He wrote back: Yes. Bring back my truck tonight when you’re done and we’ll talk. I’ll give you a ride home.
I’m not up for seeing anyone, she wrote. But that was a lie. She went back downstairs and although part of her only wanted to curl up in her bed and shut out the world, she drove Trevor’s truck to St. Michael’s.
The gun came with her.
44
FRIENDS, STANDING ON a porch, disagreeing.
Amari said, “Let’s go. I’m done with this party.”
Kamala said, “No, not yet.”
“I’m tired,” Amari said. Also her boyfriend, Derek, had gotten sick at the last minute and decided to stay home. She was feeling tired and spent herself, and only half of that was from dealing with Kamala’s attitude.
“Then you go. I’ll catch a car home.”
Amari said, “You’re mad at me for having talked to Jane.”
“It’s not the best look on you,” Kamala said.
“Whatever.”
“Just don’t do it again.”
“Kamala. Let’s get one thing straight. I’ll talk to anyone I decide to talk to. I don’t like Jane. I think she’s a loser. But if I want to talk to her, I will, and you’ll keep your big mouth shut about it.”
“It’s great how college has given you that independence you crave,” Kamala said. “You might get so independent you won’t have friends left.”
“Grow up. College is not high school. There are no thrones for you to sit on.”
“Honestly, I thought I was doing you a favor being your friend.”
There is a breaking point in friendships, and Amari Bowman reached hers in that moment. She thought of simply turning and walking away, avoiding the drama, but instead she let the words burning inside her flash into fire. “Kamala. You’ve never made it easy to be your friend,” Amari said. “You had power, and people gravitated to that. But I’d never have called you with a problem or for a shoulder to cry on. And you don’t have the power now. You’re just one of many. There’s a decent girl inside you and you won’t let her out. And I think I outgrew you.” Amari turned her back on her, went to Trevor, who was standing alone on the patio, gave him a hug, thanked him for the invitation. She gave Nana a hug as well. She walked by Kamala like she was a ghost.
Amari hadn’t had a beer or a glass of wine, so she was fine to drive, but she was trembling, her chest thick with the sour feeling that comes after a fight with a friend. She regretted the fight, but not the sentiment. As she got into her car, the phone rang.
She hoped it was Kamala calling, but it wasn’t. A local number. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bowman? My name is Matteo Vasquez. I wrote some newspaper articles a couple of years ago about the Jane Norton/David Hall car crash and I interviewed you then.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I was hoping I might talk to you again. If you’re not busy, could we meet?”
“Now?”
“Sure, if you have time and I’m not interrupting your Saturday night.”
“My Saturday night flamed out. Are you writing another article about Jane? Because she seems to be doing much better.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes. Twice today.” That wasn’t exactly accurate, she hadn’t talked to Jane but had seen her at the party. Talking with Trevor on the patio, alone, something major clearly going down between them.
“Wow, then I really would like to talk to you.”
“Maybe you could leave Jane alone.”
“Are you not aware there have been unusual events—you could even say attacks in two of the cases—against people who were involved in the investigations?”
“Um. Jane mentioned that. But I wasn’t part of the investigation.”
“You were prominent in the case. You passed the class note, you saw them at the restaurant.”
“Are you saying I’m in danger? From Jane?”
“I’m trying to figure that out, but I think you should be aware. I’m writing a new article about it.”
“Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“It would be better if we could meet face-to-face.” He was holding out for another interview.
Amari bit at her lip, thinking. “All right.” She gave him her address. “There’s a little coffee shop a block away from my apartment. We can meet at my place and walk there, they never have any parking.”
“All right, I’ll see you in a few. Thank you, Ms. Bowman.”
Amari drove back to the campus, parked her car in the lot of her small apartment building. Thinking. Maybe it wasn’t best to meet with this guy alone. Not that she was afraid of him—he had been polite and professional before. But maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have someone else there when she talked to him. Amari’s mother, Renee, was a lawyer so she called her and explained.
“Have him come up to the apartment and wait for me,” Renee said. “Let’s talk there and then we can see how to proceed. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“All right.”
Amari waited in the lot for Vasquez; he pulled in a few minutes later, a truck driving past him and parking in a No Parking zone, its engine idling.
“Hey,” Vasquez said, walking toward her. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Instead why don’t I make coffee here, is that OK? My mom wanted to join us as well.”
“Your mom, the lawyer.”
“You do have a good memory.”
“Came in handy writing about amnesia.” The joke fell flat and he saw it. “And I’ve been reviewing all my notes. That’s fine, whatever you’re comfortable with. Do you want us to wait down here for her to arrive?”
She saw someone hurrying across the parking lot, sticking to the shadows. “Um, no,” she said. “I’ll put the decaf on, if you’d like some, and I know my mom will drink a cup.”
“That’s fine.”
They started to walk into the courtyard of the apartment. She heard a distant noise, like breaking glass.
“Did you hear that?”
Vasquez had been asking her what she was studying. “No, I didn’t.”
“Oh. Never mind.” The complex was full of UT students, there was always a bit of noise happening. And then she gave him the rote answer about her studies and her activities, the kind she gave when her parents’ friends asked her how college was going. They walked up to her second-floor apartment.
“So how’s Jane?” Vasquez asked. He’d try to talk to her before her mother got here.
She thought, Jane is a pain. But I remember when I thought she was kind of cool and funny. Spoke her own mind, instead of Kamala speaking it for everyone. But she said instead, “I think she’s doing a lot better.”
“Is that so? Did she approach you to talk or did you call her up for some reason?”
As they walked toward her apartment, Amari saw with annoyance that the lights along the balconies were out. All of them. Stupid landlords, she thought, they need to keep this place up. She stepped into the darkness, Vasquez following, using his phone as a flashlight, aiming it toward the floor. She passed three doors, reaching her own, close to the stairwell.