Again the hesitation. “I spoke with Anya. We worked out a plan for her return.”
“She thinks Lola and Roxy had something to do with Roberto’s death,” I said bluntly. “Their girl gang killed him, then covered it up to look like a suicide. Some conspiracy theory like that.”
Tricia thinned her lips. “Anya is very dramatic,” she said at last.
“You think Roberto took his own life?”
“I think it’s sad anytime a young person dies. I think grief can make it tempting to blame someone else for the loss.”
“Because if Roberto had really shot himself, that would mean Anya’s love wasn’t powerful enough to save him?”
“There’s that. But also . . . if this gang had something to do with Roberto’s death . . . Let’s just say these aren’t girls who’d feel a need to hide their work.”
I got what she was saying. “They would want the credit. Use his murder as an example—this is what happens when you mess with one of ours.”
Tricia nodded. “Sad, but true.”
“Justified or not, Anya still hates Roxy and Lola and blames them for Roberto’s death. Maybe enough to seek revenge?”
The high school counselor shrugged. “Anya Seton is a very passionate teenager, with a flair for theatrics. Catfights, yes. Whisper campaigns, definitely. But to walk into a home and shoot an entire family in cold blood?” She shook her head. “I don’t know if this makes any sense, but I don’t think that would’ve been dramatic enough for her. Especially given that she didn’t get to take a bow at the end.”
“She would’ve torn up the place.”
“She would’ve used red spray paint to scrawl murderer, liar, whore across the front of the house. That would be more her speed.”
“Did Roxy and Anya cross paths often in school?”
“No. After the first incident, and then, of course, all the buzz involving the photos—”
“Photos?”
Tricia looked at me, took a deep breath. “I guess this will all come out again,” she said.
“I’m sure it will,” I told her.
“In the spring, there was some rumor that Roberto had photos of Lola or Roxy. Indecent photos. One was leaked on a school loop, a silhouette of a nude female, but without enough detail to make age or identification possible. Roberto was given as the source by another student. Principal Archer called him into his office, but Roberto denied it all and turned over his phone. No photos were found.”
“And then?” I asked.
“And then Roberto shot himself. A few weeks later. He was . . . an angry young man, prone to dark moods. When the staff heard the news, we were sad but not terribly surprised. We offered grief counseling for the students. But other than Anya . . . Roberto didn’t have any close friends.”
“So an angry, moody, and lonely teen,” I summarized, all of which lent credibility to the theory that his suicide had been just that—a suicide. “When did Lola join the gang?” I asked.
“I didn’t know that she had,” the guidance counselor said carefully. “It was just a rumor I heard. Given I work in the high school, I was more concerned by talk that the same gang was now interested in Roxy.”
“Las Ni?as Diablas,” I provided.
She shrugged. “Maybe. They’re careful in school. Again, we have a zero-tolerance policy.”
“Who’s the leader?”
She shook her head.
I gave her a look. “Who’s the alleged leader?”
Deep sigh. “You might want to try Carmen Rodriguez. She’s currently a junior. Except that she looks like she’s going on twenty-five. From what I’ve heard, she’s very smart. Not interested in her studies, but very bright.”
“And Roxy knows her?”
“They have a couple of classes together.”
“Okay.” I rose to standing.
“You’re still taking the dogs?” she asked.
“Just for the morning. I figure they can use some fresh air.”
She nodded, but seemed to know I wasn’t telling the whole truth. Then again, as a high school counselor, most of her conversations probably only involved half of the story.
“These girls, they’re not like you and me,” she tried again.
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled, picked up the dog leashes. “Honey, there are no girls like me. I’ll be okay. On the other hand, maybe Carmen Rodriguez is who you should worry about.”
? ? ?
ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL FALL DAY, SUNNY and crisp. Perfect weather to walk a pair of brown-and-white spaniels around the streets.
Brighton wasn’t that big a neighborhood, and Carmen Rodriguez wasn’t that hard to find. Then again, in this day and age of Google stalking, nobody was.
Nine A.M., Sunday morning: People were just beginning to stir. Little kids running around tiny yards and cracked sidewalks. Here and there, families appearing in their Sunday best. We hadn’t gone to church when I was a girl. Life on a farm, there were always chores to be tended, work to be done. After my abduction, the ladies from the Congregational church kept my mom supplied with food for months. Not to mention the volunteers who showed up in spring to help with the planting and again in summer to assist with the harvest because by that time, my mom was too busy appearing on national news shows, begging for my safe return.
The community kept the farm going. Neighbors we’d known only in passing, church members from services we’d never attended. It made a big impact on my mother. She’ll never leave our town now. It was there for her when she needed it the most. I didn’t begrudge her that. If anything, I was jealous of her newfound sense of belonging.
I kept walking as, slowly but surely, the quality of the buildings deteriorated. More run-down oversized apartment buildings. Sadder and sadder city blocks. Finally, I came to a row of old triple-deckers. Sagging porches. Broken-down stoops. A group of girls sat out front of a particularly sorry-looking three-decker, wearing a collection of cutoff jeans and ripped Tshirts. I consulted my phone. Sure enough, the one sitting on the top step matched the photo of Carmen Rodriguez. Short-cropped black hair that revealed golden skin and dark glittering eyes. Mostly, however, I studied the beauty mark on her left cheek.
No time like the present. Had my scarf as a backup weapon. Had two elderly blind dogs as a distraction. This was as good as it was going to get.
I lifted the latch on the rusted-out gate guarding the front walk and headed up the path.
Carmen Rodriguez was sitting with four other girls. The girls stood, but Carmen remained seated. Stared straight at me.
Hard eyes. Old for a sixteen-year-old girl. She would be gorgeous, I thought, if not for those eyes. But I liked her stare. It made her interesting. She had stories to tell. I wouldn’t mind hearing them. Assuming, of course, that she didn’t gut me first.
“Carmen Rodriguez?” I asked.
“Asking or telling?”
The girl closest to her sniggered. She had black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, while from both ears dangled silver hoops large enough to double as bracelets. All the girls were beautiful. I remembered what Sarah had said, that part of being in the gang was serving their male counterparts. Apparently, ugly wouldn’t do.
I noticed now that the girl to the left appeared to be holding something fisted at her side—a short blade of some kind would be my guess—while another girl had one arm tucked behind her. Another knife, tucked into the waist of her jeans? Or maybe a .22? I kept my hands in front of me, where everyone could see them.
I might know self-defense, but I was hardly a martial arts expert ready to take on five armed gangbangers. My best weapons right now would be words. Which, interestingly enough, Jacob could also be really good at when he chose. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . .
“My name is Flora Dane,” I started, then waited a beat. Sometimes people recognized it, sometimes they didn’t.
Carmen frowned, stared at me harder.