Dead Wrong

by Kristi Belcamino

  “What are you trying to say?” I ask.

  “I think we should cool it a little. Maybe take a break. I told you. I’m leaving in August.”

  “You said the end of August.” I look him straight in the eyes. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s Dax. He came over again last night and made some cracks about you. You’re safer away from me. I’m really serious about this.”

  I scoff. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “Listen, I was in San Francisco once with Dax and there was this girl who was a hanger on and she fucking ended up on a missing poster.” Raven stands up and walks away. “He might have killed Danielle. He really might have.”

  I sit there on the bench, stunned, numb, and watch him — his shoulders droop and his head is down.

  Every part of me is screaming to run after him. But I sit still.

  When he finally rounds a bend and I can no longer see him, I turn and face the entryway to the path. Where they found Danielle’s body.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Hey, sweetie.” My mom is in my doorway.

  I heard voices downstairs when I woke up this morning and figured Sam was over, but seeing who is behind her makes me sit up in bed like a shot.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s my dad. Here. In Minneapolis. He gives me a big smile and I rush over into his arms, bursting into tears.

  “Dad!”

  “I had a meeting yesterday in town,” he says. “I have to leave in the morning, but I’m yours for the entire day.”

  I’m crying so hard I can’t answer, my face pressed against his shirt, snot going everywhere, but I don’t care. I cling to him like a life raft. I can tell it makes him uncomfortable. He’s not a very affectionate guy, but I can’t let go.

  Finally, after a few minutes, with him awkwardly patting me on the back and saying, “Shhhh” in a soothing voice, I stop acting like a baby, and, sniffling, pull back. My mom hands me tissues, but still there is not a shred of warmth on her face. I know she hates my dad, but she can at least act happy for me right?

  Once we are outside the house, my mom barely looks at me as she says goodbye. I’m about to hug her when my dad opens the door of a rented Hummer and calls for me to get in.

  When I turn back, she’s already halfway to our door. Her shoulders look stooped under her beat-up thrift store jacket as she walks away. She suddenly seems old and weary and sad. I take a step and then hesitate, stopping myself from running after her.

  “Emily?” My dad has the passenger door to the vehicle open, waiting for me.

  I stand there until her figure disappears into the house before I get in the car.

  We spend the day shopping for school at Southdale center. My dad buys me every outfit I want at Saks and several pairs of boots and shoes. I feel horribly guilty, but he insists. We go to lunch and a movie and then he takes me downtown to dinner at Solera’s rooftop before surprising me with tickets to The Replacements. He even has an extra ticket for a friend. I debate calling Raven, but I’m still furious with him for dumping me. He walked away. I don’t want to seem desperate. I’ve acted that way enough of my life. No more.

  So, instead, I call Curtis.

  “Curtis! It’s Emily! I’ve got Replacement tickets. Tonight. Target Center.”

  Silence.

  “Curtis?”

  “Yeah. Um, great. That’s cool.”

  Something in his voice sounds forced.

  “Do you want to go with me?” I swallow hard after I say this and anxiety fills me for no good reason.

  “I’m really kind of tied up right now.” My dad eyes me, so I walk outside the restaurant with my phone.

  “Okay, cut the shit,” I say once I’m outside. “What’s going on?”

  “Here’s the deal, Emily. Our friendship is pretty one-sided. You flake on me all the time and are only interested in hanging out when your boy isn’t around.”

  “Well ... I’m sorry about flaking, things come up, you know.” I squeeze my eyes tightly together. I know I’m lying to him and myself.

  “I know you think I’m just your fag friend, but listen, I have feelings, too. I can’t be friends with someone who basically barely gives me the time of day.”

  I’m indignant. “I don’t use you. That’s absurd! How can you even think that?”

  “I came over to your house to talk to you about something that was bothering me, but you didn’t even give a shit that I had something to say. I needed to talk to you ... I’ve had some stuff going on ...”

  I close my eyes. I’m such a jerk.

  “I’m listening now.”

  But he has quietly disconnected the call.

  I hang up, feeling sad, but determined to enjoy my time with my dad. It’s like he’s trying to cram in the past two years of parenting into one night. I’m so happy to be with him, I agree to everything he says.

  The concert is great, but I wish we could spend some time together talking or something. I also feel awful about my conversation with Curtis.

  His words echo in my mind.

  I’m a flake. Not a loyal friend. I replay his words. I needed to talk to you ... I’ve had some stuff going on ...

  Every time he tried to talk to me that day at my house, I interrupted him. After a few seconds, shame overwhelms me. Curtis is right. I’m a jerk. I’ve been a super shitty friend. He’s needed a friend and I’ve been more worried about myself to even notice. I’m no better than Danielle was to me, turning my back on a friend in need. I debate whether to text him these words with an apology, but realize it’s probably not going to be that easy.

  But right now, I need to concentrate on my dad. Our time together is going to be over so quickly. I feel suddenly desperate for his attention. I thought we would’ve talked more at dinner, but he kept getting calls on his cell and excusing himself from the table, saying he had to take the call for work.

  We are walking to his rental car in the parking garage when he turns to me.

  “Emily,” he looks shy and bites his inner lip.

  I freeze. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes when he says this and tears immediately spring to my eyes.

  “Why?” I say the word thickly, trying not to cry.

  “For everything.” He says with a big sigh. “I don’t know whether what happened with me or your mom had anything to do with ... your struggles. But I’m sorry. I really am.”

  I bury my face in his chest for the second time that day, crying as he pats my back, less awkwardly this time. He even squeezes me back. I hear a sob escape from him and it makes me cry even harder.

  He’s sorry and that means a lot, but it’s not going to change the fact that in a few hours, he’s going to be gone again — across the country and out of my life for another year or so. I want my Daddy. I think this over and over as I cry into his shirt.

  We sit there hugging, ignoring the streams of people leaving the concert. They filter past, laughing and talking, until nobody but us is left in the parking garage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Just because Raven won’t help me figure out what happened to Danielle doesn’t mean I’m going to shrivel up and go away.

  Scrap wanted to shoot me up that night I was so drunk. Is that what happened to Danielle — he gave her heroin and she ended up in the lake and drowned? Does he know that Raven and I are trying to figure out what happened to Danielle? How can I find out if he had anything to do with Danielle’s death?

  I have a small tape recorder that has a voice activation button. I dig through my clothes and find a plaid flannel shirt with a pocket in the front. The tape recorder fits inside perfectly. I set the voice activation button and talk. I take it out and check it. Bingo. It works.

  I’ll get it all on tape. Then, I’ll go to Beth’s dad with it.

  In the back of my mind, I think about that other guy — the scary oogle, Dax. Even though my gut tells me it’s
Scrap, I have to admit, it could’ve been him. He could’ve killed Danielle.

  A plan forms. If it’s not Scrap, if he can convince me he didn’t do anything, I’ll talk Raven into leaving town early and I’ll go to Beth’s dad with my suspicions about Dax. With Raven out of town there is no way anyone could point a finger at him for Dax’s arrest, right?

  I spend the morning brainstorming, trying to figure out a way to confront Scrap. Where does he sleep? Raven said they squat in abandoned houses or sleep by the lakes.

  I’ll start with the Hard Times Café.

  I peek in the window out of the corner of my eye as I pass heading toward the front door. Bingo.

  Scrap’s inside. He’s wolfing down eggs with spinach and turkey bacon. I hit voice activation on the recorder in my pocket and head over to him.

  I stand near his table until he looks up, trying not to look down at my shirt where the tape recorder is. When he sees me, a sneer rolls across his face.

  “What up, princess?”

  “I know what you did.” I inject as much venom in my voice as I can manage.

  He rolls his eyes. “Okay. Whatever.” He turns back to his plate.

  “You killed Danielle.”

  He picks a piece of green out of his teeth, making me gag a little.

  He leans back and stretches, his eyelids slitted so his eyes glint at me.

  “Of course, you suburban princesses were friends. What? You wanted her boyfriend? Looks like you got him. Maybe you killed her. You’ve got more motivation than me, sweetheart.”

  I hope the tape recorder is getting all his words, but wonder if I can edit this part out.

  I try not to let the small truth in his words, you wanted her boyfriend, derail me.

  “Okay, so maybe you didn’t mean to kill her. You shot her up and then maybe something happened, some accident, or she overdosed and stopped breathing and you dumped her body in the lake instead of calling the cops or the ambulance or something.” I blurt it out and wait. His eyes narrow and I’m suddenly very glad we’re in a public place.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” His eyes narrow.

  “You know she was my best friend, don’t you? Don’t play dumb. I know you took that photo of us out of my bag.” My entire body is trembling, but I plant my palms on his table and lean down.

  “What photo? You’re talking crazy talk. That bitch never mentioned you to us. Some best friend. Thought her best friend was some yuppie with a stick up her butt.”

  “Beth?”

  “Yeah. Man, that chick hated Raven. Hated all of us.”

  “Well, I was one of her best friends, too. Not just Beth. And you’re not going to get away with killing her.”

  His runs his tongue over his teeth. “Didn’t kill nobody.”

  I remember the part in the autopsy about the cut and bruise on her head. Like she’d fallen. Or been pushed.

  “Maybe you pushed her and she fell and hit her head and it’s your fault she’s dead.”

  “I didn’t touch her.”

  I glare at him with as much force as I can.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Doubt fills me. He’s not acting like he killed her. Maybe it was Dax.

  “I got nothing to prove to you, man.”

  “That other guy, Dax. Do you think he shot her up?”

  He clears his throat and sighs. “Dax is a scary motherfucker, but he wasn’t around that night. Not later, at least. Besides, Danielle didn’t do smack.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One night she was really messed up, drank as much as me nearly, and Flip said, ‘Give her some smack, man.’ So, I got it out and asked. But she told me about her cousin. I respect that so I never offered it again.”

  I stare off into space. She told him about her cousin Alex? Scrap is telling the truth. Flip said give her some smack?

  That’s when I know. Flip.

  All those little looks he gave me that have made me uncomfortable this summer. Him handing me that bottle saying it wasn’t as strong. He drugged me. That’s why I couldn’t move.

  All these signs. I blew them off. I didn’t even suspect for a second he was looking at me that way because he knew exactly why I was there. He knows. He knows what happened to Danielle and he knows why I started hanging out with all of them.

  I remember Flip acting weird that one day when we all fell asleep on Raven’s futon after the beach. He shoved something into his book and acted guilty. It looked like a photograph. I bet it was that photo of Danielle and me. I want to find that photo. I know it’s not proof, but it will confirm what I suspect. Flip knows I’m trying to find out what happened to Danielle. If he has the photo, he’s known this entire time I’m trying to find her killer. Even before I told Raven.

  Flip was the one who gave me that second beer and then tied up my arm trying to get me to do heroin. What if he put something in the beer? That would explain why I couldn’t move or protest. What if he’d done that to Danielle?

  I grab Scrap’s shoulders, digging my fingers into the flesh. “Flip!” I demand. “Where is he?”

  Scrap pulls back scowling. “At a squat. Over off Lyndale.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The weeds are overgrown and many of the windows are boarded. The door has a dirty shred of crime scene tape strewn across it. I called Beth on my way and told her to meet me here. Told her we might have to call her dad if what I think is true. I stand in the road out front, looking at the time on my phone. She’s late. The sun is dipping below the horizon now, casting long shadows. Where is she?

  I try her line again. It goes straight to voicemail. I kick at a root sticking up from the dirt. It must be from this giant maple tree in front of the house. I peer up at the windows. The ones without boards have some type of fabric over them for curtains. None of them match. One is red, another brown, and several are white. They look like bed sheets.

  “Hello?” I say it loudly and wait for some of the curtains to move. They don’t.

  Scrap had told me to go around to the backyard and go through a door to the cellar. I’m glad I wore my jeans and sneakers. He said if Flip were there, his bike would be leaning against the house by the back door. I didn’t even know he had a bike. I check my watch one more time and decide to go see if his bike is there. I’ll go take a look and then come back out to see if Beth is here. Just in case, I shoot her a text.

  Meet me around back of the house.

  Watching the clock on my phone, I wait two minutes to see if she is going to respond. She doesn’t and I’m tired of waiting so I head for the side of the house where a gate leads to the backyard. I’m not sure what my plan is when I see Flip. Maybe I’ll just flat out ask him if he had anything to do with Danielle’s death. I imagine him crying and confessing everything to me with his head hung in shame. If he acts weird, I’ll tell him that Beth and her dad, the cop, know everything and are on their way. That should make him behave.

  The rusty gate creaks loudly as I push it open. A stone path leading to the back yard is barely visible under the weeds. A bird sings merrily, but it seems creepy in the neighborhood’s silence. It smells like pee. Like everyone who walks by here pees on the building or something. I cast a glance up at the windows of the neighboring house. A big Mexican blanket serves as a curtain over the largest window. The other ones are just black. I wonder if it is my imagination when I see movement behind one. I shiver. It totally feels like someone is watching me.

  At the back of the house on what was once the patio, beer cans and cigarette butts are blown into a pile. The rest of the yard is waist high in weeds.

  The backdoor is boarded over. There is no bicycle leaning up against the house. Flip must be gone. Now is my chance to go look around — find that photo or some other evidence that he hurt Danielle — before he gets back. To the right is a small wooden door to the cellar. I lift it up. Inside is dark.

  “F
lip?” I call his name just in case Scrap was wrong about the bike thing.

  No answer. I take my first step down the stairs. Nothing. As I creep into the dark cellar, my eyes adjust. It has a dirt floor and another door immediately in front of me. I open it.

  The room before me is a tiny hall with a concrete floor. Filled with empty cans and other trash. It smells like cigarettes and rotten food. An armchair with the stuffing sticking out is in one corner. A dirty curtain covers a doorway. Behind the curtain are stairs going up.

  I peek into the first room. Someone’s bedroom. A dirty mattress is on the floor. Damp underwear hangs in a row along nails above the bed. A dress and a few shirts are on metal hangers hanging on nails on the other wall. A tin can full of pheasant feathers is on a crate near the bed.

  I step into a main room.

  Slogans and sayings are written in different colored Sharpies all over one wall, with saying, such as:

  “Casualties Suck Dick,” and “the Dirty Needle Tour.”

  People have drawn pictures. Stick characters having sex, shooting heroin, but also a beautiful picture of a Victorian woman in a burgundy gown that someone has defaced with a black marker moustache.

  The floor is sprinkled with trash and crumbs and pieces of broken furniture. Several sleeping bags and a few futons are pushed into corners. A desk made from a board on two crates has an old computer. A Mr. Potato Head lays on his side near a fire extinguisher and a long red glass candle with a picture of Jesus on it.

  The room is filthy. It smells like sour milk or rotten vegetables. I gag a little bit. Light is coming out from a tiny alcove. I peek in. It’s a kitchen. In the shadows, I notice someone there and scream.

  A young woman sits at a small table. She has long blonde and black dreadlocks and orange tights and an Adolescents T shirt and is nursing a naked baby. She gives me a dry smile.

  “Sorry!” I say, putting my hand over my mouth.

  She doesn’t answer.