“And Lonny Johnson’s a saint? Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.” I glared at him as he spread the rest of his hand facedown, so fast I could barely see his fingers.
“There are things you don’t know about him.” He snapped a card against the table. “And there are things he doesn’t know about you.” His clear gray eyes found mine as he threw down an ace, and I knew he’d heard everything.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
So what if he knew that Rankin was covering for me? So what if he knew I was the missing link the police were looking for? Who was he going to tell? Definitely not the cops, since he obviously didn’t want their attention any more than I did . . . Or would he? What would someone like Lieutenant Nicholson trade for information like this, like they’d done for Reece? The air in the room was too thin and my hands felt shaky. I clenched them into fists.
“You’re no angel either.” I refused to be afraid of Oleksa Petrenko. I had information too. I could completely discredit him as a witness. I could place Oleksa at the scene of a drug deal, and had seen him assault Reece with my own eyes. Hell, I probably even had his fingerprints. Oleksa must have been the one to put the baseball bat on my porch.
I smiled to myself, feeling more secure in the knowledge that I had something to wield over him if I needed it. “Thanks for returning my bat,” I said, turning my back and grabbing the first box. FRAGILE, it said in bold red letters.
“I returned nothing,” came his reply.
I set the box down silently. I had no reason to believe him. But I did.
“Whatever.” I bit my lip and snatched a box cutter off the shelf. The warm, woody smell of newsprint seeped out as I sliced the packaging tape. Objects wrapped in old newspapers filled it to the rim. The cards rustled and snapped quietly behind me. I felt Oleksa’s stare. Knew he was watching. A dozen dusty boxes lined the walls, waiting.
Mr. Rankin returned to his desk. Oleksa didn’t say anything more.
I thrust a hand in the box and pulled out the first ball of paper. My hands were shaking as I unrolled it, and I dropped it and cursed. The glass vial shattered, startling Oleksa and Rankin and spreading tiny shards across the floor. I looked at the mess and blew out a long slow breath. The glassware had been wrapped in a page of personal ads, and it felt like a bad omen.
I swept up the glass, then resumed my work in silence. Oleksa left after an hour. I only knew because the room felt bigger, and I no longer had the feeling of being watched. After two hours, I’d washed, dried, inventoried, and shelved only three boxes.
I scooped the last of the wadded-up sheets of newspaper and stuffed them in the empty boxes. When I was done, my fingers were covered in newsprint smudges, making it hard to think about anything but the Missed Connections and the events that had unfolded since I’d found the first ad. Three ads. Three victims. Three students, all connected to me. Rumors were spreading, facts unraveling from fiction, weaving together to create truths that could almost hold weight. Emily’s friends had talked about the number on her arm, even after police had tried to silence them. Marcia’s friends had done the same. And Posie’s number had appeared in a horrific public display, in an amusement park of thousands, making it impossible for police to conceal the specifics of the crime. Ten. Eighteen. Three. The numbers, random and meaningless on their own, were beginning to add up. Sooner or later, a pattern would emerge. And it was only a matter of time before police figured out that I was the only common denominator between the victims.
I closed and locked the cabinet, and leaned against it, lost in thought.
The tower will point the way . . . You’ll know where to find me . . .
Do the math and find me after the show . . .
Find me tonight under the bleachers . . .
Find me . . .
I’d found Posie where the tower pointed, I’d found Marcia after the show. But the bleachers . . . I’d never been to the bleachers. I’d never gone to the gym at North Hampton.
How had I been so blind? I’d missed the first invitation completely.
23
I took the city bus to the end of its route, then walked the rest of the way to North Hampton. The doors to the school’s gymnasium were closed, but not locked. I peeked inside. The lights were on. It still smelled like warm bodies, but the gym was empty, and I slipped under the bleachers, unnoticed.
The air under the stands was at least two degrees cooler. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Metal columns slowly came into focus, but it was too dark to make out anything beyond them but shadows. I withdrew a penlight from my pocket and hoped the lights on the other side of the wooden platforms over my head would be enough to keep anyone from noticing the flashlight’s thin beam through the slats.
I flipped it on. If there was a message here, hidden in the dark, I’d find it. I started at the high side nearest the wall, illuminating cinder blocks covered in graffiti. Finding nothing unusual, I turned the light toward the splintering underbelly of the bleachers themselves.