Cara got into her car—a white Acura wagon only a few months older than her son. She drove carefully down the street, eyes straight ahead as she passed the girl’s mother’s Audi stopped at the curb. At the end of the block, she checked her rear view mirror. The Audi wasn’t following her—not that she’d expected it would.
Cara turned onto the first cross street, then again at the next intersection, continuing down a street nearly identical to her own, lined with cute little Tudors with stone facades and arched front doors. A neighborhood that had felt like an English village when she and Sean first moved here.
She stopped in front of the Patels’ house—having already described it to Miles with its above-ground pool and split rail fence.
Moments later, Miles’ friend dashed out from the bushes, holding the skirt to her maxi dress above her knees.
Cara pushed open the passenger door and the girl got in, breathless, jamming her large bag between her feet, telling Cara: “This is so cool of you.”
22.
The girl’s name was Jennifer. Cara liked her—and still envied her, but differently now than when she’d first seen her on Miles’ sofa. It wasn’t just her looks—the cute face, that silky hair, her impossible leanness—but the weightlessness of her youth.
Cara had been like that once, although doubted she’d enjoyed the experience as much as Jennifer appeared to. Because even now, what had the girl really done? What was this escape all about? Jennifer had lied to her mother about where she’d been. What life-altering path could that have possibly set in motion?
“You sure you’re okay taking me?” Jennifer asked, checking new posts and texts hitting her phone. “Because you can drop me anywhere and I’ll get an Uber.”
“I’m good,” Cara said.
“All right. Cool.”
“So what’s your plan once we get there?”
“I’ll text my mom…” Jennifer thumbed rapidly as she talked. “…tell her I’m fine and can either come home—which she’ll probably want me to do so she can go off on me. Or I’ll say I can go to Autee’s, which is where I’m supposed to be, and, who knows, maybe she’ll let me. Sometimes she tells me she needs cool-off time, which really means she doesn’t want to deal with anything. In which case I can go off on Autee about why the hell she mentioned I might be at Miles’—which I cannot believe she did. Unless her father threatened to sell her car, which he’s done before.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“BMW.”
“Must be nice,” Cara said, then, with Jennifer still texting, asked, “What about your father?”
“How’s that?”
“Your father? How’s he going to react to this?”
“He’s on a hunting trip—which I don’t even want to talk about. Him shooting ducks? My mom probably won’t tell him about me not being at Autee’s. This crazy shit that happened at my school’s another thing. He’ll be glad I wasn’t there. Mom will be too. She’s just pissed now because she can’t get hold of me and is worried.”
“Mothers do that,” Cara said. “Where are you going to say you’ve been?”
“A hot yoga class with a hot older guy—which is why I had to turn off my phone and forgot to turn it on when we came out.”
Cara thought that seemed like a viable lie. “So she’ll be worried more about the guy being older than you turning off your phone?”
“Exactly.”
“Does this pretend hot yoga guy have a name?”
“Peter,” Jennifer answered quickly.
“And how much older?”
“He goes to Georgetown...”
So not really older/older, Cara thought.
“…and is a biology major. Second year—no, third. Kind of an Evan Peters-Dave Franco mix.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“My mom won’t either, but it gives her something to Google.”
“Is this made-up guy better looking than Miles?” Cara asked.
Jennifer set down her phone, looked out at a passing car lights and lit storefronts, the streets of Bethesda’s bars and restaurants busy at midnight. “Miles is super cute.”
“Your mom doesn’t want you to be with him?”
“She’d freak. Well, obviously, as you saw.”
“She doesn’t like him?”
“She doesn’t know him. She just knows—I mean, do you know? About Florida?”
“What I’ve read. And what Miles’ father told me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s because of that.”
“She knows Miles was defending himself when it happened?”
“Well…there’s stuff that maybe he went too far and that’s why the guy died...”
“You obviously feel fine about him,” Cara said.
“Yep. He’s really worried about you, you know,” Jennifer said. “And feels really bad about your son.”
The mention of Ian tugged Cara from the fantasy of playing accomplice to a high-school girl lying to her mother.
Jennifer said, “He also thinks his dad’s in love with you.”
Cara was startled—and flattered—and after a moment said, “That’s probably not good.” It wasn’t how she really felt, but seemed like the right thing to say. “He is married after all.”
“Miles doesn’t think his mom’s coming back. He said you could move in with them and sell your house. That way you wouldn’t have to worry about money, and his dad would have someone to care for. He said his dad’s always been really good with girls—not cheating on his mother but being like a father to them.”
How sweet of Miles to feel that way, Cara thought.
#
Miles sat up as soon as he heard Cara Blakely’s car turn in her driveway. She’d been gone over an hour.
He watched her pull forward along the far side of her house until blocked from his view. When he heard a single door close, he assumed she was alone.
Moments later, a downstairs light came on inside Cara’s house, then went off—probably her turning on the light to cross the kitchen, then turning if off by the second switch near the archway into the dining room.
Another light came on—likely the hanging lamp over the stairs—then went off in about the time it would take Cara to walk up the steps. When her bedroom light came on, he saw her inside.
She came to the window and raised it, then bent down to rest her arms on the sill. She whispered, “Miles…?”
He shifted nearer his opened window. “I’m here.”
“I took Jennifer to Georgetown.” Cara sounded happy.
Miles had assumed Jennifer would want to go to Autee’s. No wonder it had taken Cara so long to return home. “Thanks.”
“I had a good time.”
They could have continued their conversation by phone, but Miles liked that their bedroom windows were so close they could talk while looking at one another.
Cara said, “I think Jennifer really likes you.”
“Yeah—I like her.”
“It’s terrible what happened at your school.”
“Yeah.”
“Jennifer says you know the boy who might die. She said he’s star of the football team.”
“Yeah.”
Cara said, “Well, I hope he’s okay.”
“Me, too.”
They looked at one another for a few minutes without speaking. Then Cara said, “Well…goodnight, Miles.”
“Goodnight, Ms. Blakely.”
He watched Cara lower her bedroom window, not all the way, but until it was six inches above the sill. After she drew shut the curtains, he watched her shadow as she pulled off her hoodie, her arms briefly over her head. Which reminded him of Amanda, who in turn reminded him of the man he killed—the angel and devil of his sleepless nights.
23.
Monday morning, Principal Davies stood center stage in the Kensington High auditorium, arms crossed, having cancelled first-period classes to conduct this assembly. He didn’t need a microphone or podium to project h
is ire.
The flesh below Davies’ eyes was puffy and shadowed from lack of sleep—the past two nights spent pacing. What had he done—what had he failed to do—that caused his students to act so badly, so horribly, in spite of his warnings?
And not just his students, but Coach Adams. The man had been specifically told to be careful about not repeating last year’s debacle against Germantown. Apparently, however, Adams did not understand the word “careful,” having proceeding to run up the score against an obviously lesser team. Which was why, as of half an hour ago, Bill Adams was no longer the coach of the football team and had been fired as one of the school’s history teachers.
Let the union file a grievance. Let them sue. Davies would happily play the videotape of the game, including the two times he’d sought out Adams on the sideline during the game, ordering him to remove his starters. Which Adams finally did, pulling them one at a time and to individual ovations. Which not only showed poor sportsmanship but was thumbing his nose at—if not giving the finger to—Davies’ authority.
“I expect,” Davies instructed his assembled students, “for everyone to give Liaison Alexander full cooperation.”
Greg Alexander, the county police officer assigned to Kensington High, stood alongside the troubled principal. Alexander’s actual rank in the department was corporal, but that title, along with his uniform, remained away from school grounds. His policeman’s attire had been replaced by khakis or jeans and a buttoned-down Oxford shirt intended to make him seem less authoritarian. The concept had seemed brilliant to the Board of Education/Police Department committee which created the idea—only it didn’t work. Dress the officer however you wanted, select him because he was the same approximate height and build of the average high school junior, and call him a liaison…the kids still thought of him as Five-O or Squeal, or whatever term for police was current.
Davies continued: “Everyone who was at the game Saturday night is to give Liaison Alexander a statement. Whatever you know, whatever you saw, whatever you have seen online, you tell him.”
Standing at the back of the auditorium, Debra Vance observed some kids shift uncomfortably, whispering to one another: “That’s bullshit—he can’t make us do that.”
“Two of our students,” Davies continued, “remain in the hospital because of this disgraceful incident. There are also five Germantown students hospitalized.”
To which a teen too eager for attention replied, “We won that one, too.”
Recognizing the boy’s voice, Davies pointed him violently toward the nearest exit. “Goodbye, Mr. Cleminger! Consider yourself suspended. Liaison Alexander will arrange a trip home for you.”
The scraggly-haired kid drew himself to his feet, dejected yet defiant, a dramatic stomp to his stride as he made his way along the crowded row to the aisle.
Jennifer Gaines, seated alongside Miles just in front of Debra Vance, laughed. “What a dumbass.”
Vance had been able to overhear bits of Jennifer and Miles’ conversation. Someone named Cara was mentioned. Otherwise, Miles said very little, even after Jennifer came to a new post online and said, “Rusty Bremmer’s in a coma. And might lose an eye.”
#
The remainder of the school day bore somber weight. Something had happened to drive a dagger of reality through the fantasy that often protected public schools in well-to-do suburbs. Some of the teachers went off their lesson plans to discuss what happened Saturday night. Others plowed forward as if getting back to routine was the best way to overcome trauma.
For the first time, Debra Vance felt uncomfortable at Kensington High. Her lieutenant was convinced someone inside the school knew who attacked Rusty Bremmer—and that in time, kids being kids, one of them would talk. Maybe without even knowing they were giving up a friend, someone would blurt out something that pointed in the right direction. Which meant Vance’s primary focus was no longer to wait for Miles Peterson to commit a minor indiscretion that Elfin Arnold could use to expel him. Her job was now to help identify Rusty Bremmer’s assailants.
But Vance only knew a few dozen students by name, only had a general idea of who hung out with who. She’d spent most of her time with teachers, and more recently waiting for Miles to say hello, which he did almost every day, leaving her disappointed when he didn’t.
Miles didn’t disappoint her Monday. It was almost the end of last period, when he should have been in class. Vance was drinking coffee in the cafeteria, looking out the front window at the cloudy day when Miles came alongside her. “I wonder if what they say is true,” he proposed. “That there are no bad days in Paris.”
She replied, “Maybe I’ll find out one day.”
Miles smiled as he walked away, but something in that brief exchange left Vance feeling he was trying to tell her something.
24.
Monday after school, Miles and Juan went back to the Concrete Palace, where Miles had been teaching karate to Juan’s friends.
Inside the sparsely-equipped gym, the usual upbeat Latino music blared from a boom box. The same unpolished boxers sparred in the makeshift rings. Juan’s guys sat on the worn mats, chatting and laughing, getting up now that Juan and Miles were there, exchanging handshakes with that loose, easy way about them.
There wasn’t any indication of change since last Thursday when they were all last together. Still, Miles scanned the other guys’ faces and what skin was left exposed by their ragged sweats and t-shirts, looking for cuts, scratches, or bruises. Once they started working out, he watched for a limp or grimace that might give away an injury or soreness, the way he’d checked for those same indications in Juan throughout the day. Looking for hints any of them may have been in a fight—but not seeing anything so far.
The only difference about today was that Diego, who’d graduated from Germantown High last year, wasn’t there. And no one knew where he was.
#
“Here’s what we have so far…” Lt. Rod Marin opened the meeting.
Since Kensington High was in Marin’s district, he’d pulled the risky career straw of overseeing the investigation into Saturday’s “melee” as the media was calling it.
Few law-enforcement efforts were more pitted with land mines than investigating juvenile crime. This was especially true when the bulk of the witnesses were kids who were also potential suspects. Use the wrong tone when asking what they’d been doing or what they’d seen and overly-protective parents would make nasty calls to the chief and county executive.
Seated in front of Rod Marin were: Debra Vance; Kensington High’s police liaison, Greg Alexander; Alexander’s counterpart at Germantown High, Dave Ellis; two young police cadets; Roberto Delgado, a detective from the felony unit; and last but not least—and much to Vance’s displeasure—Elfin Arnold Baylor.
Marin reported, “The best videos so far aren’t that clear. It’s all from phones, no security footage, and nothing good enough to make any ID of Rusty Bremmer’s assailants, all of whom have on hoods throughout. We’re still getting more though. Meanwhile, Cadets Marley and Li…” Marin nodded to the uniformed pair sharing a corner of the table. “…are going through what students’ social media accounts we’ve been given passwords to, which I’m sure now contain far less information than was there this morning. Anyone with something to hide probably spent most of the day deleting old posts, but we still might get something. These kids use a lot of auto-delete sites, but lots of that gets reposted to accounts that don’t auto-delete, so we’re still getting some of that stuff, too. Needless to say, there is a lot of content. Lots of references to Bremmer breaking Germantown’s quarterback’s leg last year. Also...” Marin pivoted toward Debra Vance. “…two students, in separate interviews, claim Miles Peterson had a confrontation with Bremmer a week or so ago in a stairwell. And apparently it wasn’t the first incident between them. Principal Davies remembers something last month.”
When Marin paused, Vance interpreted that as his expecting a response from her. She said, �
��I’ve never seen any contact between them,” and wondered if that counted as two lies or just one. She didn’t know about any incident in a stairwell, just Bremmer having taunted Miles in the hall. But what she also knew—and more importantly from her perspective—was that from the videos she’d seen of Rusty Bremmer being beaten was that all of his attackers were too short to have been Miles Peterson. And while Vance would have expected such an oversight of visual evidence from Elfin Arnold, it surprised her coming from her lieutenant. Instead of raising this point directly, however, Vance turned to Greg Alexander, the only other person in the meeting who’d seen Miles in person. “Do you think Peterson could be one of those guys in the hoods?”
Alexander shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Vance led him with her next question: “Peterson’s what—six-two, six three?”
Elfin Arnold cut in: “The videos don’t show the whole incident. Rusty Bremmer’s already on the ground, being beaten with boards. Others could have been there to incite the attack.”
Vance thought that seemed unlikely, but it was possible. “What about the boy Bremmer beat up?” she asked of the room in general. “That happened before this group in hoods showed up. What did he see?”
Dave Ellis, the school liaison from Germantown, a stocky wrestler-type with a bristle of black hair and a square skull, provided the answer: “Ben Shuman can’t even say it was Bremmer who jumped him. He’s kind of a little guy. Bremmer grabbed him from behind in a choke hold that put his lights out.”
“So he was unconscious when Bremmer knocked his teeth out?”
Ellis nodded grimly.
#
That evening, Deborah Vance sat alone at the dining room table of her garden-level apartment, eating microwave lasagna and drinking Perrier from a wine glass.
Her review materials for the Sergeant’s Exam pushed to the side, untouched for days, she browsed a coffee table book she’d checked out of the library—glossy page after page of Paris street scenes—and wondered if she should warn Miles about what was happening.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 12