Blind Spot (29 page)

“I mean with Tricia.” He pushed at the door with his palm. “You hear the rumors?”

I buckled my arm firmly against the door. “I can’t have anyone over. Mom’s . . . sleeping.”

He nodded and lowered his voice. “I thought it was a practical joke, but everyone’s talking.”

“Yeah, crazy, huh?” I aimed my eyes on his to give the appearance of eye contact, even though I was looking at the door frame next to his head. For once I was glad for my disability. I couldn’t pull this off if I had to look into his eyes for real.

“Seems weird. You think it’s for real? That she’s really alive?”

“Of course it’s for real!” Could he hear my heart pounding? See it jumping from my chest? “I mean, why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s talking about it. Who would be sick enough to make that up?”

“Yeah, pretty cool if she is alive. Just seems crazy.” He was quiet for a second. “You went to her funeral—didn’t you notice it wasn’t her? I mean, damn!”

“Yeah, I guess no one looked closely—she was, you know, in the water a while and all.” I had to make sure he believed this. I took a deep breath through my nose, letting it out slowly to calm myself. “I heard she’s coming home Friday.”

He nodded. “I heard that too.” He smiled. “You wanna go with me, check it out?”

Go with him? Was he insane? After everything he’d done to me? “I don’t think so, Jonathan. Last time I did something with you, I landed in jail.”

“Sorry, Beautiful.” His hand reached up to touch my face, but I flinched away. He cocked his head. “You scared of me?”

“No,” I said, hoping my snort sounded sincere. “I’m pissed at you! I was jailed
and
expelled, thanks to you.”

“I was afraid they’d get me in the slammer too, you know? Was it rough?”

“Jail? No, it was a trip; a real kick in the pants.”

He gave me an amused smile. “You really crack me up sometimes. Why’d we break up again?”

I glared at him.

“Oh, yeah.” He smirked. “Come with me Friday, please? She’ll talk to me if you’re there.”

“Why do you need to talk to her? She’s alive, right? That means we’re off the hook—well, you are. I still have a drug charge and the fire . . .”
God! I’m not supposed to talk him out of going,
I thought as panic over the whole plan began to rise.
But if he tries to speak to her, Heather’s cover will be blown and he’ll realize it was a trick.
How was I supposed to get him to drive by or hide in the bushes and watch for Tricia without talking to her?

He studied me for a second, as if deciding to tell me something. “Look, I gotta talk to her because—you know that photo you found in D.’s desk?”

I swallowed. “Yes?”

“Tricia and I set that all up. I know as soon as Dellian gets the chance, he’ll get her to confess to the police. I gotta get her to keep her mouth shut. If you go, I’ll tell the cops I made that anonymous tip, that I was with you when you took that money out”—he paused—“and I’ll tell them Ethan started the fire.”

He had just confessed! And . . . I had nothing on me to get it. Damn it! This plan was working, though. “You’d do that?” I said. “Tell the police the truth? All I have to do is go with you to see Tricia?” With me there, I could keep him from talking to Heather, and maybe I could get him to confess on the way over too.

He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Scout’s honor? Did he even know what a Scout was? “Okay,” I said, “I’ll go with you Friday.” I cracked a smile as I shut the door. For once with Jonathan, I was running the show.

“No, no, no!” Greg said. “Absolutely not! She’s not going with him.”

It was Friday afternoon. Everyone, including Mr. Dellian and Abbey, had met at Greg’s house to go over the plan and get ready. I told Detective King what I had learned from Jonathan about our change in plans but had purposely not told Greg. I knew he would try to talk me out of it. And I
was
doing this. I had to.

“Greg, it’s fifteen minutes between my house and Dellian’s apartment, okay?” I said. “Besides, he’ll be too focused on seeing Tricia to do anything on the way there.” My stomach was in knots. I hoped I was right.

“No. You’re not going in his car alone!” Greg said.

“We’ll have an officer tailing them,” Detective King said.

Dellian frowned. “Jonathan is an imbecile, but he is observant. How do you think he got to Miss Hart’s house without your officers knowing on Wednesday? If he spots this tail, he will get suspicious. A jilted lover following them might work, however.” Dellian looked directly at Greg. “Your presence will not only give you peace of mind, it will occupy Mr. Webb the entire ride. He can’t resist playing the conquering king.”

“I don’t want him ‘conquering’ anything!” Greg said. “That’s the whole point!”

“Greg, calm down,” Detective King warned. “Roswell will be fine. I’ll be listening to the conversation with a wire the entire time, police cars seconds away if needed, and at the apartment, officers will be positioned inside and out.”

Greg’s concern rattled me. What if he was right? Jonathan couldn’t be trusted; he’d proven that time and again. What if he
did
try something? I needed reassurance. I left Greg pleading his case and sought out Heather and Missy. They were bleaching Heather’s hair in the bathroom.

Yikes. “Too blond, don’t you think?” I asked when I saw her hair. “And your complexion is several shades darker.” I slumped down on the edge of the tub. This wasn’t going to work. “He won’t be happy with a quick glimpse. We can’t pull off a close-up. This plan was stupid.”

“Come on, it’s a great plan, Roz.” Heather scrubbed her hair dry with a towel. “Have faith, I’m a professional.”

“With professional makeup.” Missy waved a large cosmetic trunk at me.

“Roz?” Detective King peeked in. “You ready for the bug?”

The fear in my stomach twisted tighter. I followed her back into the living room.

I expected an elaborate wiring system taped under my clothing. Instead, Detective King handed me a tiny button-shaped microphone. “This should be as close to your mouth as possible. Your lapel is best.” She frowned at my gray, logoless sweatshirt. “That’s too plain. You need a collar or buttons, something to attach it to that won’t be obvious.”

“I’ve got something.” Greg came back a few seconds later with a black Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. “The microphone should blend in with this, but just in case . . .” He handed me a collared dress shirt. “Wear this overtop to cover it.”

Greg’s dryer-sheet smell emanated from the shirts and filled the tiny bathroom where I was changing. Just breathing it in calmed me, made me confident. I pulled the T-shirt over my head, slipped my arms into the dress shirt, and rolled the sleeves.
I can do this,
I told my reflection.
I can totally do this.

Detective King mounted the receiver near my collarbone. “Try not to fiddle with this too much, okay? These wireless receivers have a decent range, but reception can be spotty if they’re not placed correctly.”

“That’s reassuring,” I mumbled.

“You’ll be fine.” She began putting an identical receiver on Mr. Dellian. “If things look dicey in the car, get away from him and call me. You have your cell phone?”

“That’s the backup plan? Get away and call you?” I shoved my phone in the front pocket of my jeans. “What if he’s going one hundred miles an hour? What then?”

“If he’s going that fast, we’ll have cause to stop and arrest him for speeding. Relax, okay?” She nodded at Greg. “Keep your eye on her.”

“Oh, I will,” Greg said.

“Now when you get there with Jonathan, you go straight to the apartment, even if you haven’t recorded any info from him yet, okay? Abbey will open the door; Heather will be visible from the doorway in the other room. As soon as Jonathan’s seen her, Rodney will confront him. You come inside then. You hear me? Rodney will do the rest.”

A sudden gasp from Abbey interrupted the detective.

Heather had emerged from the bathroom wearing Tricia’s cloak, her eyes deep black circles, her face a pasty white. For a split second it really did seem as if I was looking at Tricia’s ghost.

“How’d you do that?” I said. “You look so . . . real.”

“I know, right?” Heather said. “Missy’s a goddess with the makeup.”

“Well done, Miss Cervano,” Mr. Dellian said. He put his arm around Abbey’s shaking shoulders. She’d started to sob.

No one spoke. I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing, though. How sobering it was to have Heather standing there as Tricia’s look-alike, when the real Tricia would never get a chance to stand there.

Determination and anger overtook me. This plan had to work. Jonathan had to fry for everything he’d done. He was nothing but a user. He had used Tricia and then just thrown her away. Heck, he’d used us all in one way or another, all to serve himself. I wasn’t going to stop until I had recorded a confession from him for something. I didn’t care what. As long as his ass was sitting in jail, I’d be happy.

“It’s nearly six,” Greg said. “I should get Roz home before he gets there. Fritz? You coming with me?”

“Yeah.” Fritz moved his chair toward the door. Heather bent down to give him a hug. “Be careful,” Fritz whispered.

The slight tremble in Fritz’s voice tore at my confidence again. I expected it from Greg—anything out of his control made him nervous—but Fritz? He was Mr. Daredevil. Maybe this
was
a bad idea. If something went really wrong, would we be okay? Could the police keep Heather and me safe? I pulled the collar of Greg’s borrowed shirt up to my nose, hoping to reclaim some of that calm I’d had earlier.

As if reading my mind, Mr. Dellian put an unexpected arm around me. “Don’t worry, Miss Hart. You’re a survivor. Use those instincts of yours.” He held out a small canister. “Pepper spray, just in case,” he said. “We both know the law can’t always protect us.”

Pepper spray? What the hell was I doing heading into a situation that might require pepper spray? “Thanks,” I said, willing my voice to be steady despite the sense of horror that was taking place inside me. I clenched the spray in my fist and gave the room a shaky smile. “Break a leg!” I told Heather, then followed Fritz and Greg out the door.

On the way to my house, Greg and Fritz made small talk about the weather while I rolled the pepper spray around inside my palm, going over the plan in my head.

“I recorded a playlist for you,” Greg said as he walked me inside.

“I’m going to be talking to Jonathan, not listening to music, Greg.”

“I know. Actually it’s just one song.” He pushed “play” and handed me an earphone. “‘Roswell’s Spell’ by Chevelle.” He blushed. “It reminds me of you.”

I put it up to my ear. The music was harsh and shrill and . . . perfect. Anything softer would’ve made me lose it. “Thanks.” I handed the player back to him.

“No, keep it,” he said, “until this is over.” He tried to hug me.

I pushed him away. If I let myself feel his arms, I’d crumble. If I crumbled, I’d never go through with this plan. “I can’t,” I whispered. My voice cracked. Tears came to my eyes.

“That’s okay,” he said, walking backwards toward his car. “We can save that for later too.” He opened his car door and looked at me. “Be safe, Roz. For me?”

Waiting inside for Jonathan proved too claustrophobic. The plan plowed through my mind like a freight train, over and over, on a never-ending track. The more I thought about it, the more the walls seemed to close in on me, until there didn’t seem to be enough air for my constricted lungs to breathe.

I went outside and tried swinging on the porch to derail my thoughts. The motion made me queasy. I stopped and tried listening to the song Greg had given me. The loud, abrasive music, perfect only moments before, contributed to the chaos in my head. I ripped the earphones out and tried to just breathe.

Greg made several approaches in his hovercraft of a car while I waited. Although I couldn’t see him, I could picture him, that intense look on his face as he passed. The image was enough to shoot blast after blast of unwanted adrenaline through my veins until my body was so overdosed, I thought I’d explode.

“I just want to get this over with already!” I fingered the corner of my shirt, folding and refolding the cotton material while I waited.

The bass vibration warned me before the flash of red sped down the street. I slipped Greg’s MP3 player into my shirt pocket and, with an all-too-familiar rush of panic, stood up. I groped my back pocket until I felt the pepper spray, and then walked toward Jonathan’s car.

“I saw Loser driving around the neighborhood,” Jonathan said. “What’s his deal?”

Showtime. I rolled my eyes and tried to sound annoyed. “He’s mad.” I climbed into his car. “I told him we were going to see Tricia, and he kind of got pissed.”

Jonathan grinned. “A little jealous, huh?” He threw the gear into reverse and squealed out of the driveway. A few seconds later, he glanced in the rearview mirror. “Loser’s tailing us.”

Before I had a chance to respond, Jonathan slammed his foot on the gas pedal and floored it. Instead of turning right toward Heather’s, he yanked left. We flew through two stop signs and an intersection, and then barreled down a side road.

“Ha!” Jonathan checked the mirror again. “Loser!” he screamed out the window. As if Greg could hear him. He was now miles away in a cloud of dust.

I peeled my fingers off the armrest. “You didn’t have to do that. He was just—”

“Stalking you? You don’t need a loser like that following you. It’s creepy.”

You’re creepy.
I wanted out of the car. Away from Jonathan. I was wrong. I couldn’t do this.

I looked out the window for the familiar purple blob. Greg was long gone, frantically searching the route to Dellian’s, while we sped along in the opposite direction. “You can turn around now. I’m pretty sure you lost him.”

“Oh, I
know
I lost him.” He grinned at me. “Forgot to tell you. Change of plans.”

“What?” Change of plans? He couldn’t change plans.
I
was making the plans, not Jonathan!

“You know Dellian won’t let me talk to Tricia if I go there. So I e-mailed her, told her to meet me at our spot.”