The St. Ambrose School for Girls(97)

I shrug in the way Francesca did with me in the toilet stall, relaxed, one shoulder only. “When it came to what Greta did to me, I guess I was just resigned. She liked to pick on people and I was her flavor of the semester. What could I do? You just have to take it and keep going.” And then I tack on, “Besides, it isn’t the first time I’ve been singled out for this kind of stuff.”

“Here at Ambrose?”

“No. At my old schools.”

Detective Bruno glances around the room like he’s only now taking note of the arrangement of its furniture and whatever else is in it. Which is a lie. I’ll bet the pair of them have been through my and Strots’s things with a fine-tooth comb.

“You and your roommate are close, right?” he says.

“Not particularly.” I allow honest sadness to creep into my voice. “But I wish I were more like her. Where is she?”

The detective’s face shifts subtly. “Your roommate overpowered Miss Stanhope fairly easily, didn’t she? In the phone room, I mean. Miss Strotsberry is an athlete. She’s very strong.”

“Where is Strots now?” I repeat.

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Ellen’s rich, you know.” I use her proper name because he doesn’t deserve her intimate one. “Her father can get her a very good lawyer—which she does not need because she didn’t hurt Greta down at the river.”

“We’re aware of Miss Strotsberry’s family connections.”

Given the way the uniformed cop’s lips thin, I get the impression that those connections are already doing what they need to do.

“She did not kill Greta,” I say. “She may have pushed her in the phone room, but she did not kill her.”

“I never said she did, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to.”

The detective smiles at me, but there’s a don’t-get-ahead-of-yourself-kid chill in his eyes. “Miss Strotsberry did not just push Miss Stanhope. She tried to choke her.”

I have a quick image of Keisha hauling Strots off our enemy. “Sometimes people snap.”

“Do they? Tell me more.”

“But they come to their senses. A moment of frustration doesn’t lead to murder.”

Now he’s smiling at me in a condescending way. “So you and your roommate were here all night—”

“Greta can get pushy, too.”

“What makes you say that?”

“On Mountain Day, Francesca—who’s one of her best friends—and Greta were arguing. Later, Francesca had bruises on her face and her knees.”

“Did you see Greta assault her?”

“They were on the fringes of the picnic. They were definitely arguing, and the next time I saw them, Francesca had a black eye. You should ask her about it.”

“But you didn’t witness any physical altercation between the two.”

“Greta had grass stains on her skirt afterward. And a scrape on the side of her leg, too. She came back out of the tree line first.”

This is a flat-out lie. I don’t remember seeing either one of them emerge, but I figure the detail makes it seem like Greta’s tough.

“You should talk to Francesca,” I reinforce.

Sure, I’m selling the girl down the river a little. But as mad as she might have been at the park, and as much as Greta clearly pissed her off sometimes, I don’t think she’s capable of murder. Besides, she did copy my essay and put it in those boxes. Some payback is allowed on my side, right?

“Do you have any sense of what the two girls might have been arguing about?” Bruno asks.

I am losing threads even as I continue to weave, details slipping from my grasp. “Greta left her and Stacia in the rain once. Maybe that was it.”

“Left them how?”

Now I’m stuck in what is a trivial detail, all things considered. “She got into a car and left them to walk home from town in the rain.”

“When was this? And whose car was it?”

I hesitate because I’m not sure how much the school’s told him. “It was earlier in the semester. Before Mountain Day. And it was our RA’s car—Nick Hollis.”

“He’s the one who lives in the apartment just down the hall? With his wife?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you saw Greta get into a car with him?”

I nod. “I went into town, to CVS, to buy some things. You know, just regular stuff.” Not aspirin and Orange Crush, for example. And no, I’m not bringing up the bleached clothes. “It was raining when I came out of the store. Greta and Francesca and Stacia were walking together ahead of me. They’d come out of the record place. They’d bought CDs.”

“And then what.” When I don’t immediately answer, he prompts me with, “What happened then?”

As I look down at my hands, I wonder if keeping quiet will make my diversion seem more significant.

There’s a creak and I glance back up. He’s closing the door. “Just for privacy. I’m not keeping you here. And whatever you’re struggling with, it’s best just to be honest.”

I nod and look at my hands again. The right one, the one I threw out to keep myself from falling over at the fence line, is dirty. I rub it on my thigh. Not much transfers.