About That Night (18 page)

She nods.

“That belongs to Ronan?”

Another nod.

“What the hell are you doing wearing your ex-boyfriend's sweater?”

“It's warm. It's like wearing a woolen blanket. And it's so soft.”

“But it belongs to Ronan.”

“I know.”

“Did you give it back?”

“Not yet. I've been wearing it for ages. I told him I would wash it and then return it, but with everything that's happened, I haven't got around to it yet.”

“Okay,” her father says. “Well, if that's all it is—”

“What else would it be, Dad?”

“Why didn't you tell the police he'd been by?”

“I didn't think it was relevant. Why? Do you think it means anything?”

“He may have seen that Derek was there. It may have set him off.”

Jordie bets the cops will think the same thing. But maybe after she tells them what really happened between her and Ronan, they will change their minds—that is, if they believe her.

» » »

Just like the last time, the two detectives thank her for coming down to speak to them. This time, though, there's no softness as they go through her rights, which Tritt reads off a sheet of paper, pointing to where she's to initial that she understands and agrees. Does she understand that she doesn't have to answer any questions if she doesn't want to? Does she understand that anything she does choose to say can be used against her in a subsequent legal proceeding?

“Wait a minute!” her dad says. “What legal proceeding? Are you charging her with anything?”

“Not at this time,” Diehl says.

Her father doesn't like the sound of that. “Maybe I should get a lawyer down here.”

“It's okay, Dad,” Jordie says, laying a hand on her father's arm. “I don't need a lawyer. I didn't do anything.”

Her father's arm is tense, but he says nothing.

Jordie nods at Tritt, who reads the next paragraph on the sheet.

Does she understand that she can choose to have a lawyer present? Does she understand that she can choose to have a parent present?

“Damn straight she does, Neil,” her father mutters. He gives Tritt the stinkeye.

Jordie initials the box Tritt points to. He sets the paper aside.

“Okay, Jordie. There are a few things that we need your help with. Things we need clarified.”

“Like what?” Jordie uses her sweetest classroom voice.

“For example, we find it odd that you didn't tell us that Ronan Barthe came to your house and spoke to you the same night you say Derek Maugham left your house and never came back.”

The same night that she
says
Derek left? Whoa!

“I don't remember you asking me about Ronan.” She smiles cooperatively. “But, yes, he did drop by. He wanted something of his that I still have. We used to go out.”

“What did he want?”

“A sweater.” Jordie gives the two cops an abbreviated version of the story she told her father.

“Derek Maugham was at your house at the time, isn't that right, Jordie?” Tritt asks.

“That's right.”

“Did he know that Ronan was there?”

“Yes.”

“Did Derek talk to Ronan?”

“No.”

“Any reason why not?”

Was he kidding? “They don't know each other very well. And, well, to be honest, I don't think Derek liked Ronan very much, you know, because he used to be my boyfriend.”

“What about Ronan? How does he feel about Derek?”

“I don't think he thinks anything one way or another.”

“He wasn't angry or resentful of the guy who stole his girl?”

Jordie shakes her head. “Derek didn't steal me. I was going out with Ronan. Ronan broke up with me. Then I started going out with Derek.”

“Ronan dumped you?” Tritt seems to be trying this out to see how it feels.

“He broke up with me,” Jordie says.

“Why?”

A good question.

“To be honest,” she says, “I don't know. He didn't tell me. He just said he thought it would be best if we didn't see each other anymore.”

“Did you ask him why he said that?”

Only about a hundred times.

“Yes. But he wouldn't tell me.”

There is silence for a few moments. Jordie can't decipher its meaning.

“Jordie, did you leave your house that night—the night you say Derek left without telling anyone?”

Beside Jordie, her father bridles. She squeezes his arm.

“No.”

“You didn't perhaps leave together? Maybe you were going back to his house with him? Maybe you figured that, that way, the two of you could have some privacy?” Tritt asks.

“What exactly are you implying?” Jordie's father demands.

“It's okay, Dad,” Jordie says. “No, I didn't go with him. I told you, I didn't even realize he had left the house until the next morning.”

“Yet, according to his mother, you knew exactly what route he had taken home, and you were able to find him when no one else could, even after we had search parties out looking,” Tritt says. “And you also snuck into his room behind his mother's back after he was dead. What were you doing in there, Jordie?”

Mrs. Maugham had made a point of telling the cops that? God, what else had she said?

“Jordie, is this true?” her father asks.

Jordie looks at the cops, not her dad.

“I was trying to be helpful when I told her the way he usually walks home from our house,” she says. “And it was pure luck I happened to see his scarf that day. And about his room—I did
not
go in there behind anyone's back. Mrs. Maugham wasn't there when I went over. I asked Mr. Maugham for permission. I wanted a keepsake of Derek, that's all. You can ask Mr. Maugham if you don't believe me.”

The two cops stare at her. She doesn't flinch. What
are
they implying?

“Did you get a keepsake?” Tritt asks at last.

“No. His mother wouldn't let me. She threw me out.”

Tritt leans forward across the table. “Do you know what Mrs. Maugham thinks, Jordie?”

Jordie shakes her head, even though she knows exactly what Derek's mom thinks.

“She thinks that you lured Derek out of the house and that you met up with Ronan Barthe, and that Ronan—or both of you—killed Derek and buried his body in the snow.”

“She's insane!” Jordie's father says. “That woman doesn't know the first thing about my daughter. She—”

Tritt lays a clear plastic bag on the table. Inside is a metal button. A military-style button. Both Jordie and her dad stare at it. Both are silent.

“Do you recognize this button, Jordie?”

She feels her dad's eyes on her. “A police officer showed it to me when they found Derek,” she says.

“What about before that?”

“No.”

“What would you say if I told you that Ronan Barthe has a jacket that has buttons exactly like this one?” Tritt asks.

“Are you kidding?” her father says. “Do you have any idea how many of those jackets there must be kicking around, all with buttons like that?”

Tritt and Diehl ignore him.

“What would you say,” Tritt continues, “if I told you that one of the buttons on Ronan's jacket had recently been replaced?”

Jordie doesn't answer. What could she possibly say?

“Where were you the night Derek Maugham supposedly went missing?” Tritt asks her again.

“I was home.” It's getting harder and harder for Jordie to stay calm—to not panic.

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

“I was asleep. Everyone was asleep.”

“Jordie, if you had anything to do with what happened to Derek Maugham, you should tell us,” Tritt says.

“I didn't.” She glances at Diehl. Why isn't he saying anything?

“Maybe you didn't know what Ronan was planning to do. But with his record—”

“Record?” Jordie and her dad say simultaneously. “What record?” Jordie asks.

“He didn't tell you he'd been arrested twice before—for assault?”

Jordie shakes her head. He'd never said a word about it.

“A boy with a temper like that, he might have surprised you by what he did. He might have told you that since you were there, you were just as much to blame as him. But that's not necessarily true, Jordie. Not if you cooperate. Not if you tell us exactly what happened.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Jordie says. She is thinking about Ronan's record. What kind of assault? Assault on whom? How bad was it?

“If you don't cooperate,” Tritt continues, “and if it turns out you've been lying to us—”

Mr. Cross stands up. “Now you're threatening my daughter?”

“We're just trying to figure this out, Art.”

“Is she under arrest? Are you arresting her?”

Tritt looks at Diehl, who shakes his head.

“Come on, Jordie,” her father says. “We're going home.” He grabs her hand before she can say a word and yanks her out of the chair and out of the room. No one tries to stop them.

Jordie's dad says nothing on the way home, which could be good—he's not accusing her of anything, he doesn't seem to be buying the cops' version of events, and he probably doesn't think she could ever do anything even remotely like what they have suggested. But it isn't necessarily all good. He's definitely worried, he'll probably get her a lawyer as fast as he can, and he might not sleep well knowing, just as she does, that some cops are like dogs with a bone. They get an idea into their heads and there's just no shaking them, and believe it or not, we live in a world where the innocent are sometimes punished for the crimes of the guilty—hell, sometimes they're punished for things that aren't crimes at all.

As soon as they get home and he parks the car in the garage, her father walks through the kitchen and into the den, where, shortly thereafter, Jordie hears the clink of glass on glass. Her father is pouring himself a stiff drink.

In the kitchen, Celia Cross searches her daughter's face.

“They didn't arrest me,” Jordie says, trying to keep things light.

“Well, I should hope not.” Her mother is indignant. She hears the same clinking Jordie hears, frowns and hurries into the den. Jordie hears hushed voices.

She shucks her coat, checks her phone for messages—there are none—and heads up to her room. She's back down five minutes later when her mother calls the family for dinner. Everyone, even Carly, eats in silence. Mr. Cross brings his Scotch—his second?—to the table and drinks it while ignoring the casserole on his plate.

“Damn cops,” he mutters.

“Now, Art,” Mrs. Cross says softly.

“Don't ‘now Art' me! You weren't there. They all but accused your daughter of murder!”

“No shit?” Carly says, wide-eyed.

Both her parents glower at her. “Language,” her mother says sharply.

“Sorry,” Carly mutters.

“They weren't serious, Mom,” Jordie says. “I think they were just trying to scare me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They just want to see if I know anything.”

“Well, of course you don't.” Her eyes go to her husband. “It's nothing to worry about, is it, Art?” Even though Jordie has just told her it isn't.

“I'm going to call Paul,” Mr. Cross says. He stands. “His brother is a prosecutor in Vancouver. He probably knows a lot of good lawyers. I'm going to get one for Jordie.”

“But if she didn't do anything, surely she doesn't need a lawyer,” Mrs. Cross says.

Mr. Cross picks up his glass to take with him. “Don't be so naïve, Celia,” he says. “These are cops. Who knows what they think?”

He disappears into the den again.

Jordie offers to clean up the kitchen, but her mother shoos her away.

“You've dealt with enough for one day. Go and try to relax. Carly will help me.”

“Aw, Mom—”

“You'll do as you're told, young lady,” her mother says.

Jordie goes to her room. She shuts the door and props a chair under the handle so that she will be warned if someone tries to come in. She turns on her computer.

Twenty

A
fter nearly an hour of staring at the screen of her laptop, Jordie is about to give up. Then Ronan's face appears. He looks tired. Worried, too, and that scares Jordie.

“I saw you on the street,” he says. “My mom says you were at the house.”

“Are you okay, Ronan?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. But he refuses to look into the camera.

“Was it the button? Is that what did it?”

His head bobs up. He peers past her. “How do I know you're alone in there? How do I know someone else isn't hiding there or you aren't recording this or something?”

“You want me to come over? You could search me.”

He shakes his head. His eyes meet hers. “What do you want?”

“I'm worried about you, Ronan.”

He says nothing.

“The cops brought me in for questioning.” Still nothing. “They know you were here that night. They wanted to know what you were doing here.”

“Did you tell them?”

“I said you wanted me to return that sweater of yours.”

“What sweater?”

“The blue one. You know, the really soft one.”

He smiles until he catches himself at it. “
You
have it?”

She nods.

“Huh. I wondered where it had got to.”

“You can have it back if you want.”

Another tiny smile. “You can keep it.”

Silence.

“Ronan? They told me they know that button is yours. They say you sewed another one on to replace it.”

“I'm such an idiot. I used a different color thread. And the one they found—it still has some thread attached, the same color as the other ones.”