Accomplice (19 page)

The Starlight sagged a little lower into the ground than Colt River’s own Parkside Diner. Inside, someone had patched the blue pleather seats with duct tape here and there, and they didn’t have the little jukeboxes perched on the tables like at the Parkside. But the glass display case of cakes still had eight levels, and the place smelled like scrambled eggs and coffee and pound cake. Dean relaxed a little there—he didn’t look so hunted.

We sat down and the waitress came over. Dean ordered coffee. I ordered a Coke and smiled up at the waitress until she asked, “Nothing else?” in the nasty way that meant she considered a Coke and a coffee a waste of her time. Dean just stared up blankly at her and handed her the menu he hadn’t opened. He didn’t speak again until she blustered over with the pot of coffee and a sweaty glass of soda. “That all?” she asked again, and Dean didn’t even glance sideways at her. His eyes stayed riveted on mine and he said, “That’s it,” like it meant something, like I was supposed to gather some
secret meaning—
I am it
. Or,
He has all he needs.
But that wasn’t real. Dean was just performing for the waitress; as soon as she turned away, his eyes dropped from mine and he busied himself pouring milk into his coffee.

“So I never knew what happened to you after you dropped out.” Even in the middle of saying it, I knew it was the wrong way to start.

“I d-d-d-didn’t drop out.” Dean stirred his coffee and I could hear the spoon scrape the sides of the white mug. “I probably had my GED before graduation.”

“That’s great. That’s terrific, Dean—”

But Dean looked up and shook his head at me. He did it quickly—almost tenderly—the way my dad would to try and correct me. “Why is that terrific, Finn?” His quiet voice sounded disappointed. And then he tried: “I heard you were at community c-c-college.”

“No. Hawthorne.” He made a face, like
Same thing.
“It has some really good programs.” I had decided to focus on animal therapy. Not counseling animals. But treating people like Cam, helping introduce them to animals. I wouldn’t even really be treating patients. I’d be helping the animal treat them.

But Dean didn’t get it. He said, “You’re always selling yourself short, Finn.” I tried to argue, but he raised his hand—he hushed me. “No—you act like an animal would be better dealing with p-p-people.”

I wanted to tell him,
Yes.
And,
You have no idea.
But instead I asked, “What are you doing now?” And even that came out bratty, like I was turning it back on him.

Dean just shrugged. He dragged a long gulp from his coffee. “I work at a gas station.” This time I dropped my eyes. I started focusing on his hands and then saw how red they were, the skin around his fingernails scraped raw and his knuckles chapped. It looked like Dean had been digging himself out of something. He held his hands up to the light. “I must look like one of those OCD psychos. But you pump gas for a while and then your skin soaks it up. You smell like gasoline all the time. It gets under your nails. Most guys I work with—their nails are black. It’s sick. I just can’t do that.”

“Because of cooking.” I said it while my brain was still putting the thought together.

But I was right and was rewarded with the bashful smile. “Well, yeah,” Dean said. “Nobody wants to eat food that smells like gasoline.” It got a little more comfortable between us. “You don’t live at the dorms?” I shook my head. “That’s a trek, though, driving all the way out near Princeton.”

I shrugged and then made myself say something. Because I’d been waiting all this time to have a conversation with another actual human being, I came up with, “I like to drive.” And then in an effort to sound a little
less like a foreign exchange student, I added, “It helps me think.”

“I get the feeling the last thing you need is more time to think, Finn,” Dean said. I didn’t have anything to say to that. It was strange to hear Dean West talk like he knew me. We sat there and I let that wash over me—feeling noticed. Observed and understood.

“No one told me you were still at home.”

“I’m not,” he explained. “Laundry. My mom does my shopping and laundry, but I try to stay clear of there for the most p-p-part. It’s easier on them.” Over the past few years, I’d imagined what it would be like if the whole town knew what Chloe and I had done. What it would feel like to have Colt River turn its back on you. It turned out it would feel like being Dean West.

“Can I ask you something?” I said. Dean tilted his head, waiting. “And I’m not asking because I think you were the one who…hurt her.” I remembered the weight of the wood in my hand, Chloe’s eyes—shut and bracing. “I don’t think that. But no one ever said afterward, and it made everyone else…” I forced myself to ask it: “Why did you have her clothes?”

Dean’s face went scarlet and I stumbled out apologies. “No, that’s fine—I’m sorry. She hadn’t told me how involved…” Chloe and I used to talk about sex like it would happen to us in some next lifetime. I counted
out the sliver of a second that my lips moved against hers. There were other reasons she wouldn’t have told me.

But Dean shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. Then he started again, saying, “It wasn’t like that.” He bit his lip. “She’d cut her leg on something. And she worried that it looked like…you know…girl trouble. A m-m-mishap.” By this time, Dean’s face had deepened to full-on crimson. I thought about Chloe insisting that we should leave her blood somewhere. On a branch near the woods. A handprint smeared on the horse. “She had her gym clothes. She changed into those and wrapped the others in a plastic bag. And then she forgot. It must have gotten shoved under the seat.”

“Chloe left a bag of bloody clothes in your truck?” I couldn’t believe it.

Dean looked like he was searching the bottom of his coffee mug for answers.

He came up with, “It’s not like she could have known.” And that’s what Dean told himself. When he woke up and the whole nightmare stretched out both behind him and before him, that’s what he said to keep the days he spent with her preserved.

I knew because I did it, too. Even knowing what Chloe was capable of, I heard myself repeating, “She just forgot about it.” I thought of the lists we’d made and burned. How stupidly calm she’d stayed even when I told
her the police had brought in Dean for questioning. I had worried that it was shock. Everybody underestimated Chloe. Even now when Dean talked about her, his whole face opened up in light. It must have been terrible to give up someone who thinks you’re that extraordinary, hoping that then the whole world will turn your way, with that same look.

Dean threw his hands up, like he was asking me,
What are you going to do?
He paid for my soda, then sat back in the booth and told me he’d really like to come check out the horses. Maybe not back at the farm, but he could visit the stables down at school. I asked to see his new place and hoped it didn’t sound like I wanted to lie back on his bed. We stumbled around moments like that and kept going. When Chloe first came home, she moved really slowly. At first, the doctors said the head injury had affected her fine motor skills. She had to go to physical therapy and everything—that’s how hard I hit her.

Right then, it felt like Dean and I were doing that—relearning basic skills. Keeping eye contact. Finding common interests. I thought to myself,
We could be each other’s one friend for now. We could ease each other back in.

But I already knew what I was going to do. And that afterward Dean wouldn’t be returning my calls. It helped, though, in that moment, to pretend otherwise. When we stood up, he helped me with my coat. Walked me out to
the lot. My car was low on gas—I hadn’t counted on driving all the way out to North Dunham. Dean said, “I know the best little gas station.” He laughed, called it “a local gem.” He led me there and then tapped on the horn to let me know he’d be driving on. That was it. That was our good-bye. The kid working the pumps waved at Dean’s truck, then leaned into my passenger side window to get a look. He sent me inside to pay with a credit card, and I could feel his eyes on me as I moved.

Inside, an elderly man behind the counter asked me how much I’d bought. I said “Ten” and he rang me up. I wanted to say,
You’re going to be the last person to take me at my word.
But then I spotted the basket of muffins next to the register. They were wrapped in plastic, with familiar writing on the label.

He saw me looking and slapped the counter, grinning widely. “One of my boys makes those—you believe that? Better than any kind of Girl Scout cookies.” His hand hovered over the register and I picked one out. “That’s right. That’s a good one.” And so I carried Dean’s muffin out to the car, set it on the seat beside me.

I didn’t usually let myself cry over baked goods. But I sat there for a second and pictured Dean pulling into the station in the mornings. Unloading a cardboard box from the truck and replenishing the basket before clocking in.
I made myself imagine his bashful smile when his boss tells him that he should get himself his own bakery.

It was dark by the time I got back. My mom and dad weren’t home, but that was a relief, really. I’d probably just stand around, trying to memorize stupid, everyday moments:
Last conversation not punctuated by contempt. Last sincere laugh. Final family embrace.
I went outside to find that most of the animals had been fed—Dad had left the feed buckets turned over to let me know. I brought in Chauncey and stood on our porch for a second, glancing back at the Caffreys’ place. I realized that it had been months since I’d caught myself checking for lights up in Chloe’s window. Now I had different reflexes.

It took some time to dig up the card. And even when I found it, pinned up on my bulletin board, behind an article Chloe and I had done for some safety campaign, I still debated. For a few minutes, I reconsidered calling the police, but then I saw Detective Stewart’s stony face, the way they paraded Dean across the front lawn of his parents’ home. I dialed the other number instead.

It was a woman who answered, but not the same one who used to be Andy Cogan’s assistant. Maybe they fired her after our episode of
The L. A. Price Show
aired. This one didn’t even sound annoyed, and I was calling on a Saturday night. She just said, “Explain to me who you
are so I can make sure to communicate that to Mr. Cogan.” She said, “It’s okay—take your time.”

I had practiced saying it so much that I almost sounded professional. “This is Finley Jacobs calling. Please tell Mr. Cogan I have an update on the Chloe Marie Caffrey case.” I paused, made myself breathe. And then, because she hadn’t said anything, I added, “You can tell him it’s an exclusive.”

And that was it. She put me right through.

Copyright © 2010 by Eireann Corrigan

Jacket art and design by Christopher Stengel

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