Between (40 page)

Vince nibbles a hangnail. “Nope.”

“Really? That’s odd. Because when I was interviewing Richie over at the station, he mentioned something to me. He told me he’d been going for runs around Noank, thinking about Liz. And he told me that almost every time he went running he ended up at the same place. Alex Berg’s house.”

“So?” Vince demands, a tad defensive. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

“I didn’t think it had anything to do with you, not at first. But it kept bothering me. I felt like it all had to fit together somehow—you, Liz, Alex, Richie, Caroline—I just didn’t know how, not exactly.” Joe nods at the coffee table. “I want you to look in that envelope now.”

I literally
clap my hands
. “Yes!” I shout, standing on tiptoe despite the searing pain in my toes. “Yes! You’ve got it! You did it!”

With shaky hands, Vince opens the manila envelope. Inside, I’m expecting to see the same photographs of myself that have turned my stomach so many times already.

Except that’s not what we’re looking at.

Alex stares up at us. He is just as I remember seeing him that night: wet, bloody, broken, dead. Seeing him now isn’t any easier.

Vince is silent as he shuffles through the photos. After Alex, there are five different shots of his bicycle: mangled, twisted, thrown far from his body.

“What are these?” Vince asks. His voice trembles—just a smidge, but it’s enough.

“Keep looking.” Joe’s tone is light, almost conversational. “The next one is the one you’ll really want to pay attention to.”

It’s a shot of Alex’s bike, close up. Immediately, I know what Joe is referring to. On the back pedal, so small that it’s almost invisible, there’s a smear of red.

“See that?” Joe asks.

Vince nods. “Blood. So what?”

“It’s not blood. It’s paint.”

Vince lets the photos drop into his lap. “It’s like I told you already. I don’t know what any of this has to do with me.”

“According to you—to
you
, Vince—one week after this boy, Alex Berg, was killed by a hit-and-run driver, you fixed Elizabeth’s car for her. You told me yourself that’s how you met her. Remember? She didn’t want to file a claim. She wanted it done quick. And she wanted to keep it quiet. Is that right?”

Vince only nods.

“I think you noticed something while you were fixing her car. I think you figured out—just like I did—that she was the one who killed this boy. It was raining the night he got hit. Liz probably checked out her car, looking for blood, looking for some indication that she’d been a part of the accident. But she didn’t check the
underside
of her front fender, did she?”

Vince bites his lip hard. He doesn’t say anything.

“I think you found paint from Alex Berg’s bicycle underneath her bumper. You knew she was responsible for his death. I think you were blackmailing her. What did you do? Threaten to go to the cops if she didn’t sleep with you?”

Vince sniffles. He looks like a caged animal. “That little bitch,” he says, “treated me like I wasn’t even as good as the dirt on the bottom of her goddamn shoe.”

“Tell me what happened,” Joe says. “Come on. Ease your conscience.”

Vince licks his lips. He
smiles
. “Sorry to say,” he tells Joe, “I ain’t got a fucking conscience.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Joe stands, reaches for his cuffs. “Get up. You’re under arrest.”

I realize what the memory is almost as soon as it appears before me: I’m standing in Richie’s room, asking him to come with me while I pick up my car from Fender Benders.

But Richie is unavailable to drive me to Vince’s repair shop.

“I have homework,” he tells me apologetically as I stand in his room, pouting.

“What kind of homework? Richie, it will take an hour, there and back. Come
on.
” I’ve got his keys dangling in my hand. I’m all dolled up, ready to go. But I can’t take his car, not unless he comes with me. I won’t have a way to get it back.

“I’m writing a paper for lit class. It’s on
Macbeth
. Want to read what I have so far? It was only supposed to be ten pages, and I’ve already got an outline for twelve pages. It’s going to be really good, Liz.”

I frown. I look like I’m about to cry. Obviously, he doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “Richie. Who cares about
Macbeth
?”

“I do. I care.” Richie pauses. “Have you even read the play yet?”

I actually stomp my foot in agitation. “You know I’m more of a CliffsNotes kind of girl, Richie. It’s just a stupid play.”

“Liz, I’m sorry. The paper’s due tomorrow. You haven’t started yours yet, have you?”

What I understand now—and what Richie didn’t know then, and still doesn’t know—is that I have much,
much
bigger things to worry about. I have to get my car back before my parents ever notice it was gone. Besides, I can probably talk my way into getting an extension on the paper.

Richie runs a hand through his messy hair. “Can’t we pick the car up tomorrow? I’ll give you a ride after school, I promise.”

“It has to be today!” I’m almost shrieking, clearly frantic to get my car back. “Richie, I know you think I’m being prissy and ridiculous, but I need your help. Please.”

“Liz, I don’t
think
you’re being prissy and ridiculous. I
know
you’re being prissy and ridiculous. Here.” He puts his hand into his pocket, pulls out a fistful of change and dollar bills. “This is more than enough. Take the bus. It’ll be like a ten-minute ride.”

My mouth falls open. “Take the bus?” I repeat. “Who the hell do I look like to you? Do I look like a homeless person? What if someone tries to accost me? What if we get held up? Haven’t you ever seen that movie with the woman on the bus where there’s a bomb?”

“You mean
Speed
?” He snorts. “Yes. Liz, there won’t be a bomb.” He takes a step closer to me. He touches my hair. He kisses me on the lips. “I think it will be good for you. It will be broadening. You go ahead and take the bus, honey, and when you get back, you can come tell me all about how horrible it was.”

I don’t have a choice, do I? I take the money from his outstretched hand. “Oh, trust me. I’ll tell you all about it.” As I start to leave the room, I call over my shoulder, “If I make it back alive!”

So here I am: alone on a Sunday afternoon in the still-deserted Fender Benders garage. Just before I left, I tried to talk Josie into coming with me, but there was no way she would take the bus. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad. Almost everyone looked normal. Relatively normal. You know—for the bus.

My car is parked outside the garage. It appears good as new. As I’m looking it over, Vince strolls up to me with Rocky the bulldog in tow. Rocky, I notice, is not on a chain or a leash.

“I just want my keys,” I tell him. “I have to get home.”

Vince nods. Rocky stares at me, threads of slobber hanging from his gums. I try smiling at the dog, but it only makes him bark loudly.

“So … my keys. Where are they?”

Vince leans against my car, his filthy coveralls pressing right up against the shiny red paint. Even though I know I didn’t have much of a choice, I still can’t believe I came here alone. I can’t believe
Richie
let me come here alone. On a bus. Knowing myself, I’m certain that he is so going to hear about this later, whether he has a paper to finish or not.

“This might surprise you,” Vince begins, wiggling his pinky finger in his ear, “but I’m a big fan of the local news.”

I cross my arms. “So? What, do you read the papers, too? Good for you. Give me my keys.”

“Matter of fact, I do read the paper. That surprises you, don’t it? Bet you thought I was illiterate.”

I swallow the gum I’ve been chewing. Even though I’ve got a full face of makeup, even though my hair is perfectly styled, there’s an ashen look to my face, and my eyes are bloodshot. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d barely slept at all the night before. I imagine I might have stayed up, scanning old yearbooks for more photos of Alex Berg. I picture myself poring over them, studying his face, trying to replace the image of him that had already been burned into my brain: bloody face, desperate eyes, trembling mouth gasping for that final, horrible breath.

“I didn’t assume you were illiterate.” Why am I even having this conversation with him? I should snatch the keys from his filthy hand—they’re right there, less than an arm’s reach away—and get out of here.

“Anyway, it’s the funniest damn thing. You know, last week, a kid in your town got killed riding his bike home from work. They just found his body a couple of days ago. You hear about that?”

I put a hand on my stomach. I’m probably nauseated; watching myself interact with Vince, I’d be surprised if I
weren’t
sick to my stomach. I probably should have eaten that morning, but I’m guessing I didn’t.

Control. It’s all about control. Or—I realize now—the illusion of being in control. I probably won’t let myself eat lunch after I get home from this encounter with Vince, either. Instead, maybe I’ll go for a long run. That is, after I finish chewing out Richie.

“I heard all about it,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone light. “It was a hit-and-run. It was terrible. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, it has to do with a lot, Liz. Or is it Elizabeth? Can I call you Elizabeth?”

“No.”

“All right, Elizabeth. Let me cut to the chase.” His lips curl into a satisfied grin. “You hit that boy, didn’t you? I knew you were lying about hitting a parking meter, that’s for damn sure. Didn’t make any sense at all.” He scoffs. “What kind of idiot hits a parking meter? And with their right front fender?” Vince shakes his head. “Nope. Didn’t make sense.”

My whole body is shaking. Gum, bile, whatever’s in my stomach—I’m sure it’s all churning now. “You’re wrong. I didn’t hit him.”

“Well, whoever was driving your car is the one who hit him. I’m damn sure of that. See, Elizabeth, even though this was under-the-table work, I’m in the habit of taking pictures of my repairs. It’s become automatic over the years. And while I was taking photos, I noticed
this
.” He pulls a printed photograph from his back pocket and hands it to me. It’s a picture of the underside of my front fender. There, in a spot I didn’t notice when I inspected the car myself, is a spot of blue paint, surrounded by several small scratches on the Mustang.

“Blue,” Vince says, as though any explanation is necessary. “Blue like the kid’s bike. Am I right?”

We stare at each other. I can actually see myself shaking, my bottom lip trembling. None of this would be happening if Richie were here—would it? Wouldn’t he protect me? But he’s not here, and I’m all alone with Vince and his ugly dog, and he can do anything he wants to me. Anything. This is worse than a bomb on a bus. This is a nightmare. And there’s a part of me that knows I deserve it. I killed someone. People don’t just get away with a thing like that. Not even people like me.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Vince smiles again. “Lots of things. We’ll start with five hundred bucks. You can bring it to my apartment later this week.” His eyes graze my body. “No. Not later this week. Make it tomorrow. Maybe you and I can have some fun, too. What do you think?”

“Five hundred dollars,” I say. “That’s all. Nothing else.”

Vince raises a single eyebrow. “I don’t think you get to make the rules anymore, Elizabeth. Five hundred bucks. You and that hot little body of yours, at my place, alone. Tomorrow. Or else I go to the cops and show them this picture. You don’t want that, do you?”

I shake my head. I’m crying.

Vince hands me my keys. “I’m at the Covington Arms. Apartment number nine. I’ll see you tomorrow, you beautiful bitch.”

I pull over twice on the highway back to Noank, veering right off the road to an onslaught of car horns and lovely gestures from my fellow drivers. I am crying so hard, shaking so violently, that I have to pull over for a third time before I reach my street in order to compose myself. What choice did I have? Aside from doing what Vince wanted—which is what I know I ended up doing anyway—the only other option is to confess that I’m responsible for Alex’s death. I know I can come up with the money easily enough, but I can tell I’m terrified by the idea of what he might want from me physically. At the very least, I know I won’t have sex with him. I’m a virgin, for God’s sake. I’m saving myself for Richie. I will not sleep with Vince Aiello. I did not sleep with Vince Aiello.

I manage to collect myself well enough that, when I pull into my driveway and see Richie smoking out his window, I wave at him and force a weak smile.

“You made it,” he calls. “You’re alive.” He grins. “I take it there was no bomber on the bus?”

I shake my head.

“Want to come over? I’m almost done with my first draft. I’d love for you to read it.” He tosses his cigarette butt onto the lawn. “You might learn something about
Macbeth.
It’s a really great story. You’d actually like it, I think.”

I shade my eyes, staring at him. “I’m going to go for a run,” I call.

“Again?” He frowns. “Weren’t you already out this morning?”

“It’s cross-country season.” I shrug. It’s a flimsy explanation.

“Oh. Well, you’ll come over later, then?” He looks at the Mustang. “The car looks great, by the way.”

“Yeah, it does. And sure, I’ll stop by later. Tonight. Okay?”

“All right.” He stands up, moves to close the window. As an afterthought, he says, “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t go with you. But it was all right, wasn’t it? Vince doesn’t bite.”

I close my eyes. I look like I might start crying again. “You were right,” I say. “It was fine.”

“Good. Love you, Liz.”

“I love you, too.”

Inside the house, Josie is half-asleep on the living room sofa. An open can of diet soda rests on the coffee table, along with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn. She’s watching some stupid reality TV show while simultaneously attempting to read
Macbeth
. I notice she’s barely past the first few pages. Looking at her now, it doesn’t surprise me. Richie is the only person I know who loves Shakespeare. I remember that, before I died, it always put me to sleep. Apparently, it has the same effect on Josie.