Okay, Lee said back.
Russ thumped him on the back in that jovial young-man way. Lee coughed. A crooked, impish smile. Lee crushed a paper cup in his hands, and dregs of instant coffee ran down his elbow. Russ liked him then, this scrawny pup trying to look big as coffee made its sluggish descent down his forearm.
And so it began: this brilliant, unlikely pair. Both too aware that this partnership, just minutes in, had already begun to expand into some slippery shape, water on a hardwood floor, an ever-changing mass that neither could contain.
Who found her? Russ asks one of the other patrol officers.
The night janitor, the officer says, then uses his middle finger to point. Russ follows the arc of knuckle, though he already knows whom he will see.
Sure enough. The night janitor.
Ivan stands with one hand in the pocket of his janitor’s uniform. A cigarette dangles from the other. When Ivan puffs those massive lungs his breath is doubled and thick—nicotine, carbon dioxide. The glow of Ivan’s cigarette is a lively orange, flickering against a sea of black police jackets. Dismal gray snow. Russ is not surprised by Ivan’s presence on the playground. Ivan works the night shift at the elementary school—Ines asked Russ to pull some strings; Ivan was having such a hard time. So he did.
Russ loves his wife very much. Quiet Ines. But Russ does not love her brother. In fact, Russ wishes, deeply and acutely, that Ivan did not exist.
Alone with the body now, Russ lifts his radio to his lips and speaks. The microphone is off. You there? Russ mumbles to the plastic, keeping his gaze on the girl’s hair, all blood and straw. Can you hear me? Russ presses the radio to his chapped lips but he can think of nothing else to say. Ivan smiles, cheshire and mischievous, a hulking mass of testosterone, the amber-glowing cigarette dangling like a dare.
Cameron
“You’re the dead girl’s stalker, aren’t you?”
The girl in the scratchy armchair outside Principal Barnes’s office was speaking to Cameron.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the freshman they’re all talking about. The kid who stalked the dead girl. Right?”
Her head rested against the wall behind her chair, bored and effortless. Cameron had noticed her before. She lived in the neighborhood and she was always alone. Her jeans had chains hanging from the pockets. Her eyes were ringed in black; raven, greasy hair swooped over one eye, and she wore a T-shirt that sported the name of a band Cameron didn’t know. The T-shirt was cut sloppily above her midriff, and two inches of pale stomach rolled over her waistband even though it was winter and she was probably cold. A spattering of acne spread across her chin and forehead.
The girl raised one slanted eyebrow at Cameron. He wanted to raise one back, but every time he tried, the other went up automatically, and he didn’t want to look stupid.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I was just wondering. I don’t care either way.”
“Oh,” Cameron said.
“The dead girl and I babysat the same kid.”
“Lucinda.”
“Whatever. It’s illegal, what they’re doing. They can’t interview minors without the consent and presence of a parent. They think because there are no officers in the room they can frame it as grief counseling, but that’s bullshit, if you ask me. They still had police officers walk us down the hall. Scare tactics, I think.”
She nodded, satisfied with her own rebellion. Her eyes were perfectly round. Cameron loved Lucinda’s slanting eyes, and these were their opposite: marbles, circular and glassy.
“I’m Jade,” she said. “Like the rock. I’m a junior.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“I got off easy.” She shrugged. “My sister’s name is Amethyst. And you’re Cameron Whitley. Freshman. You live down the block from Lucinda. They’re all very worried about your mental health, because your dad is the police officer who—”
“Please,” Cameron said. “Don’t.”
“Didn’t that happen, like, a long time ago?”
Cameron wished he were better at carrying on a conversation. He generally disliked talking to people because he never knew what to say. Even with the simplest questions, he was overwhelmed by the number of potential answers—which would sound best, or which was appropriate, or which would make the other person feel least awkward.
He could ask Jade why she dressed like that. He could ask what she thought about first thing in the morning—or why her parents had named her Jade, because it was unique and he liked it and he wanted interesting names for his kids someday, too. He could ask Jade what her favorite school subject was, but that seemed dumb and cliché. He could ask if she’d ever been in love, but he had enough sense to know that was too personal.
“Did that hurt?” Cameron finally said, because Jade was glaring at him, harsh, expectant. He pointed to the thin silver ring that wound around her lower lip.
“Yeah, it hurt a little.”
“Oh.”
“Want to see my tattoo?”
“Sure.”
Jade held out her left wrist. The outline of a dragon had been etched in black, its wings unfurled across white skin. The ink rippled and danced where it spread over blue veins.
“Is it real?” Cameron asked.
“Usually, I would say yes. I tell most people it is. But you keep looking at me with that intense face, so, no, it’s not real. I draw it on every morning.”
Cameron couldn’t figure out if this was the nicest or meanest thing someone had ever said to him.
“So,” she said. “Did you actually stalk the dead girl?”
“Lucinda.”
“Oh, I super don’t care.”
Cameron hated the word “stalk.” He had other words for his relationship with Lucinda, but they were words no one else would understand. Words like vibrant, frantic, twinkling, aching—
The door to Principal Barnes’s office opened and a woman with hair pinned tight against her head stepped out.
“Jade?” she said. “We’re ready for you.”
Jade rolled her eyes at Cameron like they were sharing some joke. As she stood up, Cameron caught a whiff of grape shampoo, and it occurred to him that he should have rolled his eyes in response, but Jade had already started to walk away. He didn’t expect her to look back.
Cameron had started playing Statue Nights when he was twelve years old. The summer after sixth grade, he realized he could pop out the screen in his bedroom window. The jump to the planter below was doable, if he bent his knees at the right moment.