Blind Spot

by Laura Ellen

  I flew out the door when class ended to avoid a confrontation with Dellian. Greg found me at my locker, books clutched to his chest. “That was awesome, what you did, telling my mom.”

  Dryer sheets. Watermelon. My smile slipped away. It hurt too much to stand there and pretend we were friends. “I gotta go,” I said, and walked away.

  Day 172

  Heather was waiting at my locker the next morning. I could tell by her bright spring colors that life was good. “Let me guess,” I said as I pulled my locker open. “Fritz asked you out?”

  “You knew?” She slapped my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It took a while to convince him you’d say yes. I thought he might chicken out.”

  We headed toward our classes. “He told me what you did in History yesterday; pretty gutsy. Are you worried about class this morning?”

  “Am I! I’m about to puke, but what can Dellian do? Mrs. Martin knows the whole story.” I sighed. “Still, Dellian’s sneaky. I know this isn’t over.”

  “Oh, my God!” Heather stopped so abruptly, I ran into her.

  “What?” I stepped around her to look. My heart leaped into my throat. My lungs failed.

  Greg was at his locker, his arms around Missy.

  No, that’s not Greg, I thought. My eyes are mistaken. But I knew this time they weren’t. Heather had seen it too. I slunk closer to the couple in question. Closer to that outline I’d grown so good at identifying. Closer to the carefully ironed khakis. The curly mess of hair.

  Too close.

  The nastiest odor I’d ever smelled—lavender and vanilla mixed with watermelon bubblegum and dryer sheets—hit me with an acrid slap. Greg wasn’t just hugging Missy. He was comforting her, holding her, while she cried on his shoulder.

  I ran. Through people. Down hallways. Into the handicapped bathroom. I wanted to scream, cry, tear the walls down around me. But the hurt was too intense. I could only rock back and forth like Bart, hugging myself.

  “Roz? You okay?” Heather tapped on the stall door. I unlatched it. “I didn’t realize you liked him that much,” she said, coming inside.

  “Me neither,” I managed to whisper before a lump squeezed my throat shut.

  “Maybe it’s not what it looked like.” Heather pulled a bag of M&M’s from her pocket and poured me some. “Jonathan’s been hooking up with Jenny Rinker behind Missy’s back.” She poured the rest of the bag into her palm. “I bet she just found out.”

  “And ran to Greg for comfort?” I said. “Great.”

  Heather stared at the candy in her palm. “Roz, I’m sorry I was such a bitch about you two.” She flicked a green M&M with her fingernail. It skipped across the tile and disappeared under the stall. “I thought it was, you know . . . payback for me and Jonathan.”

  I wasn’t following. “What do you mean?”

  “At Ethan’s?” Heather shoved the rest of the candy into her mouth. “The night Dellian and Copacabana found me?”

  “Wait, what?” It took a second. “You and Jonathan? While we were dating?”

  “I thought you knew,” Heather said. “Greg didn’t tell you?”

  “You . . . and Greg knew?” I felt as if I’d been stabbed in the back, and then in the gut, and then in the back again. So much betrayal. I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Heather slumped back against the wall. “You and Jonathan were in that fight and I was really drunk . . . things just happened, okay?”

  “Things just happened?” I said. “You guilt-tripped me over and over about Greg, and you’d screwed Jonathan behind my back?” I clawed at the door latch.

  “I didn’t screw him!” Heather said. “Where are you going?”

  I was through trusting people. I hated everyone. I flung the stall door open and let it smash against Heather.

  “You’re not going to do anything with Fritz, right?” Heather cried after me. “To get back at me? We’re even, okay?”

  Even.

  I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t about to cry. That’s all we were.

  Not friends. Just even.

  I didn’t bother going back to my locker. I ran past Principal Ratner and a hall monitor, out the front doors, past the city bus stop, and the next bus stop, and the next. I didn’t stop running until I’d run the three miles home.

  I sequestered myself in my room, under my UFO sky, turned on AM 760 so I wouldn’t hear any songs that reminded me of all the backstabbers in my life, and willed the world away.

  But I couldn’t will the world away.

  The broadcast played less than seventy-two hours later.

  The body of seventeen-year-old Tricia Farni was pulled from the Birch River Friday night...

  Three things cannot be long hidden:

  The sun, the moon, and the truth.

  —Buddha

  Discovery

  One day after

  Dead.

  Tricia was dead. Not shacking up with some drug dealer or hooking her way across Alaska—but dead. How could that be?

  She’d said to give her until homecoming to end whatever sick thing was going on between her and Dellian, and yeah, it ended all right. But who ended it? Dellian had seen her that night, talked to her. He had said so himself when he came looking for her—what if that had been a ruse? A ploy to make it look as if she’d run off? To keep everyone from learning the truth about what had happened to Tricia that night?

  My heart ached to think about Tricia, frozen in that river all winter, alone and voiceless, while I was oblivious, barely giving her a thought, hating her all the while. Why hadn’t I asked questions? Why hadn’t I looked for her?

  Because I was a bitch. I didn’t care. But not anymore. I was going to find out what had happened. I was going to give Tricia a voice.

  But how? God, if only I could remember that night! All the time I spent trying to forget what I did remember—Jonathan and Tricia in the loft—and as sick as that was, I had an even sicker feeling now about the things I couldn’t remember.

  I had to find out what happened that night, to fill in the gaps I was missing, and there was only one person I knew for sure who could do that for me: Jonathan. As much as I hated him for hurting me, I hated Dellian more for hurting Tricia. Whether her death was suicide, accident, or murder, I believed Dellian was involved. I believed it like I believed in extraterrestrial life—a gut feeling with no proof. To get proof, I had to start filling in the blanks, and like it or not, that meant talking to Jonathan.

  Early Easter Monday, I pulled on my jacket and walked to Jonathan’s house. As I walked up his driveway, he stepped out of his car. My heart started to pound. Although I’d seen him plenty of times around school, we hadn’t spoken since that day outside the counseling office. The day the detective came asking about Tricia. I feel nothing, I reminded myself. He’s just a guy I need information from.

  “Hey, Beautiful! Can you believe this shit?” he said. “Tricia’s dead!”

  “No, I can’t believe it.” I kicked at a small mound of snow underneath his mailbox. “Jonathan, what happened with Tricia that night?”

  “You know. She just attacked—”

  I winced. “Not that. After. What happened after?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  My head swung up and my mouth dropped. “You don’t remember either?”

  “Of course I—” He frowned. “What do you mean? What don’t you remember?”

  A gust of wind blew through the trees. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. “That night. I remember the loft, obviously.” I tried to sound nonchalant as I looked back down and kicked at the snow some more. “And I remember walking through the party with you to leave. The rest is a blur of random things.” I paused. “Was Dellian there? I remember him, but . . . he was sick, right? Tricia took him home from the dance.”

  He stared at me. “You seriously don’t remember?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “No.”

  “Ooh.” Or was that “Ugh
”? A cross between a sigh and a groan—either way, it didn’t sound good. “I get it now.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “Shit.”

  My stomach twisted. “Get what? What aren’t you telling me?” I said, training my dots on his ear, desperate to see his facial expression now.

  “When you said to tell the cop we’d argued and I took you home, I thought you were, you know, keeping our stories straight. I didn’t know—” He cursed again and looked down the street. “We shouldn’t talk out here.” He nodded at his car. “Come on.”

  I obeyed, too afraid now to breathe.

  “Look.” He rubbed his forehead before continuing. “I’ll tell you about that night, but if that cop comes nosing around again, stick to what we said before, okay? She’ll think we’re frickin’ guilty if you change your story.”

  “Change my story? Jonathan,” I said, panic rising, “what happened?”

  “You were wasted. I was letting you chill in my car until you felt better, in case you puked, you know? Then Tricia comes screaming all sorts of crazy shit. She dragged you out of the Vette.”

  My mouth fell open. “Oh, my God! I fought—I fought with her? Is that how she—”

  It was too horrific for words.

  “Died? No. No way. I got you away from her before any damage could be done. That’s when Dellian showed.”

  “So he was there!” It was slightly comforting knowing my memory wasn’t a total bust.

  “Yeah, she called him when we left the loft.”

  It was starting to make sense now. All the hands I remembered, Dellian’s face. “What happened after that?”

  “Like I said, I got you away and back in the Vette. But then she jumps me and is totally wailing on me when Dellian shows. Then he starts wailing on me! As if he could take me.” He slammed the steering wheel with his fists. “I should’ve pummeled his ass!”

  “Jonathan!” I said. “What happened then? What about Tricia?”

  “She took off, still screaming crap, totally messed up.”

  “But was she okay? Was she bleeding or anything?” A physical fight with her. Now I understood why he thought I wanted him to lie. We totally looked guilty.

  “I don’t know. It was dark and I was still dealing with that dickhead—”

  “But did I fight with her again?”

  He shrugged. “Not that I saw.”

  Somehow that didn’t feel reassuring. “Why can’t I remember? I only had a sip of beer. How could I have been wasted?”

  “Maybe someone slipped you something. It happens.”

  I stared out at the gray day, gloomy and cold like I felt. I had answers now, but they raised only more questions. Could Tricia have hit her head during that fight? A concussion that made her fall in the water? Or did something happen after Jonathan and I left? Maybe between her and Dellian?

  “When Detective King talked to you after Tricia went missing, did you get the feeling that she knew Dellian was there that night?” I asked.

  “Nope. And I was pretty damn relieved because when you asked me to lie—”

  “I didn’t ask you to lie,” I corrected. “I thought it was the truth.”

  “Whatever. I’m just saying that I was pretty freaked, and when the cop didn’t mention D., I was glad.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “It kind of makes you wonder, huh? Now that we know Tricia’s dead.”

  I nodded. “You know, they were living together. Tricia and Dellian.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No, my friend Heather—” I stopped. My friend, please; apparently Jonathan knew her better than I did. “Plus I found a pretty telling photo in Dellian’s desk. I think it was taken the same night.” He didn’t say “Whoa!” or “No way!” or anything—just nodded. “You knew?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Pretty frickin’ obvious.”

  My fists balled up in anger. “Why didn’t you tell Detective King?”

  “Why didn’t you?” he snapped back.

  He was right. I’d failed Tricia as much as he had. “So, what do we do now? Tell Detective King what really happened?”

  “No!” Jonathan said. “We stick to our story. She can’t think we’re lying.”

  “But what if Dellian killed Tricia? If we don’t say he was there, he gets away with it. I’m sick of him getting away with everything.”

  “He’s not getting away with anything.” He cocked his head and gave me the sweetest, most sincere smile. I almost forgot he’d ever betrayed me. Almost. “I got your back, okay? We stick together, we’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “That’s just it, Jonathan. I don’t trust you. I didn’t lie on purpose. If I tell the police now, tell them I was mistaken, it should be okay. But if I lie again—”

  “Look, you’ve got every reason not to trust me, but, Beautiful, who else can you trust? We’re both in the same boat here because you told me to lie! If you talk, and it turns out Tricia was killed, you think they’ll look at Dellian? No, they’ll look at us, to the kids who fought with her that night and lied about it.”

  I hated to admit it, but he was right. I’d set the lie up—and whether I meant to or not, I’d gotten him to lie too. I couldn’t tell the truth now and get us both in trouble, not while we still didn’t know what had happened to her that night. “Okay,” I said as I got out of the car. “I won’t say anything. I have your back. You have mine, right?”

  I was so caught up in my thoughts as I walked home that I didn’t hear the police cruiser until it was beside me. “Roswell?” Detective King said from the window. “Can I give you a lift?”

  Great. What was she doing here? “I’m only a block from home.”

  “I know. I was coming to see you. We can talk as I drive.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Sorry, you’ll have to climb in the back. We can’t have civilians up front.”

  I looked at the cage separating the front seat from the back. Already I felt guilty, and I hadn’t been asked any questions yet. At least sitting behind steel bars meant I didn’t have to make eye contact.

  “I’m sure you heard Tricia Farni’s body was found?” She turned her head sideways, talking over her shoulder to me.

  “Was it suicide?” Tricia had said that once—that she’d kill herself before she went back to rehab. Maybe Dellian had threatened to send her there after he found out about her and Jon- athan?

  “We don’t know yet. But the medical examiner thinks she drowned, and a preliminary tox screen found alcohol, crack, and GHB in her system. We usually don’t even screen for GHB, but we’ve had reports recently.”

  “GHB?” I couldn’t help feeling relieved. She had drowned high and drunk, not because of an injury from a fight.

  “It’s a recreational drug that’s sometimes used in date rape.”

  “Date rape? Was she—” My throat went dry.

  “We don’t think so,” Detective King said. “But that doesn’t mean the intent wasn’t there. She could’ve been incapacitated when she hit the water, so how she got in the water doesn’t matter as much as how she came by those drugs.” Detective King turned and looked at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Roswell?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “You’re saying Tricia might have been murdered.”

  Everything was much more official this time around. Once inside my house, Detective King pulled out a tape recorder instead of a pocket notebook, and then asked if I wanted to have my mom present for our interview.

  I didn’t “want.” But getting Mom out of bed and cleaned up after her evening of partying would take a little time. Time that I needed. I was torn between telling Detective King everything, telling her nothing, and telling her a hybrid of truth and half-truths. I desperately wanted to call Jonathan. That would send alarm bells off in Detective King’s head, though. I couldn’t risk it.

  I woke Mom, and then hurried into the kitchen to make coffee while I waited for her. Anything to look busy.

  Mom stumbled out fifteen minutes later, wearing the Johnny Cash “Ring
of Fire” T-shirt she’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend. Her too-blond hair was tangled in a hair-spray nest, and her mascara was smeared under her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she said, sinking into the recliner. “I had a rough night. Tony and I broke up.” She looked at Detective King then—really looked at her—and sat straight up in the chair. “What’ve you done, Rozzy?”

  “She’s done nothing, Mrs. Hart. We’re here about her friend Tricia.”

  “Priscilla,” Mom said, “and it’s Braylor. I haven’t been Mrs. Hart in years.” She looked at me. “Who’s Tricia?”

  “A classmate, Mom. She’s dead, Mom.”

  “Oh, dear Lord! What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Ready, Roz?” Detective King pushed “record” and set the recorder in front of me. “Earlier, you said you had an argument with Tricia the night of October sixth at a party out at Birch Hill. What was the fight about?”

  My pulse began to race. “I walked in on her and my date, Jonathan Webb.”

  “Walked in on? Can you be more specific?”

  I stared at a stain on the carpet. “She was kneeling, her head in his lap, and—”

  “And?” Detective King repeated after a few seconds.

  “Come on,” Mom said. “I think you can fill in the blank.”

  “Was it an oral act?” Detective King asked.

  “Yes.”

  Detective King continued. “Did it look consensual?”

  “Yeah, one hundred percent consensual.”

  “How did Tricia seem to you?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Guilty?”

  “Okay, what was her demeanor, though? Think, Roz. It’s important. Did she appear drunk? High? Was she slurring her words? Stumbling?”

  “We’d been talking on the stairs before that,” I said. “She looked tired and pale, but our conversation was surprisingly sane, considering—” The second I said it, I regretted it.