by Layton Green
“I suppose not.”
“David was popular and very good-looking, but for whatever reason, he chose to conceal himself from the other students. At least from what I could observe.” A hint of challenge entered her eyes. “I know what people thought about the Facebook post. I’m sure I was deemed guilty of some fantasized inappropriate behavior, and it’s a disgusting assumption. It was very hurtful.”
“Tell me more about him. From what you observed.”
She gave him a frank look, acknowledging that he had switched the subject. “He didn’t have to try too hard at anything. Girls, sports, class. That’s one reason I appreciated his effort. He wrote thoughtful, philosophical essays. He loved Faulkner, Toni Morrison, and plays of all sorts, especially Wilder. Anything to do with the dissection of a small town.” A bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “I could tell David was aware of the absurdities of his surroundings.”
“Such as?”
She crossed her legs and flashed a magnetic smile that made him reassess her attractiveness. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it. You’re a detective, after all. This town is so buried under its own pretension it can barely breathe. Do you know what true progressiveness is? It’s not judging others for not being progressive—or for not being like you at all.”
He wondered what she had been judged for. “Do you think David had a crush on you?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”
“Are you involved with anyone ?”
“A number of people,” she said evenly. “I don’t try to hide it.”
“Do you think that’s why he wrote what he did on your Facebook page? Out of jealousy?”
She crossed her legs. “I think it’s because he saw his mother in me.” “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure if I should be telling you this—”
“There’s nothing you shouldn’t be telling me about David right now.”
She bobbed her head. “He wrote a piece about his mother. A very private journal entry. He wrote about how they were very different people and how he blamed her for the divorce. He even claimed she . . . had an affair. I’m not sure if this is public knowledge, or even if it’s true.” “Do you still have the journal entry?”
“I can give you a copy before you leave.”
“Please. Did you talk about it with him?”
“The students know I read them, and I give them feedback on their writing, but I never ask them to explain or discuss the substance in class. I find this leads to more honest writing.”
He interlaced his fingers atop the table. “What about the Face- book post? Did you talk about that?”
“I tried. He apologized and said it would never happen again, but he never told me why he wrote it. He wasn’t the same after, either. He was sullen in class and wouldn’t open up in his work.”
“Do you think there might have been other factors involved? Something else going on in his life ?”
She gave him a level stare. “I would say that’s rather obvious now.” He slowly nodded. “Any idea what those were ?”
“None at all.”
“Maybe you should give me all of his journal entries.”
“I’d be happy to.”
He sat quietly for another minute, waiting to see if she would volunteer more information. When she didn’t, he said, “Did you ever see David outside of school?”
Her eyes flashed. “Never.”
“Did the two of you have any contact on social media that was unrelated to class?”
“No.”
“Where were you on the night of October 2?”
“You mean the night David was murdered?” She stared back at him. “It was a school night. I was home alone, planning lessons and watching television.”
“Which show?”
She thought for a moment. “I was streaming The Deuce, I think. The new show by the guys from The Wire”
He made a note and stood. “Thank you for your candor, Ms. Waverly. That’s all for now.”
She smoothed her pants and rose. “I understand you had to ask the questions. It’s just painful to hear them. I’ll get those journal entries for you.”
After she left the room, Preach got a cup of coffee and considered the conversation. The information about Claire was troubling, especially combined with the argument on the night David disappeared. Had something set him off in recent weeks ? Was the English teacher telling the truth about their relationship?
He needed to know more about David’s life. Earlier, he had taken a look at his Facebook page and found nothing of interest to the case, but he decided to pore over it again.
He needed those phone records. He needed to talk to his friends.
Except for the last interview of the day, the rest of the teachers proved unhelpful. Everyone reiterated the common theme: great kid, easy to teach, smart, didn’t open up in class. Eyebrows rose when he mentioned Lisa Waverly and the Facebook post, though no one could point to any inappropriate contact between the two. As the day went on, he compiled a list of David’s best friends and planned to compare it to Claire’s list.
The last interview was with Bill Simpson, the Driver’s Ed teacher and head football coach. Though he had never met the man before, as soon as Coach Simpson swept imperiously into the room, Preach felt as if he already knew him: the polyester slacks and crinkled green windbreaker; the thick fingers and heavy brow and thinning hair; the slabs of muscle hidden beneath a layer of middle-aged fat; the cocksure swagger of someone who believes he has the most important job in town.
“Joe Everson, huh?” Coach Simpson said, after a pissing contest disguised as a handshake. Preach found a perverse, juvenile pleasure in having a firmer grip than the coach. “You wrestled back in the day, didn’t you? When Ray Logan was coaching?”
“I did.”
“Helluva coach.”
“The best.”
“Took state your junior year, didn’t you?”
“Second place.”
“What happened the next year? You get injured?”
“Something like that.”
Coach Simpson grunted, and his expression soured. “It’s terrible what happened, just terrible. Y’all got any idea who did this ?”
“We’re working on it. What can you tell me about David?”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of kid was he ?”
“On the field, tough as nails. He wasn’t the best athlete I’ve ever had, to be honest. Good enough to start, maybe all-district this year, but he wasn’t going D-1 or anything.” He shook his head. “But that boy could take a hit. You can’t teach that. He didn’t back down from anyone. Had a decent arm, too, but his leadership got him the job. The other kids followed him without question.”
“Why do you think that was ?”
He spread his hands. “Who’s to say why some men are born to lead and others are born to follow?”
“Some were born not to do either,” Preach said.
Coach Simpson didn’t respond. Preach could tell he didn’t think much of the comment.
“What about off the field?” Preach continued.
The coach shrugged as if the question was meaningless. “Good grades. Stayed out of trouble.”
“Someone told me about the fight at practice.”
“What?” the coach said.
“I heard David came home with a black eye after practice one day.” The coach sniffed and swiped his hand across his nose. “There might have been a fight. But it didn’t happen at practice. I would have known.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
The coach frowned into his chest. “Been a few weeks, at least. Maybe a month. Best I can remember, David came to practice one day with a black eye, and one of my assistants pointed it out. I asked David what happened, and he told me he got it playing basketball in his neighborhood.”
“Did you believe him?”
Another shrug. “Why not ? It happens.”
“As I said, he was well liked. Anyone had a beef with David on or off the field, the whole team would be behind him.” He wagged a finger. “I’ll tell you, though, there’s one bad apple that lurks around school after hours. Nathan Wilkinson. Word among the kids is he runs a pissant little gang. Come to think of it, I did see him having words with David after practice once. He’d never try anything around all the guys, which is why I never gave it a second thought. But yeah, he might have had it out for him.”
“Any idea why?”
“Probably a girl, right? That’s what kids fight about. Or maybe he was just bitter he didn’t play ball. Who isn’t jealous of the QB?”
“Nathan is a student ?”
“Yeah, but he got suspended a few days ago. Too many skips, I think.”
Preach made a note of the kid’s name and stood. “I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime, champ. See you at a game sometime? We could use the support.”
“You never know.”
9
“Update me” Chief Higgins said later that day, after Preach walked into her office and collapsed into a chair.
As the chief sipped her herbal tea and murmured little mm-hmms of acknowledgment, watching him with that tough-love gaze of hers, peach cobbler with a cast-iron crust, he told her what he had learned over the last two days.
“You don’t have enough to subpoena Brett’s phone” Chief Higgins said. “You know that.”
Preach fiddled with an hourglass paperweight on her desk. If this were Atlanta, they would find enough. But this wasn’t the big city. Paperwork wasn’t as easy to push through the system.
“One tiny link,” she said, “and the judge will play ball. But we need something. A person’s got a right not to turn over their phone.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“How about what was on David’s phone ?”
Preach sat up. “The records are here ?”
“They will be day after tomorrow. We just got word.”
He resumed fiddling with the paperweight, watching the inexorable passage of the sand, wondering what stage of life the constricted portion of the hourglass represented.
“Do you believe her?” the chief asked quietly. “Claire?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve read the journal entry his teacher mentioned, and there’s nothing in there beyond what she said. The kid harbored some resentment toward his mom, and yeah, maybe she slept around some back in the day. We haven’t heard her side of it, and nothing I’ve heard makes me think she’s lying.”
“She’s still the last one to see him alive. After an argument.”
He shook his head. “Not the last.”
The chief held his gaze for a moment, calmly took another sip of tea, and said, “Does he remind you of you?”
He looked up. “Who?”
“The boy. David.”
“Oh.”
“You seem awful thoughtful on this case.”
“Ari calls it brooding.”
The chief snorted.
“I didn’t play football, you know. Everyone seems to think I did.” “It’s a funny thing, to look back at ourselves,” the chief said. “Wondering what we could have done different, who we might have been.”
“I prefer not to ponder that particular version of myself”
She cupped her ceramic mug in her hands. “Maybe it would help the case if you did.”
“Why? From everything I’m hearing, David and I were nothing alike. He seemed like a great kid. Good student, kind, thoughtful. I was . . . none of those things.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with an enigmatic smile.
He glanced to the side, annoyed. “Listen, what do you know about Nathan Wilkinson?”
“He’s been in and out of juvie a few times. His daddy used to work at the county prison, before he ended up on the other side of the bars.” “What for?”
“Taking bribes.”
“The football coach said Nate might be involved with a local gang. There’s no one on my radar locally, except for Los Viburos. And they don’t take white kids. Anything else you know of ?”
“Nope, but you should ask the troops.”
“What about the kid’s mom? Any idea what she does ?”
“Waits on food stamps and welfare checks, most likely. She depended on her husband, from what I remember, and they lived in the Carroll Street trailer park even then. Dunno if the kid and his mom still do.”
“I’ll check it out later. That’s the park by the water tower ?”
“Yep.”
He whistled. “Tough place to grow up.”
“Yep.”
Later that day, Preach stepped out of his car under a bottomless blue sky, greeted by the rustle of dry leaves as an army of Latino gardeners raked the yard across the street from Claire’s house. He breathed fall in through his nose and tasted it in his mouth, the dying of the land and the coming of the frost, sage and pumpkin and chili, damp and decay and wood smoke.
Brett’s car was nowhere in sight. Claire met him at the door wrapped in a gray shawl, hair loose and framing her face. She had applied a touch of eye shadow and lavender lipstick.
“Hi” she said, with a melancholy smile.
“Is it a bad time?”
She moved aside. “Come on in. Are you just checking on me, or do you need something?”
“Mostly the former,” he said, taking off his coat. “But I was wondering if I might take a look at David’s emails ?”
“Of course.” Her eyes widened. “Something I should know about ?”
“Just covering all the bases.”
She led Preach to a spare bedroom with flowery wallpaper. A bay window overlooked a leafy side yard. After booting up the family computer, a MacBook Pro, she pulled up David’s Gmail.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Just let me know. I’ll be on the couch when you’re done.”
“Okay.”
Her fragrance lingered after she left, a floral and vanilla scent that brought back a sharp sensual memory. Had she worn the same perfume since high school, he wondered?
Annoyed by the distraction, he pored through the last few months of David’s emails, accepting Claire’s offer of coffee as the hours ticked by. He quickly learned that David’s generation, or at least David, was not big on email. His Instagram and Snapchat pages had far more activity. Most of the emails pertained to college football recruitment, online shopping, and every so often, an exchange with his father that was notable for how impersonal it was.
After checking the Deleted and Sent folders, satisfied he had seen all there was to see, Preach closed the laptop and sat for a minute, thoughtful. He looked around the room and noticed the built-in bookshelves, brown suede loveseat, desk made of reclaimed wood, and a Persian rug that looked expensive.
Even without the pricey furnishings, how much did a house like this cost in Wild Oaks ? Five hundred Gs ? Six?
He couldn’t help wondering how Claire could afford it.
When he returned to the living room, he found her on the couch in front of the gas fire. Beneath the shawl, she wore a pair of black leggings that accentuated her long legs. She set a glass of wine on the coffee table and patted the sofa. “Sit.”
He obliged. “I’ve just got a few minutes.”
“I’ll take what I can get.” A wan smile made a brief appearance and then vanished. “Sometimes I can’t stand the thought of being alone. Other times I just want to curl up by myself and die.”
“Maybe I should stay and make sure that doesn’t happen,” he said, as a joke.
“Maybe you should.”
After a moment, he said, “Is Brett coming over tonight?”
“I’m sure he will,” she said without emotion.
“Claire, I don’t mean to pry, but were you and D
avid okay? Were there any major arguments recently, besides the night he disappeared? I’m just trying to get a handle on his emotional state.”
She reached for her wine and seemed to sink deeper into the sofa. “I take it you’ve never raised a child?”
“No.”
“Parenting is the hardest thing in the world. At least, trying to do it right is. We mothers always receive the brunt of our child’s emotions—the ups and downs, the joys and fears and frustration— but when you’re a single parent, you get it all. All those normal roller coaster teenage emotions, all the daily stress. Add to that the pain of a child whose father doesn’t love him, and . . . it can be overwhelming.”
“You don’t think his father loved him?”
She sighed. “When his father left, David spiraled. It grew even worse when he remarried, moved to Richmond, and wanted nothing to do with us. Do you see him here ? In response to Brett’s text, he asked when the funeral would be.”
“And when is it ?” he asked gently.
“Wednesday.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Will you stop by? I could use the support.”
“Sure.”
“You were always such a good listener.”
“Was I ? I don’t think of myself as doing much listening in those days.”
“Look at us now. Are you involved with anyone ?”
“I am. She’s great. An attorney in Durham.”
“An attorney.” Claire studied her wine, then slowly looked up at him. “Did you ever wonder what might have been? If we had actually gone out?”
“You mean if you’d given me the time of day?”
She opened her mouth in mock surprise. “Is that how you saw it ?” “That’s how it was.”
A long strand of hair had fallen into her face, and she eased it away. “You know what they say about missing what’s right in front of your face.” She took a long drink of wine, and he started to feel uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He realized he had been subconsciously leaning closer to her, and he straightened against the back of the couch.
“Claire, I need to ask you something. It’s about Lisa Waverly.”