They all had a reason, p.12
They All Had a Reason, page 12
Surprisingly, Gemma does not offer me any words of encouragement. Not once does she tell me that I shouldn’t worry or that everything’s going to be fine. I guess even my best friend can’t deny the seriousness of my situation.
“I’m not saying this is going to happen…” Gemma sighs, “but do you think the cops would come and arrest you at school?”
I sit down on the stool at the kitchen counter, my knees feeling weak. I can just imagine everybody pulling out their phones and recording me as I get hauled off in cuffs. I can’t let that happen. The room feels like it’s starting to spin. I lean onto the counter for support and close my eyes. “Do you really think they’ll charge me with murder?”
“Well, um, you admitted to being parked on the side of the road where Bellany’s body was found. That puts you at the scene of the crime.”
“But my Bronco got a flat tire,” I remind her. “That’s the only reason I was parked near the woods.”
She exhales heavily into the phone. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, I really am. I wish I could do something to help.”
I already regret making up that story. It was a huge mistake. I should have listened to Mr. Thatcher and kept my mouth shut.
“Charlotte?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, not really interested in continuing this conversation.
“I wish I could come over and be there for you,” she says. “But I’m babysitting right now, and I can’t leave.”
“That’s okay. Really, I’m fine.” There’s a call on my other line. It’s Mom. “Gemma, I gotta go, my mom’s calling. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Mom begins the conversation by asking me how I’m doing. The worry in her voice is palpable. She must feel guilty for leaving me.
I assure her I’m okay, because there’s no point in telling her otherwise. It’s not like she can do anything to make this go away.
“There’s something else I want to tell you,” Mom says, voice strained. “Mr. Thatcher warned me that this might happen—it’s merely procedural.”
Procedural? “What’s going on?”
“Since your Bronco seems to be a big piece of evidence in the detectives’ eyes, he thinks they might want to inspect it.”
My heart feels like it has stopped, and I need an electric shock to get it going again. The cops are going to comb through my Bronco, looking for traces of evidence—evidence that could very well be there.
Chapter 20
I walk outside, phone to my ear, still talking to Mom. I’m trying to assure her that I’ll be fine no matter what. If my Bronco gets impounded for evidence, I can ride the bus to school or get a ride with Gemma. I open the door, hop inside, and turn the key. The Bronco’s engine rumbles to life.
“Charlotte, where are you going?” Mom asks, alarmed.
“Just a quick trip to get a Diet Coke and a chocolate bar. It won’t take long.” I don’t tell her that I’m also heading to the car wash. I’ve got to hurry before it closes.
“Okay, well, don’t be gone too long. Mr. Thatcher said it’s very important that we cooperate with the police.”
“Of course,” I say to assure her. “This is going to be super quick.”
Mom seems hesitant to get off the phone. I tell her repeatedly that I’ll be okay and not to worry.
“I love you,” she says for the third time and hopefully last.
“Love you too. Bye, Mom.”
I drive to the car wash on Brightleaf Boulevard. The attendant doesn’t look pleased. I have purchased the most thorough and expensive wash they offer, and my Bronco hasn’t had a good cleaning in a very long time. I wait inside the building, feeling relieved to have made it here before they closed.
My phone rings, and I’m afraid it’s the police wanting to know where my Bronco is. I look at the screen and see Wade’s name. Finally! I already suspect things didn’t go well with the detectives, otherwise why would they want to seize my Bronco? “Wade, where are you?”
“I’m still at the police station,” he replies in a low voice. “My mom’s talking to the detectives right now.”
Is that a good thing or bad? “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this mess.”
“Hey,” his voice is calm, but even lower now. “This is all just part of the game they play. They’re trying to intimidate me.” He sounds like he truly believes what he’s saying, and he might be right. I certainly fell for their intimidation tactics. “I just wanted you to know so you won’t worry. I shouldn’t be here much longer. I’ll text you when—gotta go.” He hangs up abruptly.
I look out the window, watching my Bronco creep through the car wash, suds flying, scrubbers spinning. Breathe, I tell myself. Don’t freak out. Stay calm. Wade is fine. He’s not going to be arrested. I am not going to be arrested.
After I tip the car wash attendant, my phone dings with a new text message. It’s from Wade.
Wade
I’m heading to work. Everything is fine. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and tell you all about it.
Relief washes over me, and at the same time I’m stunned. I can’t believe he did it. I owe him my life.
I quickly type out a short response.
Me
Thank you for everything! Can’t wait to see you!
Since he’s on his way to work, I decide not to tell him that my lawyer thinks the cops are planning to seize my Bronco. I’ll text him about it later.
“Charlotte,” a deep voice calls, and I turn to look. Hollywood is strutting toward me, which is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see him here. “Charlotte, how’ve ya been?” He wraps me in his arms like an oversize straitjacket. Is this the new normal? We hug now? “Missed you at school today,” he says.
“I’m surprised you noticed,” I clench my teeth, wondering if he heard about the cops bringing me in for questioning.
“Girl, how could I not notice,” he winks. Then he turns and looks at my Bronco, shaking his head. “They didn’t do a very good job cleaning your car.” He runs a finger along the hood, then holds it up to show me. “See all that dirt?”
I ignore his outstretched finger. “Looks clean to me.”
He rubs his fingers together. “It feels gritty. You should have them clean it again.” He walks around my Bronco, eyes poring over every inch.
The cops are going to be inspecting it soon enough. I don’t need Hollywood doing it too. “Do you work here or something?” I huff.
“Me? Nah. I’m just waiting for Stew.” Hollywood drops his gaze and points at the front bumper. “Did you hit a deer?”
I walk around to look. “No, I didn’t hit anything.” The dent isn’t even that big. Plus, it was already there when I bought it.
Hollywood whips out his phone and starts recording. “This is a true classic, you know?” He switches the camera angle. “It just needs a little TLC. My cousin Ray-Ray has a shop down on the other end of Brightleaf, just a couple miles from here. I could get you a discount.” He points the camera at me.
“Hollywood, stop,” I say, irritated.
“Here’s the proud owner. Miss Charlotte, tell us about your classic Bronco. Where did you get it, and how long have you had it?”
I climb inside, slam the door shut, and turn the key. I can see his mouth still moving, but I can no longer hear him over the engine. He knows as well as I do that this vehicle is no classic. It’s a hunk of junk that barely runs. Why is he so interested in it all of a sudden? I can’t help but wonder if he knows more than he is letting on.
My foot hovers over the gas pedal. I’m tempted to drop it and rev the engine in hopes of backing him off, but that wouldn’t be a good look on video. I shift into reverse, then drive around him, knowing I’ll be on his YouTube channel by tomorrow. If the cops wind up finding evidence and arrest me, this footage is sure to go viral.
I turn to drive in the opposite direction of home, toward that cursed Highway 210, in search of answers. On almost all of the detective shows I’ve ever watched, when they’re trying to solve a murder, they stake out the crime scene. The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. If the cops are wasting time looking in my direction, then someone has to find out the truth.
Based on the photo the detectives showed me, I head to the spot where my Bronco had been parked on the night of the party. It’s not even November yet, but darkness falls quickly. I pass a few streetlights coming on and watch them fade in the rearview mirror. Soon, only my headlights illuminate the road in front of me.
All my senses are on high alert as I approach. I make the final slight right turn at the bend in the road. A car pulls out in front of me, its headlights casting a patchwork of light through my cracked windshield. My nerves get the best of me. I chicken out and continue driving. When I arrive at a stoplight, I look over at the car next to me, stunned. Sitting behind the wheel is the rude blond girl. I wonder what she’s up to.
She makes a right turn, but I’m unable to follow after her. Other cars have already pulled up behind her and are blocking the lane. My hesitation causes a line to form behind me. I drive through the intersection, frustrated, knowing she’ll be long gone by the time I get turned around.
At the next available spot I make a U-turn and head back down Highway 210 in an attempt to find the driveway she had pulled out of. As I come to the bend in the road again, I spot it. There’s only one driveway on this entire stretch. This has to be it.
I pull off the highway onto a gravel road, where I’m immediately met by a NO TRESPASSING sign. My hands become sweaty from gripping the steering wheel. Tiny rocks grind under the Bronco’s tires as I ignore the sign, continuing to drive down the path, deep into the woods. The narrow road is flanked by tall trees and sporadic deep ditches. If I wanted to get out of here in a hurry, I would have to shift into reverse and back up the entire way. But it’s too dark to do that. I’m sure I would end up in a ditch or hitting a tree.
Around the next curve, there’s another sign. I gulp when I read the words TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT! Okay, that’s it. I’m done with this.
I keep searching for a place to turn around, but the road seems to be shrinking. Branches reach out and sweep across my already busted windshield. Eventually I see a light up ahead. It’s coming from a small house. Four or five vehicles are scattered along the circular driveway in front of it. I’m about to flick my headlights off but stop when I see the road split up ahead. Yes! Finally a place to turn around.
I take the turn to the right, only to be disappointed. This road also leads to the circular driveway right in front of the house. My foot hits the brakes, and I come to a stop beside a dilapidated shed, unsure what to do next. The last time I got lost in these woods, Bellany happened. I cringe at the memory, at the bloody images that always seem to appear in my mind at the worst possible moments. I shake my head as if this action alone will erase it all, but it’s useless. I’ve got to push through this. I can’t chicken out. The cops are going to take my Bronco. I have to do this now if there’s any chance of finding the killer while I still have my freedom. There is no alternative.
I hop out. Leaves and twigs crunch under my shoes. I slowly close the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. Using my phone as a flashlight, I make my way toward the house while remaining under the cover of the trees. I pass by several disabled vehicles, some covered in weeds, others propped up on cinder blocks. There’s a waterlogged old couch, a broken chair, a refrigerator with a missing freezer door, and several black trash bags piled up, contents spewing out.
The house has a blue tarp strewn across part of the roof. The windows by the front door are framed by crooked shutters. This can’t be where that blond girl lives, can it?
Music plays faintly, coming from somewhere inside the house. I head straight to the backyard, passing by a boarded-up window. There’s more garbage back here, and a rickety old deck just waiting to give someone a splinter.
Mixed in with the music are several deep voices. I step closer to hear them more clearly. They’re talking about someone’s car, trying to diagnose a mechanical problem. A female voice enters the mix, and I immediately recognize it as belonging to Vivy.
I inch myself closer to the window, curious about who else might be in there with her. My fingers press against the moss-covered siding. I hold my breath, ready to fully commit and peek inside, hoping the darkness outside keeps me hidden from the light inside.
My eyes widen, scanning the room. There’s a fireplace with a fire burning, a tall shelf next to it. The TV sits opposite the couch where I can see the backs of two men’s heads. There’s another guy sitting in a chair off to the side, a beer in his hand. Vivy’s sitting on a lawn chair by the fire, staring down at her phone.
I duck back down below the window, unsure how much longer I should stay out here. The last thing I want to have happen is to get caught trespassing in a place like this.
The voices in the room grow louder. And then I hear a new voice. It sounds familiar. A lump rises in my throat. Could it be? I inch up toward the window again. The beard, the tattooed arm, the voice—it’s Wade’s stepbrother, Coop.
“What about me?” Vivy asks, turning to look at him. “Did you bring me anything?”
“You’re the one who owes me. Like I told you before, you’re gonna be payin’ off that debt for a long time.” He jerks forward in his chair. “Did you just roll your eyes at me!”
“I-I was just looking at you,” Vivy replies, a tinge of fear resonating through her voice.
“What are you doing here anyway? I said I was hungry. Get in that kitchen and make me something to eat.”
The laughter of several voices fills the air, and I crouch down again to hide.
“What do you want to eat?” Vivy asks.
“Make me some cookies. Chocolate chip. And don’t burn ’em this time. If they don’t taste right, I’m gonna make you do it again.”
“But I don’t think we have any eggs or chocolate chips.”
“Then go to the store and get some!” Coop shouts. “Here… Take this twenty. I want semisweet chocolate chips, none of that store brand. I want the good stuff. And real butter. I’ll know if you use margarine. Hurry up, and I better get all my change back!”
“I don’t have a car. Who’s going to take me?”
“Your brother will take you. Right, Dean?” Coop says.
“Yeah, I’ll take her.”
I quickly leave the window and move around the house, keeping watch for Vivy and Dean. The front door slams. I wedge myself between the bushes, staying low.
“I’m so sick of the way he treats me,” Vivy groans.
“It’s your own fault,” Dean replies. “Here, you drive. I’ve had one too many.” He tosses her his keys.
“Isn’t there something you can do to get Coop off my back?”
“Like what?” Dean snaps.
The truck door squeals as it opens. “I don’t know. Do something to make him leave me alone.”
“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation,” his voice deepens as he climbs inside the truck, then slams the door shut.
“Yes, I do—” The other door slams, and I can’t hear what they’re saying anymore.
The engine starts up, headlights turn on. I remain hidden in the bushes until the rumbling and the light fades. What does Vivy owe Coop for?
Instead of walking around to the backyard again, I decide to leave. I don’t want to risk getting caught by Coop or one of those other guys. And besides, it’s getting late. The police might already be at my house waiting for me.
I make my way back to the Bronco, ease the door shut, then turn the key. The sound echoes into the still night. I shift into gear, but instead of moving forward, the Bronco remains in place, tires spinning. Gravel sprays up, ricocheting off the metal floorboard, sounding like bullets. Crap! My foot stomps harder on the gas. The tires finally gain traction. The Bronco leaps forward so fast I’m unable to make the turn in time to change directions. I drive right past the front door of the house and speed off down the gravel road.
Chapter 21
The panicked feeling I experience during my escape down Vivy’s driveway doesn’t taper off until I’ve put several miles behind me. A cold sweat still prickles at my neck. I’m in shock over how Coop treated her. It’s like she is his personal little errand girl who has to obey his every whim. Why didn’t her brother defend her? And where was her dad? She had mentioned that her parents divorced years ago, but other than that, I really don’t know anything else about her homelife.
As I turn down the road into my neighborhood, a sense of relief comes over me. I can see my house, and there aren’t any cops there waiting for me—not yet, anyway.
Our gray two-story home may not be fancy, but it’s not an eyesore either. The windows are old and drafty, but they aren’t broken or boarded up. There aren’t any cars on cinder blocks parked out front or bags of trash bags strewn across the yard. There aren’t any unwanted guests waiting for me inside like at Vivy’s house. Mom rarely brings boyfriends home.
I leave my car key sitting on the driver’s seat. Who knows if my useless attorney’s prediction will actually come true? If the cops don’t take it, maybe someone else will steal it. Then my problem will be solved. No car means no evidence tying me to a crime.
After I gather up my things from the back seat and center console, I take one last look around to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind. I take a look in the very back, wondering if whoever stole my Bronco left traces behind in the carpet. Should I try to clean it some more, I wonder. Would it even matter? This is just a lost cause. I turn and head inside the house, feeling physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.
As soon as I slip out of my jeans and hoodie, I dive under the blankets piled on my bed, hoping to fall asleep quickly so I can escape all of my problems. By some miracle, I do.
When I open my eyes again, it’s still dark outside. The clock reads 4 a.m. The exhaustion I had felt when I first got home is still with me, but I’m no longer able to sleep. My mind won’t shut off. I’m thinking about Coop, wondering if he has any involvement and hoping Wade will be able to find that out.
