Detective Jay leaned back. “I’m a pretty good judge of character. I don’t think you’ve been a hundred percent honest with me, but no, I don’t think you had anything to do with Paige’s death. It would be better if you and your mom had more than each other as an alibi for the night Paige was killed, but police work isn’t usually that tidy.”
For a split second, it seemed like the entire café went silent. The whooshing of the milk steamer, the clamor of people in line asking for Venti cups and extra shots of syrup, the clank of the bucket-sized coffee carafes being loaded, and the metal ting of the creamer thermoses on the marble countertop—?all disappeared.
“Alibi?”
He nodded. “She confirmed you two were together that night.”
I pushed my chair back. Why would she lie about that as well? She knew I was out that night.
She thought I was guilty. That’s why she told him the visions were hers. She wanted to get his attention off of me. “I guess there’s nothing left to say,” I said.
Detective Jay stood quickly reaching for my elbow. “Hey, I didn’t want to upset you.” He held me in place, staring into my eyes.
“You didn’t,” I said. My lie floated in the air between us, bloated and grimy.
“I wanted to talk to you because it’s important to me that you understand that I get why you did it. I don’t blame you and I’m not mad, but you have to stop. This is a murder investigation.”
The walls of the café, complete with floor-to-ceiling shelves, seemed to be closing in on me. I was going to be buried under bags of dark roast and overpriced coffee grinders.
“Fine.” I pulled back. I was ready to thank him for this touching intervention, tell him anything, just so we could end the conversation.
He let go of my arm. Perhaps they’d taught him in the police academy that holding a teen girl against her will in front of a bunch of witnesses was poor form. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” I gestured toward the door. “I need to get going. Really. I’ve got school.” I hated feeling like I needed his permission.
He deflated back into his seat. “Okay.” He waited until I had the door pushed halfway open before calling out, “You don’t need to tell stories to be special, you know. You’re a pretty neat kid just the way you are.”
Everyone in line, or seated at the tables, looked up to catch this heartwarming after-school-special moment. I closed my eyes briefly, wishing that if I could have a magical ability, it would be teleportation, so I could vanish from this spot in a puff of smoke.
“Thanks,” I said, then practically dove out the door.
Forty-Three
After I left Detective Jay, I walked quickly to school but stopped outside the front door. I should have gone in. I was already late. I’d missed more classes in the past couple of weeks than I had in the entire four years before all of this started. But each step looked a mile high; the door appeared to weigh a thousand pounds. I didn’t have the strength to make it inside. Drew most likely would still be giving me the cold shoulder. Everyone else would be watching me, waiting to see what might happen. I tried taking the first step, but then stopped. I couldn’t do it.
I spun and kept walking until I was outside the Catholic church. The door creaked open and the smell of the place—?furniture polish, dusty books, and incense—?enveloped me. It smelled like the place where magic potions were made. I crept in and absently rubbed the foot of the stone statue of the Virgin Mary that stood in the back of the lobby.
I slid into a polished pew and stared at the crucifix hanging at the front trying to calm my thoughts.
I shifted on the wooden seat. My eyes traveled around the walls of the church. There were paintings of various miraculous moments, a pregnant virgin, loaves and fishes to feed thousands, Christ floating up to heaven with his arms spread wide. No one saw anything exceptional in those miracles. They were accepted. Normal.
I’d always denied that my mom had any kind of special powers or ability. I made fun of the mere idea.
There were times when my mom had seemed to know things. The day my grandpa died, my mom had mentioned that morning that she dreamt about him visiting her. And there was the time she kept me home from school because she felt like something bad would happen, and that day a bunch of kids in my class got food poisoning from dodgy birthday cupcakes. I’d chalked those up to luck, but what if she was psychic? Maybe the person who wasn’t willing to see reality was me.
The TV was on as I came into the apartment hours later, one of those ballroom dancing shows. The air smelled like a field after a rain, so my mom must have busted out the Febreze. She swept around the living room. It looked like she was doing the tango. She didn’t stop when she spotted me and instead kept time with the music, her arms held out in front of her, embracing a ghostly dance partner.
“The school called,” she called out over her shoulder. “They said you didn’t show up today.”
I should have known the secretary would call. “Sorry,” I said. “Needed a break.”
Mom stopped dancing and wiped the sweat from her brow. “Fine with me. I told them I’d forgotten to call you in sick.”
“Thanks.” I leaned against the wall.
She smiled. “No problem. I remember how hard it is to sit in class, especially when the weather gets nice.”
“I went to the police department this morning.”
She caught my expression and stopped dancing. “Ah.” Mom clicked off the TV and sat on the couch.
I crossed the room and sat next to her. It was easier to talk when I wasn’t looking directly at her. I pulled the afghan onto my lap, even though it was too hot for a blanket. I buried my fingers into the scratchy acrylic yarn. “Detective Jay said he knew I was a fake. That you told him that.”
“You want something to drink?” Mom went out to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of white wine from the box in the fridge. She popped her head around the corner. “You want a glass?” She smiled at me. “After all, it’s after five somewhere in the world.”
“Of wine?” I asked, surprised. She’d never me offered me a drink before, and it seemed like a trick question.
She laughed. “You’re eighteen. I’m not so old that I think this is the first drop of alcohol you’ve had in your life.” She put her hands over her ears. “Not that I want you to tell me.”
It wasn’t my first drink, but she was wrong if she thought I was getting drunk at parties. Other than the time Drew snuck the vodka out of her parents’ liquor cabinet, we hadn’t done much. My mom often confused her wild teen years with mine. Drew and I had been more into Netflix and craft projects than boozy parties.
Mom passed me a glass. “Here’s to good times ahead,” she said, and we clinked.
I took a cautious sip. The wine was ice cold. It must have been near the back of our fridge, where things had a tendency to freeze. “Why did you tell him all the visions were yours?”
She shrugged and then fished out her bra strap to yank it back up. “They suspected you might be involved. Telling them all the visions were mine seemed the easiest way to get their focus off you.”