You Will Never Know

by You Will Never Know (retail) (epub)

  “What do you think? I’m going to the cops. Now.”

  Shit!

  Emma switched gears, said, “Please don’t, Craig. Please. It’ll ruin everything.”

  “Everything? The hell with you. It’ll get my dad out of jail, and you can do what you want. I don’t care anymore. You promised me—promised me you’d set me up with Kate Romer, and nothing’s happened, and—”

  “Tonight,” Emma blurted out, knowing she had to prevent this stinky moron from going to the police. The cops! “I’ll handle it tonight. I promise. Name the place and time. I’ll get Kate there with you. I promise.”

  She looked at him with a fearful face and slowly bit her lower lip, hoping, praying, part of her shuddering at knowing what she had just promised, knowing that she was lying to the sap, she would never, ever go through with it.

  “No,” he said. “You’re a damn liar, Emma. I’m off to the cops.”

  “You can’t!”

  The asshole said, “I can, and I’m going right now, and you can’t stop me.”

  “But I’ll—”

  Craig grinned, the happy look of a beat-down shit who finally has the upper hand, and said, “I know you’re barely getting along in algebra. You can’t afford to skip out, Emma. Can you?”

  Emma was trying to think of something to say when his grin got wider. “Later,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have a great time with my dad tonight.”

  Craig walked away from Emma, staying focused, on track, even though she shouted something at him, and maybe he should have agreed, maybe this time she wasn’t joking, but damn it, he was tired of being Charlie Brown to her Lucy holding the football. No more. Nope, no more. With Dad in jail, he was finally manning up, was finally going to do what he should have done days ago. He was going to the police, was going to confess all and get Dad out of jail.

  Emma turned to the tile wall of the hallway, breathing hard.

  All right. You can still win. Just keep it together.

  The damn thing was, the asshole was right. She couldn’t afford to skip Algebra II. Mr. Palmer was a real jerk, a real hard-on about attendance and marks, and he had warned her a couple of times that she was slipping.

  She had worked with Mom to plot out her entire four years at Warner High School, classes and activities outlined for the next twenty-four months, and getting tangled up with Sam Warner’s murder was not on the list. No!

  She dug out her iPhone, saw that she had two minutes to get to her algebra class. Thank God it was just around the corner.

  With her fingers shaking, Emma touched the small field for a number and brought the phone up to her ear, sticking a finger in her free ear.

  It rang.

  Rang.

  For God’s sake, answer. Answer!

  Craig walked out into the cold afternoon sunlight, walking fast, each step taking him further away from the temptation and empty promises of his stepsister and closer to getting his dad out of jail.

  Cripes, Dad wasn’t perfect—he drank a bit too much, laughed hard at his own jokes, and was always dealing—but he did his best. He worked long hours, especially on weekends, and when Craig had mathalon competitions in the area, Dad always made it a point to show up and give him support. Some Saturday mornings he was the only parent there.

  Craig looked around and saw Randy McMahon in the student parking lot, sitting on the hood of his Jetta shitbox, thumbing through his phone. He ran over and said, “Randy, please, I need a ride into town.”

  Randy looked up. He wore his red hair in a thick Mohawk and had small hoops in both of his ears.

  “You got the hundred twenty bucks for the tow and storage fee?” he asked.

  “No, not right now, but shit, I promised you I’d get you the money.”

  Randy shook his head, went back to his phone. “Give me the money, I’ll drive you anywhere you need. If you don’t have it, screw it.”

  “Randy, please.”

  “I ain’t your bus service, especially when you dumped my car on Mast Road the other night. My parental units were some pissed, thinking I was out after curfew.”

  Craig felt like he was going to start bawling. He dropped his knapsack, pushed a hand into his pocket, pulled out some crumpled bills.

  “Here,” he said. “This is all I’ve got. It’s yours. Please. I need to get into town.”

  Randy frowned, grabbed the bills, quickly counted it. “Nineteen bucks. C’mon, Craig, I—”

  “It’s an emergency, Randy, honest to Christ.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s about my dad.”

  Randy paused, shoved the bills into his coat, slowly slid off the car. “What about your dad?”

  “I need to go to the police station. Right away.”

  Randy said, “It’s about your dad? For real?”

  “Yeah,” Craig said, feeling almost relieved at being able to tell someone what was going on. “I’ve got info that can get him out of jail.”

  “Well, shit, let’s get to it,” Randy said.

  He went around to the driver’s side and Craig got into the passenger’s seat, brushing away crumpled McDonald’s wrappers and empty Mountain Dew cans. He tossed his knapsack into the back and said, “Randy?”

  “Yeah?” Randy said, pulling out his car keys.

  “This being an emergency, can I have my nineteen dollars back?”

  “You want to jog to the police station?”

  “No,” Craig said.

  “Then shut up.”

  What to say, what to say, and then her iPhone chimed, and Jessica fumbled with her purse, saying, “Oh, Rhonda, give me a sec, will you? Please?”

  “Jessica, what’s going on?”

  She looked at her iPhone screen, saw the incoming call was from Emma, and she knew the time, knew Emma had to be in class, so it had to be important. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no.

  She slid a thumb across the screen, turned away from Rhonda, and said, “Emma?”

  Her little girl was crying. “Mom, I need your help. Oh, God, I need your help!”

  Randy turned the key to the Jetta. It grumbled, started, and then died.

  “Shit.”

  Craig said, “Oh, come on, Randy.”

  “Hey, I do what I can.” He turned the key again. The engine sputtered, sputtered.

  “Randy . . .”

  “You want to walk? You want to call an Uber? Oh, yeah, you can’t. You don’t have enough money.”

  Craig looked back at the school, knowing Emma was right now doing something, but he wasn’t sure what. All he knew was that his stepsister wasn’t going to just stand there and not do a thing.

  Randy murmured, “C’mon, fräulein, come to Papa, you know you want to.” He turned the key, and the engine started right up with a burbling roar and stayed running. Randy grinned. “Unlike you, pal, I always have luck with the ladies.”

  “Fine,” Craig said. “Just get me to the police station.”

  Randy backed the Jetta out and said, “You’re not shitting me, are you? You really got big news about your dad?”

  Craig remembered that night, walking and stumbling some on the trail, holding the shotgun, Emma beside him, prodding him and pushing him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Really big news.”

  Emma started sobbing as she talked to her mother, her back turned so none of the other students could see what she was doing.

  “Mom, Craig’s gone crazy! I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

  “Emma, calm down, please, calm down. What’s he doing?”

  She kept sobbing. “He . . . he’s going to the police. He thinks he can get his dad out of jail. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Emma,” came her Mom’s sharp voice. “What do you mean, he’s going to the police? How’s he going to get his dad out of jail?”

  She took a breath, let out of a series of sobs, not answering her mother until she was ready, and she said, “Oh, Mom, Craig is going to tell the police I
killed Sam Warner! And he was there! And he thinks that’ll get his dad out of jail! Mom, what are we going to do?”

  Jessica stared at her feet, at the smooth stone worn down by thousands of library patrons over the years, in good times and bad, in sun or rain, in all kinds of weather, at all kinds of times. Like the time right now when you need to save your girl.

  “Emma, calm down, calm down. Where’s Craig? Where is he right now?”

  “He . . . he said he’s going to the police station.”

  “How’s he getting there?”

  “I don’t know,” her daughter said, sobbing. “He’ll probably bum a ride from one of his friends. Mom, what—”

  “Emma!” she said loudly. “I’ll take care of it, all right? I’ll take care of it. Look, where are you?”

  “At school. Ready to go to class.”

  “All right,” Jessica said, her free hand reaching for her car keys. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of it, you go to class and let your mother take care of it.”

  The sobbing had died down to sniffles. “Oh, Mom . . .”

  “I’ve got it,” Jessica said, not really knowing what she was going to do but willing to lie to put her Emma at ease. “You just go to class and don’t worry about a thing. Mom’s got it.”

  Emma whispered. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, little girl. Make me proud.”

  Emma disconnected the call, put her iPhone away, and rubbed her eyes with a piece of tissue. She looked up at the hallway clock. A minute before algebra. Perfect. Mom would take care of it, and then it would be all right.

  She joined the last straggle of students getting to class, took her seat right next to Carol Niven. Carol had her notebook out and glanced over and said, “Everything okay?”

  Emma smiled and pulled her own notebook out. “Oh, things are just great.”

  Jessica put the phone back into her purse, quickly turned around, and nearly bumped into Rhonda.

  Her friend’s eyes were wide. “Jessica, what’s going on?”

  She made sure her purse strap was firmly over her shoulder. “Rhonda, I’m sorry, I need to run.”

  Jessica tried to brush past, and Rhonda said, “Hey, Jess, just a sec—how come you haven’t returned any of my calls? I know you’re under a lot of pressure. Please, I want to help. Anything I can do.”

  Even though Jessica knew she just had to get moving, had to do something about her stepson, had to protect Emma, she couldn’t just dump Rhonda like this.

  Tears were running down her cheeks, and she sobbed. “Rhonda . . . with Ted in jail, my kids—they’re fighting. Craig . . . something’s wrong with Craig and I’ve got to help him. Emma just called me and said he’s run off from school.” Which was partially true, a hard part of her thought.

  Rhonda took her right hand, squeezed it. “Jessica, go, take care of things—and I’ll cover for you back at work, all right? Don’t worry about work. I’ll help you with the Ice Queen. I promise.”

  Jessica kissed her friend on her cheek and then ran to her Sentra in the library parking lot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Randy’s Jetta bucked and gurgled as they headed into downtown Warner, but Craig thought that was just fine. He was on his way to the police station. Emma wasn’t going to stop him. She could take all her promises to him and roll them up into a nice shiny ball and shove it up her cute ass, but Craig was through.

  “Shit, Craig,” Randy said. “The traffic sure does suck. We won’t get there for probably another five minutes.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, crossing his arms. “Just get me there.”

  The thing was, Randy was right. The road was jammed with school buses coming in and parents joining a line to pick up their sons and daughters, not to mention the steady line of students who could depart at final period leaving. They came to the main entrance to the school, where a cop was directing traffic.

  Randy said, “Hey, there’s a cop over there. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “Nope,” Craig said. “I’m gonna talk to the detective handling the case. Somebody important. That cop, what’s he going to do? He’s going to tell me to stop bothering him and go to the police station. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Okay,” Randy said, and then traffic started moving and they took a right onto Main Street.

  Craig jumped when his phone started ringing. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. JESSICA, it said.

  Jessica was stuck behind two patrons, gray-hairs both, who were driving their dull-looking GM sedans and who were taking their sweet goddamn time in leaving the library’s parking lot. She slammed a hand on the steering wheel, grabbed her iPhone. It slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor.

  “Shit!”

  Jessica bent down, fingers on the floor, until she got the phone and picked it up. The lead car was out of the parking lot. She slid through the touch screen, found the number for Craig, and gave it a push. She brought it up to her ear. It was ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” she murmured. “Answer it, boy. Answer it!”

  Jessica wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but she knew that she had to say something. Ask Craig what was going on. Ask him what was sending him to the police station. What did he intend to say when he got there? Couldn’t he just wait to talk to his stepmom? Couldn’t they all work together as a family to get Ted out of jail?

  The phone stopped ringing and Craig’s voice answered.

  Randy glanced over. “Who’s calling?”

  “My stepmom.”

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Randy said, “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  Ring.

  Randy said, “Boy, you got some balls on you, Craig.” He laughed. “My mom, if she doesn’t get a pickup in the first three seconds, I get interrogated when I get home about why I didn’t answer, where I was, and didn’t I know I was disrespecting her.”

  Craig just watched the phone screen. There was a little tone as the call went to voicemail.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not going to answer it.”

  Randy laughed. “Boy, your mom is gonna be pissed!”

  Craig looked out as the homes and buildings of Warner passed by. “Randy, she’s not my mom.”

  Jessica heard Craig’s voice and said, “Craig! It’s me! What are you—” And she stopped. It was a waste. His voice had just been Craig’s voicemail prompt, that’s all.

  “Craig!” she said. “Please listen. Don’t go to the police, please. Talk to me! Tell me what’s going on! We can work this out as a family. We can get your father out. Just don’t go to the police right yet!”

  A horn honked behind her. She looked up. The other GM sedan was gone. Now it was just her.

  She drove out, briefly braked, and made a quick turn to the right. More horns honked as she cut it pretty damn close.

  No matter.

  She was moving fast.

  To the police station. To get there before Craig.

  Up ahead Craig made out the brick building that held both the police station and the fire department, and Randy said, “So, mind letting me know what you’re going to tell the police?”

  “That they got it wrong, that he didn’t kill Sam Warner.”

  “Uh-huh. You know who did it?”

  Craig kept quiet, his chest cold, filled with a feeling—a resolve, maybe?—that he was finally doing the right thing.

  Randy said, “Okay, whatever. The guy was an asshole, so I’m not going to miss him. Still, if every guy who was an asshole in school got his head blown off by a shotgun, there wouldn’t be many students around when prom season comes, you know what I mean?”

  Craig said, “Right there. Don’t bother going into the parking lot. You can drop me off in the front.”

  Jessica cursed again and again as she seemed to hit every red light. Was God punishing her? Finally, after all these years, had the hand of God come dow
n to screw around with the traffic lights to prevent her from getting to the police station in time, to stop Craig from ruining it all?

  Finally! The last light turned green and she tailgated the pickup truck in front of her, and there, there was the police station, and a Volkswagen Jetta pulling away from the sidewalk, and—

  There! Craig was walking up the paved walkway to the front of the police station.

  She pulled to the right of the pickup truck, forcing him into the middle of the narrow two-lane street. More horns were honking, but she didn’t mind, she didn’t care. All she cared about was Emma, Emma, Emma.

  Jessica pulled the Sentra in front of a fire hydrant, jumped out, left the door open, and ran over to the grass in front of the station.

  “Craig!” she yelled. “Craig!”

  Her stepson hesitated, looked to the left and to the right.

  “Craig!”

  He finally turned around and looked right at her.

  She waved. “Craig, please, wait!”

  Jessica waited, heart racing so fast, like an outboard motor revving higher and higher. She waited. Craig, oh Craig. Emma, oh Emma.

  She waved again.

  Craig waved back. And then took three more steps, right into the police station.

  It was the first time Craig had ever been inside the Warner police station. It took a few moments to get his bearings. To his right were two glass display cases, showing off trophies and black-and-white photos of Warner cops from years and years ago. In front was a wooden door with a sign saying VISITORS NEED TO SIGN IN and a smaller sign saying ALL CONVERSATIONS BEYOND THIS POINT MAY BE RECORDED. Over the door was a small CCTV camera, looking down at him and the scuffed tile.

  “May” in this room sure was “will,” he thought. There was a bulletin board with town notices and lost-and-found flyers and, to the left, a rectangular glass window with an opening below it.

  He went over, bumping into one of the two light-orange plastic chairs set nearby, and he stood looking in. There were two desks, one empty, and an older woman with eyeglasses dangling from around her neck was furiously typing away on a computer keyboard.