About That Night (17 page)

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Everyone is talking about the arrest at school. Everyone is speculating about who it is. Then she hears someone say it flat-out: “It's Ronan Barthe.”

“How do you know that?” she demands.

The kid who said it, a jock friend of Derek's named Brendan Roark, says, “Because Mr. Merriwether told the cops he caught them fighting in the hall.”

This, Jordie knows, is a lie. Mr. Merriwether didn't actually see a fight. He saw Ronan with a homicidal look in his eyes—isn't that what Deedee said? Still, she's not surprised the word is out that Mr. Merriwether talked to the cops and that it had something to do with Ronan and Derek. Jordie has never figured out exactly how it happens, but everything eventually gets out. This is no exception.

“And everyone knows how that creep Barthe felt about Derek, especially after you started going with him.” There's an edge to the words, and the look on Brendan's face isn't remotely friendly, never mind sympathetic. He's blaming me, Jordie realizes. He thinks Derek is dead because of me.

She doesn't argue with him. She doesn't want to get into it, doesn't want to hear him say flat-out what he's already implying, doesn't want to hear how long it takes for
that
to get around, assuming it hasn't already. She walks on, into the school and up to her locker.

Nobody says anything to her face about it being her fault or about Ronan's jealousy being the motive for what happened to Derek. Neither does anyone ask her if she knows whether it's true that Ronan is the one who was arrested. Why should they? He's obviously missing from school. He obviously had a reason to dislike Derek. And he's not one of the in kids. He doesn't play sports. He doesn't talk much. He's not much of a joiner. And he's only been in town for a little over a year. No one really knows him. When you get right down to it, Jordie barely knows him.

There is only one person she can think of to talk to. Ronan's mother.

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The whole time Jordie went out with Ronan, she never met his mother. He never wanted to take her back to his house. He never offered to introduce her, and she assumed he wasn't on good terms with her. For some reason, that seems to jibe with what she knows about Ronan. He did mention that his dad was “out of the picture.” The contempt in his voice was palpable when he said it. Bad divorce, she thinks. A dad who never shows up when it is his day or weekend or whatever to be with Ronan. Maybe a dad who doesn't pay child support. And who knows, maybe a mother who doesn't cope well with that. For all she knows, maybe a mother on welfare. Or an alcoholic mother. Or just a pathetic mother. It all adds up to the same thing: Jordie is nervous about approaching her. But does she have any choice?

She takes her time going up the walk. She wonders how to introduce herself. As a friend of Ronan's? As his ex-girlfriend? As someone who cares what happens to him? For sure, not as Derek Maugham's girlfriend.

She reaches the door and presses the bell. A woman answers.

“Mrs. Barthe?” Jordie says. “I'm Jordie Cross. I—”

“Whoa. Hold up, honey. I'm not Mrs. Barthe. I'm the home-care nurse.”

Nurse?

“Is—is Mrs. Barthe here?”

The nurse, a squat, barrel-shaped woman in stretch pants and a Christmas sweater, nods as she looks Jordie over.

“Do you think I can see her?” Jordie asks.

“Does she know you, honey?”

“I'm a friend of her son's. Of Ronan's.”

“Uh-huh,” the nurse says, clearly suspicious. “That phone in there has been ringing off the hook with reporters.” She looks up and down the street over Jordie's shoulder. “How do I know you're not one of them or that one of them hasn't sent you here to get some information?”

“You can tell her my name. Jordie Cross.”

“Oh, so she
does
know you?” Still skeptical.

“I used to go out with her son. I—we're still friends.”

The woman snorts. Still, she says, “Okay. Tell you what. You stay here, and I'll go and ask her if she wants to see you.” Before Jordie can say anything, the door closes in her face. She waits.

And waits.

She waits so long that she begins to wonder if the nurse is ever coming back. She begins to feel like an idiot, freezing her butt off on the stoop.

The door opens again.

“She said okay.” The nurse opens the door wide enough for Jordie to squeeze through. “She's upstairs. I'm giving you ten minutes. The poor thing is exhausted as it is.”

Jordie pulls off her boots and hat and unbuttons her coat. She climbs the stairs to the second floor.

“Front of the house,” the nurse calls after her.

Jordie heads for the door to the front bedroom. She taps on it.

The voice that answers is thin and reedy. “Come in.”

Jordie steps into the master bedroom, its double bed empty and tightly made (by the nurse, Jordie guesses), its occupant seated in a wheelchair in front of the window, an oxygen tank at her side and an oxygen-intake tube strapped around her head. The woman is painfully thin, shockingly pale and has deep circles around her sunken eyes. She is wearing a housecoat that seems much too large for her and enormous, fluffy slippers.

“Mrs. Barthe?”

The woman looks her up and down. “So you're the famous Jordie.” Her voice is a bare whisper. “Ronan is right. You're very pretty.” She lifts a hand and gestures weakly to an ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Sit.”

Jordie sits. Mrs. Barthe is seriously ill, there's no doubt about that. Why didn't Ronan ever mention that?

“What can I do for you, Jordie?”

“It's about Ronan.”

Mrs. Barthe nods. “Of course.” She is breathing hard every time she speaks. Now she coughs. It seems a chore for her to stop, and Jordie doesn't know what to do to help her.

“My water,” Ronan's mother manages to say. She nods to a drinking bottle with a straw sticking out of it. Jordie rises to get it. She is about to hand it to Mrs. Barthe, who has raised her arm to reach for it. But she freezes. Her eyes are on the bracelet around Mrs. Barthe's wrist. It's the same one Ronan gave Jordie. Jordie's sure of it. It's not just similar. It's the exact same one.

Mrs. Barthe is coughing as if she's going to choke. She manages to croak a single word: “Water.”

Jordie comes back to herself. She hands her the water and watches her suck greedily on the straw. She waits until the bottle is handed back to her. She sets it down and then sits again. But her mind is on that bracelet. It's the same one; she knows it is. But how did Ronan get his hands on it?

There is only one way she can think of.

“You like the bracelet?” Mrs. Barthe asks.

“It's beautiful.”

Mrs. Barthe holds out her arm and admires it. “Yes, it is. It was a gift from my husband—in much happier days, of course. It's the one thing about his father that Ronan doesn't disapprove of. But that's because Ronan picked it out, although I didn't find that out until a couple of weeks ago.”

Oh? thinks Jordie.

“When his father walked out on me, I was bitter. I admit it. I threw the bracelet in the trash.” She fingers it fondly. “Ronan never said a word, but I imagine he was crushed.” She holds out her wrist and shows Jordie the familiar, delicate patterns in the silver. “Honeysuckle for true love, ivy for love, forget-me-not for fidelity and, of course, roses for one love. Ronan found it at a one-of-a-kind craft show. When Doug—my ex-husband—told me about it, I apologized to Ronan. He presented this to me a few days after Christmas. It turns out he'd found it in the trash and rescued it.” She smiles, but Jordie has never seen a person look as weary as Mrs. Barthe looks. “I'm glad.” She looks up. “So, Jordie, what can I do for you?”

“It's about Ronan. I was hoping to be able to see him.”

“He's been arrested. Did you know that?”

Jordie nods.

“And what do you think?” Mrs. Barthe asks. Tired or not, her eyes are sharp as they search Jordie's. “Do you think he murdered that boy?”

Jordie doesn't know what she thinks. She only knows what she fears. But if she wants Mrs. Barthe's help, she knows she has to stay on her side.

“Ronan doesn't seem like the kind of person who would ever hurt another person on purpose,” she says finally.

This earns another smile from Mrs. Barthe, but this one is enigmatic and just a little bit sad. Mrs. Barthe does not say what
she
thinks.

“His lawyer phoned about an hour ago,” she says instead. “He had given me to believe that it is next to impossible to get bail for a person who has been charged with murder.” Jordie knows this. “But he said that given the circumstances—” She looks Jordie in the eye. “What I mean is, given
my
circumstances, the judge, over the objections of the Crown, has agreed to let Ronan come home for the time being, on the condition that he wear one of those ankle things that will set off an alarm if he leaves the house and that he submit to daily visits from the police, at their discretion with regard to time and frequency, to check on him. Part of me is afraid to have him home.”

Jordie frowns.

“Not afraid
of
him,” Mrs. Barthe clarifies. “Afraid
for
him. I may be seriously ill, but I'm no fool. I know what people think. And I know what people who are blinded by hate can do. He might be safer locked up somewhere. But if they lock him up, I might never see him again. Quite a dilemma, don't you think?”

Jordie takes in the oxygen tank, the alarming thinness of the woman's face and arms, the pallor of her skin, the manlike shortness of her hair. Why didn't Ronan tell her?

“Can you ask him to call me, Mrs. Barthe? It's important.”

“Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very tired. Could you please ask Renee—the nurse—to come up here?”

Jordie stands. She thanks Ronan's mother again. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she delivers the message to the nurse, who insists on seeing Jordie out first.

Why didn't he tell me, Jordie wonders again as she makes her way down the front walk. She is almost at the corner of the street when a police squad car slides by. Ronan is in the backseat. He turns his head to look at her as the car goes by. She stops. The car pulls into Ronan's driveway. Two cops get out. One of them opens the back door of the car, and Ronan steps out. His hands are behind his back. He is handcuffed, Jordie realizes. Handcuffed, but home.

Nineteen

J
ordie stands on the corner until she is shivering. She wonders how long it will take Mrs. Barthe to deliver her message to Ronan—
if
she delivers it.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She snatches it and answers without checking the display.

“Jordie.”

“Dad?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm—” She can't tell the truth. Not now. “I'm on my way home.”

“Tell me exactly where you are. I'll pick you up.”

Jordie is already walking as she answers. She doesn't know why her father sounds so anxious, but she's pretty sure his mood won't be improved by finding out where she is standing.

“I'm on Clearwater,” she says, and, sure enough, by the time she says it, she is. “What's wrong?”

“Clearwater and what?”

“Clearwater walking toward home.”

“Okay. I'm getting in the car right now. Keep walking. I'll find you.”

“Okay. But Dad—”

Too late. He's rung off.

She quickens her pace, determined to get as far from Ronan's street as she can before her father's car appears. She is sweaty and huffing but six blocks farther by the time the car appears around a corner. He stops next to her and leans across to shove open the passenger-side door.

“Get in.”

She's still buckling up when he pulls away from the curb.

“What's wrong, Dad? Did something happen?”

“The police called, that's what happened.” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to peer into his daughter's eyes. He does not look pleased.

“And?”

“Those two detectives want to talk to you, Jordie.”

“I already talked to them.”

“They want to talk to you again.”

“Okay.” Is her dad worried? Is that the expression she sees on his face? Or is it something else?

They drive in silence for a minute.

“Carly says Ronan stopped by the house the night Derek left.”

That little rat. Jordie is going to get back at her if it's the last thing she does.

“Carly wasn't the one who told the police, so you can wipe that look off your face, young lady,” her father says. “Apparently she mentioned it to Tasha, who, after what happened, mentioned it to her parents, who called the police, who then called me.” He sounds exasperated. “Why didn't you say something about this earlier? And exactly what was that boy doing at our house?”

“He wanted to ask me something.”

“He hasn't heard of the telephone? He couldn't text you or Facebook you or whatever the preferred method of communication is among young people these days?”

“I don't know, Dad. All I know is that he came by to ask me something.”

“What?”

The cops were going to ask her the same question. She needed to come up with a good answer. But what?

“I'm waiting, Jordie.” Her dad is slow-burn impatient now.

“I had some stuff of his from when we were going out. He wanted it back.”

Her father glances at her again.

“What stuff?” The dryness in his voice implies skepticism.

“A sweater. A navy-blue sweater. The big wooly one. You know the one, Dad. You make a comment every time I wear it.”

“That humongous thing that looks like a sack on you?”