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A sad, unfortunate, episode of kids not thinking.
And by the look on her face, the dismissal in her gaze, and the way she’s clearly uninterested in what I’ve just said, Detective Angleson is definitely one of the people who thought it was justkids not thinking.
Somethingstrangeslots into place in my chest. Like a gear that’s been jammed and is misfiring over and over andover, causing a pain I didn’t know existed. But before I can examine the feeling, the relief, further, she’s speaking again.
“I’m not here to talk about what happened years ago.” She brushes me off with the practice of someone who’s been doing just that to people for long enough that it’s become natural. “I’m here to talk about Emily and Jack. I think it’s fair to say that you, among some others, have reason not to be sorry about their deaths. Is that right?” She snaps her gaze up to mine lightning quick as she asks, like she’s trying to catch the smallest of micro-expressions before I can hide it.
But really, truly, there’s nothing to fucking hide.
“Not liking someone isn’t a crime,” I point out. “Not crying over their deaths isn’t either. Or they might have been in more trouble back then, huh?” She doesn’t rise to the bait. I hadn’t expected her to. It’ll take more than my polite and less-than-subtle needling about a topic she doesn’t care about to push her beyond her carefully coiffed calm.
But that’s okay. My schedule is wide open, and I have nothing but time.
“It goes without saying that you’re the person in this town who would have theleastreason to cry over their deaths. Doesn’t it?” she pushes, and I know right then she’s made a mistake, because my mother stiffens, her eyes narrowing.
“Detective, if you’re going to accuse my daughter ofmurder, then I’m going to have to ask to speak to someone higher up than you,” she says coolly, her gaze on the blonde woman. “Someone with more knowledge of how things work, maybe?”
Mom has her own angle of attack, and it’s less subtle than mine. I almost grin as Detective Angleson’s gaze cuts to her, but my mother works in finance and is not easily scared. If old fat men in the boardroom can’t do it, I know for sure this woman can’t make her back down.
“I’m only asking questions, Mrs. Scott,” she tells my mother finally, her voice still just as stiff as it had been when she’d spoken to me. “I’m not making accusations.”
“You’re kind of trying to lead me into one though, aren’t you?” I add so helpfully. “You want me to admit to not being friends with a group of people anymore. Which, last I checked, isn’t a crime. So you also want me to admit that I’m an awful person who isnotplanning to go to their funerals. Actually, I’m hoping the line at the coffee shop on Third, you know, the place that does the donuts on Saturdays?” I ask her the mostly rhetorical question blithely, but she doesn’t answer.
“Maybe you don’t," I continue, "I’m hoping that they’re less busy during the funeral, so I can go get a donut, hunt down coffee, come home, and not give a damn that they’re dead.” I know it’s reckless. The look on Mom’s face says so, though she isn’t glaring at me or giving me any kind of warning to stop.She doesn’t feel anything for those kids, either. I know that for a fact.
“Sounds to me like you more than just don’t like them,” Detective Angleson says, her attention solely on me as she turns away from my mom.
“Does it sound like I…hate them?” I ask, rather dramatically, if I do say so myself. I’d almost wiggled my eyebrows during the words, but I really don’tneedto end up in jail that badly.
“It does. Did you kill them?” The words are so natural, the question just sotherethat I can’t help the surprised scoff of laughter that nearly chokes me.
“DidIkill them?” I shove my finger into my chest, trying to make sure she means me. “DidIkill Emily? Track star Emily? Or wrestling… Well he wasn’t a star by any means, was he? Uh. Wrestling…enthusiastJack of the six-foot-five clan?” I shake my head at her stupidity, and her audacity. “I’m five-six in tennis shoes and one-fifty soaking wet. I’ve never played a real sport in my life. How would I have killed them, exactly?”
“And she has alibis for both deaths. Which, as far as I know, have still been ruled asaccidents,” my mother points out icily. “Or is this you coming to our house to tell us that maybe that’s not the case?” Thanks to Nic, I know she’s wrong. But the fact that they haven’t released the truth about Jack’s death is interesting.
Detective Angleson doesn’t look at my mother, but she holds my gaze with her pale blue eyes. “People get creative, Miss Scott,” she tells me, hand resting on her knee.
“Creative enough to be in two places at once?” I mirror her for only a moment longer before flopping back in my seat. “Mom’s right. I can give you the names of multiple people who saw me when Emily died, and four people who saw me when Jack died.”
“Are you one of those people?” she asks my mother, clearly harboring some kind of death wish.
“I am,” Mom replies icily. “Or is that against the law now, too?”
“I asked because I wanted to see your reaction to me asking. But I wasn’t expecting you to be so casual about it.” She looks me over again, scrutinizing every part of me, as if trying to find the piece that’s broken. Joke’s on her, though. It’s my brain. Well, and my achy palm from the night she doesn’t care about.
“I’m just so sorry to disappoint you like this.”
“Because now I wonder if you’ll tell me the truth when I ask you if you know who could’ve done it.” She pins me with those eyes, her face looking younger for a moment. Almost vulnerable. Is this something more important to her than just her job? It’s starting to look like I should pull out a yearbook just to look up what Angleson I knew from school, just in case there’s a connection I’m not seeing.
I don’t answer her right away, but mostly because the first four answers my brain conjures up include a fancy four letter word beginning with F, in a sentence that starts withgoand ends withyourself.
But also because Idohave an idea of who might have killed them. It’s impossible, obviously. Like me, Phoenix can’t be in two places at once, as far as I know. And I’msureRory is his always-alibi, true or not.
Still, his presence in the park when Jack had died, the fact that he’d been there waiting on Rory for longer than Jack had been dead, proves my suspicions incorrect more firmly than anything else could.
Blinking, I realize it’s been too long since I’ve answered and I drag my gaze back to the rounded tip of her too-wide nose. “I don’t know anyone who hates them more than me,” I lie to her, my voice as trustworthy and level as I can ever hope to make it.
Especially since I’m lying.
