The Scammer(76)

And through the entire ordeal, no one has even asked about Legacy.

I walk out of the station close to midnight in a daze and spot his car parked across the street.

Nick.

He waves at me and I could burst into tears, I’m so happy to see him.

“Hey you,” he says.

“Hey . . . you,” I mumble.

We stare at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, he reaches for my jacket and pulls me into him, gathering me the same tight way I love. As if he doesn’t want to let go and I never want him to.



* * *




Nick pulls up in front of the Rock, shoving the gear in park. Outside, the dorm looks so normal. Just like the day I first moved in. No one would know what kind of insanity has been going on inside. Or maybe they do. Maybe everyone knows, and if so, why hasn’t anyone tried to help? Why hasn’t the university gotten involved?

“I . . . can’t believe you want to come back here,” Nick mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

I sigh and unbuckle my seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”

He grips my wrist. “Hey, I’m not leaving you alone!”

I snatch my hand back, trying to find some composure.

“Nick, I need a moment,” I say. “Today has been . . . a lot.”

“Yeah I know . . . but . . .”

“Nick,” I hiss. “We can talk later.”

I jump out of the car. I have zero energy left to give him or anyone.

The suite has been combed thoroughly. Every drawer emptied, cabinet opened, contents laid out. They even searched between the sofa cushions, dusting for fingerprints. This gives me pause. Devonte’s prints should be in the system. They’ll question him soon enough.

In my room, a foul stench permeates the air. The carpet has been sprayed, my towels and sheets taken.

They were looking for more blood. Kammy’s blood.

The shivers set in, teeth chattering. I run into the bathroom and stop short at the message written on the mirror in red lipstick. Loren’s red lipstick.

SNITCH!

I wretch up whatever’s left in my stomach. The room spins. I slump over, taking my usual resting spot between the tub and toilet, with my head leaned back, face up to the sky. There’s a ceiling tile out of place. They really looked everywhere for Kammy.

But Kammy’s gone. Maybe forever.

I bite my fist, clenching my teeth, a sob reverberating back into me.

You’re not a good friend.



* * *




It’s gone too far. You need to stop this. Once and for all.

Kammy’s missing, Loren’s practically killing herself, and I’m a person of interest in my roommate’s disappearance . . . possible murder.

I pick up my cell and dial the number. This is the step I’ve been preparing for. All I’ll do is leave an anonymous tip about Devonte. Then whatever happens after that . . . happens. But fingers can’t be pointed at me. At least, I hope not.

“This is . . . Jo. Am I speaking with Arnold Woods?”

“Speaking,” he says, slurping the end of a drink through a straw.

“You’re Devonte Saunders’s parole officer, right? I’m just calling to let you know that he’s up to his scams again. Credit card stuff. I thought you should know.”

There’s silence over the phone for a moment. I check to see if I still have a connection.

“How’d you get this number?”

The question takes me off guard. “I . . . researched.”

Over the line, a cup is slammed down, papers shuffling.

“You got a pen?” he asks, hastily. “Take down this number. You need to talk to Detective Andy Gates. Call him right now and tell him everything.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just do it, you hear?”

I swallow and take down the number, afraid to ask any more questions. He doesn’t say goodbye before ending the call. I dial Detective Gates, and it goes to voicemail. I’m nervous about leaving my number. What if he can track me down? What if he finds out who I am?

“This is . . . Jo, I’m calling regarding Devonte Saunders. Can you please call me back?”

Something about the urgency in the parole officer’s voice makes me uneasy. Something isn’t adding up.

I fire up the laptop, putting his name in the search bar. Same things I found before come up. His hip-hop business dealings. His scam charges and subsequent prison sentences. But I keep digging, googling more. What did I miss?

I think of the detective and try both of their names in a newspaper archive site. Andy Gates + Devonte Saunders.

And there it is. A small article from over twenty years ago makes my heart plummet. Location and timeline works out with what I know about him. It makes sense why I couldn’t find it before. He changed his name.

David Saunders . . . suspect in the murder of a nineteen-year-old college student.



* * *




I sprint out of the dorm, full speed toward the Communications building. Her class starts in ten minutes. I only need five minutes.

I spot Loren walking through the outdoor basketball courts, a shortcut some students use to avoid walking up the hill. Even from a distance, I can see that she’s frail, wobbly. I fly right in front of her, out of breath.