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I levitate at the knock on my door, and don’t get the chance to say anything before Mom opens it, peeking her head in. “I need you, Bailey,” she says, her face strangely distant and serious. I glance over her features for more clues, find none, and frown.
“O…kay,” I agree, figuring that if she were going to give me a reason, she would’ve already. It’s probable that it’s afamilything, and she doesn’t want Nic to hear it too, though I don’t know what could be so serious that she wants to talk to me alone.
Unless there’s been another murder.
Except…Nic would tell me if there had been, I think.
So why is Mom looking at me like that?
"I gotta go,” I say, sitting up and dropping my legs to the floor. “Talk to you later?” I’d give her a better explanation if I had one, but my palms are already clammy from the way mom is still looking at me with something I can’t place.
“Okay.” Nic sounds as confused as I am. “See you later.” I’m the one to hang up first, and I get to my feet, fingers digging into my thighs as I turn to face my mom.
“What’s going on?” I ask, straightening as she opens the door wider. “Did I do something wrong?” I hate that it’s my go to, but anxiety nearly chokes me when she looks at me like I’ve definitely done something wrong, or I’m about to.
“No,” Mom assures me, her voice firm. “You didnothingwrong. It’s just.” She looks hesitant, dismissive, and then sucks in a breath. “There’s a cop here, and she’d like to talk to you about Emily and Jack’s deaths.”
Idon’t know this detective by name, even though I’m sure she’s lived here all her life, just as I have. Her uniform is pressed, creating solid lines around her frame that give the severe look on her face even more meaning.
I hesitate at the entrance to our formal living room, hand on the edge of the archway that leads up into the room and the step I’ve tripped over at least thirty times. She sits straight in an armchair. My mom’s favorite armchair that she doesn’t like people sitting in.
After all, she’s told me in a grumble, long after guests have gone and she’s finished most of the straightening up. “Formal living rooms aren’t made to be comfortable in.” I’ve never argued with her, never voiced the thought that if they’re not made to exist in, why have them?
But of course, that kind of argument would be lost on my mother, who came from very little and built a life and a home that so many people can’t.
Trying not to look like a deer in headlights preparing to meet its doom, I carefully step into the room, knowing that if I fall in, I’ll probably look even more suspicious. Slowly I cross to stand in front of the detective, who rises to her feet smoothly, her blonde hair pressed back in the smoothest, tightest ponytail I’ve probably ever seen. I wonder how much hairspray she uses, and how much of a flame hazard her hair now is.
“Bailey Scott?” She reaches out a hand and I take it, hating the feel of her fingers against mine. It makes me nervous,like she can read some truth through palm-to-palm contact that even I don’t know about. “Hi. I’m Detective Angleson.”
I went to school with an Angleson, though I don’t remember liking her very much.
“Hi,” I reply, knowing I look just as nervous as I feel. “Umm. My mom said you wanted to ask me something?” Well, it isn’t exactly what she’d said, but I’m sure paraphrasing probably won’t get me thrown in jail.
“I’d like to talk to you, yes.” If I had to peg the detective’s age, I’d put her somewhere in her early forties. It’s hard to tell, with the hair and the uniform that fits her a bit poorly, but she lets go of my hand and sits, some of the severity leaving her face as if it takes a real, concentrated effort for her to look human.
“You knew Jack Fairfield and Emily Donahue, didn’t you?” she asks, getting right to the damn point. Apparently, she’s not going to waste words on the little things likehello, how are you,or at least,how are things after we failed to do anything about the incident on the ice six years ago?
My fingers drum on my knees, and from the corner of my eye, I see my mom sit down in one of the other chairs, her eyes firmly on Detective Angleson’s face.
It’s an easy question, at least. I don’t have to think about it before saying, “Yeah, I went to school with them. High school and middle school. They didn’t go to the same community college I had.”
Emily and Jack were much too good for community college, or in Jack’s case, maybe not good enough academically.
“And you used to be friends?”
I blink, head tilting just enough that I know she’s seen it. That’s definitely not the question I’d expected, and even though I know the answer, I struggle as the words stick to my tongue like soft caramel, though much less pleasant.
“Years ago, we were friends. Yes.” I’ve seen enough cop shows to assume I should’ve offered the wordlawyer. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong and I have nothing to admit to. There’s no lie she could find and point her finger at me, crying,I knew it. And there’s definitely no reason in hell that her handcuffs will inch anywhere near my wrists.
I didn’t kill them, after all.
“But you aren’t anymore.” I hate the way she says it, shrewdly, leading me on as ifthisis the hidden truth.
But it isn’t, and I’m not afraid of the words she wants to hear. Still, an irritated, humorless grin pulls at the side of my mouth like a puppet’s string, though I’m sure my eyes are anything but amused. “No, we’re not friends anymore,” I agree, hoping I sound at least a little polite. “Because Jack, Emily, and three others killed my best friend and almost me as well. I’d say we’redefinitelynot friends anymore.”
When she shifts uncomfortably on her seat and looks away, it dawns on me what camp she belongs to. Back when the investigation had happened and everyone had been worked up, upset, and grieving, there had been two sides to what had happened. Some of the police, and the other parents, had beenfirmly on our side. On Daisy’s side. That it wasn’t an accident, or just a stupid childish prank that wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Those people called for a harsher punishment than, well, nothing, but in the end, things hadn’t gone our way.
But then there were the others. Some cops and parents, especially the parents of my former ‘friends,’ who swore I was making parts of it up. That it was hearsay; my word alone couldn’t be trusted about whose fault such a sad, devastating, ‘accident’ had been. They’d sworn that kids just didn’t think, and that’s all it was.
