If I Die Tonight

by Alison Gaylin

  If they only knew . . . In this quiet car, it was easy to think back to what he had done the previous afternoon, how he had betrayed his brother. Feeling the engine rumbling beneath him, he remembered that Officer Udel’s car had been running too, how he’d sat in the front seat with him, staring at all the machinery on the dashboard, the thick plastic divider that blocked off the backseat. “It’s like a spaceship in here isn’t it?” Officer Udel had said. He’d shown him all the equipment, what it did, as though Connor were six years old or something.

  Up close, Officer Udel had looked so much younger, practically the same age as Wade, and as he spoke to him in that calm voice, showing him all the stuff in the cop car, a part of Connor had wished Officer Udel was his brother instead of Wade—especially at that moment, right after Jordan had announced they could no longer be friends. That initial fear he’d felt when Officer Udel had called out to him had turned into anger again, anger at Wade.

  “I know you’re a good kid,” Udel had said. “You aren’t anything like your brother.” And that had done it. Connor had spilled everything.

  Maybe it wasn’t important. Maybe they’d soon find Aimee En’s phone somewhere else, in the possession of some gangbanger. Or better yet, maybe Aimee would confess to the crime herself.

  His Instagram said he had one message, and his mind shifted back and forth as to whether or not he should click on it. It was probably some nasty homemade meme: a scared cat saying, “Get away from me, Wade.”

  But after more silence, Connor’s boredom won out. He clicked on his Instagram, then on his direct messages. He only had one, and it was from Jordan, sent just a few minutes ago. Connor’s spirits lifted a little.

  “You okay back there, Connor?” Cindy said it as though she’d just discovered that he was in the car.

  “I’m fine.”

  He clicked on the message. No words, no pictures. Just a link to a video that had been posted on YouTube.

  “You feeling stuffy? Want me to turn down the heat?”

  Now she decides to talk. “I’m fine, thanks.” Connor stuck his earbuds in and clicked on the link.

  The video was labeled Recovered Footage from Liam Miller’s Phone. It had been posted less than fifteen minutes ago, and already it had more than 1,800 views. He didn’t bother with the comments, just tapped the link, thinking please, please, please with all his heart. Please let this be proof that Wade is innocent . . .

  He watched it twice, then three times. He couldn’t make out faces. The Jaguar’s headlights were on, and there was also the streetlight, but Rainbow Hair and her attacker were both in the shadows. He watched it all the way through to when the footage got shaky and everything spun around and the image died. He listened to Liam’s cries, the last sounds he made as a conscious living person, but he tried not to think about that. He needed to concentrate on facts. Is the guy in the hoodie Wade’s height? What is Liam yelling as he runs at the car? Is that “Wait”? Or is it . . .

  Connor closed his eyes, collecting himself. He left Instagram and shoved his phone in his pocket. For the rest of the ride to school, he watched the back of Noah’s head as he listened to his Spanish tape, nodding like an old lady, oblivious to everything around him. Connor envied Noah for it, that lack of curiosity.

  The school loomed in front of them. As Cindy pulled into the parking lot, Connor noticed Mason Marx, talking with his idiot friends by the back door. Have they seen this video?

  “Have a great day, sweetie,” Cindy said to Noah.

  “We’re here already?”

  “Yep. Good luck on your Spanish test.”

  Connor said, “Thank you for the ride.”

  Cindy gave him a pitying look. “No problem, Connor. Have a nice day.”

  Noah slammed his door shut, and Mason Marx and his friends turned and glared at them, Mason crossing his arms over his chest like a bouncer. As he maneuvered out of the car with his poster board charts, Connor imagined making a new one: “People Who Think My Brother Is Guilty.” A chart with a red line, ever rising.

  HELEN HAD NEVER called Garrett, which was strange. But he was kind and professional over the phone with Jackie, explaining he’d worked late the previous night anyway, and Helen never liked to bother him at work.

  “But this is work,” Jackie said. “It’s a job for you.”

  “Good point. When can you get to the police station?”

  “In about five minutes?”

  “My office is two minutes from the station. I’ll be out front when you get there.”

  True to his word, Garrett was waiting—dapper in a charcoal-gray suit and a blue silk tie that played up his eyes. He shook Jackie’s hand with a firm grip and a serious expression, and for several seconds Jackie just stood there, taking in the situation, her ears ringing. I am meeting a lawyer outside a police station. My son is inside. She was normally the type of person who became calm and resourceful in times of panic, but in the past, those times of panic had been the kind that a mother might expect—a high fever, an arm broken playing soccer, a fall from a tree, requiring stitches. Not an arrest. Was that what this was? Had Wade been arrested?

  “Are you okay?” Garrett said.

  She realized she was trembling. She couldn’t get her breath to slow down. “I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

  He put a hand on her arm. “Jackie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do me a favor and look up and down this street.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  Jackie did.

  “Sidewalks are more or less empty, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hear anybody shouting questions at you?”

  She shook her head.

  “So there are no reporters. Focus on that, okay? This may feel out of control to you, but it’s not. We can have our say, get Wade out of there, and most people won’t know he was ever even questioned.”

  “You’re right.” Jackie took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  “Save the thank-yous till you’ve gotten my bill.” He gave her a smile, a practiced wink. “Lawyer humor. Gotta love it.”

  “I do?”

  He laughed. “Listen, Jackie,” he said. “I’ve known Sergeant Black for years. I handled his and his wife’s wills. He’s a nice, reasonable guy.”

  “What about those detectives?” she said. “Do you know them?”

  Garrett put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t,” he said. “But I know you. And I know your kids. And so I can tell you with certainty that everything is going to be okay.”

  Jackie thought, You actually don’t know my kids at all. But she didn’t say it. He was opening the door for her now. As he followed her into the station, Jackie thought about what a gentleman Garrett was, and how lucky Helen was to be married to a kind man like him.

  WADE WAS NOT wearing handcuffs. This was a relief for Jackie, who had prepared for the worst. After Garrett introduced her to Sergeant Black (who did indeed seem nice and reasonable—he even apologized to Jackie for interrupting her day), the sergeant led the two of them down a hallway and into a conference room, where Wade was sitting at one end of the table, alone, his head down, back slumped.

  “Wade?” Jackie said.

  He looked up and smiled and Jackie stepped back. She saw him at two years old, at six, at twelve. It was the same lopsided smile, a smile that changed his whole face. He hardly ever smiled these days, and so when he did, it was a shock to the system. “Mom,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here.” And then his eyes found Garrett and the smile disappeared.

  “Hey there, Wade. Not sure you remember me . . .”

  “Sure I do,” he said in a small voice. “Mr. Davies.”

  “Garrett’s fine.” He moved toward the conference room door and closed it. “Mr. Davies is my dad.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Your mom called me. I’m going to be acting as your lawyer, if that’s okay with you.”

&nbs
p; None of them said anything for what felt like an uncomfortably long time. Then finally, Wade said, “I’ve been alone in here since I called you, Mom. Nobody has explained anything to me.”

  “I spoke to the sergeant and there’s really nothing to be afraid of,” Garrett said. “The detectives have some new information they wanted to ask you about. Probably nothing. The big thing is, they now have video of the incident. Very fuzzy video. You apparently fit the description of the carjacker. But so do a ton of boys.”

  “So why do I need a lawyer?”

  Jackie stepped forward. “It’s for our protection. I didn’t like the tone of those detectives back at school, and Garrett knows how the system works, what questions you should and shouldn’t answer. With him by your side instead of just me, they’ll know they can’t mess with you.”

  “That’s right,” Garrett said. “Your mom is smart.” He winked at him, just as he’d winked at Jackie outside, but it didn’t seem to put Wade at ease.

  Wade kept his eyes on Jackie, as though Garrett wasn’t even in the room. “Why would they want to mess with me?”

  That’s a good question. Jackie found it encouraging, that confusion. He is innocent. And he’s acting that way.

  “Why is there a video camera in here?” Wade said, and Jackie noticed it for the first time, set up on a tripod, at the far end of the room.

  She turned to Garrett. “Any idea?” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “Procedure.”

  “Really?”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and then Detective Wind’s voice, asking, “Are you ready?”

  Garrett replied, “Yes,” though Jackie didn’t feel ready at all.

  DETECTIVE WIND SEEMED to be handling the questioning this time. She sat across the table from Wade, hands clasped in front of her, while Wacksman sat at the end of the table, leaning back as though to give them some space.

  Jackie was glad for that. She liked Wind better than Wacksman. She seemed more professional, less patronizing. And besides, Jackie could not stand that mustache. Her eyes were drawn to it whenever Wacksman spoke, so thick and luxuriant she couldn’t help but imagine him grooming it, using a tiny tortoiseshell comb and a rack of imported oils as though it were a pet.

  Wade sat between Jackie and Garrett for the questioning. Jackie could feel him leaning into her, his discomfort palpable, even as Wind asked him simple questions: his name, age, school, number of siblings; questions Jackie imagined were designed to put him at ease. Wind asked him what his hobbies were and he said, “Drawing, I guess.”

  “And your favorite subject in school?”

  “Umm . . . English?”

  “Do you have any friends, Wade?” she asked in the same conversational tone. Jackie cringed.

  Wade glanced at Garrett, then stared at his hands. “Not really.”

  “How would you describe your little brother?”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s thirteen. His name is Connor.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Would you say you guys get along?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, he’s your friend, right?”

  Wade squinted at her. “He’s thirteen. He’s my brother.”

  “Do you talk a lot?”

  “We used to. When we were younger. But not so much now, I guess.”

  “How would you describe his personality?”

  “He’s a nice kid.”

  “Would you describe him as trustworthy?”

  Jackie frowned. This was getting a bit strange. She cast a long glance at Garrett, but he regarded the detective mildly, as though this was a perfectly normal line of questioning.

  Wade said, “Yes.”

  “He’s not a liar?”

  Wade shifted in his seat. “No,” he said. “Connor isn’t a liar.”

  “Listen,” Jackie said. “If you’re wondering where Connor was at the time of the hit-and-run—”

  Garrett held a hand up, saying her name softly. “I don’t think the detective is trying to imply that Connor had anything to do with what happened to Liam.” He looked at Wind. “Are you?”

  “I just want to establish that Wade gets along with his brother. They haven’t had any big fights lately. Connor isn’t a liar, and would have no reason to lie about him.”

  “Oh God,” Wade whispered. “Oh my God.”

  Jackie turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  Wind continued. “So if I said to you that Connor claims you came into his room at around three in the morning on October twentieth, wet from the rainstorm outside . . .”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  Jackie’s eyes widened. “Is this true?”

  Wind pressed on. “If Connor said you gave him a bag and asked him to dispose of it . . .”

  “Jesus.”

  “. . . and in that bag was a phone, much like the one missing from Amy Nathanson’s bag . . .”

  “Connor told you all of that?” Wade said, his voice rising and cracking. “Connor told you?”

  “Wade,” Garrett said. “Wade, you don’t need to answer.”

  Wade whispered, “I cannot believe he would do this to me.”

  “Wade,” said Garrett. He looked at Wind. “We’re going to need a minute.”

  “No we’re not,” Wade said. “I want to go home.” He turned and looked straight at the video camera. “I want to go home.”

  “Whose phone was it, Wade, if it wasn’t Amy Nathanson’s? Whose phone did you ask your brother to dispose of the morning of the hit-and-run?”

  Garrett said, “We are going to need a minute.” More firmly this time.

  Wind looked at Wacksman and then nodded. “We’re happy to give you all the time you want.” The two of them got up and left the room.

  Garrett held up a hand. Then he stood up, switched off the video recorder, and unplugged it for good measure. Wade put his head down on the table and closed his eyes, as though someone had pulled the plug on him as well.

  Jackie watched him for a while, unable to speak. Both her sons. Connor and Wade. Keeping so much from her.

  Garrett’s face changed. It looked harder now with all the goodwill drained out of it, his eyes like slate, the sparkle gone. “Wade,” he said. “Where were you on the night of the incident?”

  But Wade didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  “Why were you in your brother’s room? Where had you come from? Why did you ask him to get rid of a phone?”

  Still nothing.

  “If you can’t at least meet me halfway, I can’t help you.”

  “I don’t want your help, Mr. Davies,” Wade said.

  “It’s Garrett, and whether you want my help or not, you need it, buddy.”

  “I’m not your buddy and I don’t need your help!”

  Garrett let out a long sigh. He looked at Jackie. “I don’t think this is going to work out.”

  “But,” she said. “But . . . what are we going to do with no lawyer?”

  “There are lots of lawyers out there,” he said. “I’ll ask around.” He picked up his coat, and went quietly through the door, turning briefly before he closed it. “You should tell Bill about this. He’s a lawyer and he’s also the boy’s father. It’s the least he could do.”

  After he shut the door behind him, Jackie stood staring at it. “Nice parting shot,” she said.

  Wade didn’t lift his head. His eyes stayed closed and he remained completely still, so still that Jackie could believe that he had actually fallen asleep. She took the seat next to him again, a feeling of calm coming over her, that warm-blanket feeling that usually happens after a good cry. She ran a hand through her son’s messy hair and felt moisture on his skin. Tears. She put an arm around his shoulders, which were shaking, ever so slightly. She rested her head on his.

  “I know you didn’t do it,” she said.

  She knew he didn’t. As many secrets as he was keeping
from her, Jackie knew this much about Wade: he would never run someone down and leave him there to die. But he wouldn’t respond to questions, wouldn’t cooperate with a lawyer. Wouldn’t meet her halfway. Even now, he couldn’t give her the satisfaction of nodding his head, and so here she was, cleaning up after Wade as usual. He left a phone with his brother and asked him to throw it out. Why?

  Jackie thought about phones, all the information they held: pictures, videos, texts. And how much you could find out about a person if you knew their pin number . . .

  Wade’s phone. She pulled away from him and saw the edge of the phone poking out of his jacket pocket. She remembered picking it up from the floor of his room when it was plugged into its charger, the feel of it in her hand as she’d scrolled through his pictures. Had it felt slightly different than it had days earlier, just a little bit heavier than when she’d picked it up and read that text from “T”? And the sound of that text tone. Like a bomb going off . . .

  Jackie slipped her own phone out of her pocket. Texted Hello to Wade’s number. Sent it.

  The phone in Wade’s pocket made a soft dinging sound.

  Wade sat up. Slipped his phone out of his pocket. Looked at the screen. “Mom?”

  A lighter, thinner phone with a different text tone. “It was a different phone,” she whispered.

  Wade looked at her, his face red and tear-streaked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The other day. In the kitchen. Your phone. It had an explosion for a text tone.”

  His eyes went big. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. But he did. It was obvious. When it came to lying, teenagers were just children, and that’s what Wade was. A child, lying. Trying to protect a burner phone. Secret texts from some girl who clearly didn’t want to be seen with him.

  “You had a different phone,” she whispered. “You talked to ‘T’ on it. You wanted to keep it private.”

  “What?”

  “Does ‘T’ have a boyfriend? Is that why?”

  “No. No, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m going to get them back in here,” Jackie said. “You can tell the truth.”

  Wade stared at her, his face changing, fear sparking in his eyes. “No.”