The St. Ambrose School for Girls(95)

Pranks, I think with despair. They were only pranks. It was just water in a shampoo bottle. Bleach on clothes. A falsified memo. A setup at a dance.

An essay copied and shared among school chums.

When the harrassment had been happening, it had seemed earth-shattering. But not compared to a body bag. Not compared to all the blood on those bright clothes. Not compared to a death stare focused on the brilliant blue sky of what may well be the last warm, sunny day of the year.

“Oh, God, please don’t be dead, Greta.”

For so many reasons, this is the very last thing I’d ever think would come out of my mouth. And of course she’s dead. The girl’s makeup and hair were a fucking mess. If she were alive, she would never have let herself be seen like that.

Besides, what the hell do I think the body bag is for? If there was even a chance of life, they would have brought a stretcher and medics.

I wrap my arms around myself and moan.

And this is when it dawns on me that things are so much worse. Not only is she dead… clearly, she was murdered.

Fuck.





chapter TWENTY-NINE




The cops are waiting for me when I finally return to my dorm and go to my room. As I come up from the basement and emerge at the far end of my hall, I see one of the sport-coated ones standing in my doorway. I don’t think of running again. I’m out of energy, and unlike Strots, who has enough cash on hand for a month on the road, I only have the money I earned wiping down woodwork over Columbus Day weekend.

And it’s all in my desk.

As I walk toward the detective, he looks over at me. I expect him to rush forward and clamp cuffs on my scarred wrists like I’m a suspect. Instead, he purses his lips into a sad smile that makes me think he’s trying to disarm me with sympathy.

“Sarah Taylor?” he says when I get in range.

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse because of all the running I did to get away from the river. As well as all the tears I shed on the way back from that chain-link fence. “I’m Sarah.”

“Detective Bruno.”

First name or last name, I wonder as he puts out his palm to shake like I’m an adult or something.

“I’m sorry I ran.” I put my clammy, dirty, and soft palm against his warm, clean, hard one. He’s the one who shakes us, and I barely hang on for the up and down. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. This is your room, right?” When I nod, he says, “Come in and let’s have a chat.”

There’s another officer inside. He’s wearing a uniform and he looks me up and down like he’s taking my height, weight, and fingerprints with his eyes. I feel utterly profiled.

“I have to go to a dorm meeting tonight,” I tell them as I glance at the clock. “It’s mandatory.”

Like the police are going to give a shit about a dorm meeting?

“That’s okay.” Detective Bruno smiles again in that professionally compassionate way, making me wonder if he and Sandra Hollis went through the same facial training. “There’s no problem with that.”

“So I’m not under arrest or anything?”

“Not at all. We just want to make sure you’re okay. What you saw… is hard enough for grown-ups to handle.”

I search his face for clues as to what is really going on behind this you’re-just-a-kid platitude. But he’s really good at hiding tells. I can extrapolate absolutely nothing from his expression or where and how he focuses his eyes.

“Listen, can we just talk a little bit about last night?” he asks me. “About where you were and what you might remember?”

The door to my room is open and neither of them is blocking the way out. I’m glad. I may have to bolt again, even though I don’t have anything to hide.

At least… I’m thinking I don’t have anything to hide.

Instantly, I remember my visions of blood and of Greta in my morgue with her lipstick smudged.

Oh, God, I can’t remember taking that shower. Or lying down to go to sleep.

But that doesn’t make me a murderer. I mean, surely, I didn’t…

In a daze, I move past them and sit on my bed. As I tuck my boots under the springs and curl my fingers into my mattress, I try to think about what I need to say. I also make sure I have a clear exit.

“I was here all night.” I point to the crinkled towel on the back of my desk chair. “The only time I left my room was when I had a shower, and I fell asleep with that in my hair. I woke up at my normal time.”

Detective Bruno’s eyes narrow. “And what about your roommate.”

“Strots?” I ask.

“Where was she?”

I glance at the other officer, the uniformed one. He’s staring at the wall about two feet to the left of my head, like there’s a mirror hanging there and he’s checking out his own reflection.

I nod toward the other bed, and am so glad that the sheets are messy because for once, my roommate didn’t tidy everything up before she left.

“Strots was here. And in the morning, too.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure. Where else would she be?”

Other than maybe with Keisha because they were still talking things out. Can these men arrest them for being gay? I don’t think so. At least… I hope they can’t. And I’m glad I can protect my roommate. It makes up for my earlier cowardice a little.