Blood on My Hands

CHAPTER 11

Sunday 1:53 A.M.

“You may be my closest friend, but that doesn’t mean you know everything about me.”
“I know you better than you know yourself.”
“I hate you when you say things like that. I’ll never be like you.”
“Too late. You already are.”
“It was Mia who invited me to the kegger,” I tell Slade in the pickup. “But it was Dakota who told me Katherine was missing and that everyone was looking for her. She even told me to check behind the dugout. And it was Dakota who led everyone else to me just moments after I found Katherine’s body. And you know what the first thing she said was? ‘You killed her!’ But how could she have known that? It was too dark to really see. Katherine still could have been alive. I was the only one who’d checked her pulse. Do you know what that means, Slade? Dakota already knew that Katherine was dead. She got Mia to invite me to the kegger and told her to tell me Katherine wouldn’t be there. That’s why she told me to look near the dugout and then led everyone there. So it would look like I did it!”
“You think Dakota killed Katherine?”
“How else could she have known Katherine was dead? How could she know where to tell me to look? Why else would she wait until I’d found the body and then bring a bunch of people as witnesses? She had to have planned it, Slade.”
He’s quiet. It irks me that I don’t know what he’s thinking. There was a time when each of us always knew what the other was thinking. We’d finish each other’s sentences.
Slade looks at the clock in his phone. “I’ve got work in the morning. There’s still a ton to do before the dedication ceremony on Wednesday. Even then we won’t be finished. But at least we’ll make it look good. You know who the guest speaker is?”
There is no reason I would know, and no reason Slade would ask, unless it’s obvious. “Dakota’s mom?”
He nods and goes quiet and I wonder if he’s just had the same thought I’ve had: not only is Dakota’s mother a congresswoman, but her uncle, Samuel Jenkins, is the chief of police and will be in charge of the investigation into the murder of Katherine Remington-Day.
We get out of the truck and walk through the dark to the old EMS building. The air is chillier than before and even quieter now, as if the traffic on the thruway is sparser at this time of night. Slade accidentally steps into a pothole and staggers a few feet, then catches himself and bends over.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just the knee.” He’d torn his ACL playing football in junior high and had to have major surgery.
“I thought that didn’t happen anymore,” I said. He was supposed to do special exercises to strengthen the muscles around the knee and keep it stable.
“I started feeling a lot of pain toward the end of basic.”
“Basic?”
“Basic training.” Slade straightens up but limps. Near the building he steps off the path, takes something from under a rock, and hands it to me: a key, cold and moist from resting in its hiding place, slightly rusted along the edges. I slide it into the keyhole and turn the knob.
Inside, the air smells musty and stale, as if no one’s been there for a long time. Out of habit, I reach toward the wall for the light switch. Then I feel Slade’s hand close around my arm, and instantly understand. If people saw a light coming from this abandoned place, they’d be suspicious. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a key ring with a small penlight. He aims the light at the floor, careful to keep the tiny beam from hitting the windows.
A few old chairs, a dented file cabinet, and a desk are all that remain. Everything else is gone.
“They took the old pool table?” I ask. It was such a piece of junk. Balls were always getting stuck in the gullies and the guys were constantly removing one end of the table to reach inside to free them. Finally they built a hinge for the end so they could open it whenever they needed to.
“Everyone’s trying to save money,” Slade says. He swivels his head around, a concerned look on his face. “I don’t know about this, Cal. I mean, maybe you can hide here tonight, but what’re you going to do tomorrow?”
“I have to ask you for another favor,” I tell him.
Slade’s face contorts unhappily. In the dim light I pull open one of the desk drawers, find a torn envelope and a pencil, and start writing a list of the things I need: Black hair dye. Scissors. Makeup. Sharpies. Deodorant. Rubbing alcohol. Cotton balls. Black lipstick and nail polish. Wire cutters. An old pair of Slade’s sister’s jeans, sneakers, and a gray hoodie. Even though Alyssa is five years younger than me, I’m so petite that we’re practically the same size.
I give the list to Slade. With a deep frown, he scans it with the penlight, then sighs loudly and slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know, Cal. I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Please, Slade. I’ll never tell anyone you helped me. If I get caught, I’ll lie. What difference will it make?”
We stand, silent, in the dark. I wish he didn’t have to leave. “Promise me you’ll come back?”
“I promise.”
He starts to leave, then hesitates. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind and stay a little longer, but instead, he takes out his keys and works the penlight free, then gives it to me and goes. Without turning on the lights, he drives out of the parking lot.
For a long time I was untouched by all the typical teen angst about popularity. The reason? My best friend, Jeanie. Each of us was the other’s protector and support system. As long as we had each other, we were immune to the new styles of handbags, boots, and all the other name-brand items deemed the must-haves of the moment.
Jeanie was rebellious and daring and had a resourceful style all her own. I’d spend hours at her house helping her streak her hair bright pink, do crazy things with makeup, draw fake tattoos on her skin using colored Sharpies and rubbing alcohol, undo the seams and hems of clothing and resew them tighter or looser or altogether differently. Often she’d want me to change the color of my hair or try a fake tattoo or alter my clothes, and I’d always laugh and say I didn’t have to because I had enough fun helping her.
But the truth was that I didn’t like to call attention to myself. I was happy to be the sidekick and let her have the spotlight. And that was one of the strange things about the day I met Slade—that even though I preferred to be in Jeanie’s shadow, he only had eyes for me.