Blind Spot (26 page)

When these tricks finally failed, I sank down on my itchy cot and slipped into a motionless funk.

Early the next evening, when my door groaned, I didn’t react. I no longer let myself hope when I heard the rumbling, and the arrival of food had long lost its luster.

“Time to go, Hart,” the guard said as the door rattled open.

My dots slid from the ceiling and focused on the guard. “What? Where?” My feet dropped to the floor.

“Home. Your mom posted bail.”

“Home?” The concept seemed so foreign.

Mom had little to say. Her face pinched in a tight scowl, she merely grunted when I threw my arms around her. “I had to use the house to get you out,” she said, throwing open the door of her hybrid.

“Sorry,” I said.

She grunted again and said nothing until we pulled into the driveway. “Just because you’re out of jail doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, young lady.” She shoved the gearshift into “park” and glared across the seat at me. “You’re under house arrest. You understand? No phone calls, no leaving the house. No more crap. Got it?”

“Got it.” I opened the door. “Aren’t you coming in?”

She shook her head, hands on the steering wheel. “I need a drink. I’m going out.”

“Home sweet home,” I muttered as I got out. When the familiar smell of stale coffee and carpet freshener met me at the door, though, I sighed. It
was
home sweet home. Leaping down the stairs to my room, I jumped on my bed and smiled up at my UFOs. “Missed you, guys!”

An image of Greg standing in the same spot, ogling my photos, popped into my mind and wrenched me back to reality. “I have so much to fix.”

I dropped to my bedspread and stared over at my cell phone. Should I call him? Would he talk to me? Mom said no phone calls, but no punishment from her could top the juvie cell I had just vacated.

I cradled the phone in my hands, smoothed my fingers across the number two speed-dial button, but couldn’t push it. What if he hung up when he heard my voice?

The doorbell cut into my thoughts. I bounded up the steps and peeked through the peephole. Missy.

I threw the door open and flung my arms around my ex–best friend. A familiar outline stood just beyond her, huddled next to the porch swing. My heart tumbled over itself. “Greg?” I let go of Missy.

All the conversations I’d rehearsed—telling him I was sorry, that I was wrong, how I felt about him—failed me. I could only blink at him and wish I’d taken a shower.

“Can we come in?” Missy said. “I need to pee.”

“Yeah, yes, come on in.” I held the door open.

“Priscilla said no visitors when we called to see when you were getting home, but I knew she’d leave eventually.” Missy grimaced. “Did she even come inside?”

I shrugged, my face burning.

Missy ran into the bathroom, leaving Greg and me awkwardly alone. He leaned against the curio cabinet and fiddled with an imaginary object in his hands.

Could he smell me? How bad did I look? I tried to see my reflection in the curio’s glass doors.

My movement caught his attention. He cocked his head slightly and looked up at me through his eyelashes. “So, how’ve you been?” He rolled his eyes and looked back at the air between his fingers. “I mean, besides being in jail and all that. Was it bad?”

I looked at my own fingers, picking at my nails. “It wasn’t too bad. I had a lot of time to think.” I tried to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I thought a lot about how I screwed up.” His curls moved. Was that a nod or an involuntary jerk? “And you. I thought a lot about you,” I said. “I’m sorry your mom’s sick. You never said anything.”

His head came up, mouth open to respond.

“Better!” Missy walked back into the room. “You tell her?”

“Not yet.” Greg gave me a sympathetic frown. “Dellian won’t see you, and without knowing what you planned to say, we didn’t push it.”

We?
Greg was helping? That gave me hope. “I need to ask him about that night.”

Greg threw his arms up in disgust. “Did jail mean anything to you? Give it up! Leave the man alone!”

“Wait, listen, okay?” I said. “Dellian was there that night. He told the police he came to get Tricia but couldn’t find her. I . . . I remember him, sort of, but not much else. Nothing else, actually.”

Missy slapped her hand to her mouth. “You got slipped GHB too?”

“Maybe.” I glanced at Greg. “I’m not sure.” Greg wouldn’t look at me. Did he hate me for not telling him? “Jonathan said Tricia went kind of crazy after he and I had left the party. Tricia pulled me out of his car and we . . .” God, this was hard. Would they think I killed her? “We struggled. Jonathan was breaking it up when Dellian came. Tricia took off, and . . .” I shrugged. “Jonathan took me home.”

“But you don’t remember any of that?” Greg asked.

“No, and as I said, Dellian didn’t say anything about this fight to the police. He said he never found Tricia that night. With everything Jonathan has lied about, he could’ve made that up too.” I ignored Greg’s sarcastic snort. “Which means maybe Jonathan knows more about Tricia’s death than he’s saying.”

Greg nodded. “So you want to ask Dellian, to prove
Jonathan
’s guilty? Hallelujah! She’s finally seen the light!”

“Yes, that, and to ask about a photo of him and Tricia.”

“Photo?” Missy asked.

“Of Tricia kissing him the night of the dance. I found it in his desk, but when I went back to take it, it was gone.”

“You went through his desk?” Greg’s tone shamed me. I waited for the lecture. He just sighed. “So you still think Dellian was more than her brother-in-law?”

“Well, yeah!” Missy said. “If they were kissing—”

“Actually, no. I think Jonathan faked the photo to blackmail Dellian. Dellian didn’t admit to having the photo when the police asked, though.” I held up my hand before Greg could interrupt me. “I know. Of course he denied it, right? He would’ve looked guilty for hiding it. I think there’s more to it. I still think he’s hiding something.”

“Or, novel idea, humor me,” Greg said. “Maybe Jonathan is the one hiding things, and Dellian is totally innocent?”

“They’re closing Tricia’s case, Greg! They think it was an accident or suicide. They’re more interested in pinning the fire on me than finding the truth about that night. But I’m not giving up. I owe it to Tricia to try. Dellian knows about that photo, about that night. If he tells me what he knows, maybe we can find the truth.”

“Will this help clear you?” Missy asked.

“For the fire? No. Only a confession from Jonathan or Ethan could. But I should be punished for my part in it anyway.”
I’m sorry,
I thought, as I looked at Greg. He wouldn’t acknowledge me. I turned back to Missy. “Finding Tricia’s cloak might help with the drug charges, though. It might solve everything.”

Greg’s head snapped up. The accusatory look on his face hurt. He thought this was another plot to get into Dellian’s place.

“Don’t worry, Greg. I don’t expect you to snoop around Dellian’s apartment.”

“What’s so special about her cape?” Missy asked.

“Tricia kept her pipe in the pocket, and I know she wore the cloak that night. I’m positive whoever has it not only put the pipe in my locker to set me up, but was with her right before she died. I think it was Jonathan, but I can’t be sure unless I find the cloak.”

“Sounds as if the cloak is the
only
thing that can help,” Greg said. “So why even bother talking to Dellian?”

“I don’t know! Because he was there? Because he has answers?” I shrugged, frustrated. “It’s the only place I know to start looking for the truth.”

“Okay,” Greg said with a nod. “I’ll get Dellian to talk to you.” His eyes met mine. My heart skipped across my chest. “And if we have to, I’ll help you find that cloak too.”

It was taking forever.

I sat on my bed, holding my cell phone, waiting for them to call with Mr. Dellian on the line. We figured a phone conversation would go over easier than a face-to-face meeting. As one hour rolled into two, though, I began to feel hopeless. Mom would be back soon, and then, even if they did manage to convince Dellian, I wouldn’t be able to speak to him.

What’s taking so long?
I dialed Greg’s cell phone. No answer.

I waited thirty seconds and dialed again. Still no answer.

Oh God, what if they decided to snoop around for the cloak and got caught? Or worse, what if Dellian really
was
responsible for Tricia’s death? Would he do something to Greg and Missy? “Three more minutes, then I’m calling Detective King.”

Thirty seconds went by. I called Greg’s cell again.

“Hey,” Greg whispered.

“Oh, thank God!” I said. “What’s taking so long?”

“He won’t talk. He says he’s ‘not buying what you’re peddling.’ Hold on. What?”

I heard Missy’s voice, soft and muffled. I strained to hear. Dellian’s angry voice suddenly barked through the receiver.

“Phone contact is prohibited, Miss Hart!”

“I know. I . . . I need your help.”

“The help you need only an attorney can provide.”

I rolled my eyes. I really couldn’t stand him. “I’m doing this for Tricia.”

“And setting fire to my apartment? Was that for Tricia as well?”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know—”

“Goodbye, Miss Hart.”

“Wait, please, I’m trying to find the truth.”

He gave a sarcastic laugh. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know audio can be cut and spliced into anything you want. Just like a photo, right, Miss Hart?”

“You mean like the photo of you and Tricia?” My heart began to thump faster.

“Are you admitting you created such a photo?”

“No. Are you admitting the photo exists?”

“You’re recording this conversation, aren’t you? That’s the game we’re playing here?”

“No, I swear! There’s no game. I only want answers about that night. And the photo. Jonathan was behind that, wasn’t he?”

“Once again you’re using your friends to pull off some scam with Mr. Webb. Doesn’t that make you ashamed, Miss Hart? Using your friends?”

“I’m not using them! They’re helping me. I know Jonathan’s been lying.”

“Then why are you helping him?”

“Aren’t you listening?” I yelled into the phone. “I’m not helping him anymore! I know you were there that night. What happened?”

Click.

“Ughhhhhhhhh!” I threw my phone across the bed. How do you find the truth when no one will give it to you?

My phone buzzed. I scrambled to grab it. “Meet me in front of your house,” Greg said. “Be ready. Dellian said he’ll meet with you. I don’t want to give him time to change his mind.”

I approached Dellian’s green truck and peered through the passenger window. “Where’s Missy?”

“We dropped her off at home,” Mr. Dellian said without looking at me. “My vehicle is too small for all four of us, and I was not getting into Mr. Martin’s car.”

“Oh.” I frowned at Greg. “So we’re not talking here?”

Greg gave me a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Mr. Webb lives in this vicinity, doesn’t he?” Mr. Dellian said.

I nodded.

“Four streets over,” Greg said.

“Then we’re not speaking here. Get in. I’ll choose a neutral place.”

It was small inside, too small for three people not used to being crammed into a tight place together. The cramped cab made the mutual dislike between me and Dellian almost visible in the air, and I was grateful for the buffer that Greg provided, a protective blanket from the harsh elements on the other side. He sat almost on top of me to avoid straddling the gearshift. His long legs pressed against mine, our shirtsleeves touching.

I tried to focus on the baby picture that hung from a leather strap off the mirror instead of on the growing unease in the pit of my stomach. Even though I sort of believed Dellian was a victim in all of this, I didn’t trust him. What if this was a trick? Being within a three-mile radius violated the restraining order. Maybe he was taking us to the police department to slap yet another infraction on my laundry list of offenses. If I were arrested and thrown back in jail, would we lose our house?

I shouldn’t be here.
A wave of panic rippled through me. Despite the cranked car heater, Greg’s body, and my thick sweatshirt, I started to shiver. I gripped the loose cotton fabric of my sweatpants and tried to calm down.

Greg tore my left hand free and squeezed it. My eyes rolled over to his. He smiled and squeezed my hand again. I relaxed a little. It would be okay. Greg had my back. I trusted him.

Dellian pulled into the public library. It was well after nine o’clock in the evening. The place was dark and deserted, lit only by the orange streetlights. He shut the engine off and pointed at a picnic table in the park next door. “We’ll talk there.”

Greg and I leaped from the truck like inmates escaping from Alcatraz, our pace slowing only when we reached the table. Greg still had my hand clasped in his as we sat down. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Dellian slapped a small tape recorder down on the picnic table, making us jump. “If this is a trap, I have this as insurance. The two of you, Roswell Hart and Gregory Martin, came to my residence and requested that I speak with you.” He pushed “pause.” “Let’s keep Miss Cervano out of this, shall we?” He pushed “record” again. “I obliged, but demanded a public setting. We are now at the Birch Hill Library. Is that correct?”

Greg leaned into the tape recorder. “No, sir. That is not correct.
Greg Martin
came to your residence requesting this meeting with Roswell; she was not there. She maintained her three-mile radius at all times until you agreed to this meeting and drove to her residence in your green Toyota pickup truck, license number—”

“Enough!” Dellian hissed. “I stand corrected.” Dellian slid the tape recorder in front of me. “Miss Hart, do you agree with this statement?”

I talked into the speaker. “Uh, yes sir, what Greg said.”

“Okay.” Dellian motioned at me. “You have a confession to make?”

“Not a confession, no.” Frowning down at the tape recorder, I tried to assemble what I wanted to say. “I want to know about the night Tricia died, what happened.”