Blind Spot

by Laura Ellen

  Mom and Detective King looked at me. “Considering what?” the detective asked.

  “Tricia was sort of . . .” What? Psychotic? Schizophrenic? I realized I had no idea what she was. I just knew she belonged in Life Skills. She had said “severely emotionally disturbed” once; was that the label that had earned her admission? “Tricia was always out there, you know? Usually high on pot or crack.”

  Detective King sat forward. “So you’re saying that night she didn’t seem high?” I nodded. “Okay,” she continued. “After you walked in on them. You two fought?”

  “Yes, she grabbed me to stop me from leaving. I pulled away and left.” I felt sick to my stomach suddenly. If she asked about the fight outside, I wasn’t sure I could lie. And I’d forgotten to make eye contact with her. Crud.

  “And Jonathan? What did he do?”

  “He took me home.”

  “You let him take you home?” Mom said. “After what he’d done with that girl?”

  “Mom, stop! She’s asking the questions, not you.”

  But she’d piqued Detective King’s curiosity. “Why did you go with him?”

  “I wanted to go home.” I glared at the leather headrest behind Mom. “You didn’t answer your phone, my friends had left already, and cabs won’t come out that far.”

  “I understand Jonathan drove Tricia out there. How did she plan to get home?”

  I was covering my butt and Jonathan’s; I refused to cover Dellian’s. “She called Dellian as we were leaving.” So what if I hadn’t heard her call him? Jonathan had.

  The effect was instantaneous. “Rodney Dellian?” Detective King perked up. “You’re sure?”

  And then I knew how I could get her to investigate Dellian without my confessing to the fight. “Positive.” I nodded. “And when he came by here looking for her after she’d disappeared? He knew what had happened in the loft. How could he have known that unless he had talked to her?”

  “How indeed,” Detective King muttered. She flipped through her notebook, looking for something.

  “This is your teacher we’re talking about?” Mom said. “The one trying to have you suspended for skipping class? Why on earth would he be picking this girl up from parties?”

  “Because Tricia was living with him.” I looked at Detective King. “I wasn’t sure when I talked to you before, and I have no proof. Heather Torres lives in the same apartment building, though. She’s seen Tricia there a lot. With a baby. I found a photo when I was looking for something in Dellian’s desk once. Right after she disappeared. Tricia and Dellian were kissing. I’m positive it was taken that night. Tricia wore the same grass skirt and bikini top from the dance, and Dellian had the same blue floral-print shirt”—I paused, remembering Heather’s comment—“maybe it was palm trees. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s what he wore to the dance, though.”

  “You don’t sound sure, Rozzy. Flowers don’t look anything like palm trees—”

  “Mom!” I snapped. “I’m sure, okay?”

  “Well, all that can be verified with the photo.” Detective King was studying me hard. Eye contact was critical. “Where is this photo now?”

  I brought my eyes up to hers, letting my blind spot erase her face. “His desk? I left it there.” I couldn’t admit it wasn’t there without admitting I’d gone back to steal it. She was the cop, though. Let her find it.

  “I really wish you had contacted me with all of this earlier, but thank you for the information, Roswell.” She stood. “If you think of anything else or learn something new, please, don’t keep it to yourself, okay? Call me.” She handed me a business card. “Thank you, Priscilla.”

  “Thank you,” Mom said. “I’m calling the school and having that man fired! He’s done nothing but make my daughter’s life miserable all year long, and now he’s a pervert too.”

  “Ma’am, please don’t,” the detective interrupted. “We don’t know if any of this is true. If it is, though, we must tread carefully and make sure we have all our facts straight before doing anything. I promise I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Do,” Mom said. “I don’t want that pervert near Rozzy anymore.”

  I called Jonathan minutes later while Mom was in the shower. “Detective King just left. She said Tricia drowned because of drugs.”

  “She drowned because of drugs?” Jonathan repeated.

  “Too messed up to swim. She had a date-rape drug in her too. You said people sometimes slip stuff, that maybe that’s why I don’t remember—”

  “You didn’t tell the cop that, did you?”

  “No, I was afraid to say much of anything. But if GHB is what was wrong with me—if someone gave it to me and Tricia—shouldn’t we tell the police?”

  “Not unless you want to go to jail! If they know you can’t remember, our story gets shot to hell! We’ll look guilty. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not! But she didn’t die because I was fighting with her.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Beautiful. If they know you can’t remember, they will know we lied, and they won’t believe anything we say. What if they find out we bought her pot? They’ll spin it to make us look guilty.”

  The air went out of my lungs. He was right. The police were looking for whoever gave her drugs. It didn’t matter if it was pot we’d helped her buy. Drugs were drugs. “God, Jonathan, I’m scared.”

  “Me too, Beautiful.” There was a shuffling as he covered the phone. I heard him yell something to someone, and then he whispered, “Shit, the cop’s here.”

  “Wait! I told her Tricia was living with Dellian and she called him from the loft. About the photo too.” Dellian deserved to go down for this. We had to make sure the police arrested Dellian, not us. “Tell her anything you know about Dellian and Tricia, okay? They have to nail him for this.”

  Four days after

  The day before Tricia’s funeral, Fritz called. His friend had borrowed a van so that anyone from Life Skills who wanted to go could. Bart’s parents didn’t want him to go, but the rest of us did. Fritz hadn’t known Tricia. It was pretty cool that he’d go out of his way to arrange things, and that he had friends who’d borrowed a van for us.

  When I opened the door the next morning, I almost didn’t recognize Greg in his black suit and tie. “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking you up.”

  “You borrowed the van? Why? You didn’t even know Tricia.” I looked past him at the van. “Did you bring your girlfriend? This isn’t a party, you know. It’s a funeral for someone I cared about.”

  He kept his voice calm and even. “I know. That’s why I offered to drive. I’m not sure what you mean by my girlfriend, but no, I didn’t bring a date. It’s not a party, it’s a funeral.” He opened the passenger side door for me. “Hope you won’t mind sitting up front with me. The back’s kind of full.”

  I glanced back as I grabbed my seat belt. Heather was seated directly behind me. Seeing her made me even madder. Since none of us drove, I could understand Greg, but Heather? Please! She was just trying to score points with Fritz—or to make sure I didn’t score points with him. Making sure I didn’t get even.

  “Hi, Roz.” Ruth’s sad tone brought me back to earth.

  “Hi, Ruth,” I said. “Hey, Jeffrey, JJ . . . Fritz.” I turned back around without saying a word to Heather.

  There were more pews than people at the funeral, but we sat smooshed together on the shortened handicapped bench so that both wheelchairs could be accommodated. Dellian sat directly in front of us, where he comforted a blond woman, who turned out to be Tricia’s sister, Abbey. He had no handcuffs. No police escorts. Detective King was there, though, no doubt keeping an eye on him.

  Greg’s mom was the only other school personnel there. Ratner must’ve been too busy relaxing on his Easter break to make an appearance. Despite the hype the body had brought, only one photographer from the paper showed up. Jonathan didn’t come either. Pathetic. So few seemed to care.

 
I’d never seen a dead body before, and I was nervous about seeing Tricia’s. Somehow I thought seeing her body would give me answers. It wasn’t as if I thought she’d sit up and speak—not exactly. But I sort of thought there’d be some divine intervention, like God or the Virgin Mary or Tricia’s spirit giving me a sign, pointing something out—cuts, scratches, a knot on her forehead, the markings of a struggle—something that would illuminate the truth and tell me what had happened. I guess it was ridiculous and naive, but I honestly thought seeing her body would explain everything.

  When the time came, fear took over. My hands shook; my legs wobbled. Greg silently slipped his suit jacket around my shoulders. The body heat he’d left behind settled around me, comforting me, giving me back my strength. I clutched the edges of the jacket and made my way to the open casket.

  No bolt of lightning. No ghostly premonition. No haunting stare from Tricia’s dead eyes. No blood or bruises or track marks. Just a sleeping beauty.

  She looked nothing like Tricia. Navy blue dress with white piping on the collar. Blond hair combed smooth, cascading around her shoulders. Hint of pink on her lips. Beige eye shadow on her closed lids. She was beautiful. The perfect replica of a person at peace, with no trace of the hard-edged drug addict we’d all known.

  Her appearance left me unsettled. Something wasn’t right. As they carried her casket down the aisle, I realized what it was—not her perfect blue dress, her neatly combed hair, or even her tasteful makeup.

  It was her cloak. It wasn’t with her.

  I understood wanting Tricia to look presentable, soft, peaceful—but that cloak was Tricia. It was a part of her. Surely Abbey would want Tricia to be buried with the one thing that connected her sister and their mother?

  This nagged at me. Too much to let it go. After introducing myself to Abbey, I asked, “Why aren’t you burying her with her cloak?”

  “They never found it.” Abbey’s shoulders fell. “It makes me sick not to; she never went anywhere without it.”

  “Maybe they missed it along the bank somewhere?” I said. “We should look—”

  “I’ll drive you,” Greg interrupted. Before I could respond, he looked around. “Anyone else want to go?”

  Everyone did. Fritz wasn’t sure he and JJ would be much help. It was breakup season. All the snow and ice on the ground was melting fast. Between the streams of water and yards of mud, neither chair would get very far. But they wanted to come along anyway for moral support.

  We were loading JJ and his chair into the van when Jonathan’s red Corvette pulled up. “How was it?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Horrible. They never found Tricia’s cloak. We’re going to go look for it. Want to come?”

  Jonathan eyed Greg with a smirk. “Relax, Loser. I’m not going.” He looked back at me. “You know you won’t find it. It’s probably stashed at his place.”

  “At whose place?” Greg asked.

  I threw Jonathan a warning glance. “They pulled her from the river. That’s the best place to look.”

  Jonathan leaned in to me. “Call me when you don’t find it,” he whispered. “I have a better plan.”

  Greg drove to the muddied dirt road leading to the Birch River. Large sheets of broken ice floated by, now the only evidence of the ice bridge. Piles of melting snow flanked the riverbank, blackened by the exhaust of the rescue vehicles that had worked to retrieve first the semi and then Tricia’s body the week before.

  Heather stayed in the van with Fritz and JJ while the rest of us climbed out. Jeffrey and Greg began searching near the rescue site, working their way downriver. Ruth and I wobbled along in our heels in the opposite direction. I was grateful for Greg’s suit jacket, which I still wore. The spring air was numbing and cold.

  There were plenty of objects peeking out of puddles and snow piles. Discarded chip bags, soda cans, water bottles, candy wrappers—but no cloak, not even a shred of material that would indicate it had been there. Disappointed, I pulled a soda can from a crystallized grave. A candy wrapper. A plastic bag.

  Ruth began doing the same. Soon we were moving farther upriver, collecting trash in discarded grocery bags as we walked toward Birch Hill and the cabin where I’d last seen Tricia.

  “Think they’ll have a memorial at school?” I asked.

  Ruth shook her head. “They didn’t for Renny.”

  Renny. The boy whose suicide triggered the policy change that ruined my life this year. “What happened with Renny? Why’d he commit suicide?”

  “I don’t know. We were best friends. We did everything together. He never said he was sad.” Ruth stopped. “Do you think I’ll do that before graduation too?”

  I stared at her. “God, no! Ruth, why would you say that? Are you . . . do you think about killing yourself?”

  She shook her head. “But he had Down syndrome, like me.”

  “Ruth!” I put my arm around her shoulders and hugged her to me. “Down syndrome is just a stupid label, a category. It’s not you. You’re Ruth Paladeno, an awesome chef, a loyal friend, the girl with the kindest heart I know.”

  She hugged me back. “You too, Roz.”

  We looked out over the river, watching a chunk of ice slowly float by.

  “Renny liked plaid,” Ruth said, breaking the silence. “Tricia told us to wear plaid to graduation, for when they called his name, to remember him. They never did. You know what Tricia did? She spray-painted R-E-N-N-Y across the sidewalk in front of the school and on Ratner’s car.” Ruth smiled up at me. “That was really good.”

  I smiled too. That sounded like Tricia.

  “Do you think Tricia killed herself?” Ruth asked after we’d started walking again.

  Did I? I wasn’t sure what I thought; there were too many unanswered questions, too many possibilities—all of which I couldn’t bear to say out loud to Ruth. “I don’t know.”

  We’d hit a clearing of sorts. More like an abandoned road. The end of the line. Beyond was Birch Hill Recreational Park and the cabin, Tricia’s last known sighting. It was hidden somewhere in the thick snarled confines of the forest. We couldn’t reach it without leaving the path.

  I picked up a bunch of beer bottles. Too many. They wouldn’t fit in my bag. “Even if we have to spray-paint her name on the whole school . . .” I said as I searched the area for a trash can. I gave up and piled them on top of a broken picnic table. “We won’t let them forget Tricia the way they did Renny.”

  Three hours after we began the search, we headed home, cloakless and exhausted. Either the cloak was still in the water, tangled in sticks and weeds at the murky bottom, or it was someplace else entirely.

  Like Dellian’s apartment.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became.

  “No cloak, huh?” Jonathan said when I called him after Greg dropped me off.

  “You really think Dellian has it?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” He paused. “We shouldn’t talk on here, you know what I mean? I’ll be there in five.”

  I stared at the phone. Seriously? Would the police really tap our phones? There was this Tom Cruise movie I saw once where a couple’s whole house had been bugged. They had to go outside to talk in private. I decided to do the same.

  “Plan’s simple,” Jonathan said as he plopped down on the swing next to me. I scooted away. “We go look.”

  I started laughing. “Right. ‘Hey, Dellian, mind if we search through your stuff?’”

  “Don’t be stupid. We go in when he’s not there.”

  “No way.” I stopped laughing. He was serious. “I’m not breaking into his house.”

  “We wouldn’t be. We’d have the key,” Jonathan said. “The way you did when you found that picture.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” I stood up. “Forget it; the cloak’s not that important.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the cloak!” Jonathan cried. “I need proof that Dellian was neck high in her crap so the cops get off my back! Th
ey told my parents to get a lawyer and make sure I don’t leave town. They think I gave her the drugs that killed her.”

  “Oh, my God!” The swing shook violently as I dropped back on it. “Why do they think that?”

  “Because some low-life called in an anonymous tip. Said I bought drugs for her.”

  “The pot?” Air slowly left me. I leaned back against the seat to keep from collapsing. “Somebody told them? Do they know I paid?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t think they have any real facts, you know? Just fishing. I bet it was Dellian. Pointing the finger at me because I told the cops about him and Tricia.”

  “I told them about him and Tricia too. Will the police tell me to get a lawyer also?” I said, more to myself than to Jonathan. This was stupid. We hadn’t done anything wrong! I exhaled slowly. “Okay, we’re scared, but we have to stay calm. Breaking in isn’t the solution. With everything we told the police, they’ll have to search his apartment, right? They’ll find her cloak.”

  “Don’t you watch cop shows? They can’t go in without a warrant, and they can’t get that without a good reason.”

  “They have one. His relationship with Tricia.”

  “You mean the one that only you and I—the two to last see her—told them about? They don’t have proof he was screwing her.”

  “The photo . . .” It probably didn’t exist anymore, and again, it was only me saying it ever did. “Maybe you’re right. But don’t you think he’s got rid of everything already? He had six months to cover his ass, Jonathan. There may be nothing there. And if we get caught, we really look guilty!”

  “What if he hasn’t? This could be our only chance.”

  “God, Jonathan, I don’t know—”

  “Beautiful, you know he’ll try to pin this on us if he can. He’s already got the cops looking at me.”

  I heard the clanky chug that Greg’s engine now made, thanks to me, approaching from down the street. “Great,” I muttered. “Hurry, tell me the plan.”

  Jonathan smirked as Greg’s purple Pacer pulled in. “How does he drive that beat-up old thing? The hood’s a mess, and it’s butt-ass ugly.”