by Paula Stokes
“Genius,” I say sarcastically. “Too bad my best pal wasn’t hooking up with my girlfriend.” I hold my face rigid, unblinking. “Just because they went to homecoming together doesn’t mean anything. Your lame revenge theory doesn’t work because Parvati and Preston were never more than friends.”
“No?” Something in the way Gonzalez utters that single syllable makes me hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. He opens a manila envelope. Glossy pictures slide out onto the table. Pictures of Preston and Parvati. The top one is of the two of them kissing. They’re sitting at the edge of Preston’s pool. Parvati has a towel wrapped around her shoulders. The image stings a little, but it isn’t a betrayal. I know exactly what day it’s from. Preston’s New Year’s Eve party, junior year, the night Parvati and I met.
I spent most of the evening swilling free beer and wandering around the DeWitts’ cavernous mansion, checking out the Bristol Academy chicks from a distance. They were richer than most of the girls from Vista P, but other than that they were the same: tight dresses, lots of makeup, too much drama. I almost left early, bored by the usual bullshit. I was halfway out the door when I saw a shadow in the DeWitts’ in-ground swimming pool. It was a cold night for Southern California—definitely not swimming weather—so I ducked out onto the deck to make sure no one was drowning.
A girl’s lithe form moved beneath the wind-rippled water. Her dress flared up and exposed her slender thighs with each stroke. She finished her lap and then popped above the surface. “Hi.” She dipped her head backward into the pool so that her long dark hair stayed slicked back out of her face.
“Are you okay?” I was pretty sure she wasn’t okay. She was swimming in what was probably an expensive dress, and even though her teeth were chattering, she showed no signs of getting out of the water.
Instead of answering, she flipped onto her back and did a lap of backstroke. Her hair streamed out around her in a thick ebony halo as she glided across the pool. She looked otherworldly, like a ghost or a hot alien chick. She hit the far wall, did a graceful flip beneath the surface, and headed back toward me. Her arms barely made a splash as she cut the water with them repeatedly. When she got to the side, she saw me hovering above her and stopped again. “You’re still here,” she said.
“I’m enjoying the show,” I admitted.
She stared at me for a long moment. “You don’t belong here.”
“Why? Because I’m not rich?” A note of defensiveness crept into my voice.
She twirled her body in another back flip and then came up treading water. “No, silly. Because Preston’s friends are all sheep.”
“Aren’t you one of Preston’s friends?”
“Sometimes I think I’m the worst sheep of all,” she said, her eyes dropping to the water for a second. Her olive skin was starting to look a little blue.
She didn’t look like a sheep to me. The sheep were inside getting drunk and acting stupid. “Are you going to come out of there anytime soon?” I asked. “I could get you a towel.”
Her teeth chattered again and she ducked low so that everything but her face was submerged. “Do you know that SEALs have to stay in the cold water in their clothes for more than twenty-four hours? It’s part of their training.”
“I didn’t know seals wore clothes,” I said. Maybe hypothermia was already setting in.
“Navy SEALs, silly.” She laughed, and for the briefest moment I debated jumping in next to her. “My dad’s friend was a Navy SEAL. He’s teaching me to be hard core.”
That was twice she had called me silly, but for some reason I didn’t mind. “I think it would be hard core if you got out of the pool.” Not to mention how hot she’d look shivering in her clingy little dress.
Her dark eyes widened. “So cute. You just met me and already you’re worried.” She took in my unkempt hair and casual clothes. “Are you one of those hippies? Philosophically opposed to the military?”
“I’m philosophically opposed to hot chicks freezing to death.” It wasn’t the kind of thing I usually said to girls. I didn’t usually say anything at all. I just stayed in my own world and hung out with the occasional cute girl who hit on me.
She smiled. “I need to finish my laps, but I promise I’ll get out before I die, okay?”
I knew a blow-off when I heard one, so I left her even though a huge part of me wanted to stay. Instead, I found Preston inside and told him a crazy chick was doing SEAL training in his pool. “That’s just Parv,” he said. “She’s a freak.”
I didn’t tell Preston that I kind of liked her. I didn’t even admit it to myself until the next time I saw her, three months later, when she showed up in my English class.
Gonzalez rattles the photograph under my nose. “Where’d you go, kid?”
“Nice try,” I say, reluctantly letting go of the memory. “That’s from New Year’s Eve. Everyone kisses on New Year’s Eve—it doesn’t mean anything. And I didn’t even know her back then.”
“So you’re saying Preston and Ms. Amos were never an item?” Gonzalez asks.
“No. They were not.”
“Check out the rest of them,” he says.
“I don’t need to,” I say. “I don’t care what kind of bullshit you think you have on my girlfriend. She wouldn’t lie to me.”
“It’s not bullshit. We like to call it motive.” He flips to the next photograph.
My eyes betray me. It’s Parvati and Preston in his bedroom.
In his bed.
They look like they’re sleeping. He’s lying on his back; she’s curled on her side, her head resting against his chest. The covers conceal their bodies, except for one of Parvati’s bare arms.
A fist tightens in my stomach. “That doesn’t prove anything,” I say, but my voice wavers and I hate myself for having doubts. We made them together freshman year—razor-bladed out a square in the middle of the pages. It was my idea . . . What else had they done together alone in Preston’s bedroom?
The next photo answers my question. I train my eyes on my lap, but not before I catch a glimpse of Parvati on top of Preston. Long silky hair obscures her naked breasts. The photo tech has blurred out part of the image, but it’s still obvious what’s going on. “Where did you get these?” I ask. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. From Preston’s hard drive. These are stills made from the videos. Of course if he has videos of Parvati and me, he has some of the two of them also. Preston and his obsessive fucking recording of everyone. “So they were together at some point,” I whisper. “That doesn’t mean she cheated on me.”
It just means that both Preston and Parvati had lied to me about fifty times.
“And then there’s this one,” Gonzalez says. “Looks like they’ve been pretty close for a while.”
I can’t help it; I look. Then I bite back a gasp. It’s Parv and Pres going at it again, but the room looks like a dorm room and Parvati looks like she’s about fifteen. It has to be from Bristol Academy, which means not only have Preston and Parvati hooked up and lied about it, they’ve hooked up for years. Gonzalez fans a few more photos out on the table and then reclines back in his chair.
My fingers are shaking. I want to kill everyone. I imagine leaping over the table and wrapping my hands around Gonzalez’s throat. “Her hair is l-long in all these pictures,” I stutter. “She cut it at the end of summer, soon after we started dating. Unless you have some photos where she has shorter hair, then you don’t have any proof they hooked up after Parvati and I were together.”
But Gonzalez can see that he’s getting to me. He abruptly switches tactics. “Where’s your car?”
Jeez, they didn’t even find my car? I figured they would have combed the woods all around the Colonel’s cabin. What a bunch of morons. I shrug.
“What is Preston’s connection to Violet Cain?” Gonzalez asks. “We found the hard drive with her pictures. We know you two searched for her online.”
“I told you that already,” I say.
“The last time you questioned me. Preston said she was some chick he met on the internet.”
“Did you know she was twice his age?”
“Not until we found her profile.” We. Me and Parvati. I can’t keep myself from looking at the pictures spread across the table, at the seductive smile on Parvati’s face. At her hair. Her legs. At the way she’s positioned on Preston in a manner that makes it seem like they’ve spent a lot of time naked together. If they lied about having a relationship, God only knows what else they lied about.
“Is it Violet Cain’s body?” Gonzalez asks.
Did he say body? I look away from the photos. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. The firefighters pulled two bodies out of the house, burned almost beyond recognition. One of them was a woman. Was it Violet Cain?”
Wait. Did he say two bodies?
“Don’t answer that.” Kathleen puts a hand on my arm. I almost forgot she was in the room.
I remember the certainty in my gut as I raced toward the flaming house. Preston was in there. I could feel it.
“You found bodies?” My voice raises in pitch. “Dead bodies?” The room goes fuzzy. This isn’t happening. It can’t be.
“Give it up,” Gonzalez says. “There’s no point in lying.”
“What bodies?” I ask.
“Two bodies,” McGhee repeats slowly. “The body of Preston DeWitt, and an as-of-yet-unidentified female.”
My mind is spinning like a hamster wheel. If someone kidnapped Preston because of something political or because he owed them money, there would be no point in killing him.
“Preston can’t be dead,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Max,” McGhee says. “His father made a positive identification.”
It takes a few seconds to sink in. Then I double over, my hands clutching at my gut as I feel stomach acid burning its way up my throat. My lawyer thrusts a trash can beneath my chin just in time. I throw up for so long my stomach practically turns itself inside out. I hang my head low for a few minutes afterward. A strand of saliva drips from the left corner of my mouth. Preston. Dead. Burned to death. All I can think about is how he might be alive right now if I hadn’t lied for him.
“Is this yours?” Gonzalez asks.
I have to force myself to look up. Gonzo tosses a ziplock bag in my direction. Son of a bitch. My shark’s tooth pendant is inside, blackened from the smoke but not destroyed. I don’t know why I’m surprised. One more nail in my coffin. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and then bend over the trash can again.
“We have no comment,” Kathleen snaps. “I think we’re done here for now.”
“It doesn’t matter, Max,” Gonzalez says. “The forensics report on this and everything else from the fire will be back in a few days, and it’s going to link you—irrefutably—to Violet Cain’s house. And when it does, we’re charging you with arson . . . and murder.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I LEAN BACK AGAINST THE wall of my cell and let my eyes fall shut. Tears push at my eyelids. It was bad enough when Preston was missing and someone was trying to set me up. But now Pres is dead and Parvati is a liar and maybe a cheater too. I have never felt so alone in my whole life, not even back when I was homeless. At least then I knew I was the only person I could count on. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost was completely full of shit.
I haven’t seen Parvati, and I don’t expect to. After they were done grilling me, McGhee and Gonzalez informed me she was charged with aiding and abetting and then promptly bailed out by her parents, who filed a restraining order against me on her behalf. I don’t even care anymore. I’m glad she’s not here. I wouldn’t be able to look her in the face without thinking about those pictures of her and Preston.
She probably thinks she did me a favor by lying, that if I knew she and Pres had been together for years I’d be jealous all the time. But she had to know I would find out eventually. Unless she thinks I’m a complete idiot. She does tend to think most people are stupid. Preston is like that too.
I mean he was like that.
I should be pissed at him, too, for lying and for making those video recordings, but I just feel hollow. I kind of understand why he lied to me. To admit he liked her—that they used to be a couple—would be like admitting she preferred me to him. Preston was never any good at losing.
Also, it’s hard to be mad at a dead guy.
My lawyer stops by to read me the riot act about talking to the feds in exchange for information about Parvati. She stands on the other side of the bars, ignoring the guy in the cell across from me who is hooting and making rude gestures with his fingers and tongue.
“Do you want to go to maximum security prison for life?” she asks, flipping Hooting Guy the bird without even turning around. “If not, you’d better start listening to me.”
“How can they charge me with Preston’s murder? I’m innocent.”
“Prosecutors charge innocent people with murder all the time.” Kathleen plucks a piece of lint off the collar of her suit. “But remember, right now you’ve only been arraigned on obstruction, flight, and assault charges.”
“Oh, is that all?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Can you get rid of the assault charge? It’s not like I was really going to shoot anybody.”
“Any time you threaten someone with bodily harm, it’s assault,” she says. “You would have gotten charged with felony theft, too, but your girlfriend admitted that she took the car and gave you her dad’s gun.”
“Great.” I sigh. I had actually managed not to think about Parvati for two whole minutes, but the images of her and Pres come rushing back.
“At least I got you bail,” Kathleen says hopefully, like she’s trying to cheer me up. “I had to reference a ton of precedents to get that.”
“It’s not like I’m going to get out of here, anyway. My parents don’t have that kind of money.”
“They only have to come up with ten percent of it and a bail bondsman will get you out.”
“Oh, only twenty grand?” I cross my arms. “Still not happening.”
Her demeanor softens. “Look, Max. We’ll talk privately later about everything that happened during the questioning, okay? We’re going to need to come up with a plan of action regarding the pictures and the shark’s tooth.”
I nod, even though I have no idea what the two of us could possibly come up with to explain away a motive for murder and physical evidence linking me to the fire.
TWENTY-FIVE
“CANTRELL.” THE UNIFORMED GUARD SAYS my name uncertainly.
“What?” I ask. I’m sitting on my cot, my back leaning against the cinder-block wall. I’ve spent the last few hours trying to puzzle through everything that’s happened. “Another visitor?” Darla has been here twice, a brave face and red eyes both times. I don’t think I can handle seeing her again today.
“You’re out.” The guard slips a key into the lock on my cell. The door slides open with a soft scratching sound.
“Out of what?” Luck? Time? “What are you talking about?”
“You made bail. Hurry it up. We got a line for this cell.”
“My parents are here?” I can’t help but think it’s some twisted joke thought up by Gonzalez to break me down even further. Like they’re going to let me get all the way to the front door and then tackle me and say they made a mistake.
“No. Some guy who says he’s your uncle.”
I pause for a second. Both Darla and Ben have brothers, but they live in different states, and I don’t think either one of them would have twenty grand to spend on some kid they barely know. Still, I guess anything is possible.
The guard rattles his keys. “You sure don’t seem anxious to leave. You and Clemens here bonding?”
Clemens is the guy in the cell across from me who made the lewd gestures at my lawyer.
“I’m coming,” I mutter.
The guard directs me toward a desk where a woman in uniform pulls out a handful of
forms.
“Sign these,” she says crisply. She hands me a pen and turns back to her computer screen, where she’s in the process of buying what looks like a throw pillow shaped like a Doberman.
I scribble my name on a pink form and a yellow form, not even really paying attention to what they say. Something about being treated humanely and having all of my belongings returned to me. The woman picks up her phone and barks something into the receiver about my stuff. Another uniformed officer brings up a clear plastic bag with my wallet, my keys, and the prepaid cell phone I bought in Eagle’s Pass. I’m surprised they’re not keeping the phone as evidence, but I guess they can always subpoena the call records from the service provider.
I shove the stuff in my pocket and turn toward the door. There’s only one guy standing in the lobby, and he sure as hell isn’t my uncle. Not unless my uncle is black.
“Hello, Max,” the man says.
Go figure. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but if we’ve met before, I don’t remember it. “What’s up, Uncle?” I say. “Thanks for springing me.” The late-afternoon sun slams me in the face as I glide past him through the exit. I raise a hand up to block out the abrasive light so that I can make my way down the concrete steps in front of the police station.
A handful of people are waiting for a bus. One by one, they turn around to look at me with blank, cold faces. I wonder if they know about Preston’s death already. Maybe the whole town thinks I’m guilty.
“Need a ride?” my fake uncle asks. He smoothes the lapels of what looks like a very expensive pinstriped suit.
I’m tempted to tell him I’d rather walk, but then my curiosity gets the best of me. “Who are you?” I ask. “And why the hell did you post my bail?”