Blind Spot (13 page)

We? Himself and the baby? For a brief second, the image of a helpless baby crying for his mother gave me a twinge of concern. But then I remembered Tricia’s head in Jonathan’s lap, and that twinge of concern turned into disgust.

Snow fell all night. By morning, there was almost two feet on the ground, and nothing was moving. Including my bus. I’d waited forty-five minutes in the freezing cold and was contemplating waking my mom, when a very old, very noisy, very rusted-out plow truck pulled up.

Greg stepped down from the driver’s side wearing a fur hat with floppy earflaps and gigantic white bunny boots that made his scrawny legs look like pencils stuck in marshmallows. “Can I give you a ride?” He extended a gloved hand.

I shook my head. “The bus should be here any minute.”

Greg shook his head, his earflaps slapping his cheeks. “No, it won’t. I passed it in the ditch a few miles up the road. Come on. I promise not to talk about you-know-who, okay?” He took a step toward me, hand still extended.

I chewed on my inner cheek, deliberating. If the bus was stuck, I’d for sure have to wake Mom. And Mom hated the first snowfalls of winter. “Too many idiots who forget how to drive in snow out on the roads,” she’d say.

“Promise?” I said. “No lectures, no discussion?”

“Promise.” He helped me through the snow to the passenger’s side. “Someone coming to plow your driveway?”

“Yeah, me and my good friend Shovel. I figure I’ll wait until after it stops snowing.”

“I’ll save you the energy.” Greg had it plowed in less than three minutes.

“So, is your hovercraft grounded?”

He grinned. “This tank works a bit better in freshly fallen snow.” He nodded out the window, slowing down. “And it comes in handy for scenes like this one.”

One of my neighbors was spinning her wheels at the end of the road. Greg plowed the snow out of her way, and then pulled over, grabbed a chain from the back, and hooked it to her bumper.

“Are you always such a good Samaritan?” I joked when we were back on our way.

“‘What do we live for; if it is not to make life less difficult to each other?’ George Eliot.”

I grinned. Greg could be so . . . Greg . . . sometimes. A flash of red in the snowbank up ahead caught in my peripheral vision. “Oh God,” I muttered, barely audible over Greg’s “Idiot! Who drives a Corvette in this weather?”

Drive on by, drive on by, drive on by,
I pleaded in my head.

But, as I knew he would, Greg slowed and pulled over. He stepped out of the truck, and my bad dream turned into a nightmare. Missy popped into view.

It was only Tuesday! Tricia on Saturday and now Missy?

I watched the scene unfolding outside. Jonathan squatted alongside the Corvette, poking at the snow underneath with a snow brush, while Missy stood next to him, huddled under a blanket.

Greg approached with his chain. Jonathan jumped up, shook his head, and waved his hands emphatically. Greg shrugged and then pointed at the Corvette. Jonathan’s waving hands slid down on top of his head. He walked over to where Greg had pointed, while Greg walked back to the truck.

“He doesn’t want me to touch his precious car,” he said as he opened my door. “He’s high-centered anyway. A tow is liable to rip everything off the underside. We need to chop away as much snow as we can, then push it out. I have another shovel if you want to help.” He gave me that soft smile. “I understand if you’d rather not.”

I glanced at Princess Missy shivering on the side of the road. “I’ll help,” I said. “Let’s just make it quick.” I climbed out and took a shovel from Greg.

Jonathan looked over in surprise. “Hey, Beautiful. What’re you doing here?”

I stared at the ground. Watching him from behind the protection of the glass had been fine, but out here I felt exposed. I went to the other side of the car with Greg and began chopping at the clumps.

Greg let the metal tip of his shovel “accidentally” hit the car.

“Watch it!” Jonathan yelled.

I let my shovel slip too.

“Hey! Come on!” Jonathan bellowed.

“Sorry!” we yelled, grinning at each other.

Once the snow was cleared on the left side of the car, Greg went around to the other side to help Jonathan. I stepped back behind the car, sharing the same space with Missy without acknowledging her. Thankfully, she did the same.

“You do realize the right front tire is completely flat?” Greg said. “You drove over that piece of plywood with the nails sticking out.”

Jonathan stomped to the front of the car. “Screw it!” he yelled, flinging his shovel down on the ground.

Missy and I flinched, but Greg didn’t miss a beat. “I’d rather just help you change it. You have a jack?”

“Yes.” Jonathan seethed from the snow pile he was carefully disassembling, looking for more nail-ridden plywood. “In my trunk.”

“I’ll get it,” I said. The jack was wedged underneath the spare tire. I had to lift the tire up to free it. It was heavy and hard to do while holding the jack in the other hand, but I managed to yank the jack free. I set it aside and tried to lift the tire out as well.

It was too heavy. I let it fall back on the brown cloth it had been resting on. “I can’t get the tire out,” I called and picked the jack back up.

“Don’t need it yet,” Jonathan said in my ear. He reached around me and slammed the trunk shut.

I shoved the jack at him and stepped backwards, hating how, despite everything, he still made my heart pummel madly in my chest. I climbed back into Greg’s truck and waited for them to finish.

“What does everyone see in him?” Greg said when we were finally on our way to school. “He’s so . . . ugh! Forget him. He’s not worth it.”

“I know. I want to. It’s just”—I shrugged—“hard.” We should’ve been at school by then, but traffic was moving at a snail’s pace. Unfortunate. I could feel a lecture coming, one he’d promised not to give.

“Okay, I get that he hurt you, but did you really expect anything less from a guy everyone calls Zeus? Just move on.” He shrugged. “Get over it.”

“Get over it?” I said. “I found him with someone I never in a million years thought he’d be with. Someone I thought, for some sick reason, was my friend. And now he’s moved on to yet another girl who was also once my friend. It hurts, Greg. I can’t just get over that!” I sighed. “You can’t just get over love—”

“Love?”
Greg cried. “You
love
him? You dated only a few weeks!”

“No, I meant love in general. Your love life. People who break your heart. And it was a month, Greg. We dated a month.” I wanted him to understand this wasn’t about Jonathan and what I’d seen in him; it was about what I thought Jonathan had seen in
me.
“I thought he liked me, okay?”

“He’s scum,” he said with disgust.

“Yeah, he’s scum. I’m an idiot. I get it.” Whatever. I stared out at the cars in ditches that we were passing. Where was Mr. Good Samaritan now? Busy being Mr. Holier Than Thou, that’s where. “Life isn’t perfect, Greg. Sometimes we fall for the wrong person. Even you did. For someone who’ll never like you back.” It was a low blow, bringing up Missy. But he had started it—after he had promised not to. “Have you
moved on?
Did you just
get over
—”

The sudden acceleration as he screeched into the school parking lot cut me off. He slid to a stop and slammed into “park.” “You think he loves you? He doesn’t even respect you.” He flung the door open and stepped out into the cold October day. “And yeah, I fell for the wrong person, but I have definitely moved on!”

“Greg, wait.” I scrambled out of the truck to catch him. “I’m sorry!” Even with his long legs stuck in those bulky bunny boots, my canvas sneakers were no match. He was gone before I had reached the hallway.

“Have you heard from Miss Farni?” Dellian asked when I walked into class.

“I . . .” It took me a second to remember Tricia was missing. I was still thinking about Greg and how to apologize. “No, and I’m sure I won’t.” I started toward my desk.

He stopped me. “There’s a Detective King waiting to speak with you in the counseling office.”

“Speak to
me?
” I noticed then. There was a somberness hovering in my classmates’ silence. “Why? What happened?”

“Miss Farni happened, remember? You were one of the last to see her Saturday.”

I was?
“Wait, she disappeared Saturday night?”

Dellian nodded. “Yes, right after the . . . altercation.”

“No. That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “She told you—I mean you talked to her—”

“Your classmate is missing,” Mr. Dellian interrupted. “We’d all appreciate it if you’d think of someone else for a change and go speak with the detective.”

Once again, he’d twisted everything around, made things my fault, made me look bad. The entire class was staring, judging me. It was Dellian they should’ve been judging.

“And Miss Hart?” Dellian said as I walked to the door. “Try to look Detective King in the eye when you speak with her. You have a tendency to look elsewhere when you’re conversing. It makes you appear dishonest.”

He was giving me advice on how to speak to the police now? “That’s the only way I
can
look her in the eye. If I focus on her face, I won’t see her at all!”

“It’s not always about
your
comfort level, Miss Hart. Police officers are trained to read people. Eye contact is the first thing they use to sum up a person. Don’t let your eyesight be your demise.”

“My demise?” I stared at him. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I’m aware of that. Detective King isn’t.”

Dellian’s words had me on edge when I entered the counseling office.

Principal Ratner had assumed I was lying because I wasn’t looking directly at him. What if the detective did too? I had nothing to hide, though. Nothing to lie about.

Detective King was a tiny woman, younger than my mom, with long brown hair, not at all like the buff, brutish image I had conjured up in my mind. “Roswell Hart?” She ushered me into a counselor’s office. “I understand you and Tricia Farni are friends?”

“We’re partners in class.” I tried to look her in the eye. My dots blocked out her entire face and neck. I leaned forward. The shorter distance helped a little, but the detective’s eyes and nose were still missing. “We aren’t friends.” But that was a lie, wasn’t it? I had started to consider her a friend, sort of.

“Oh?” Detective King said. “Her sister, Abbey, said Tricia talks of you often.”

The way she said “Oh?” worried me. Could she tell I wasn’t being truthful? Without seeing her entire face, I couldn’t read her expression. I darted my eyes to her ear for a quick look.

She was watching me, closely.

“Well, we are friends in class.” I flicked my eyes back to hers to make fake eye contact. “We never speak outside of school.” Except at Birch Hill. The thought of her with Jonathan in the loft made me cringe automatically—and then I grimaced because I’d cringed. Crud! I was making myself look guilty. Why did I let Dellian freak me out like this?

My eyes darted back to her ear to see if she’d seen the face I’d made. She was staring at me. “Has she been staying with you, Roswell?”

“No, I haven’t seen her since Saturday.” I blocked out Detective King’s face so it would look as if I were looking her in the eye again. It struck me as ironic how looking at her ear rather than her eyes—for me—meant I was making eye contact and therefore telling the truth. But to her, it meant I wasn’t making eye contact and therefore could be lying.

Ironic and very disconcerting.

“Let’s talk about Saturday night. You were at a party with her at Birch Hill?”

“Not
with
her, no. I was with my boyfriend.” I involuntarily grimaced again. “Tricia was there too.”

“A few students told me there was a fight of some sort? Between you and Tricia and your boyfriend?”

“Not with fists and all. We just argued.”

“After this argument, what happened?” Detective King looked down and began writing in a little notebook after she asked this. Thank God. It was the one question I was dreading. I had no idea what happened afterward.

“My . . .” He was
not
my boyfriend anymore. “Jonathan Webb drove me home.”

“And Tricia?” She looked up from the notebook. “Where’d she go?”

Back with the eye contact. I hated this. “I have no idea. We left before she did.” At least I thought we did. What if we hadn’t? Was unintentionally lying a crime?

“Okay.” Detective King nodded. “How about before Saturday night. Had she ever stayed with you, maybe crashed on your couch a few nights?”

“No.” The thought of Tricia and I having a slumber party was mildly amusing.

“Did she ever mention where she was living?”

The eyes’ back-and-forth thing was making my head hurt. My stomach too. “We weren’t that close.”

“Her sister reported her missing, but—” Detective King sighed and put her pen down on the desk. I let my eyes fall to my lap. “Her foster family admitted they kicked Tricia out over eight months ago. We need to find out where she’s been staying to proceed. She could simply be skipping school.”

I looked up in surprise. “Mr. Dellian probably knows.” More than probably.

“He’s got no idea.” Detective King handed me a business card. “Thank you, Roswell. Let me know if you hear from her.”

Dellian had no idea? I stared at the card as I stood, wondering if I should say something. But what did I really know? And what if she
was
simply skipping? Or took off to get away from Dellian? She had said to give her until Monday to end whatever it was. Maybe taking off was how she’d meant to do that.

I shoved the card in my pocket and walked out just as Jonathan came into the counseling office. I pretended not to see him.

“Hey,” he whispered and followed me out. “You talk to that cop?”

I nodded. How could he just waltz up and talk to me as if we were friends? I tried to will my heart out of its frenzy.

“Where do you think Tricia is?” he asked.

“Run off someplace?” I shrugged and stared down at my shoes. This was harder than I thought. Just the smell of him made my pulse react, whether I wanted it to or not.