course, we all knew there was nothing Margie could have done. It was an accident, a terrible accident. Or so it had been ruled, nearly a year after Elizabeth’s death.
“What’s up?” I said.
Everyone turned to look at me, and then Ainsley looked away. I recognized the heavyset, balding man as one of the detectives who had worked Elizabeth’s case. He had a bearish quality, a warm smile, but bright, analytical eyes. Everyone thinks bears are so cute, but their claws can easily dismantle a human body. They were always watching, those eyes, drinking in details, making connections.
“Beck didn’t show up for class today,” Ainsley said into her tissues. I sank onto the couch beside her. “She hasn’t come back to the room.”
I offered a slow shrug. “Beck has skipped class before,” I said. I ignored a rise of worry, of guilt. I shouldn’t have left her. “This is not a new thing.”
“We found her bag in the trees by the path that leads from the library,” said the detective. He walked over to me and offered me his hand, which I took. His grip was hard and firm—I mean, of course it was. It wouldn’t be wet and limp, would it? Not this guy. Even though he was balding and had an impressive paunch, there was still a kind of power that radiated from him.
“Detective Chuck Ferrigno,” he said. “Lead detective for The Hollows PD. Maybe you remember me? You’re Lana Granger, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I do remember you, sir.”
He gave me a warm smile. “Are you okay?”
“You found her bag?” I asked.
He nodded. “What time did you leave the library?”
“Around nine or ten,” I said. I thought hard, trying to remember the exact time. “Nine-thirty, I guess.”
“And where did you go after that?” I felt the heat of everybody’s eyes on me. It was the thing I hated most, being the center of attention. I wanted to sink down into myself and I realized that I was slouching horribly. I forced myself to sit up straight.
“You went together and were supposed to leave together, though. That’s what Ainsley told us.”
“Right. But I wasn’t feeling well.” I really didn’t want to lie, but I had already lied to Ainsley.
“And where did you go after that?”
“I came right home and got into bed.” I felt Ainsley turn her head to look at me.
“What time was that?” he asked.
“About nine forty-five.”
“Is that about right, Ainsley?” asked the detective.
“I was in my room studying, and I had my headphones on,” said Ainsley. I saw her foot start to twitch. I saw the detective notice it, too. “I didn’t hear her come in.”
The detective was scribbling in a little notepad, which struck me as kind of old school and made me think of Beck. Some people just don’t want to give up the pen and paper thing, the analog experience.
There were a few more questions, which I heard through a kind of mental fog. Was Beck seeing anyone? Not that we knew of. Was she having a problem with anyone? No. Had she mentioned being afraid of anyone? Had she seemed depressed? No. Nothing more than the typical angst.
“Her parents are divorcing,” Ainsley chimed in. “She’s pretty upset about that.”
But that was news to me. It was kind of a big deal. That she hadn’t confided in me underscored the space that had opened between us lately. She’d told Ainsley but not me. A little flame of jealousy flickered inside.
I thought about Beck’s bag sitting out there all night, my mind searching for some logical, harmless reason that her bag with all her notebooks, her laptop, probably her cell phone, would have been cast to the side of the path. I couldn’t come up with one.
When he was done with his questions, the detective and the other officers in the room left. But not before he paused in the doorway and said, “So, Lana, how are you feeling now?”
“Better,” I said. “I think I was just overtired.”
“Good,” he said as he closed the door.
When they’d
“What’s up?” I said.
Everyone turned to look at me, and then Ainsley looked away. I recognized the heavyset, balding man as one of the detectives who had worked Elizabeth’s case. He had a bearish quality, a warm smile, but bright, analytical eyes. Everyone thinks bears are so cute, but their claws can easily dismantle a human body. They were always watching, those eyes, drinking in details, making connections.
“Beck didn’t show up for class today,” Ainsley said into her tissues. I sank onto the couch beside her. “She hasn’t come back to the room.”
I offered a slow shrug. “Beck has skipped class before,” I said. I ignored a rise of worry, of guilt. I shouldn’t have left her. “This is not a new thing.”
“We found her bag in the trees by the path that leads from the library,” said the detective. He walked over to me and offered me his hand, which I took. His grip was hard and firm—I mean, of course it was. It wouldn’t be wet and limp, would it? Not this guy. Even though he was balding and had an impressive paunch, there was still a kind of power that radiated from him.
“Detective Chuck Ferrigno,” he said. “Lead detective for The Hollows PD. Maybe you remember me? You’re Lana Granger, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I do remember you, sir.”
He gave me a warm smile. “Are you okay?”
“You found her bag?” I asked.
He nodded. “What time did you leave the library?”
“Around nine or ten,” I said. I thought hard, trying to remember the exact time. “Nine-thirty, I guess.”
“And where did you go after that?” I felt the heat of everybody’s eyes on me. It was the thing I hated most, being the center of attention. I wanted to sink down into myself and I realized that I was slouching horribly. I forced myself to sit up straight.
“You went together and were supposed to leave together, though. That’s what Ainsley told us.”
“Right. But I wasn’t feeling well.” I really didn’t want to lie, but I had already lied to Ainsley.
“And where did you go after that?”
“I came right home and got into bed.” I felt Ainsley turn her head to look at me.
“What time was that?” he asked.
“About nine forty-five.”
“Is that about right, Ainsley?” asked the detective.
“I was in my room studying, and I had my headphones on,” said Ainsley. I saw her foot start to twitch. I saw the detective notice it, too. “I didn’t hear her come in.”
The detective was scribbling in a little notepad, which struck me as kind of old school and made me think of Beck. Some people just don’t want to give up the pen and paper thing, the analog experience.
There were a few more questions, which I heard through a kind of mental fog. Was Beck seeing anyone? Not that we knew of. Was she having a problem with anyone? No. Had she mentioned being afraid of anyone? Had she seemed depressed? No. Nothing more than the typical angst.
“Her parents are divorcing,” Ainsley chimed in. “She’s pretty upset about that.”
But that was news to me. It was kind of a big deal. That she hadn’t confided in me underscored the space that had opened between us lately. She’d told Ainsley but not me. A little flame of jealousy flickered inside.
I thought about Beck’s bag sitting out there all night, my mind searching for some logical, harmless reason that her bag with all her notebooks, her laptop, probably her cell phone, would have been cast to the side of the path. I couldn’t come up with one.
When he was done with his questions, the detective and the other officers in the room left. But not before he paused in the doorway and said, “So, Lana, how are you feeling now?”
“Better,” I said. “I think I was just overtired.”
“Good,” he said as he closed the door.
When they’d
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