by April Henry
“I didn’t realize you and Tori were that close.” It’s Charlie. He’s wearing a too-big black suit plus a white shirt and black tie. He looks like a Mormon missionary.
“What do you mean?” I’m hoping my shriek wasn’t as loud as it sounded. At least the crowd in the parking lot has thinned out.
Charlie reaches out and wipes his index finger over my right cheek. “You’re crying.”
I flinch at his touch. My eye must still be watering, even though the headache has now faded into the background.
“Oh, now you don’t want me touching you.” He presses his lips together into a thin line, opening them long enough to add, “But it’s okay if you kiss me in front of your grandpa. And then tell him we’d been studying in the laundry room. In a way that made him think we were doing a lot more than that.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he cornered me the next day and told me to stay away from you. He said you had issues.”
I freeze. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. He didn’t give me a chance to. Trust me, this was definitely a one-way conversation.” Charlie’s voice sounds strangled. “What are you doing, Adele? Lying about me and”—he looks at his feet—“kissing me? You did that as soon as your grandpa opened the front door. The principle of Occam’s razor says the simplest possible explanation is the true one. So I figure you must have been doing something you didn’t want your grandpa to know about. And you distracted him by kissing me.”
I wait for him to add something about me kissing Luke at the party, but he doesn’t. Mentally, I cross my fingers and hope he never finds out.
“I just didn’t need my grandpa grilling me about where I was.” I’m not going to tell Charlie I was worried Grandpa might figure out I was off my meds.
“What about me? Didn’t you think about how what you did might affect me?”
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t have much time to think.” I sigh. “I’ll tell my grandpa we’re not spending time together anymore.”
“With my luck, he’ll think you’re lying.” He runs his finger around his neck as if his tie is strangling him. Thinking of the mark around Tori’s neck, I shiver.
“Back in grade school, Tori and I were best friends.” I blow air through pursed lips. “That was obviously a long time ago. So why are you here?” I ask Charlie. I really want to know, but I also want to change the subject. “Were you friends with Tori?”
“You obviously weren’t, or you would know not to ask me that. Tori used to call me Pencil, because I’m skinny.” He darts a glance at me, and whatever he sees there makes him relent. “My uncle’s a homicide detective. That’s what I want to be, too. My dad keeps saying engineers or doctors make more money. But being a detective is like solving the world’s most interesting puzzles.” With one thumb, he points back at the building. “My uncle’s checking out who came to the viewing, just like he and the other cops talked to everyone who was at Tori’s party. I told him I would come and keep my eyes and ears open.” He looks at me and then away. “He thinks I have more friends at school than I really do.”
“I’ve been thinking about Tori a lot since the murder. Trying to figure out who might have done it.” I look at Charlie. “So if you were the detective on this case, if you were trying to figure out who killed Tori, what would you do?”
“The first thing is to look at everything about her. It’s called victimology.” He ticks off a list on his fingers. “Tori’s personality, her habits. Her bad habits. Her family, her friends, her boyfriend or boyfriends, what kind of student she was. Whether she had some kind of hidden life that put her in danger.”
A shiver dances across my skin as I imagine someone pawing through all my secrets. “That’s not fair. Why should it be about her? She’s the one who was killed. She’s the victim! It’s like you’re saying it’s all her fault.”
He shrugs, impassive. “The killer did choose Tori, not someone else. The cops also need to figure out where she was killed. Was it at her house, Gabriel Park, or someplace else?”
“But Tori left the party. So it can’t have been at the house.”
He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “So someone saw her go?”
“Petra told me she tried to find Tori and couldn’t.”
“That’s not the same thing as being sure she left on her own. Maybe someone killed her and then hid the body in the house or a car until after the party broke up. They’ll be looking for signs of a struggle at her house in case she was taken from there or killed there.”
“It was a big party, and the house was already pretty trashed when I left. Maybe they won’t ever be able to tell.” I decide not to mention Tori’s dad getting so angry.
Charlie’s eyes go wide. “Wait—you were there?”
“Tori invited me.”
“No offense, but why? You guys weren’t friends.”
“We actually were friends in grade school. Best friends, in fact. Which is why I want them to catch whoever killed her.”
“If she was killed someplace else and then brought to the park, someone would have to carry her body several hundred feet from the parking lot to where it was found. Even though she’s not that big, it might be hard to carry her all that way.”
I think of how far I had to walk after I left Tori and try to imagine traveling the same distance with her body sagging in my arms. It would be a long trek. “Why would they have buried her in Gabriel Park?”
“It’s not like there are a lot of great places to hide a body in our neighborhood. I mean where’re you going to put it that it’s not going to be found? Bodies are big and they decay. You obviously wouldn’t want to put it in your own yard. Put it in a dumpster, and the next homeless guy looking for bottles will find it. Burying it in the wooded part of the park at least upped the chances it might not be found.”
And Tori might still be lying there, slowly decomposing, if she hadn’t called to me.
I repeat a phrase from the crime shows my grandpa’s always watching. “What about motive, means, and opportunity?”
“That’s related to victimology. They’ll look at who might want Tori dead and why. Who had the opportunity to kill her without being observed. And the means would just be having the gun or the knife or whatever it was that killed her.”
Without thinking, I say, “She was strangled.”
Charlie’s gaze sharpens. “How do you know that?”
Crap. I can’t come up with anything better than “That’s just what I heard.”
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1:47 P.M.
THE ULTIMATE PRICE
When I walk into the school auditorium the next afternoon for the funeral, Tori’s closed casket has been moved to the left of the stage. An empty podium now stands in the middle. Behind it, Tori’s parents and a man with a white collar sit on folding chairs. On the back of the stage, photos flash on a white screen, accompanied by recorded classical music. To the right, our school’s choir, dressed in wine-colored robes, waits on risers. Below the stage are three huge floral displays made only of white flowers.
Tori’s stretched out on top of her casket, lying on her side. Her head’s propped up on one hand. Her top leg rests in front of the bottom one, exaggerating the curve of her hip. She looks like she belongs in some old movie, like she’s a sexy lounge singer on top of a grand piano, one who’s about to start crooning in a smoky voice.
I can tell by her face that she knows exactly how she looks and that she’s chosen her position on purpose. Even if there’s only one person in her audience.
She gives me a little waggle of the fingers.
I don’t want to, but I smile. I can’t help it. Tori’s always been over the top, and being dead hasn’t changed that at all.
But then in the rows of seats between us I spot Aspen elbowing Petra and pointing at me. They’re both looking at me like I’m a sick freak. I turn my head.
The auditorium is already near capacity. Squeezing past a
microphone set up in the aisle, I take one of the last seats. Strangers are on either side. On my left is an old man, and on the right is a young mom with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest. I look for Luke and find him in the front row. Detective Geiger and Detective Lauderdale, Charlie’s uncle, are scanning the crowd, eyes alert and faces tired. Charlie himself is sitting toward the front but turned so that he can also survey the crowd. When he sees me, he nods. Later this afternoon, after the funeral, he’s agreed to compare notes.
On the screen, an infant Tori, dressed in a white dress and a headband bow, lies on her back in a crib. Next a ten-year-old Tori, in helmet and jodhpurs, rides a black horse with four white stockings. That’s followed by a preteen Tori in a ballet recital, wearing a costume made mostly of feathers.
“Why did my mom have to use that picture?” Tori rolls her eyes. “I look ridiculous.” She sits up. Her bare legs dangle off the edge of the casket. “So what have you learned?”
Under my coat, I’m wearing a black dress topped by a black-and-gray infinity scarf. I chose it because when I dip my chin it covers the lower part of my face. Pressing my hands together as if praying, I drop my head. In a whisper softer than a sigh, I say, “Nothing so far. Not really.”
She snorts. “You’re a terrible liar, Adele. I can tell you heard something.”
I don’t want to, but what choice do I have? “Petra said your dad came back early that night. And he was really mad about the party. Could he have—”
“No.” Her voice strengthens. “No!”
I make myself whisper the truth. “You were always a little afraid of him.”
“But he’s my dad.” Tori forces a laugh. “My dad.”
“Did he ever hurt you?” The headache has slid back into the space behind my right eye, like it never left.
“No.” Tori hesitates. “Not really. I mean, he never leaves bruises.”
An icy finger traces my spine. “What does that even mean?”
“He’s pushed me a few times when I made him mad. Once he grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go to a party.” She shakes her head decisively. “But he was just watching out for me.”
“Okay,” I say, although I’m not really letting it drop.
All the seats are taken now. People line up against the walls. Even then there isn’t enough space. Out in the hall, people are being directed to the cafeteria, told they will be able to watch the service on TV monitors. For a second, it’s tempting to go with them, to just watch the funeral and not be able to see Tori at all.
I stay put.
The choir launches into a hymn, and everyone quiets down. For once there isn’t a single false note. Then the pastor comes to the podium. He introduces himself, recites a short prayer, and then starts talking about Tori, enumerating her virtues. I don’t see him looking down, but it sounds like he’s reading from a piece of paper. And like he never met her.
“Blah, blah, blah,” Tori says from her perch on the coffin. Even though the pastor has a microphone, to my ears her voice is much clearer. “How long is he going to go on like that? If I had ever thought about how I wanted my funeral to be—which I never, ever have—it wouldn’t have been like this.” Her tone is mocking, but her expression betrays her. “I’d rather have a big party.”
I don’t point out that her last big party didn’t turn out so well.
“Look around the room,” the pastor commands. “I want you to notice how many people Tori managed to touch in just seventeen years.”
At the word touch, Tori snorts. “I thought that was my little secret.”
The pastor continues to talk about Tori, to remind us how short our lives are, but Tori and I only pay attention to each other.
“Laquanda said that after Luke left, you were dirty dancing with Ethan,” I whisper.
“What? No, I wasn’t! She’s lying.” But I hear doubt in her voice.
“That could have made Jazzmin or even Ethan really mad.” My fingers rub a circle on my temple, pressing hard, trying to counteract the pain.
“It was a party! That’s the kind of thing that happens at parties. So those are your big revelations? Ethan? Jazzmin?” She snorts. “My dad?”
“Have you thought more about Mr. Conner?” I venture, still careful to make only the faintest of sounds.
Tori makes a face. “Drunk or sober, I’d never go anyplace with that creepy guy.” She takes a long breath. “But you might be right about why I can’t remember what happened that night. It’s true I’ve lost track a few times when I’ve been drinking. Like someone turned off the lights and everyone moved into a different place and then someone flicks the switch back on again.” She snaps her fingers. “It feels like that, even though sometimes a whole night’s gone.”
“Why didn’t you stop drinking, then?”
“It’s like walking up to the edge of a railing. Haven’t you ever wanted to throw yourself over? You’re free, you’re falling, you have no control. You can just let go.”
Wasn’t that what I had wanted that night when I chugged those beers? And look how it turned out. “Until you go splat.” The words, which are meant mostly for myself, sound harsh when they come out of my mouth.
Tori’s eyes narrow, her expression hardening. “At least I’m living! At least I’m doing things.” Her face crumples as she realizes her need to lose control has cost her everything. “I mean, I was.” All traces of sassy Tori are gone.
Tori’s paid the ultimate price for her mistakes. And it seems unlikely she will ever regain her memories of what happened that night.
“I’ve been talking to Charlie Lauderdale.” When she looks blank, I add, “Pencil.”
Her brow furrows. “What would he know?”
“His uncle’s one of the detectives working the case.”
She tilts her head. “What did he say?”
“That it’s important for them to learn all your secrets.”
“What?” She crosses her arms. “That’s not fair. If they were secret, it’s for a good reason.”
“But a secret might have gotten you killed. If there’s something you think they might not know, tell me.”
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2:16 P.M.
THE BEATING OF A GIANT HEART
While the choir is singing “Amazing Grace,” Tori says, “Okay. You want to know my secrets? I have thought of one person who might have done it. Tom.”
Tom? I answer with a raised eyebrow.
“Thomas Hardy.”
Mr. Hardy? He’s our language arts student teacher. He’s always making jokes about his name, saying it all but guaranteed he’d work with words. Thomas Hardy is also the name of an English novelist who died, like, a hundred years ago.
Behind my scarf, I whisper, “But why would Mr. Hardy…”
Now it’s Tori who answers me with a raised eyebrow. But hers is accompanied by a shrug of one bare shoulder. Understanding dawns. I can’t believe either of them could be so stupid. “You were seeing him? What about Luke?”
The old man next to me glances over, and I realize I put a little too much force behind my whisper. I fake cough like I need to clear my throat.
“Tom’s not my boyfriend or anything. He’s just fun.”
“And you’re a minor.” My whisper is lighter than a sigh. “He could get—have gotten—in so much trouble!” No wonder he’s looked haggard all week.
Tori crosses her arms. “That’s why I’ve been thinking about him. You need to check him out. He wasn’t here yesterday, and he’s not here today. To be honest, I’m insulted.”
“You broke up with Luke just because I kissed him.” Tori seems to be implying she did much more with Mr. Hardy—and that it was her idea.
“But we would have gotten back together. We always get back together. Luke and me, we’re not that different. He understands me.”
Could Mr. Hardy really have done it? I imagine how it might have played out. After Tori found me with Luke and then kicked us both out, her ego must have been bruised. Accord
ing to Petra, she starting drinking even harder, acting like she was having a good time. According to Ms. Borka, the alcohol could have made stupid ideas seem like good ones. Without leaving any memories behind.
Maybe Tori called Mr. Hardy and he came over. Not to comfort her, as she had asked, but to tell her she had to shut up about them. To tell her she was risking everything. Not for her, but for him. If people found out, he’d definitely lose his job. And he’d never be able to be a teacher again. He might even go to prison.
I imagine Tori protesting, starting to cause a scene. And Mr. Hardy panicking.
I’ve seen him get into his car in the school parking lot. The first thing he does is take off the lanyard with his name tag and hang it from his rearview mirror. Could he have strangled her with the lanyard’s cloth cord? I imagine him looping it around Tori’s neck and pulling back. Her fingers clawing at her throat. His determined expression.
While I’m thinking, Mr. Rasmussen takes his turn at the microphone. “My daughter was an amazing girl,” he says. “She was strong and smart and sometimes sassy.”
“Sometimes,” Tori’s echo starts out mocking, but then breaks. She puts her hands over her face. Her shoulders shake as she begins to cry. My headache has grown to the point that I have to close one eye.
“My daughter was a force to be reckoned with,” Mr. Rasmussen continues. “And as for the person who killed her”—he pounds his fist on the podium—“I guarantee that person will be reckoning with that force”—pound—“not only for the remainder of their pathetic life”—pound—“but for the rest of eternity as they burn in hell.” My headache pulses in time with each blow, which is like the beating of a giant heart.
If Tori’s father is really the killer, how can he be so passionate? Or are his anger and tears fueled by guilt?
The auditorium smells close and faintly sweaty. All that air being pulled in and pushed out of hundreds of lungs, losing its oxygen.
Mrs. Rasmussen is able to say even less, the words gasped out between sobs. “If I … could have … Tori … back with me for … even one more day…”