Blood will tell, p.14
Blood Will Tell, page 14
Not worth it, I decided. I engaged the brake pedal. Hit the start button. The engine rumbled.
A second later, the fuel light flashed, and I checked the gauge: empty.
I pushed the button again, killing the engine, then I dropped my head onto the steering wheel, teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached.
Damn it.
Taking a breath, I pushed away the tension and self-pity. No time for that. Reaching across the console, I fumbled in the glove box for a flashlight. It had been a while since I had replaced the batteries, but when I toggled it on, a soft beam of white light fell on the floorboards. A moment later, it flickered, but the light held. I pulled an old sweatshirt off the passenger seat and hopped out of the truck.
Immediately I caught the scent, faint but acrid. Gasoline.
I dropped to my knees, using the flashlight to peer underneath the truck. In the few seconds I had run the engine, a wet spot had stained the asphalt. Definitely a leak. Fuel tank, most likely.
When my dad had his old Econoline, he kept a bar of Fels-Naptha soap in his glove box for just such occasions. Once when we’d been driving back from the coast, a rock bounced off the road and punctured the van’s tank. My dad had climbed under the van and rubbed a thick coating of soap over the hole. That fix got us home.
I didn’t have a bar of Fels-Naptha, but I did have access to an auto parts store. First, though, I would have to see what I was dealing with. I laid the sweatshirt on the ground and slid under the truck, flashlight clenched tightly in my left hand. The beam glinted off the steel and caught a bead of gas on the tank. The bead stretched, dripped. When I strained to see better, the spot where my neck and back met began tingling. I would be able to fix it easily enough, but I was pretty sure a rock hadn’t done the damage. Someone had deliberately punctured the tank with a sharp object. Like a knife.
The flashlight pulsed, its batteries fading.
Inside my head, unease snapped like a rubber band. I got to my feet and debated: Call a tow truck, or fix it myself? On my phone, I did a quick search. There were three auto parts stores within half a mile. I chose the one closest to a gas station and set off in that direction.
It was a short walk, but it gave me time to think. There was no question the fuel tank had been sabotaged. Though I felt the truth of that in my gut, I doubted I would be able to convince the police of it. The question they would have was the same one I did: Why?
Why had someone stolen my tools?
Why had someone pierced my fuel tank?
The tools weren’t worth much, and there were more permanent ways to disable a vehicle. If the saboteur had slashed the wiring harness instead, that would’ve been a much harder repair. The damaged tank was an inconvenience, and it pissed me off, but it could’ve been worse. Much worse.
Which was probably the point, I decided. Someone wanted the memories I’d been dredging up to remain buried. This was my warning.
Had Mark’s hit-and-run been a warning too? I couldn’t help but connect the two events: a few days earlier, Mark had been nearly killed half a block from where I now stood. It wouldn’t have been hard for that same person to find me here too.
I couldn’t guess who that person was, not until I knew more. Without all the variables, an equation wasn’t solvable. Those were the rules. And I couldn’t get this answer wrong.
As I walked, the evening heat pressed against me, though that alone wasn’t the reason for the sweat that dampened my neck, or my erratic heartbeat. I was scared—by all that had happened, certainly, but also by my decision, which had only solidified when I’d found that gas stain on the asphalt.
Despite the threat, I couldn’t let it go. I wasn’t just protecting Izzy. I was protecting us all—Julian, my parents, even Marina, a girl I had never met. Because someone who would hit Mark with a car and sabotage my truck wasn’t the kind of person who cared if more people got hurt.
At the auto parts store, I bought a fuel tank repair kit, some medium-grain sandpaper, batteries for the flashlight, and a gas can. I filled the can at the nearby station.
Back at the lot, I replaced the flashlight’s batteries. Before starting the repair, I hesitated. Scanned the lot. Waited another minute. Finally convinced I was alone, I again slid under the truck. Using the sandpaper, I scuffed the metal surrounding the hole, then cleaned it with alcohol and my now-ruined sweatshirt. Focused as I was on my task, I felt vulnerable. My back burned. My whole body itched. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d had when first entering the lot: that someone was watching. My hand shook so that when I opened the tubes to mix the epoxy compound, I bobbled one of them. I caught it and forced my hand to steady.
Focus, Frankie.
I smeared a layer on the hole in quick, thick swipes. Eager to be done.
“Need a hand?”
I jumped, nearly hitting my head on the undercarriage. I scrambled out. Ten feet away, a man was watching me. Silver hair. Glasses. Wiry build. I squinted to see his face more clearly.
When I glared, he took several steps back. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it.” It came out more brusque than I had intended, and the man held up his hands.
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded irritated. “You should be more grateful when someone offers to help.”
“I said thanks, didn’t I?” This time I intended the edge to my voice. I almost added, And don’t tell me what I need to do. But since I was a woman alone with a stranger, I bit my tongue.
After the man drove away, I waited for the compound to harden and cure. The incident with the stranger left me unsettled, and when I transferred the fuel from the can to the tank, gas splashed on my hands.
Careful, I reminded myself, blotting my hands on my sweatshirt.
I fired up the engine and checked for leaks. There were none.
From that first sniff of gasoline to the moment I shifted my truck into gear, only about an hour had passed. Not much time, I told myself. But with Julian so far away and my sister currently confessing to the police, to lose even a minute seemed a risk.
I pulled out of the lot, passing a large trash bin. On the ground next to it, a black bag had been dumped. I recognized it immediately. It was the one that held my dad’s tools.
I got out of the truck and approached the bag. I half expected to find a note taped to it, or the knife used to puncture the tank staged among the tools inside. When I unzipped the bag, carefully, I saw only a jumble of screwdrivers, wrenches, and pliers. Nothing ominous at all. Still, my heart banged, and afraid of what other surprises might still be hidden inside, I left the bag on the ground where I’d found it.
22
I took Julian to Hamburger Ranch, where he inhaled a chili cheese dog and I forced down half a patty melt. It was an extravagant dinner for an ordinary Sunday, but there had been nothing ordinary about that day. I ate a couple of sweet potato fries, usually my favorite, before I finally surrendered, throwing my napkin on the table. With the appetite I didn’t have, I probably should’ve gone with the salad.
After finishing his own dinner, Julian started on my fries, dunking them in thick swirls of ketchup, half of which transferred to his cheek. We would eat only green things the next night, I promised myself.
Back home, Julian and I burned some calories with a game of hide-and-seek. When he asked to hunt bugs in the dark and I refused, he started to fuss. After he brushed his teeth and settled into bed, I placated him with his stack of Eric Carle books. We made it through all of them before his eyes finally closed. I planted a few extra kisses on his forehead.
I stayed there awhile, waiting for Izzy to call. Watching Julian sleep usually calmed me, but that night, it didn’t help.
I got up, grabbed my laptop from my bedroom, and set up at the kitchen table. Though I’d searched these particular names countless times in the past—always anxious that new information might implicate Izzy—I typed them in again now, one by one.
Ben Wesley.
Rachel Stroud.
Tobin Stroud.
Piper Lange.
Chuck Romero.
And then, reluctantly, Isobel Barrera.
There was nothing new since the last time I had searched months before. The articles about Rachel still listed her as missing, not yet connecting her to Mercuryville or the bones found a few days before. It looked like that detail had been shared only with the family.
In my search, I easily found a phone number for Chuck, who worked as a pharmacist in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I saved the number in my phone.
That left Tobin’s number. I navigated to one of those sites advertising access to cell phone information and paid a few extra dollars for the premium report. I saved his number too.
I wasn’t sure if I would call either of them, but it gave me purpose while I worried about Izzy. After texting her several times and getting no response, I turned the ringer up as high as it would go and went to bed.
I woke up at five to my phone ringing. I grabbed it, knowing by the ringtone who it was before I answered. Izzy.
“How you doing?” I asked, clearing my throat.
“Good.” She paused. When she continued, her voice hitched. “Actually, I’m not good.”
I sat up in bed, pulling my blankets around me, and rubbed my eyes. “Tell me.”
“I told Detective Pratt everything about Marina.” Her voice broke again. She was having a hard time getting the words out.
“She didn’t believe you?”
“I don’t know.” Her breath came in quick bursts.
Knowing she was on the verge of hyperventilating, I kept my voice calm despite the chaos swirling inside my own head. “Take your time. Breathe.”
I heard her inhale deeply.
“Where are you?” I asked. “Do you need me to get you?”
“I’m back at Mark’s. They had me come in for an interview and they dropped me off after.”
“Who’s they?”
“First it was Pratt. She asked a bunch of questions about Marina. Then after I mentioned hitting Rachel with my car, they called in someone from the sheriff’s office. Another detective, Jim Kaplan. A deputy was the one who gave me a ride home.” When she exhaled, it came in a drawn-out hiss. “I think it’s bad. Really bad.”
I wanted to reassure her. I knew the police had no reason to arrest her—yet. It was almost impossible to convict on a statement alone, and the authorities wouldn’t want to jeopardize the investigation by arresting her too early. They would wait until they had corroborating evidence. But after Izzy’s confession, she’d become a suspect. They would be working hard to connect her to Rachel’s death.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Frankie.”
I heard the fatigue in her voice. “You been to sleep yet?”
“No.”
“You need rest,” I said softly. “Tell me why you think it’s bad. What did you say to Pratt?”
“I told her Ben saw what happened. And now that she knows the phone number Marina used to call me, she can check those records, and mine.”
“Marina didn’t use her own phone?”
“She has one of those phones you can pick up at a convenience store. The kind you don’t need a plan for? She didn’t want her mom being able to find her.”
“You really think Ben will back you up?” I asked.
“He will.” She sounded irritated at the question. I welcomed the shift. I would rather have her irked at me than teetering on the edge of despondency. “I know you don’t like Ben, but he’s not a totally bad guy.”
“He sells drugs.”
“I’ve taken drugs. Does that make me a bad person?”
It wasn’t the same. “Of course not.” I hoped she heard the sincerity in my response. “But he also started that stupid game, and threw me under the bus with Marina’s mom.”
“I’m not saying he can’t be an ass, but you don’t know what he’s been through.”
“We’ve all been through stuff.” Izzy should know that as well as anyone.
“I know. I’m just trying to get you to understand.” Impatient. Good, I thought. “I was at his place once, and I saw this weird painting on the wall. Dalí’s The Great Masturbator, he said. He told me how Dalí’s dad showed his son photos of people with venereal disease and gross stuff like that. As a lesson. When I asked Ben why he would have something like that on his wall, he said as a reminder that like Dalí’s dad, his dad was a dick too.”
Shocking.
We were getting off track, but I found myself curious about Ben’s childhood. “Did he say how?”
“He just said his dad liked to give him lessons, too, but they usually involved a belt. So Ben’s loyal to those who are loyal to him.”
What about those who weren’t? “So Ben will back you up, and Pratt probably believes you.”
“Yeah. Since it’s looking to the police like Marina ran away, they’ve called off the AMBER Alert. And Pratt said helping Marina would be considered contributing to the delinquency of a minor, which is a misdemeanor.”
“That’s all good news.”
“It is.” Izzy did not sound like someone sharing good news. “Marina’s still out there.”
“I know.”
Izzy got quiet. Even the background noises—the rustling, clicking, breathing—stopped, as if the world no longer existed on the other end of the line. “You still there?” I asked.
“I think the detective from the sheriff’s office, Kaplan, thinks I killed Rachel.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Isn’t that what you went there to confess?”
“On purpose.”
I pulled the blanket more tightly around me, clenching a section of it in a fist beneath my chin. “He said that?”
“Not exactly. He just asked if Rachel and I argued that night.”
“Did you?”
A couple of seconds passed. Then: “No.” But I didn’t like that hesitation. “I’d only just met her. I’m not saying I liked her, but I didn’t dislike her either. I was just kinda . . . neutral about her.”
When I inhaled, I caught the scent of fabric softener I’d used when I had washed the blanket Thursday morning. Back when tasks like doing the laundry seemed important.
“You need to tell me exactly what you told Kaplan.”
“I told him the same thing I told you: that I got wasted, regained consciousness in the car, and hit Rachel.” She paused. “I’m sorry. He asked how I got home, and I mentioned you.”
“I don’t care about that.”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I told him I didn’t mention Rachel to you right away. I didn’t want to involve you like that. But then he asked why. If I was so concerned about Rachel, why didn’t I tell you about her? I said I was too drunk, my thoughts were all jumbled. That I didn’t think to tell you.” Her words tumbled from her in a rush. “But I could see right away he didn’t believe me. He said something like, ‘So you were sober enough to find your keys, start your car, realize you hit someone, and identify that someone as Rachel. Then you were able to call your sister and ask her for a ride. But—what? Forty minutes later, when you should’ve been more sober, you didn’t think to tell your sister you killed someone?’” Izzy had burned through her earlier calm. She was panicked now. “I told him I drank more after I called you. That part isn’t a lie. I had to steady my nerves, after what I’d done.”
I wanted to ask her how much she’d needed in order to steady herself, but there was no point.
“That’s when he started asking about my relationship with Rachel.” Another pause. “What if he’s right and we were fighting?” Frustration raised her pitch. “I’m not sure we weren’t, not with how little I remember that night. We were out there for almost four hours. Why can I remember only about half of that?”
The smell of the fabric softener had grown cloying. I released the blanket. “You were drunk.”
“I’d been drunk before. Many times.” Her laugh was harsh, desperate. “I need to know if I killed her. Intentionally, like that detective thinks. I need to know what happened that night.”
23
I wanted Marina found. I did. But the police were investigating that, and my priority was now helping Izzy figure out what happened the night Rachel died. Was I selfish for prioritizing my own loved one above someone else’s? Probably. Still, Marina had family, neighbors, and police looking out for her. Izzy had me.
So while Izzy slept, I considered my next step. Even with the three-hour time difference, it was too early to call Chuck Romero. If I could believe Izzy’s story, he would have the least information, having left the party early, but it was easier than starting with Marina’s brother, Izzy’s hostile roommate, or a guy who could be a bastard. Plus, right now Chuck was the only one I was sure hadn’t killed Rachel.
I decided my next step would be to make Julian chilaquiles, just like I had the last morning our lives had been normal. Normal sounded good right then.
With my music played low so as not to wake him, I gathered the ingredients on the counter, then set to work husking and rinsing the tomatillos. I roasted the pile of small green fruit in a pan with jalapeños, onion, and garlic, then tossed them in a blender with cilantro, salt, and a squeeze of lime. I left them unblended for the moment, still mindful of Julian sleeping in the next room.
I cut some store-bought tortillas into strips and threw them into a skillet with preheated oil. Distracted, I’d set the flame too high, and the oil splattered onto my wrist. My skin throbbed, and I swore, too loudly. I took a step toward the sink, intending to run cool water on my burn, but my elbow caught the handle of the skillet. It toppled off the stove, splashing my shirt. I could feel the oil’s heat through the cotton. The tortilla strips fell into a soggy heap at my feet.
