Officer Latchley was on patrol Thursday night when he encountered the body of a local Masonville teen. The seasoned officer pulled over to the side of the highway when he saw what he thought was a deer someone had hit.
Latchley, who has two sons at Wilbur Mason High where the sixteen-year-old victim cheered, recognized her as Amanda Collins. He called for paramedics who determined that Amanda was dead on arrival.
The full report continued:
The coroner confirmed her injuries were consistent with being hit by a car and she had likely died on impact or seconds afterwards. Skid marks were also found on the scene, but they have not yet been matched. Officers suspect, given the location and fact that the person did not stop, that it may have been someone passing through town. The police continue their investigation, but say they have few leads and urge anyone with information to come forward.
An update read:
The close-knit community is expected to fill Southend Mason Methodist Church on Saturday for a memorial for this local scholar and athlete. Amanda had many friends; though she was an only child, her friend Rebecca Spint considers her a sister. “We want answers, not apologies,” Rebecca said.
Police are still looking for information. The family has no comment at this time.
So Latchley, she was pretty sure, was Tommy’s dad. Tommy had said he was a cop, and the report said he knew Amanda and had two sons at Wilbur Mason. So Tommy’s dad had found her body.
Rebecca Spint was Becca, and she sounded angry even in the newspaper interview. But of course, if Maggie’s best friend had just been killed and no one would own up to it, she’d be pissed too. If she had a best friend.
She wondered for a second if this could be the case her mom’s PI firm had sent her to investigate, but she had gotten the call before the accident ever happened. They had come up to find a place and sign papers Thursday when it happened. She had thought even then that the town was a little morose and quiet. The high school seemed to confirm that on her first day.
Tommy had cleaned out Amanda’s locker that Friday, missing the note. Then Mags moved in on Monday. So if the note had been put there the day she died, that meant whoever M was put it in there last Thursday.
It had been a week. The police had no leads, and she considered handing it over, but without any context or proof it was Amanda’s, what good would it be? It didn’t have a date, and M could be anyone.
She logged off the computer and went to find the collection of yearbooks. She pulled last year’s from the shelf, looking for Ms. On a notecard, as if she was studying, she wrote her first names, the only ones she knew. Her first suspects.
Tommy Latchley. There was an M, but not an M initial, and she’d never heard anyone call Tommy that. Besides, if he had known about the note, he would have gotten rid of it. She crossed him off as soon as she wrote it.
Tyler Latchley. There was no M in that at all. No one had called him M, like by some middle name. He was out too.
Rebecca Spint. Sarah Gillson. No motive. No M. They were out.
Mazy Harmony. No surprise there. Mazy definitely could have left the note. Maybe the friends used the secret space to pass messages, girls only. Jealousy was a classic motive. Mazy was a plotter. Mazy wasn’t very torn up about Amanda’s death, either.
But she wasn’t the only suspect.
Maggie wrote another name: Mark Reynolds.
She took a shaky breath, reassuring herself. There had to be hundreds of people in the school with an M in their name; it was totally common. And although killers, if there even was a killer, are often someone the victim knew, Amanda knew practically everyone.
Her next thought was to scour the yearbooks for photos of crazy Ashley and that goth kid who liked blood and talked about Amanda’s ghost. But the bell rang.
She couldn’t skip all her classes, so she sat through music, which she usually loved, distracted. She kept checking for the piece of paper in her pocket and the notecard of names. They looked innocent enough, except to the person who wrote the note. The person who could have killed Amanda. And they would know by the notecard she was on to them.
It could be anyone, but it could be Mark Reynolds. Mags was so nervous about the date by the time she reached her locker at the end of the day, she was already starting to formulate a possible excuse to get out of it. But she was not going to get the chance.
Chapter Six
The Date
“Hey, Mags.” Mark already stood at her locker, beaming. “Ready?”
“I thought that was tonight?” She approached slowly, swinging her books, raising an eyebrow and a crooked smile.
“I told you it was a surprise. We got to start early,” he said, leaning again on the locker next to hers.
She stared at him, then looked around her for an escape, fingering the papers in her pocket.
He laughed good-naturedly. “Don’t look so scared, Maggie.”
“I’m not!” That came out squeakier than she meant it. “I just…I forgot I promised to help Sarah and…”
“Oh no, you don’t.” He smoothly took her books from her so she could unlock her locker and put her stuff away. She wondered if she could slip the note in without him seeing or if it was worth the risk of dropping it. She decided against it. “You’re not weaseling out of this. Look, I’m trying to take the pressure off even. I could have just invited you to the homecoming dance. But I was going to give it a go before that so you’d know if you want to go with me.”
“Oh, well that’s nice of you,” she said sarcastically.
“Well, don’t tell anyone,” he joked. “You ready?”
“Sure. If what I’m wearing is okay.” She lifted her arms and turned, like she did when she tried on clothes for her mom as a kid. She had on a brown sweater, low-cut with a hood and three-quarter sleeves. Under that was a fitted white shirt, her dark jeans, and usual sneakers. He looked her slowly up and down with an appraising eye, touching his chin, pretending to think it over.
“You look adorable,” he said as if it were obvious. “Nothing fancy. Let’s go.”
“Lead the way.” She shut her locker, giving up and trying to smile. Her dimples helped, as he seemed convinced. Dimples fell away, though, as she glimpsed Tommy watching, smilelessly. Then, he looked away.
As they passed, Tommy opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but Mark’s body holding the door cut him off, and once Mark passed, Tommy was gone.
Mark’s stride was long and Maggie had to try to keep up across the slightly muddy parking lot. When they made it to his car, Mark opened the door, and Maggie threw her stuff in, climbing inside. The car was low. Instead of climbing up like into Tommy’s truck, she had to climb down until she was sitting inches above the ground.
“So where are we going?” she asked, remembering her mom’s advice to stay in public.
“Are you always this impatient?” Mark shook his head as he switched on the ignition.
She offered what she hoped was a cute, apologetic smile. The dimples seemed to work. To kill the awkwardness of the ride to wherever, Maggie resorted to what she hated, texting. She needed to tell Becca not to wait for her.
Becca texted back: Have fun ;)
Well, that was all she really had to say, so she put the phone away, not wanting to be rude.
Truthfully, Mark was going out of his way to ask her out. He’d persisted, maybe even had broken up with his girlfriend for this. He seemed like a pretty nice guy. At least, the girls seemed to like him. Becca nor Sarah warned her against going out with him. And neither had Tommy. It was Nice Guy protocol to warn against dating dangerous guys. Giving her his number wasn’t exactly a warning. So Mark could be “much” or “pushy,” whatever that meant? Tyler had introduced himself with a full on kiss.
But maybe they didn’t know Mark’s dangerous side. Maybe they didn’t know that he could be the M that left that last note in Amanda’s locker.
Or maybe M never met Amanda, let alone killed her. Mayb
e it was just an accident, caused by some out-of-towner, and the letter was put in there by someone before they heard the news, forgotten afterwards for obvious reasons.
Maybe Maggie was just overreacting, looking for a mystery where there wasn’t one.
Maybe things were finally going well, and she was just looking for something to be wrong.
Maybe she should give this Mark guy a fair chance; if Tommy wanted to date her, if he was ready, he would have asked.
“We’re here,” Mark announced. She looked at him. He didn’t seem like the Mark from school. He smelled the same and the same blonde hair swished along his strong jawline. But he looked nervous.
Maggie gave him an encouraging smile, a real one, unbuckling her seat belt with a snap. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, not sounding nearly as confident as before. He seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment as she hopped out and surveyed the place he’d taken her. Well, it was definitely laid-back.
Jake’s appeared to be a typical sports bar in a town mini-mall. Inside, it was pretty nice, the smell of hot food instead of cheap beer wafting out of the glass door as the bell overhead tinkled. Maggie immediately noticed the floors were clean, the place was mostly furnished in dark wood and leather, and there hung the fat lightbulbs she liked.
At the front were four-person tables where a variety of people were eating. Then, along the left ran the long, wooden bar where a football game played above on the pair of TVs. On the other side of Jake’s, a hockey game played on a big screen. This screen was surrounded by mostly men in work uniforms, suits, or blue jerseys lounging in leather chairs and group booths.
Tons of sports memorabilia and photos lined the walls. There was one large section, naturally, for the local team, but surprisingly, the place was not dominated by teenagers. There weren’t even many in there; in fact, the barman eyed her suspiciously until he saw Mark. He waved.
“Mark!” Of course. They loved the star athlete, small town heroes. She tried to keep her smile intact, hoping this was going to be a long evening of following around the man everyone else had to talk to. As if sensing her conclusion, Mark whispered very close to her ear, “That’s my uncle.”
“Cool.” They approached the bar where Mark easily leaned over and gave his uncle some sort of secret handshake high-five that made Maggie laugh.
“Look at this kid, huh? Gets bigger every time I see him! What are you now? Six six, three hundred pounds?” he joked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mark laughed him off. “This is Mags. She’s new.”
“Oh yeah? Hey Mags.”
“Hey,” she smiled.
“She’s cute; I love a lady with pretty dimples.” He winked, pouring someone a drink from the tap.
“Showing her around town. First stop is naturally my Uncle Jake’s place.”
“Friendly of you. How does what’s-her-face feel about that?” The older man asked in his friendly, hoarse voice, both fists resting on the bar.
“No idea. Broke up with Ashley,” Mark answered briskly. “Can we get a couple beers and some of those amazing nachos? Nachos okay, Mags?”
Maggie nodded. Nachos actually sounded amazing.
“Ha. Food’s on the house, kid, but I don’t love you enough to lose my liquor license.”
“I’ll take a Pepsi. Maggie?”
“Water’s fine.”
“Thanks, Jake.” Mark tapped the bar, then led her towards some high tables in the back. “Hey, Mr. Latchley.” He clapped the shoulder of a uniform sitting at the end of the bar. The man turned around to nod and stopped when he saw Maggie.
He looked like Tommy, especially in the face, though he sported a receding hairline, aging skin, and a heavier set body. But those eyes, beautiful and sad, were watery—a little bloodshot and saggy at the edges, but otherwise his son’s.
“Hi, Mr. Latchley.” Maggie smiled.
“This is Maggie Brennan,” Mark said.
“So I’ve heard.” He smiled goofily. “Nice to meet you, honey.”
“Nice to meet you,” she replied as they continued on to the back.
“So,” Mark said. “What’s your game of choice?”
She hopped up on the tall seat, swinging her legs below. “I don’t know.”
“Come on foosball, pool, or darts?” He indicated the closest entertainment.
Along the back, behind some exposed wooden support beams and near the bathroom and kitchen entrance, were the pool tables and the dartboard. It felt like some sort of girlfriend test was being administered. She arched an eyebrow.
“Hmm.” She considered, moving her puckered lips side-to-side and twitching her nose, as she did whenever she was debating a decision.
He shook his head, hair swishing around his eyes. “Hang on, did you actually just Bewitched-style wiggle your nose?”
“Yeah…” she answered shyly.
“That is adorable. I’ve never seen anyone actually do it. Do it again,” he challenged, folding his arms again across his chest.
“Okay,” she chuckled, concentrating.
“Ha.” He bopped her nose with his fingertip. “That is too cute. So you’re a witch, huh?”
“No.” She laughed lightly.
“Sure you are. I know this sort of thing. I watch TV,” he asserted. “So you a good witch or a bad witch?”
“Good witch.” She winked, playing along.
“Uh-huh. I’m not sure I should play against you; you could like, use a spell and cheat.”
“Promise I won’t.”
She knew she was bad at pool, had no clue how to actually play foosball, but had decent aim otherwise. “Darts?”
“Okay.” He grabbed six darts from beside the board and the pair stepped behind a line some feet away painted on the floor.
“Just the basics. I don’t know all those complicated games,” she was quick to admit.
“No problem. Three darts while we wait, highest score wins. Ladies first,” he offered instead of throwing to see who went first.
“No, you go.” She shook her head.
“Okay.” He cocked an eyebrow, then leaned back a little, eyes trained on the board. He had his game face on, and she was beginning to guess Mark enjoyed anything competitive.
She watched his bicep swell each time his arm curled back.
Swing one. Wow. There’s like a potato in there.
Swing two. That’s actually a lot of muscle. Bet he could squish a grapefruit.
Swing three. It looks bigger than a minute ago! Why do I kind of want to grab it and squeeze? Is this how men feel about boobs hanging out?
Yep. She’d definitely never been on a date with biceps that large. In fact, she didn’t realize until he laughed at his third try, landing in the outer green line, doubling his score for that dart, that he had done pretty well. Adding it up quickly, looked like he got 8, 24, and 16. Total score of 48.
“Your turn.” She stepped forward, leaned back, closed one eye, and shot her rigid arm forward. The first shot landed just inside the little slice that said 20. Dumb luck mostly, though her aim wasn’t bad before. She felt that little leap inside her stomach as the dart soared through the air, a blur aimed for the same spot, but closer to the center.
She moved too far, passing the center and landing in the 2 points section. A sideways glance at Mark revealed hints of smugness on his face. It was going to be close to impossible to beat his score, so she just threw the last dart hard, not bothering to really aim.
Her face lit up in surprise and Mark whistled. She hit the red double line on 16, doubling her score to 32.
“I win.” She twitched her nose again.
“Cheater.” He smiled.
“No. The one piece of useful knowledge my father imparted.” She surprised herself with her honesty.
“Where’s your dad?” Sometimes being around blunt, less sensitive people had its advantages. He just came out and asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she answered simply. H
e gave a single nod of understanding, looking at the ground deep in thought.
A whistle from the bar indicated their food was ready. Mark went to get it.
She was glad for the interruption keeping the conversation from getting too personal. When he returned beaming, she noticed his smile. She didn’t think she’d ever seen teeth quite that white. He was just so…bright. How could she suspect him of something so dark? How could anyone?
“These nachos are pretty much the most addictive local food,” he announced proudly. “I know you’ve lived a lot of places.” He set the steaming plate on the small circular table, its treated dark wooden surface gleaming in the low lights. “But I’m willing to bet these will be the best nachos you will ever eat. Ever.”
They were certainly piled high, resembling a mountain.
“Jesus, you could destroy a ring of power in there.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” She forgave the missed Lord of the Rings reference and forgot to blush at her own dorkiness, putting some serious thought into which chip to choose. Mark gave a little snort of laughter at her nose habit again.
She chose a chip and pulled it from the mound, a web of cheese clinging to it like a needy ex. She brought it to her mouth and plopped it in quickly before the topping could fall off, covering her in queso and other goodies that would look equally flattering. There was a delightful crunch, and then everything seemed to melt in her mouth at once.
“Mmmm,” she moaned, closing her eyes to savor it. That was not some convenience store queso; it was quality cheese.
“Told you,” he said.
“You know, these are pretty good, but I can’t be sure they’re the absolute best.” She picked up another one, seeing if her first mouth-watering bite was a fluke. A creamy, spicy, something fresh she couldn’t quite place, cheesy aroma came off the fat chips with the steam. Another perfect snap, then salty goodness disappeared too quickly.
Keep Your Friends Close Page 7