Blind Spot (19 page)

It was starting to make sense now. All the hands I remembered, Dellian’s face. “What happened after that?”

“Like I said, I got you away and back in the Vette. But then she jumps me and is totally wailing on me when Dellian shows. Then
he
starts wailing on me! As if he could take me.” He slammed the steering wheel with his fists. “I should’ve pummeled his ass!”

“Jonathan!” I said. “What happened then? What about Tricia?”

“She took off, still screaming crap, totally messed up.”

“But was she okay? Was she bleeding or anything?” A physical fight with her. Now I understood why he thought I wanted him to lie. We totally looked guilty.

“I don’t know. It was dark and I was still dealing with that dickhead—”

“But did I fight with her again?”

He shrugged. “Not that I saw.”

Somehow that didn’t feel reassuring. “Why can’t I remember? I only had a sip of beer. How could I have been wasted?”

“Maybe someone slipped you something. It happens.”

I stared out at the gray day, gloomy and cold like I felt. I had answers now, but they raised only more questions. Could Tricia have hit her head during that fight? A concussion that made her fall in the water? Or did something happen after Jonathan and I left? Maybe between her and Dellian?

“When Detective King talked to you after Tricia went missing, did you get the feeling that she knew Dellian was there that night?” I asked.

“Nope. And I was pretty damn relieved because when you asked me to lie—”

“I
didn’t
ask you to lie,” I corrected. “I thought it was the truth.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying that I was pretty freaked, and when the cop didn’t mention D., I was glad.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “It kind of makes you wonder, huh? Now that we know Tricia’s dead.”

I nodded. “You know, they were living together. Tricia and Dellian.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, my friend Heather—” I stopped. My friend, please; apparently Jonathan knew her better than I did. “Plus I found a pretty telling photo in Dellian’s desk. I think it was taken the same night.” He didn’t say “Whoa!” or “No way!” or anything—just nodded. “You knew?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Pretty frickin’ obvious.”

My fists balled up in anger. “Why didn’t you tell Detective King?”

“Why didn’t you?” he snapped back.

He was right. I’d failed Tricia as much as he had. “So, what do we do now? Tell Detective King what really happened?”

“No!” Jonathan said. “We stick to our story. She can’t think we’re lying.”

“But what if Dellian killed Tricia? If we don’t say he was there, he gets away with it. I’m sick of him getting away with everything.”

“He’s not getting away with anything.” He cocked his head and gave me the sweetest, most sincere smile. I almost forgot he’d ever betrayed me. Almost. “I got your back, okay? We stick together, we’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“That’s just it, Jonathan. I don’t trust you. I didn’t lie on purpose. If I tell the police now, tell them I was mistaken, it should be okay. But if I lie again—”

“Look, you’ve got every reason not to trust me, but, Beautiful, who else can you trust? We’re both in the same boat here because you told me to lie! If you talk, and it turns out Tricia was killed, you think they’ll look at Dellian? No, they’ll look at us, to the kids who fought with her that night and lied about it.”

I hated to admit it, but he was right. I’d set the lie up—and whether I meant to or not, I’d gotten him to lie too. I couldn’t tell the truth now and get us both in trouble, not while we still didn’t know what had happened to her that night. “Okay,” I said as I got out of the car. “I won’t say anything. I have your back. You have mine, right?”

I was so caught up in my thoughts as I walked home that I didn’t hear the police cruiser until it was beside me. “Roswell?” Detective King said from the window. “Can I give you a lift?”

Great. What was she doing here? “I’m only a block from home.”

“I know. I was coming to see you. We can talk as I drive.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Sorry, you’ll have to climb in the back. We can’t have civilians up front.”

I looked at the cage separating the front seat from the back. Already I felt guilty, and I hadn’t been asked any questions yet. At least sitting behind steel bars meant I didn’t have to make eye contact.

“I’m sure you heard Tricia Farni’s body was found?” She turned her head sideways, talking over her shoulder to me.

“Was it suicide?” Tricia had said that once—that she’d kill herself before she went back to rehab. Maybe Dellian had threatened to send her there after he found out about her and Jon­- athan?

“We don’t know yet. But the medical examiner thinks she drowned, and a preliminary tox screen found alcohol, crack, and GHB in her system. We usually don’t even screen for GHB, but we’ve had reports recently.”

“GHB?” I couldn’t help feeling relieved. She had drowned high and drunk, not because of an injury from a fight.

“It’s a recreational drug that’s sometimes used in date rape.”

“Date rape? Was she—” My throat went dry.

“We don’t think so,” Detective King said. “But that doesn’t mean the intent wasn’t there. She could’ve been incapacitated when she hit the water, so how she got in the water doesn’t matter as much as how she came by those drugs.” Detective King turned and looked at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Roswell?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “You’re saying Tricia might have been murdered.”

Everything was much more official this time around. Once inside my house, Detective King pulled out a tape recorder instead of a pocket notebook, and then asked if I wanted to have my mom present for our interview.

I didn’t “want.” But getting Mom out of bed and cleaned up after her evening of partying would take a little time. Time that I needed. I was torn between telling Detective King everything, telling her nothing, and telling her a hybrid of truth and half-truths. I desperately wanted to call Jonathan. That would send alarm bells off in Detective King’s head, though. I couldn’t risk it.

I woke Mom, and then hurried into the kitchen to make coffee while I waited for her. Anything to look busy.

Mom stumbled out fifteen minutes later, wearing the Johnny Cash “Ring of Fire” T-shirt she’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend. Her too-blond hair was tangled in a hair-spray nest, and her mascara was smeared under her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she said, sinking into the recliner. “I had a rough night. Tony and I broke up.” She looked at Detective King then—really looked at her—and sat straight up in the chair. “What’ve you done, Rozzy?”

“She’s done nothing, Mrs. Hart. We’re here about her friend Tricia.”

“Priscilla,” Mom said, “and it’s Braylor. I haven’t been Mrs. Hart in years.” She looked at me. “Who’s Tricia?”

“A classmate, Mom. She’s dead, Mom.”

“Oh, dear Lord! What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Ready, Roz?” Detective King pushed “record” and set the recorder in front of me. “Earlier, you said you had an argument with Tricia the night of October sixth at a party out at Birch Hill. What was the fight about?”

My pulse began to race. “I walked in on her and my date, Jonathan Webb.”

“Walked in on? Can you be more specific?”

I stared at a stain on the carpet. “She was kneeling, her head in his lap, and—”

“And?” Detective King repeated after a few seconds.

“Come on,” Mom said. “I think you can fill in the blank.”

“Was it an oral act?” Detective King asked.

“Yes.”

Detective King continued. “Did it look consensual?”

“Yeah, one hundred percent consensual.”

“How did Tricia seem to you?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Guilty?”

“Okay, what was her demeanor, though? Think, Roz. It’s important. Did she appear drunk? High? Was she slurring her words? Stumbling?”

“We’d been talking on the stairs before that,” I said. “She looked tired and pale, but our conversation was surprisingly sane, considering—” The second I said it, I regretted it.

Mom and Detective King looked at me. “Considering what?” the detective asked.

“Tricia was sort of . . .” What? Psychotic? Schizophrenic? I realized I had no idea what she was. I just knew she belonged in Life Skills. She had said “severely emotionally disturbed” once; was that the label that had earned her admission? “Tricia was always out there, you know? Usually high on pot or crack.”

Detective King sat forward. “So you’re saying that night she didn’t seem high?” I nodded. “Okay,” she continued. “After you walked in on them. You two fought?”

“Yes, she grabbed me to stop me from leaving. I pulled away and left.” I felt sick to my stomach suddenly. If she asked about the fight outside, I wasn’t sure I could lie. And I’d forgotten to make eye contact with her.
Crud.

“And Jonathan? What did he do?”

“He took me home.”

“You let him take you home?” Mom said. “After what he’d done with that girl?”

“Mom, stop! She’s asking the questions, not you.”

But she’d piqued Detective King’s curiosity. “Why did you go with him?”

“I wanted to go home.” I glared at the leather headrest behind Mom. “You didn’t answer your phone, my friends had left already, and cabs won’t come out that far.”

“I understand Jonathan drove Tricia out there. How did she plan to get home?”

I was covering my butt and Jonathan’s; I refused to cover Dellian’s. “She called Dellian as we were leaving.” So what if I hadn’t heard her call him? Jonathan had.

The effect was instantaneous. “Rodney Dellian?” Detective King perked up. “You’re sure?”

And then I knew how I could get her to investigate Dellian without my confessing to the fight. “Positive.” I nodded. “And when he came by here looking for her after she’d disappeared? He knew what had happened in the loft. How could he have known that unless he had talked to her?”

“How indeed,” Detective King muttered. She flipped through her notebook, looking for something.

“This is your teacher we’re talking about?” Mom said. “The one trying to have you suspended for skipping class? Why on earth would he be picking this girl up from parties?”

“Because Tricia was living with him.” I looked at Detective King. “I wasn’t sure when I talked to you before, and I have no proof. Heather Torres lives in the same apartment building, though. She’s seen Tricia there a lot. With a baby. I found a photo when I was looking for something in Dellian’s desk once. Right after she disappeared. Tricia and Dellian were kissing. I’m positive it was taken that night. Tricia wore the same grass skirt and bikini top from the dance, and Dellian had the same blue floral-print shirt”—I paused, remembering Heather’s comment—“maybe it was palm trees. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s what he wore to the dance, though.”

“You don’t sound sure, Rozzy. Flowers don’t look anything like palm trees—”

“Mom!” I snapped. “I’m sure, okay?”

“Well, all that can be verified with the photo.” Detective King was studying me hard. Eye contact was critical. “Where is this photo now?”

I brought my eyes up to hers, letting my blind spot erase her face. “His desk? I left it there.” I couldn’t admit it wasn’t there without admitting I’d gone back to steal it. She was the cop, though. Let her find it.

“I really wish you had contacted me with all of this earlier, but thank you for the information, Roswell.” She stood. “If you think of anything else or learn something new, please, don’t keep it to yourself, okay? Call me.” She handed me a business card. “Thank you, Priscilla.”

“Thank
you,
” Mom said. “I’m calling the school and having that man fired! He’s done nothing but make my daughter’s life miserable all year long, and now he’s a pervert too.”

“Ma’am, please don’t,” the detective interrupted. “We don’t know if any of this is true. If it is, though, we must tread carefully and make sure we have all our facts straight before doing anything. I promise I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Do,” Mom said. “I don’t want that pervert near Rozzy anymore.”

I called Jonathan minutes later while Mom was in the shower. “Detective King just left. She said Tricia drowned because of drugs.”

“She drowned because of drugs?” Jonathan repeated.

“Too messed up to swim. She had a date-rape drug in her too. You said people sometimes slip stuff, that maybe that’s why I don’t remember—”

“You didn’t tell the cop that, did you?”

“No, I was afraid to say much of anything. But if GHB is what was wrong with me—if someone gave it to me and Tricia—shouldn’t we tell the police?”

“Not unless you want to go to jail! If they know you can’t remember, our story gets shot to hell! We’ll look guilty. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not! But she didn’t die because I was fighting with her.”

“It doesn’t matter, Beautiful. If they know you can’t remember, they will know we lied, and they won’t believe anything we say. What if they find out we bought her pot? They’ll spin it to make
us
look guilty.”

The air went out of my lungs. He was right. The police were looking for whoever gave her drugs. It didn’t matter if it was pot we’d helped her buy. Drugs were drugs. “God, Jonathan, I’m scared.”

“Me too, Beautiful.” There was a shuffling as he covered the phone. I heard him yell something to someone, and then he whispered, “Shit, the cop’s here.”

“Wait! I told her Tricia was living with Dellian and she called him from the loft. About the photo too.” Dellian deserved to go down for this. We had to make sure the police arrested Dellian, not us. “Tell her anything you know about Dellian and Tricia, okay? They have to nail him for this.”

The day before Tricia’s funeral, Fritz called. His friend had borrowed a van so that anyone from Life Skills who wanted to go could. Bart’s parents didn’t want him to go, but the rest of us did. Fritz hadn’t known Tricia. It was pretty cool that he’d go out of his way to arrange things, and that he had friends who’d borrowed a van for us.

When I opened the door the next morning, I almost didn’t recognize Greg in his black suit and tie. “What are you doing here?”