The Silence of Murder (3 page)

“Of course,” Raymond says. “Sorry, Sheriff.” He snaps his briefcase shut and looks over at me. “Hope, I’ll see you tonight, all right?”

I nod. But that sick feeling in my stomach comes back. Raymond wants to prepare me for tomorrow. More testimony, including the prosecutor’s cross-examination. How do you rehearse for that?

“Miss?” Sheriff Wells touches my arm, and I automatically pull away. “You really do need to leave now.”

I hear footsteps and wonder if he’s called in reinforcements. A posse? A SWAT team?

But it’s only T.J., coming to my rescue. “She was just trying to talk to her brother’s lawyer, Sheriff.” Thomas James Bowers is a couple of inches shorter than I am, about half the size of the sheriff. Everything else about T.J. is too long—his nose, his jaw, his hair, which flops over sturdy rectangular glasses. He swore he’d stick with me through this whole trial, and he has.

“She can talk to her brother’s lawyer outside the courtroom,” Sheriff Wells snaps.

Shouts flood the courtroom as the main doors open and Raymond exits. He’s swarmed by reporters. Before the doors close again, I see Raymond duck, like he’s dodging tomatoes.

“Let’s go, Hope,” T.J. says. “I got us a ride home.”

I nod, grateful. Rita dropped us off this morning, but she’s not coming back for us. I don’t feel much like walking seven blocks to the station to catch a bus back to Grain, especially since buses don’t leave that often.

Following T.J. to the big doors that swallowed up Raymond, I feel Sheriff Wells’s gaze on my back. It’s the same invisible shove Rita uses to make sure I do what she tells me to.

As soon as I step out into the hall, cameras click. I keep my head down and rush through the courthouse. Half a dozen reporters follow me, shouting questions: “Hope, why won’t your brother speak?” “Did you know he did it?” “What did he—?”

I try to block out their voices and focus on the clatter of
our footsteps on the hard floors, the echo that reaches the high ceiling and bounces off marble walls. I make it to the front doors and am amazed how dark it is outside. And the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees. August should be dry-bones hot, and usually is around here, but the gray clouds and west winds are promising rain.

I stop on the top step of the courthouse and glance around for T.J. He must have gotten lost in the crowd of reporters. A couple of them close in on me. One has beautiful red hair, which she pushes behind her shoulders while signaling to the cameraman beside her. “Hope, Mo Pento, WTSN. Can you tell us if you think—?”

I push past her. My head feels like it’s floating off my shoulders. I think I might vomit.
How’d you like that, WTSN?

A horn honks. A blue Stratus is parked at the foot of the steps. A window lowers, and Chase Wells peers out. Green eyes, sun-blond hair. He doesn’t look a thing like his dad. Everything about him screams East Coast, from his khaki pants to his navy polo shirt. Chase is not just cute; he’s beautiful.

I feel a hand on my back. “Sorry.” T.J. guides me down a step or two. “They had me trapped back there. You okay?”

“Where are we going, T.J.?” I shout because it’s too loud out here. Reporters are crowding in again. I smell sweat and perfume and cigarettes.

“There he is!” T.J. exclaims, pushing too hard from behind. I have to struggle to keep from falling down the steps.

“There
who
is?” I know he’s trying to help—he always tries to help. But I think I should have made a run for it on my own. I could have been at the bus station by now.

Chase’s car is still at the bottom of the steps. He honks his horn again and shoves the back door open. T.J. waves at him and keeps pushing toward the car.

I stop short on the bottom step. “Wait. Who did you—?”

“I—uh—I talked Chase into giving us a ride back to Grain.” He takes the last two steps down, but I don’t follow him. “Hope?”

I shake my head.

T.J. tosses a smile to Chase and whispers up to me, “You know Chase. He plays ball with me.” He lowers his voice. “His dad’s the
sheriff
?”

Do I know Chase Wells? I’ve watched him for two summers and thought about him in between.

“Hope?” That reporter with the hair sticks a microphone in my face. “Can you tell us why your brother—?”

I reach for T.J.’s hand. We make a dash for the car, dive into the backseat, and shut the door as Chase Wells takes off, tires squealing like they’re in pain.

The second Chase pulls away
from the courthouse, I know I’ve made a big mistake. I have to get out of this car. “Listen, we … 
I
can walk to the bus station from here. Thanks.”

T.J. elbows me and makes a face. We’re in the backseat, being chauffeured.

Chase doesn’t slow down. “That’s okay. I’m headed to Grain anyhow. I can drop you guys off.”

“Thanks again, man. I didn’t know who else to ask. Dad’s stuck at work.” T.J. fastens his seat belt and nudges me to do the same.

“I really want to walk,” I insist. There’s an edge to my voice, like metal on metal. I reach for the door handle.

“You want to walk fifteen miles?” T.J. says, trying to make a joke of it.

“I get it,” Chase says. He lets up on the gas. “Sorry about that.”

But it’s not speed that terrifies me. It’s definitely not his driving, which could never be worse than Rita’s after half a bottle of vodka. It’s him. Chase Wells. The guy I’ve worshipped from afar—or at least watched from behind my bedroom curtains—as he’s jogged by every summer morning, regular as sunrise.

“My dad’s always on me about driving too fast,” he admits.

Dad
. As in
Sheriff Dad
. I didn’t hear the sheriff testify, but Raymond said he did a lot of damage to our side. So what am I doing in a car with his son? What was T.J. thinking?

“Pretty sure you two know each other from Panther games,” T.J. says, reaching across me to fasten my seat belt. I let him. His voice is thin, with that tinny laugh he gets when he’s nervous. “Hope, Chase. Chase, Hope.”

I’m thinking Chase knows my name. He just heard me swear
on a Bible
that I’m Hope Leslie Long.

As for him, there’s not a human being in Grain who doesn’t know who Chase Wells is. I’ve sneaked peeks at him while waiting for Jeremy to collect bats and balls for Coach Johnson at games and practices. Chase was hard to miss, with Bree Daniels hanging all over him, and guys like Steve and Michael and half a dozen of their crowd cheering him on.

Chase glances at us in the rearview mirror. Smiles. His eyes are framed, deep-set, the color of green sea glass, like the smooth, translucent chunks in my desk drawer at home.

I collect sea glass, or at least I used to. It’s how I met T.J.

I stare out my window and remember a rainy day just like this one, when T.J. and I first got together. It was about three years ago, a month after I’d started school at Grain. T.J.
brought in some pieces of sea glass he’d found by Lake Erie, near Cleveland. He used them for a science project. I knew all about sea glass because Jeremy and I used to walk the Chicago shoreline hunting for it. We called the pieces mermaid tears. T.J. had reds that came from the lanterns of old shipwrecks. And pink from Depression-era glass. Broken pieces of history worn smooth by years of violent waves and rough sand. I had to gather all my courage to go up to T.J. after class and ask him about his collection. When I told him I made jewelry out of sea glass, he wanted to see it. Before long, he started bringing me pieces to work with. He still brings me some now and then, even though I’ve stopped making jewelry.

“Seriously, man,” T.J. calls up to the rearview mirror, “we appreciate the rescue. That was pretty crazy back there. I actually used to want to be a reporter. Not now. Huh-uh.” He elbows me again.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I settle into the seat and stare out the window again. Tiny drops of rain speckle the windshield, but Chase hasn’t turned on his wipers. A splat of rain trickles down the glass, shaking and splitting into streaks. The car smells like oranges, unless that’s the way Chase Wells smells.

“Not a problem,” Chase mumbles.

“So, now I guess we’re even,” T.J. says.

I frown over at him because I don’t understand.

“I told you how I convinced Coach to give Chase a shot pitching the Lodi game, didn’t I?” T.J. explains. He lets out his tin chuckle again. “If it hadn’t been for me, Chase would still be stuck on second base. Right, Chase?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Chase answers, without a glance in the mirror.

I want T.J. to stop talking. I’m still not sure why he pushed Coach into letting Chase pitch that game. It’s not like he and Chase are buddies or anything. I used to think it was because T.J. thought Chase might be his ticket to the “cool guys.” If that was it, it hasn’t worked out.

I tune in to the whir and whistle of the wheels on blacktop, the steady splatter and patter of rain picking up.

“Hope?” Chase says, breaking our silence with my name. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m sorry for what you’re going through—you and Jeremy. Your family.”

He’s sorry? What am I supposed to do with that? I shrug.

“I know my dad—well, he’s not the most sensitive law enforcement officer in the world.”

I can think of a million comebacks. If it weren’t for Sheriff Wells, Jeremy might not be where he is right now, behind bars, on trial for murder. I’ll never forget the way the sheriff barged into our house and arrested my brother.

We turn onto a one-lane road I’ve never been on. The only sounds are the rain tapping gently on the roof, a rumble of thunder, and the hum of the windshield wipers starting up. We pass a dozen black-and-white cows huddled under a tree in spite of the threat of lightning.

Our silence has turned uncomfortable, awkward. I wish T.J. hadn’t asked Chase for a ride.

I sneak a glance at Chase in the rearview, and he catches me. Before I can look away, he grins.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Hope?” he says.

“More than Jeremy,” I answer before I can stop myself. I want the words back. It feels wrong to talk about my brother with the son of the enemy. Besides, people like Chase Wells
don’t get Jeremy. They don’t get me either. Whenever we move somewhere, it’s almost funny how popular I am right off. From day one, guys try to sit by me in class. The cool girls invite me to eat with them. They think I’m like them because I look like them—blond hair, blue eyes, pimple-free heart-shaped face, and a figure that made me self-conscious in elementary school because I developed earlier than everyone else.

But I’m not one of them, and it only takes a couple of weeks for them to figure that out.

“So, Chase, bet you miss Boston, right?” T.J. asks, changing the subject with the grace of a hippopotamus.

“I don’t know. Maybe I miss Mom and Barry sometimes. But after three summers, Grain’s home too, I guess.”

“You play ball there too, don’t you?” T.J. says. “Must be where you learned that wicked curve. I wish you’d teach me that one.”

We come up over the crest of a long hill, and an Amish buggy appears in front of us. “Look out!” I scream. Chase slams his brakes, then swears and swerves to pass. I look back and see a mother and three little boys. “You can’t drive like that around here.” I keep staring out the back window to make sure they’re all right.

“Man.” He’s breathing heavy. “I know. I’m sorry.” He slows to about ten miles an hour.

“That’s the worst part of driving around here,” T.J. says.

“No kidding,” Chase agrees. “I love seeing the buggies, but I’m always scared I’m going to hit one, especially at night. Aren’t you guys?”

“Yep,” T.J. answers.

Taking his eyes off the road, Chase turns back to look at me. He’s waiting for me to answer.

“Hope doesn’t drive,” T.J. says.

“You mean she doesn’t drive at night?”

“Hope doesn’t drive, period,” T.J. explains.

“Why not?”

I answer for myself this time. “Rita doesn’t want to share the Ford.”

“Ah,” Chase says. “I get that. I thought it would be tough sharing the Stratus with Dad, but it’s worked out. He’s got the squad car. And in a pinch, he can borrow one of the impounded cars at the police lockup.”

“Cool,” T.J. mutters.

“The what?” I smooth my skirt and wish I were wearing jeans. Raymond picked out my court clothes—white shirt, gray skirt.

“Impounded,” T.J. explains. “You know. Cars they lock up from drug busts or three-strike drunk drivers.”

Chase continues, “The sheriff’s office really isn’t supposed to use the vehicles, but Dad’s deputy, Dave Rogers, took me for a spin in a silver BMW they found drugs in last summer. I don’t think my dad would take anything out for a joy ride, though. He’s not exactly into joy.”

“He looked pretty happy watching you pitch for the Panthers at that Lodi game,” T.J. says.

I’m not so sure I’d call it
happy
. Chase’s dad screamed at Coach and shouted to Chase for every play. I remember I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed for Chase or jealous. I
played T-ball one summer, and Rita didn’t attend a single game. She’s never come to Panther games either, except for the big Wooster-Grain game. Everybody in both counties goes to that one. At least they used to … until this summer.

“Dad definitely gets into it,” Chase admits.

T.J. leans forward. “Man, can you imagine what he’d do if he watched you pitch the Wooster game? He played in that game ‘back in the day,’ right?”

“Yeah. Still, I don’t get why everybody around here makes such a big deal over that one game.”

“Are you kidding?” T.J. grips the seat in front of him. “Wooster and Grain have hated each other since, like, forever! It’s the biggest summer-league rivalry in the state. The
Cleveland Plain Dealer
covers the game. Even people who don’t like baseball come for the fireworks, and the picnics and tailgate parties. You know what I’m talking about. There’s nothing like the Wooster-Grain game. I was almost relieved when Coach said you’d be starting pitcher. Too much pressure for me. The whole state would have turned out for that game if—”

He stops short of saying “if Jeremy hadn’t knocked off Coach,” but the words are there, invisible, in the air of the car. We hear them.