Daniel glances up at the railroad tracks.
I press him. “I was up there, I talked to him, and gave him hell. It’s just...” How do I get him to understand? Slow and sure—Sensei says. Slow and sure.
“You’re doing this all wrong,” I explain. “Whatever Julia’s connection to those drugs was, why would she be out at Broken Bone? It’s not her thing. She’d never be here, so why are you? I get that it’s your element, but it isn’t hers.”
His hands rub against his face, covering his eyes like he can’t face what I’m saying. He groans long and slow and painfully.
I wrap my arms around my chest, because I want to wrap them around him. He’s hurting so bad. “Daniel, Julia’s dealer isn’t going to be here. That’s who you really want, right? You have to be smarter.”
Slow and sure works. Bless Sensei. Daniel’s speechless. Then again, that’s his normal modus operandi, as far as I’ve been able to tell.
Finally, he says, “The police want up the ladder. Any ladder will work. I thought if I could get connected with these guys, it would make the cops happy. Then I could figure out how Julia got the drugs. I guess I didn’t really think that through.”
I say, “That’s why we’re going to help you—Sandy, Sam, and me. I know how to do this: satisfy the police, get you free from this whole lousy mess, and maybe lead us to Julia’s dealer. Let us help.”
He makes another dent in his poor car. “Why? This shit is all over me. You should run the other way so fast that—”
“Yeah, well we’re not. We’re going to figure this out. We need your help.” I unwrap my arms and look away, placing emotional distance between us. “And you need us. I’m not going to let you stand by yourself when you aren’t guilty.” He puts his elbows on his car’s roof and drops his head into his hands.
“Julia’s not guilty either.”
Tipping his head to speak, those blue eyes that match Julia’s confirm what I assumed all along. He almost whispers it. “Kami, I can’t live with anybody else getting hurt. I’m loaded down enough with guilt over Julia.”
And what guilt is he talking about? I don’t get the chance to ask.
His fear changes to anger, and he pounds his car. Can you say PO’d insurance agent? “I didn’t buy” bang “your note at the hospital.” Bang. “It was too” bang “easy. It’s what other kids” bang “would do, but not” bang “you. Not” bang “you.” The banging stops. Maybe he’s hurt his hand.
“True. If there’s a puzzle, I can’t stop. I’ve got your back. Sam and Sandy are watching mine. Don’t fight us. You do the heavy stuff and make the deals. We stay off the police radar.” That was my well-reasoned argument worthy of debate club.
His rebuttal turns it into a limp French fry. “Stay away? Like you just did? Getting between me and those goons?” Then he hangs his head and breathes out a long, slow “Damn.”
I say, “We’ll take precautions.” I tug at his gang/rapper hoodie, easing it back off his face. “And you can stop wearing this stuff. If we’re going to get answers, be yourself—Doc Martens, name-brand pants, and polo shirts—your normal clothes.”
He gives in and relief washes out of him, along with his tension and anger. He snorts but doesn’t argue. “Dogged determination? Is that how you won the State Science Fair?”
“Googled me?”
“Yeah, I looked you up.” His hand catches mine, holding it against his hoodie.
On his part, the touch is raw desperation. I chew on my lower lip and wonder what this decision will mean for the future. Have I made a chaos butterfly-wing flap? And, if I have, where will the tornado it eventually generates land—and who will be in its path?
On my part, his touch sends electric tingles down my back. It’s better to concentrate on action checklists, not on nerve synapses I don’t understand.
He says, “Whatever we find out, the police never know Julia’s part in it. We work around that. Right?”
I think about that angel-faced kid and how much Daniel’s giving up to protect her memory. How can I clear Daniel without dragging Julia’s role into the mix? I can’t promise him that. Instead of agreeing, I distract, saying, “We need Julia’s stuff. Whatever you can get—phone and laptop for sure. Did she keep any handwritten journal, diary, or something like that? Did the police take them?”
He removes his hand and brushes it over his stubbly buzzed hair. He’s growing it out. My lips go dry. And that gut reaction is disturbing.
“No journal. The police assumed the drugs were mine, so they didn’t take her things. Dad and Sara…Well, I have most of her stuff now.”
“Let’s go then.”
“After we get the stuff, what happens?”
Inside, I’m sick. If we’re successful, Julia’s past probably gets dragged through the mud. But without some evidence, Daniel will never be cleared. So I stick with the literal what’s next. “We’re off to the Bat Cave, Robin.”
Thirteen
Daniel heads into his house with his backpack and returns with a different one. It’s pink. He hugs it to his middle like a tiny baby. Even on a Friday night, finding three open parking spaces near the library will be tricky. We leave his car at home and share EB for the trip. He squeezes into the small car with awkward contortions.
With him comes the smell of pines and my heart flip-flops. I fumble with my own pack and, bring out the envelope, handing it to him. “This fell out of your wallet the other night.”
He opens it, pulling out his half-sister’s school photo. For a long time as I drive to campus, he simply looks at it. Then he slips it back into the empty photo spot in his wallet and looks out the window.
Once at the library with the pink backpack still cradled in his arms, Daniel plays gentleman with the doors. Other guys are awkward about that; they fumble and then don’t get the door or they stumble through opening them. With Daniel, he doesn’t even know he does it. I like that.
I enter the Bat Cave and drop my backpack on a study carousel. A janitor has been in here cleaning so there’s disinfectant, old book, dust, and Daniel’s Irish Spring, but there’s also a strong odor of magic markers. Both Sam and Sandy are admiring their handiwork. Opposite the sofa, they’d taped three poster boards side by side on the wall.
“That looks great, Sandy.” And it does. She calls it a crime board. It’s loaded with information. “Daniel, say hi to Sam and Sandy.” He does, while I check out the wall chart.
Whatever we call it, it’s perfect. It’s too bad that we have to take it down every time we leave. At the top are photographs of Julia and Daniel. His came off the Internet. Written under those is a timeline of events: Julia’s death, Daniel’s arrest dates for the drugs and the earlier one for his DUI, the Broken Bone attack, and room for more data when we get it.
Underneath Julia’s photo, Sandy has posted my list of teen suicide warning signs from the teensuicide.us website. She’s checkmarked Julia’s known indicators. After seeing the eighth-grader’s angelic school photo, I’m as committed to discovering her suicide motivations as getting Daniel free and clear of the drug charges.
“What is that?” a white-faced Daniel asks, pointing at the list.
Hiding the suicide warnings, Sam leaps in front of the board and says, “Sorry to spring this on you. We need something to track what happened. This…” He waves his hand over the visible part. “This will keep us organized.”
I goofed and should have warned Daniel. I ease Julia’s pink backpack from his slack hands and hand it to Sandy. She takes it to a study carrel, unzips it, and pulls out the laptop and a phone from inside it.
I say, “Daniel, I’m sorry for not warning you, but we have to lay out the facts so we can see them. If you can’t handle this…”
He walks past me, drawn to the crime board like the moth to flame. Unlike a gentle moth, though, he pushes Sam out of the way. Then Daniel i
nspects the whole board. His fingers rest gently on his sister’s face then move to the timeline, settling on her death date.
Sam doesn’t take offense at being shoved aside. He takes Julia’s laptop and sits at the carrel next to Sandy, who has the smartphone.
I say to Daniel, “Fill us in. What happened and when? We post facts, hard facts.”
His hand moves from the timeline up to the suicide warning list. He shudders.
“Daniel, what happened leading up to her suicide? What do you know about the drugs?”
He slams his hand against the posted warning list. “Julia didn’t commit suicide.”
Beside us, Julia’s laptop and the phone wake up with a ding and a chime, but Sam and Sandy are listening and watching us.
“Daniel, the warning signs were there. I talked with Trish. Julia stopped her riding lessons. She’d go to the stable, but she didn’t ride. After Thanksgiving, she didn’t even bother to get Diamond out of her stall—even though she loved that horse. According to what Trish says, Julia’s grades dropped like a rock. She was caught shoplifting. Those are all prominent suicide indicators. You have to face facts.”
Daniel pounds the crime board, hitting the library concrete wall with a loud thump. “You want facts? Julia didn’t commit suicide.”
“Okay.” I grab one of Sandy’s markers, cross off the word committed in front of suicide and write in possible. “But, Daniel, we have to know what you know.”
He leaves the board and stands at the window looking out. “There’s not much. I started school in North Carolina in late August. Julia was mad about that. Hell, I was mad about it. But in September she tells me she has a new boyfriend. She’s over-the-moon happy.”
Daniel runs his hand again over his stubbly hair. It must be scratchy. There are two communication streams happening—the spoken and the unspoken. Right now, the unspoken is speaking volumes. His shoulders slump as he sits in one of the easy chairs, settling into the leather cushions muscle by muscle like a slow MA movement—weary, cautious.
I drag the other chair close and sit beside him. Sandy has a pen in her right hand poised over an open notepad to record dates and facts.
“Then what happened?” I ask.
“I get an e-mail from Trish that Julia’s acting funny. You know—friend stuff. That’s not new. God, the number of times they’d be out in the backyard screaming at each other. The next time you looked they’re crying and hugging.”
I grin at Sandy. That sounded like us in elementary school. Then in middle school, the arguments stopped. I guess by that point it wasn’t so much Sandy and me against each other, as us against the world. Middle school sucks.
Daniel places his wrists on his knees, letting gravity pull his hands down like he doesn’t have the energy to do anything else.
He continues. “Then Sara, Julia’s mom—my stepmom—e-mails. They’re worried because Julia shoplifted some makeup. I kind of laughed at that. Perfect little Julia screwed up.
“Sara’s next e-mail says that Julia’s counselor is worried. She’s flunking. Julia didn’t turn in homework, skipped classes, and failed her tests.”
Sam wants to ask a question, but Sandy hushes him with a finger to her lips.
I lean forward. “We need exact dates to update the timeline.”
“Maybe early October? The e-mails are in my Gmail account.”
He continues. “When I get home, everything’s worked out. Julia looked weird with her new shaved head thing, but she’s normal. Excited about her boyfriend.” Pain tightens the muscles on his face. “Dad and Sara hated her new boyfriend, mainly because they never met him. I didn’t either.”
His head follows his hands into the gravity well.
I prod, “What happened after Thanksgiving?”
His empty eyes look at me, surprise flashing in them. He’s forgotten that I’m here.
I hate forcing it, but ask, “And then what?”
Instantly he changes, charging up out of his chair. Anger radiates as he paces back and forth in the small space, a trapped predator. He says, “My course load was tough and MA took the rest of my time.” He stops midstride. “Then suddenly it’s Christmas break and I haven’t talked to anyone from home. Not Dad, not Sara, and not Julia. I blew off my whole family to focus on me.”
He storms over to the crime board and pounds his fist into his photo posted on a concrete block wall. That has to hurt.
Sam the Wise eases out of his chair for a hasty retreat. Sandy nails him back in place with a move-and-I’ll-kill-you look.
I join Daniel at the crime board. “If you want us to help—tell us what happened at Christmastime.” His sister committed suicide. If I tell him he shouldn’t feel guilty, it won’t help. That’s what they kept telling me about Grandma—like my head’s around that one.
Daniel turns his back on the crime board and his body drags down the wall, becoming a lump on the floor. I drop down beside him.
He whispers, “It’s my fault, Kami. That she died. You’re right. The drugs aren’t mine. When I came back at Christmas, I found her sitting in her room, on the phone with her boyfriend. The drugs were on her bed—baggies full. They were next to her backpack like she wanted me to find them, you know?”
He wipes his face against his hoodie sleeve, and then he’s back in her room again. “I yelled at her. Dad and Sara were gone for the night and I laid into her, calling her a stupid fool and a whole lot of other stuff. She promised she didn’t use them. She sold them for the heck of it and she said she’d give them back. ‘No big deal,’ she said, ‘I won’t do it anymore.’ She promised me, and…” He closes his eyes and rubs them hard. “Kami, I believed her.”
He holds out his trembling hand like he needs an anchor. I take it. It’s hard and callused from MA. This isn’t over, though. He has to finish his story.
“Then what happened, Daniel?”
“The next day she left with the drugs to take them back. I went to hang with Mom. Dad and Sara took off Christmas shopping.” With his free hand, he wipes his eyes again. “Everything was going to be okay.” His other hand clamps down so hard on mine it hurts. “When I came back that night, I went to her room. She was in her bed. Not moving, eyes open. Those damn pills and empty baggies were all over the bedspread. I tried to resuscitate her, but it was no use; she was blue and stone cold.”
Fourteen
He stares at the sofa, but he doesn’t see it; he’s seeing his sister—dead on her bed. I know that stare. I had it often enough after Grandma. Can he smell his memories like I can?
He whispers, “I couldn’t let Dad and Sara see those drugs. So I picked them up and shoved them into my jeans. That’s when I screamed for Dad down in the family room.”
Flashes of Grandma in her bed overlap with reality, remembering my own call to Mom afterward. I want to throw up, but keep pressing. “And then what?”
Daniel leans back, rubbing his hands over his face. “Dad called the ambulance and the EMTs called the police, and soon cop cars were flashing lights all over the front yard. They didn’t take her body away until after midnight. That was tough—I mean it was like she wasn’t human anymore, just some...” He shakes his head. “Then, the next morning the toxicology report was delivered to the police and they came back with tons of questions. They wanted to know where Julia got the drugs.
“Dad and Sara acted like PTSD victims. The police searched everywhere until they found the pills that I’d taken from my jeans and stuffed into my backpack. I should have flushed them. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll never forget Dad’s face when the cops told him.”
“Why did you say they were yours?”
“I didn’t right away, but, in the long run, what difference does it make? The cops wouldn’t believe me. Dad wouldn’t believe me—as far as he’s concerned, I killed Julia.
“They arrested me. Took me to
jail. In the morning, I still refused to say they were mine. That’s when Detective Bob made the offer. If I helped them work their way up the supply-chain ladder, they would set aside the drug charges for information. It was perfect. No one would find out Julia had those drugs. Dad would never know. And I could get the guy who gave Julia the drugs.”
I say, “But you didn’t know her supplier…”
He grabs the armrests on his chair. I’m surprised they don’t snap.
“Told them I didn’t know his name and that he contacted me in person. No way to get him messages. They bought it and assigned Detective Bob as my handler. I was to tell them when the next meet was set up. I gotta make that happen.”
Remembering our first meeting in the library, I say, “That’s why you were researching teen drug arrests in the library. Most arrests happen at the skate park.” I’d researched it myself.
He nods.
“And that lead to your Broken Bone screwup.”
His anger makes him spit the words out. “It was a stopgap until I figured out how to get the name of Julia’s dealer.” Daniel’s face turns cold and hard, like steel.
He says, “I think she took those damn drugs back. It ticked off her dealer and made him think Julia would give me his name sooner or later.”
I whisper, “You think he killed her.”
***
I rise to stare at the crime poster. Is it a murder board? From Daniel’s point of view, his version makes sense. On the other hand, Sandy’s suicide checkmarks tell another story.
Disinterest in favorite extracurricular activities—Diamond sitting in a stall
Declining grades in school & loss of interest in school work—yes
Chaos Theory Page 9