Following

by Jeffry W. Johnston

  “What’s this other icon? It needs a password.”

  “It’s nothing. There’s nothing there.”

  She looks up and frowns at me. “Why are you acting funny?”

  “I’m not,” I say with a shaky laugh, which only makes things worse.

  She stares at me. Her sudden look of determination reminds me of Charlie. “What’s the password, Alden?” she asks.

  “Amy,” I plead, “you don’t want to—”

  “What’s the password?” she snaps.

  I hesitate, then before she snaps at me again, “G and A.”

  “For Greg and Alycia,” she mutters under her breath.

  “The ampersand for ‘and.’ No spaces,” I add feebly as she punches in the correct letters.

  A sudden gasp tells me she has accessed the hidden pictures. I wait as she swipes her thumb across the phone. The look of horror on her face grows as the photos make it very clear that Greg’s relationship with Alycia went far beyond kissing. Once she has seen them all, she closes her eyes for a moment, then extends her hand with the phone and says, “Take this. Please take this.”

  Like it’s hot to the touch, I take it, shut it off, and toss it into the backpack. Just as quickly, I put all the evidence back into the bag while Amy sits very still. Then I return to the bed and sit down. And wait.

  Her look of horror has changed to sadness. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement when she says, “You’re taking that to the police.”

  I answer anyway. “Yes. I think it would mean more if you came with me.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Maybe right now.”

  “We should find Greg. Show him what we have. Confront him.”

  “What? No!” I say. “He killed Alycia! And he threatened me.”

  She looks at me, eyes widening. “He threatened you?”

  “In so many words. He knows I have the backpack and the phone.”

  “How did he find out?” Before I can answer, she waves her hand. “Never mind.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing.

  “Don’t be,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”

  Her emotions have veered all over the place. Now she’s back to angry.

  “If you don’t want to go with me—” I start.

  “I’ll go,” she says suddenly.

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “Like you said, it’ll mean more if I’m with you.”

  She surprises me again by sitting next to me on the bed. Her sudden closeness makes me nervous, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Look, I want to help,” she says in a quieter voice. I’m suddenly warm all over. Our legs brush, sending a shudder through me. “You’ve done so much work. I want to show you how grateful I am.”

  She can’t possibly mean what I think she means. This is Amy Sloan, for God’s sake. Sweet, innocent, cross-wearing Amy Sloan. To confirm it, she adds, “So I’ll go with you,” and I exhale a little shakily. “We’ll show the evidence to the police chief together tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” My throat is rough and dry and my voice raspy.

  “If we go now, I don’t know if I can… I’m still having trouble believing that Greg…” She takes a deep breath to settle herself. “As horrible as it sounds, what you’ve told me helps explain why he’s been so different lately. I need time to process this. There’s no school tomorrow because of the teachers’ workshop. Let’s take it to the police first thing in the morning. And I’ll back up everything you say. Here, I’ll give you my phone number, just in case. You want to give me yours?”

  Everything seems to be happening so fast all of a sudden, and somehow too slow at the same time. But, of course, she’s right. One more night’s not going to make a difference. The important thing for now is she knows the truth about Greg, and she’ll stay away from him. “Sure,” I say.

  We exchange numbers. “I’ll meet you at the police station at 9:00 a.m.” She gives me a soft, uncertain smile.

  “Okay.”

  “Is that bag going to be okay here?”

  “I’ve had it all this time,” I say. “It’s safe here. It’s just my uncle and me, and he’s hardly ever in my room.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I have a younger sister and brother. They’re always snooping. If I hid it at my house, they’d find it.”

  I nod. “Tomorrow then.”

  “9:00 a.m.,” she repeats, then points at me. “Don’t forget.”

  Like I could. “I won’t.”

  We stare at each other. I guess it’s time to say goodbye. “Let me put this away,” I say, indicating the bag. When I come back out of the closet, there’s Amy. “Thank you, Alden,” she says. “You might have saved my life.” With that, she hugs me.

  It catches me by surprise, and I’m clumsy and awkward as I hug her back, but we remain this way for a second or two. When she pulls away, I notice again how perfectly her bright red hair frames her face, making her blue eyes sparkle.

  The distinct sound of someone clearing his throat jolts us apart. Uncle Bill stands in the doorway. “Um, I just wanted to tell you I’m home.” He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel. “I can just—”

  “I need to go home anyway,” Amy says.

  My uncle is giving me a look, and I find my voice. “Amy, this is my uncle Bill. Bill Ross.”

  “Very nice to meet you, sir,” Amy says in a sweet voice, any sign of how our previous conversation affected her gone from her face. “Your nephew was helping me with some of my homework.”

  “You don’t have to go on my account,” Uncle Bill says.

  “My mom’ll be expecting me.” She looks at me and smiles. “Bye, Alden.”

  “Bye,” I say back.

  Uncle Bill moves aside to let her pass. She steps into the hall, and as soon as my uncle turns his head away from her, she mouths to me, “See you tomorrow.”

  I give her a barely perceptible nod, and she walks away, down the hall.

  As soon as we hear the front door close, Uncle Bill, seemingly flustered, says, “I’m sorry if I interrupted something. I didn’t mean for her to leave.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “She really did have to go.”

  “Is she someone, you know, special? A girlfriend?”

  “No,” I tell him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “’Cause, if you ever need to talk about stuff like that, you know…”

  “She’s just a friend,” I tell him, wishing he’d get off the subject. “I was helping her with math.”

  “Uh-huh.” He doesn’t seem to believe me. “Anyway, I got off early again today. I’m off tomorrow and you don’t have school, so I thought we could do something.”

  “You mean tomorrow?”

  “Well, I was thinking tonight. See a movie. Maybe even two. Unless you have other plans?” He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head in the direction of the front door.

  “No, I don’t have any plans,” I say quickly.

  “Movie it is then,” he says, his face beaming. “We’ll see one, then we’ll decide what to do. If we want to do another, we’ll just have candy and popcorn for dinner.”

  He looks so happy I don’t have the heart to say no. “Sure,” I say.

  He slaps me on the back and, with my insides still churning from my conversation with Amy, I get my phone to check movie times.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I thought seeing a movie with Uncle Bill would allow myself to concentrate on something, but it doesn’t. My head is filled with scenarios of how tomorrow’s meeting with Chief Walker might play out, the best one ending with Chief Walker praising me for a job well done, and even suggesting I might make a good police investigator someday. The not-too-bad one has him yelling at me for taking the law int
o my own hands instead of coming to him sooner. The worst scenario ends with Chief Walker telling me, “Sorry, son, you broke too many laws getting this evidence, we can’t use it. I’m afraid I have to put you in jail.”

  After the first movie is over, about which I remember virtually nothing, it’s clear Uncle Bill is having a great time and wants to grab candy and popcorn and stay for another movie. I give in and say yes, even though I feel dead on my feet. Even if we did go home though, I doubt I could sleep.

  We’re about halfway through the second movie when a new, horrible thought strikes me. What if Greg is trying to break into our house while we’re here? After all, he thinks I broke into his, even if it was really Charlie. Maybe he’d try the same thing to get his stuff back. He might have been watching my house, just like I watched his, and saw Uncle Bill and I leave.

  Oh God. I have to get out of here. I glance at my uncle; he’s not going to want to leave unless he’s given a damn good reason.

  A good investigator knows when to improvise.

  “Uncle Bill,” I say in as weak a voice as possible, “I don’t feel good.”

  My uncle half turns to me, trying to keep his eyes on the screen at the same time. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t feel good,” I say again, as if I’m on death’s door. “I think I might be sick.” The gagging noise I make sounds almost real.

  Quickly, he straightens up, looks around on the floor, and comes up with one of our empty popcorn containers. “Here, do you need…”

  “No, I don’t think… I just feel sick all of a sudden. Can we go home?”

  “Sure, sure,” Uncle Bill says, glancing at the screen once more, but then helping me to stand.

  We make our way out of the theater, a few people glaring at us as we pass them. Once we’re in the lobby, Uncle Bill fusses over me. “Are you sure you can wait till we get home? You could…” He points toward the men’s room.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Maybe I should take you to the emergency room—”

  “No!” My voice is too loud, too strong. I return to being weak and sickly. “It’s probably because of all the popcorn and candy I ate,” I say, even though I didn’t really eat that much. “I just want to go home and rest.”

  “Sure, sure. Let’s go.”

  Uncle Bill ushers me quickly out of the lobby and into his truck. He breaks a few speeding laws to get me home. Once there, I worry that Greg is in the house, that we’re about to catch him in the act. But he’s not. Uncle Bill finds a half-filled bottle of Pepto-Bismol bought by my parents a good year before they died. It’s well past its expiration date, but he makes me take some anyway. I climb into bed while my uncle gets me a ginger ale, and then he leaves so I can fall asleep. As soon as he’s gone downstairs, I jump out of bed and check the closet. The bag is still there, the evidence still inside. Relieved, I fall back into bed, suddenly tired. Massively tired.

  But of course I don’t fall asleep. My mind is racing. I try closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. It doesn’t work. I finally give up trying and prepare for a long night. The book I’ve been reading but haven’t touched in over a week seems like a good distraction. Settling into the bed again, I find where I left off.

  And that’s when my eyes grow heavy, and I finally fall into a much-needed, if fitful, sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I’m dreaming. In it, I’m fighting Alan Harder for control of the gun. If I can just get it from him, my parents will be saved. We go back and forth. It’s getting fierce. And then, suddenly, there’s Charlie standing behind him, eating soft serve from a cone. “Help me!” I yell at her, but instead, she just stands there, telling me, “Let’s go do the zip line.” I’m about to plead for her help again when I feel the gun yanked out of my hand. I look down, and now I’m holding a dripping snow cone, the sticky liquid trickling out and onto my hands. I hear Charlie say, “Come on, Alden, you know soft serve tastes better than a snow cone.” Harder has the gun now and is about to kill my mom and dad. I throw down the snow cone, ready to jump between them and Harder, ready to take the bullets meant for my parents. But Harder is no longer there; Greg Matthes has the gun, and he’s pointing it at me, and as everything slows down—Greg pulling the trigger, the gun firing, the bullet coming toward me—I hear myself shouting to Charlie, like the hero in an overly melodramatic movie thriller, “If I couldn’t save my parents, at least I can save Amy…”

  I wake up to my cell phone ringing. The clock next to my bed says it’s a quarter after seven. Who’s calling me so early in the morning when there’s no school? The name of the caller reads Amy Sloan. I grab it.

  “Amy? What is it?”

  “Nope, not Amy. Try again.”

  I’ve never heard his voice on my phone, but it’s not hard to figure out who it is. “Greg? What do you want?”

  “I’ve already told you what I want, Alden. I want you to return what’s mine.”

  I try bluffing. “It’s too late. I’ve already given all of it to the police chief.”

  “Oh, I hope that’s not true. For her sake.”

  Her sake? “Where’s Amy?”

  “Funny you should ask.” I hear a rustling on the other end of the phone. Then another voice. “I’m so sorry, Alden.”

  Amy.

  “I was so angry, I had to confront him. Make him tell me what he did. Why he did it.” She’s babbling. “I should never have gone to him.” Scared. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry—”

  More rustling cuts her off. Then Greg is back. “I’m so sorry, Alden,” Greg mimics in a high-pitched voice.

  “What do you want?” I say in a trembling voice.

  “Haven’t you been listening?” Greg taunts. “I want my stuff back.”

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Well, you have a say in that. Bring me my stuff and I won’t. Don’t, and I will. I’m pretty sure you know how bad.”

  “I’ll bring it. Where do we meet?”

  “Miller’s Park. How’s that for irony? Oh, and Alden, bring all of it. Amy told me about the clothes. And the phone. Bring that, too.”

  “Okay. Just don’t hurt her.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” he mimics me now. “Oh, and one more thing. Your notebook. I’m gonna need that, too.”

  I hear Amy’s voice in the background. “I told him everything, Alden. I’m sorry. He made me—” A sudden slap cuts her off.

  “I said don’t hurt her!”

  “That? That was nothing,” Greg snarls. “It’ll be much worse if you don’t get here in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll need more time than that.” With Uncle Bill just down the hall, I lower my voice.

  “Sorry. That’s all you get. You better hurry.”

  “I’m coming. I’ll bring it right now.”

  “Good to hear. Oh, and just in case you’re planning to call the police or bring your friend…”

  All at once, I hear Amy say, “Greg. Please, don’t—” She screams.

  “Stop it!” I whisper-shout into the phone. “I’ll be there! I’m leaving now!” But the line’s already dead.

  Moving as fast as I ever have in my life, I rush around my room, throwing on the same clothes I wore last night, putting on the same shoes, and getting the bag of evidence. I double-check to make sure everything is inside and hold the phone with the incriminating pictures on it in my hand, considering leaving it here. No, he’s sure to check everything in the bag. What if I sent the texts and pictures to my cell phone as a way to hold on to them? But that might take too long. And I have to hurry. He might kill her!

  I put the phone down on my desk, then pull my notebook out of my desk drawer. I could copy my notes using my printer. Again, too long. I’ve now got less than twenty minutes. Still, I open my desk drawer and frantically dig around until I find what I’m looking for.

>   Finally, with phone and notebook in the bag, I creep into the hall, listening for Uncle Bill moving around in his bedroom. I creep down the stairs. There’s no sign of him in the living room, kitchen, or back hall. Maybe I’ve lucked out, and he’s gone out for a few minutes. The television is on, showing the morning news, and I stop when I see Alycia Beaumont’s face on the screen. A newscaster says, “It has been verified that the body found last night in Powell Lake was that of Alycia Beaumont, who has been missing since last Thursday.”

  Powell Lake? That’s a couple miles from Miller’s Park.

  “The body had been weighted down,” the newscaster continues. “But it was seen by a passerby. Early indications are that, though there was evidence of a head wound, the sixteen-year-old girl may have died of strangulation…”

  I want to listen to more, but I’ve got to go. Just as I reach the door and grab the doorknob, I hear, “Where are you going?”

  My uncle stands in the hallway. He’s drying his hands with a towel; he must have been in the downstairs bathroom.

  My hands are shaking. “I’ve…g…got to go somewhere,” I stutter.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asks. “What’s in the bag?”

  Before I can come up with a response, he notices the expression on my face. “Alden, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  He steps forward, dropping the towel. “Alden, if something’s wrong, you can talk to me about it.”

  “No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Come on, I can tell something’s wrong. Tell me what it is. Let’s talk—”

  “Why?” I snap at him without thinking. “You only want to talk to me about my father!”

  His eyes widen in shock. “What—”

  “You say you want to talk about how I’m doing, but all you really want to do is talk about him. But I can’t! I can’t! It’s too hard!”

  The look on his face makes me wish I could push a button and go back in time to redo these last couple of minutes. What is it about me and the awful things I say to people close to me?

  At first, it looks like my uncle doesn’t know what to say. But then, in a cracked voice, he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way. But I am your official guardian. I’m responsible for you. So I think you need to tell me where you’re going.”