Sketchy (15 page)

“Oh, shit.” I show it to Chris.

“They have your number from the flyer!”

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, damn, they do. They really were assholes, weren’t they?”

Chris laughs with me. “Big-time assholes.”

“I can’t believe I fell for it. Thanks for protecting me.”

Chris takes my hand, wraps his fingers around mine. “You would’ve done the same for me. You were ready to take on a two-hundred-pound fullback, remember?”

“I do, yeah.” I squeeze and look at his hand. “Let go of me, Chris.”

“Excuse me?”

I open my sketchbook and turn to a clean page. “I just figured out how you can help. Put your left hand down on the paper.” He does. I trace it.

“It tickles.”

“Okay. Lift up.” Chris moves his hand, and I place my left hand down and trace inside his, crossing the lines. “There. My hand will always be in yours.”

I drive by Aggie’s house on my way home from Chris’s.

The gate is open, and cars fill the expansive drive. I park across the street from the massive house and look through the front living room window. They must be “sitting shivah,” where friends and family visit and mourn for seven days—it’s a Jewish tradition. I see dozens of people—girls from Athena Day, relatives, Aggie’s mom and dad.

I should be there. I was closer to her than anybody.

The side door of the house opens. Maria, their housekeeper, walks out to the trash cans with a bag of garbage. I jump out of my car. “Maria!” I call out.

She drops the bag and crosses the street, rushing toward me. Maria crushes my ribs with her hug; her short, taut body heaves with sobs.

“Beatrice, my Beatrice. I’m so glad you are here.”

“I feel so bad, Maria.” I cry, too.

“I know, baby, I know.” She wipes her eyes with a dish towel that’s buttoned to her apron and takes my face in her hands—studies my eyes, pets my hair. “Are you alright, Beatrice? Are you doing okay? Tell me the truth.”

I nod. “I am, Maria. I’ve been clean for over three months,” I say through a knotted throat.

Maria makes the sign of the cross. “Oh, thank you, thank you god for that.” Her strong hands take hold of mine. “Promise me something, please.”

“I promise.”

“Promise me that you will never, ever think that you
are at fault. Do you hear me? I do not blame you. No one should blame you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks.

“I knew what was going on with Agatha, you know that, right? I wanted to help her.”

“I know you did.”

“I’ve been with Agatha since she was a baby. I know what she did—what she did to you, to others. But they”—she looks back at the house—“refused to believe it. It wasn’t on their agenda, wasn’t convenient for them to know the truth. So I did nothing. I was instructed to do nothing, even when I brought up my concerns. My poor, poor Agatha.”

“Maybe I could have—”

Maria covers my mouth with her hand. “No, you couldn’t have. Nobody could have. You are a good girl, Beatrice. Always were—I saw it in your soul, your eyes, how caring, how loving a friend you were.”

I smile. “I’d better go. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to worry my parents.”

She takes a deep breath and wipes my tears. “I’m so proud of you, Beatrice Francesca. Okay, you go on now. I will pray for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Maria.”

The texts continue while I get ready for bed:

My cell continues to ping with messages, so I throw it across the room. It bounces off my closet door, and I immediately regret it, hoping the phone didn’t break.

Damn!

I pick it up, and a photograph begins to download, sent by Malcolm—an obscene photo of his “shortcomings.”

Gross
.

I turn it off, fall into bed, and pull the covers up and over my head. Force myself to sleep.

W
orst sound in the world? Hands down, it’s the alarm clock buzzing, screaming at me at seven to drag my butt out of bed.

I slam down the button, fall back on my warm-with-sleep, comfy pillow, and yawn. And then the events of yesterday come crashing into my consciousness.

Oh, shit.

I take my cell off the nightstand, turn it on, and brace myself for the anticipated onslaught of obscene frat-boy messages. The screen lights up, ripe with ridicule, I’m sure.

10 TEXT MESSAGES!

1 VOICE MAIL!

I hit voice mail—seems the safest choice.

“Miss Washington? This is Sergeant Daniels. We need you to come into the station immediately.”

I throw my arms up in the air. “What did I do now? Sheesh!”

My phone rings in my hand. I answer. “Hello?”

“Do you want me to pick you up? I’m in the neighborhood.”

“Sergeant Daniels, is that you?”

“Yes. I need you in my office ASAP.”

“Okay, okay… no, don’t come over here, please. My parents will flip out. I have study hall first period today—I can miss it, I guess. I’ll be there within the hour.”

When I walk into the police station, there she is, standing at the metal detector. I was hoping I’d see her this morning.

Although I didn’t have as much time as I wanted, I did dress with her in mind. I left most of my jewelry on my dresser and settled for simple hoop earrings and only a few bangles.

“Good morning.” I smile.

She grunts.

My hair is as smooth as it can be—less tangled and frizzy, and bird poop–free. I’m wearing a faux fur cropped jacket, two functional shoes, and I’m clean. I hand her my purse, a vintage Chanel bucket bag, and take off my jacket, revealing a beaded turquoise cardigan over a long, black cotton tee and black leggings. I know I look a lot better than I did when she last saw me.

I take the bangles off my wrists, and the nose ring? Still in my nose, but we both know the wand thingy works.

I pass through security in record time.

I move on to Mr. Toad, who is sleeping, snoring—having a good dream, given the smug smile on his face. I reach around his desk, snatch a couple lollipops from his stash, throw a purple one to the female cop, and keep the orange one for myself.

I score a smile from her.

Sergeant Daniels is on the phone when I enter his office. He has his back to me and is holding what looks like all one hundred of my flyers in his hand.

“You took those down?” I exclaim. “Damn. Do you know how many hours I spent putting them up?”

The sergeant turns, facing me. He looks pissed off, ready to rail, but pauses, hangs up the phone, checks me out, and rubs his brow. “You shouldn’t have done that, Miss Washington.”

Detective Cole, oblivious of my transformation, has his hand on his holster again, a bad habit of his. “You’ve tampered with police business, taking down our posters and putting your crazy sketch up. We could have you arrested! You know that?”

“Easy there, Cole…” Sergeant Daniels disarms him and looks at me. “Miss Washington—”

“Bea,” I say.

“We’re going to let this one slide—this tampering business.”

Detective Cole sighs.

“
If
, and only
if
, you promise to leave things alone and stop this obsession over the Pressman case,” he orders.

“You should be the one obsessed! There’s a maniac out there who raped and beat up a seventeen-year-old girl a couple weeks ago. You don’t think he’s going to do it again to somebody else? Maybe he already has. Who knows? He could be the same guy who attacked the girl in the Arboretum last spring.”

“What do you know about that?” Detective Cole demands.

“Everyone knows about her, what happened. It was in all the papers. There has to be a connection. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that. They were both blindfolded, strangled, and raped, right?”

Sergeant Daniels squints his eyes. “How do you know about Willa, how she was when found? We haven’t released that information yet.”

“She told me.”

Detective Cole laughs. “That’s funny, because we had Willa back in here, and she said she told you nothing.”

“Then I guess I’m psychic, right?” I slither up to him. “Or maybe the more plausible explanation is that she’s lying. Have you ever thought of that?”

“Or maybe
you
are,” he tosses back.

Sergeant Daniels cuts in. “We’re exploring everything we have, Miss Washington—we’ve got it handled.”

“Bea, the name’s Bea. And the flyer I’ve been tacking up
all over town, the flyer that you took down, is a sketch of the rapist. Yeah, sure, that’s handling it.”

Sergeant Daniels clenches his jaw at my sarcasm.

“Miss Pressman also said you’re stalking her and making up stories, says you’re a real nutcase at school,” Detective Cole spits.

I laugh. “Of course she’s saying that. Don’t you understand? She doesn’t want you to catch him.”

“But why would she
not
want us to catch him?” the sergeant asks. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

I take a big breath. “Willa Pressman isn’t exactly who you think she is. She has a, um… a problem.”

“Yeah, you!” Detective Cole jumps in.

I’m beginning to hate this guy. But I really don’t want to be arrested for accosting an officer, so I take a breath and ask in a nice voice, “Sergeant Daniels, do you think we could talk alone? For a minute?”

The sergeant looks at Detective Cole and gestures with his head for him to leave.

Cole objects. “Oh come on, are you serious? You’re not going to believe anything this… this
lunatic
utters, are you?”

“Now!” Sergeant Daniels orders.

Detective Cole leaves, stuffing his hands in his pockets like a punished bully on a playground.

We both let out a sigh of relief.

Sergeant Daniels scratches his nose and says under his breath, “Um, by the way, I happened to notice—you
look nice, better than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well, this is how I normally look. Thanks, though. Do you mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead.”

I sit down on a beige upholstered chair in the corner of his office. Sergeant Daniels pulls his desk chair up to me, across from me, and leans forward on his knees.

“So, what’s this problem that Miss Pressman has?”

“This is
so
not my business.”