack, along with the notebook. I know what Charlie would say about this, but I also know how important this necklace is to Amy. Anonymously or not, I should return it to her. Going downstairs, I eat a couple of Pop-Tarts for breakfast before heading out.
Before going to bed last night, I saw myself walking into the police station this morning, or maybe after school, with the bag of evidence in hand. I’d ask to see Chief Walker, then sit down with him in his office. And like one of those quirky detectives on TV who view evidence and find clues in ways the typical police detective can’t, I’d lay it all out for him, telling him what I saw and pulling out each piece of evidence as it became pertinent, all of it pointing to Greg Matthes murdering Alycia Beaumont. He’d been cheating on Amy with her. But she’d wanted more. She wanted him to break up with Amy. She’d met Greg to tell him if he didn’t, she’d tell Amy about them. And Alycia had those incriminating pictures. It was enough to make Greg snap.
I’d imagined Charlie being with me. It might make everything I’m saying seem more believable to the police chief if his daughter was there to back me up. But that’s not fair to her, I realize now. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t implicate her, and I’m going to stick to that.
Besides, I don’t know how Chief Walker is going to react when he finds out I’m the “prank caller” he’s been looking for. No matter how good my evidence is, he might be furious. Better I be the only one to face any consequences.
Yet the more I think about it, the more I worry about the lack of a body. Clearly, Greg got rid of it—of Alycia, I mean—but, surely, all the evidence, coupled with me telling Chief Walker what I saw, will be enough to make him at least talk to Greg.
But what if Greg stands tough? Greg Matthes is Milton High’s golden boy. The pictures and text messages might tarnish his reputation, but for a lot of people, nothing short of a picture or video showing him clubbing his victim to death will be enough to make them believe he could do such a thing. Like Charlie pointed out when we thought it was Amy: Can I say without hesitation that I saw Greg kill her? Maybe a good lawyer could turn the evidence around to make it look like an accident.
She came after him, tripped, hurt herself, got her blood on the backpack, Greg tried to help her. But she ran off. She’s missing only because she decided to run away after Greg broke it off with her. Wherever she is, Greg didn’t kill her. When he last saw her, Alycia Beaumont was alive.
Oh, and by the way, about this witness, didn’t he first claim it was Amy Sloan he saw killed?
Another horrible image comes to me. The same lawyer talking to the police chief.
How can we trust this Alden Ross when my investigators have turned up evidence showing that this same “witness” is the boy who made two false calls to the police saying he had seen someone hiding a gun, one a father just trying to buy a gift for his child, the other a good student in the middle of school? Clearly, Alden Ross either has a perverse sense of humor or serious mental issues.
That last image makes me shudder, and for a moment, I consider giving up the whole thing. Just getting rid of the evidence and forgetting all about it.
A good investigator never gives up.
How do I make it so the evidence is airtight? What else do I need?
I’ve made good time. Just a few more blocks to go and school doesn’t start for fifteen minutes. As I turn the corner, the Milton High building comes into view, but I also notice a couple walking hand in hand a block in front of me. The girl’s long red hair blows in the breeze, and I realize it’s Amy and Greg. My first inclination is to find someplace to hide. But I’m not following them this time. I just happened upon them. No need to keep my presence secret. Still, I slow down, giving them a little more distance.
Today, Amy’s dressed in a flowery white dress. The color of the flowers matches her hair. She really makes a perfect picture. I can tell she and Greg are talking to each other as they walk, though I can’t make out what they’re saying. Maybe I’ll just cross the street and walk on the other side. I step into the street and start crossing when I notice someone coming out of a side street on the other side a little further up. It’s Charlie. Did she see me? She seems to hesitate before turning toward the school. If she did see me, she’s ignoring me.
I stop in the middle of the street, not sure which way to go. The beep of a car makes me jump back to the curb. The car drives past me, the driver glaring and calling me a name I can’t make out. It’s Tommy Zimmerman, the same kid I saw get pulled over by a cop in front of the Matthes house while I was waiting for Charlie to find the backpack.
If I want to be inconspicuous, I’m doing a lousy job of it. I step back onto the curb. Other kids are appearing now, heading toward school. None of them are looking at me. They’re each caught up in their own conversations, or are looking at their phones, or moving with dogged determination to get to school.
I take a deep breath, then resume my own walk to the building.
Amy and Greg have stopped and are facing each other. They’re not just talking now. What they’re doing sure looks like a fight to me.
Instinctively, I jump into a nearby drugstore and grab a couple of things off a shelf, then plant myself at the store window, trying to look like I can’t decide which one of these cold medicines I should buy while keeping an eye on the couple.
Most of the other kids slow down to see what’s happening. An out-and-out public fight between Milton’s royal couple is a big deal.
A sense of déjà vu sweeps through me. I’ve seen this before. Well, technically, it wasn’t Amy Greg was arguing with; it was Alycia. Except I didn’t know it was Alycia at the time; I thought it was Amy.
By now, the argument has escalated—on Greg’s end at least. He’s really going at it, spit flying out of his mouth while he points a finger again and again toward Amy’s face. Amy is cowering, saying nothing and looking scared. This is getting serious. Should I do something? I glance at the backpack he’s wearing, which he’s been using since he bloodied his favorite one. I can’t tell how full of books it might be.
All at once, the argument ends, Greg getting in the last word with “I’m sorry about your stupid necklace! Okay? Just…stay away from me! I don’t want to see you.” And with that, he stalks away from her toward school.
God, did Greg just break up with Amy? The kids who’d slowed their walk to watch now pick up their pace, ready to get the rumor mill going. I notice Charlie walking away, too. Had she stopped to watch the fight?
Amy is all alone. She’s just standing there, looking lost, not sure what to do. She might be crying.
Even in sadness, and with the stitches from her forehead cut peeking out from under her hair, Amy is beautiful. Greg may not have killed her, but I know he is capable of killing. All those smiles and pats on the back he gives people, the acts of good sportsmanship he displays on the baseball field; everybody just seems to love him, yet nobody knows the dark side of Mr. Perfect… Except me. I’ve seen it. And it’s bad. If he got mad enough, would he kill Amy, too?
That prospect sends a shudder through me. In a sense, she’s also a victim. Or in danger of becoming one. Do I dare tell her just how dangerous he really is? If I could convince Amy her boyfriend’s a murderer, I could certainly convince Chief Walker as well.
Amy sits down on a nearby bench, her head down. Turning away from the window, I notice the pharmacist staring at me from the far end of the cold medicine aisle. How long has he been watching me, wondering what I’m doing? Quickly, I put the medicines back on their shelves. After giving a meek wave, I leave.
Amy is still sitting on the bench, her head down. I think she’s crying, very softly. Part of me wants to put my arms around her and just hold her. At Miller’s Park, Charlie asked me if I had a crush on
Amy. Well, maybe. A little. How could anyone not feel sorry for her? How could Greg treat her like this? I stare at her, feeling like a bird is fluttering inside my chest. Taking in a deep breath, I approach her slowly, cautiously. She doesn’t seem to notice me.
When I’m only a step or two from her, I ask, “Is there…” My voice sounds like someone rubbed it with sandpaper, and I falter. Amy doesn’t lift her head. I clear my throat and try again. “Is there…something wrong, Amy?”
She snaps up. The tears in her eyes make them glisten.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You looked… I just wondered if I could help…” God, it’s like I’ve never used words before.
She looks at me, saying nothing.
“I’m Alden. Alden Ross.”
“I know who you are,” Amy says. “Did you want something?”
“N…no,” I stutter. “You just looked like… I just wanted to know if I could…help…”
This is not going well. If the earth suddenly opened up beneath me, I’d gladly let it take me.
“I’m sorry,” Amy says, wiping her eyes. “I’m being rude. Thank you for your concern.” She stands up. “But I’m fine. I guess I should get going to school. I’m going to be late.” She loops her purse over her shoulder. She doesn’t have any books or a backpack. But instead of starting to walk, she just stands there, as if she’s not sure which direction to go.
Suddenly, in a small voice, she says, “I guess you saw us…fighting. Greg and me.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I flounder. “I didn’t mean—”
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