Because of a Girl (7 page)

Sabra becoming proficient in the language could be part of the strategy to win over the parents.

The latest scenario made sense...but he still didn't get why nobody at all, including her best friend, knew she'd even been seeing this guy, whoever he was. Prejudice against dark-skinned immigrants was alive and well, if lessening in these parts, but he'd seen those kids integrate into the high school culture. They played sports, starred in theater productions. All of which argued against Sabra's determination to keep the relationship secret.

Swearing under his breath, he left the high school.

* * *

E
MILY
EASED
OPEN
the door to the girls' bathroom a crack and listened for the faintest sound. All she heard was absolute silence. Like a turtle emerging from its shell, she peeked each way. Empty hall. Her timing was perfect. The buses would all be gone now, but the janitor wouldn't have started working yet.

A couple of meetings were still going on, including the one she was supposed to be in, but she'd have heard voices if any of them were taking place in this wing.

She hurried down the hall, the back of her neck prickling. How much trouble would she be in if she was caught opening someone else's locker?

Not until she stood in front of it, heart pounding, did it occur to her to wonder if that detective had already looked inside. Except he'd have to have either a warrant or Mr. Rivera's permission, wouldn't he?

She shouldn't mind if he had beaten her to it, because she wanted him to find Sabra. But Sabra would hate having private stuff exposed.

After another cautious look each way, Emily turned the dial.
Please let me remember right.
And...yes!
The locker opened with a metallic screech that made her cringe.

But nobody appeared. Nobody had heard.

Like Kent said, the locker was jam-packed with stuff. Emily hadn't paid that much attention before when she was waiting for Sabra to get something, but her eyes narrowed now at the sleeve of a sweater sticking out toward the bottom.
Her
sweater, which Sabra had borrowed last fall. And were those PE clothes, way down? She hadn't dressed out for PE in
months
. The clothes would have to be really rank.

Emily realized she didn't dare take long enough to go through it all now. But if she could bring some grocery sacks tomorrow, she could grab a bunch of stuff and take it home. Right now the best she could do was squeeze all the loose papers on the top shelf into her pack. If she could find a clue, all she wanted was to talk to Sabra before the police did. That wasn't so wrong, was it?

Moving really fast, she unzipped her backpack and started stuffing in papers, not caring if all of them ended up crumpled. And her sweater. She could take that, too, since Sabra had practically stolen it.

It was hard to get it out without everything piled above it falling out of the locker, but she finally managed.
Ew, it stinks!
But she balled it up and barely got the zipper of her pack closed.

She shut the locker door and spun the dial, a last look telling her the hall was still empty, the silence so complete, it was creepy.

Starting toward the exit, she heard the squeak of footsteps behind her. A cold surge of fear made her want to run.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
T
WAS
STUPID
to be afraid. Emily
hated
getting into trouble, but opening someone else's locker without permission couldn't be that big a deal.

Yes, but this was Sabra's locker. Practically hyperventilating and hoping she wasn't flushing, she looked over her shoulder. Mr. Bouchard approached, his eyebrows raised. He was so close, she couldn't figure out where he'd come from.

“Emily Harper? What are you still doing here?”

Was his tone pleasant or stern? She couldn't tell.

Even when she hadn't been almost caught doing something she shouldn't, Mr. Bouchard made her blush and get tongue-tied, because he was
sooo
good-looking. He was a little older than Mr. Fuentes so she never thought of him by his first name or anything like that. Like Mr. Fuentes, he had dark hair, long enough to curl over his shirt collar, only he had blue eyes. “I'm an editor on the newspaper,” she said, praying somebody who'd actually been at the meeting wouldn't appear. “We met today.”

“Ah.” His face seemed to relax. “Getting stuff out of your locker, huh?”

Just in case he knew what she'd been doing, she shook her head. “Sabra's locker is right there. I thought I remembered her combination. I wanted to see if there was anything in there that would help us find her. But I couldn't make it open, so...” She let that trail off, realizing in horror that he had to have heard the clang as she closed the locker.

But all he said was, “I understood she didn't even come into the building that morning. Were you thinking she'd left a note?” His question made her feel dumb, and therefore resentful.

“No,” she mumbled. “Just, I don't know, a name or something.”

“Well, I've caught a couple glimpses into her backpack, and if her locker is anything like it, you'd probably find petrified sandwiches, a coat she's forgotten she owns, athletic shoes from last September and assignments she never remembered to turn in, if she ever took them home in the first place.”

He was right, but Emily didn't like the undertone of contempt she didn't think she was imagining.

“She's a good student,” Emily argued.

His smile creased one cheek, and made her think she'd misunderstood him. “She is,” he said gently. “But she'd be a better one if she could organize herself. We teachers get frustrated, you know.”

She couldn't help smiling back. “I guess you must hear the same excuses all the time, huh?”

“Yep.” He nodded toward the exit door at the end of the hall. “Can I walk you out?”

“Oh.” She tried to think. They were awfully alone in here. “Um, sure.” She still had to call Mom for a ride, but she could do it outside.

“A Detective Moore came to see me,” he commented. “I'd have already left except for that.”

“He's talking to all the teachers.”

“So he said.”

Mr. Bouchard was a lot thinner and not quite as tall as Detective Moore, but Emily still felt small next to him.

“Did he tell you anything?” She immediately knew she'd sounded too eager. Seeing his quizzical look, she added, “Nobody tells me
anything
,” even though that wasn't quite true.

He laughed. “He wasn't very forthcoming. Information was supposed to flow only one way, from me to him. If he knows anything new, he didn't share it.”

“I guess he doesn't have to,” she said awkwardly.

He laughed again and pushed open the glass door, holding it so she could go ahead. “Nope. You're right—he doesn't.” When she stopped on the sidewalk, he said, “You have a ride?”

He wasn't offering to take her home, was he? Teachers weren't supposed to do that. But the next second she decided that, no, he was just being all adult, not wanting to leave her out here alone.

Waving at some girls she knew who had come out a different way, Emily said she did.

“Then I'll see you in class tomorrow.” Mr. Bouchard headed toward the employee parking lot. Once she was sure he was out of earshot, she pulled out her phone. But before she dialed, a familiar SUV pulled to the curb in front of her.

The passenger-side window rolled down, and Detective Moore, behind the wheel, bent over so he could see her. “Need a lift? I'm going to your house anyway.”

She hesitated, but how could she get out of it? With a shrug, she climbed in, only then realizing this was a police car, not his own. The dashboard had a computer and a radio in it, and bumps just below the windshield had to be the backs of lights that would flash if he wanted to pull someone over.

She looked nervously over her shoulder and saw the metal grille separating her from the back. “Am I supposed to be riding back there?”

Detective Moore laughed. “Not unless I have to arrest you.”

The way he was watching her was scary. She nibbled on her lip, drawing blood that tasted salty.

“Seat belt,” he said after a minute.

“Oh. Right.” She fumbled with it, and he pulled away from the curb.

“Saw you come out with Mr. Bouchard.”

“He said you talked to him.”

“I've connected with all of Sabra's teachers now. He was the last.”

Emily sneaked a glance at him. His face was like a geometry problem, all angles and planes. Sharp cheekbones and prominent jaw. There wasn't anything at all
soft
about it, and especially not his eyes.

“Did her teachers know anything?” she blurted.

“Not really, although Mr. Fuentes got me to thinking.”

Emily stared straight ahead and waited.

“Sounds like Sabra's Spanish is really good.”

She relaxed a little.

“What I'm wondering is, does she have any friends whose first language is Spanish? People she spends time with?”

“She's been helping this one guy with his English.” She'd totally forgotten about that. “
That's
what she does after school, at least a couple days a week.” Her relief was huge. How could she have forgotten?

Because Sabra never talked about it? Or...had she quit tutoring and not wanted Emily to know?

“Does this happen at school?”

“I think so,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, there's a program. People get paired up. I didn't sign up because I do a bunch of other things, plus...um, my Spanish isn't that good.”

“I took German all the way through college and still can't speak a word of it,” he said ruefully. “No, I can count to ten. And say thank you.”

“Really?” She looked right at him.

“Really.”

“Oh.” That made her feel better, although she wasn't sure why. “Anyway, they might sit outside on a nice day now, or go to a coffee shop or something. She's paired with a junior, and I've seen him driving.”

“What's his name?” The detective put on his signal and turned into her driveway.

Emily reached down for her backpack. “Alejandro Zacapa. His family is from Guatemala.”

“Are they here legally?”

She stared at him. “You'd
deport
them if they aren't?”

“No. Local law enforcement tries to stay out of immigration issues. Illegals tend to be unwilling to talk to us, though.”

“But... I mean, he goes to school.”

He smiled at her. “A lot of them do.”

It was weird, because he wasn't movie-star good-looking like Mr. Fuentes and Mr. Bouchard, but Detective Moore had a great smile. It was a little crooked, and crinkled the skin next to his eyes, which seemed a warmer brown than they usually did.

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“I will. And I appreciate your help, Emily. Maybe Sabra got involved with this Alejandro, or someone she met through him. His big brother or a cousin. If they're not in the country legally, that could be a reason she'd keep quiet about him.”

Emily wanted to hug him. “Will you tell me?” she asked anxiously.

One side of his mouth tipped up again. “I promise. As long as
you
promise to let me know anything you remember or find out.”

She didn't let herself look at her pack, because she knew he'd take everything from Sabra's locker away from her.

“Deal?” he asked.

She bit her lip, wincing to find it sore. “Deal.”

It wasn't quite a lie, she decided, because she would tell him if she thought she'd need his help.

“Good.” He got out and waited while she circled to his side of the SUV. He nodded at her pack. “Want me to carry that? It looks heavy.”

She clutched it tighter and said, probably too fast, “It's not. It's got my PE clothes—”
lie, lie
“—and a sweater I left in my locker. They make it fat.”

His eyes lingered on her red pack long enough to ratchet up her tension, but then he nodded. “Lead the way.”

* * *

J
ACK
HEAVED
THE
garage door upward, putting some serious muscle into it. He couldn't believe the woman didn't have an automatic garage door opener. Rain, snow, hundred degree heat, she had to get out of her van and do the equivalent of weight lifting before she could park in here. She'd actually started to open it herself with him standing by watching until he'd edged her out of the way.

A last shove, and the door groaned to a stop mostly out of sight.

He contemplated the back of her ancient Volkswagen. Not a van. A bus. This baby was from before his time, but he did know that much.

Next to him, Meg's mutinous expression hadn't changed since he asked to see it. He doubted she'd appreciate the comparison he was making to her daughter's best sulky expression, but that protruding lower lip amused him.

He thought the bus had originally been blue. Faded hints showed beneath psychedelic swirls of color. A bird—a phoenix?—spread its wings across the rear, clawed feet seemingly clutching the bumper. Which bore a few dents and hung crookedly. Unlike in modern vehicles, the engine was back here.

“How do you keep this thing running?” he asked out of genuine curiosity.

Her mouth tightened as if he'd issued a criticism. “They have really simple engines. No fancy electronics. I tried to learn how to do oil changes and tune-ups myself, but I guess I don't have a mechanical bent. I've always been able to find mechanics who enjoy keeping it going, though.”

Disbelieving, he said, “But what about parts?”

“Wrecking yards still have some on hand.”

Jack laughed. “What year is it?”

Her eyes slid his way. “Seventy-one.”

“Good God.” He went into the garage to circle the bus, a genuine relic from the hippie era. The Vietnam War had still been on. Truth was the engines in these old Volkswagens probably had more in common with the one that propelled his Toro lawn mower than it did with modern automotive engines.

The paint job extended along the sides and around the front as well as over the top. It hadn't all been done at the same time. Some scenes that had to have emerged from acid trips had been painted right over previous ones.

Oddly, Jack was grinning when he came back around to where Meg stood, arms crossed, waiting for him and looking unhappy.

“Guess you don't go anywhere unnoticed, do you?”

Her shadowed eyes met his. “Apparently that's not true.”

He shouldn't have said that. “When did you buy this bus?”

“Emily was four. So...eleven years ago.”

“It doesn't crap out on you? Say, when the weather's too cold?”

She shook her head, then said, “Well, sometimes. But what car doesn't? It's really been pretty reliable.” Pause. “I like it. It's an antique.”

He surprised himself by seeing the charm. Like her rugs, the bus made him smile. Struck by how today's weak sunlight brought out her freckles against her translucent skin, he asked, “You ever take it to an antique car show?”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “You're kidding, right?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Because cars at those shows gleam? My bus is a Before. The After...well, I'm not sure what it would take to accomplish that, if it's even possible.”

She had a point. Her bus had probably looked battered forty years ago. It would be a challenge to make it gleam without damaging that extraordinary paint job. His interest stirred. Could be fun.

Jack thought of her house—the missing staircase balusters, the scarred wood floors—and wondered if she didn't prefer the VW the way it was. She made some kind of statement every time she backed out of this garage. He just wasn't sure what she was saying.

The rest of the garage was loosely organized. No pegboards for tools, but rakes, shovels, hoes and the like did hang from nails spaced just right. The lawn mower looked almost as old as the VW. Maybe the same mechanic kept it running.

He had the fleeting thought he might have misjudged her. He'd characterized her as flighty, but was she really? Unlike his mother, she hadn't deserted her child. She hadn't even ditched an ancient vehicle.

He opened the sliding side door and took a look around, seeing no bloodstains, no coil of rope. Not that he'd expected to. Closing the door took some muscle, too. The track was probably rusting.

“Have you seen enough?” Tension threaded her voice, making him take a longer look at her.

Stress seemed to have tightened her skin, making him more aware of her bone structure. Her lips had the faintest tremble before she pressed them together. Her eyes appeared big and haunted.

“Yes.” Jack turned away, wondering if his presence was what had her looking so nervous. Putting pressure on people—that was his job. This time, he didn't like seeing the result. Because, despite his best efforts, he liked
her
.

It took some serious muscle for him to get the garage door moving, although once it jolted over the right-angle turn, it descended with a thunderous rush. He jumped back. “You ever think about getting an opener? The kind that lets you push a button?”