Torn. Part 4

"Second-string," Con muttered, scowling at the mantel.

"We're so glad you'll be at St. Brigid's, Mo, to help Con. She'll need a familiar face, to show her . . ." Mrs. Grey trailed off. No one pointed out the obvious-Verity was supposed to be giving her the tour and teaching her how to shorten the skirt on her uniform-but the knowledge smothered the conversation like a blanket.

"I can take care of myself." Con wrenched her hand away from her mother, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Constance," said Evangeline. "Don't be so hasty. You never know where help might come from, or when you'll require it."

"Whatever." She stalked out of the room, Mrs. Grey following anxiously behind. Uncle Billy stood aside to let them through.

"Poor mite," he said, shaking his head. He patted my arm and gave Evangeline a sorrowful smile. "My sympathies. Verity was such a special girl."

"Yes. She was."

"Will you be staying in town long?" he asked, interrogation disguised as small talk. My business, he always said, is everyone else's.

Evangeline tilted her head to the side, eyes bright and sharp like a bird's. "Until things here are settled. I've closed my shop in Louisiana indefinitely."

Uncle Billy nodded. "One of the benefits of being the boss, I've always said."

"Indeed." She held her coffee cup delicately in front of her and offered nothing more. The silence was punctuated by the clinking of silverware on plates and the indistinct voices of the Ladies' Guild in the kitchen as they sc.r.a.ped and rinsed the dishes.

Uncle Billy seemed content to stay by my side, which was unfortunate. I hadn't planned on making my move in front of him, but there didn't seem to be another way.

"Um . . . Evangeline? I left some stuff. In Verity's room. That night." Technically, this was not a lie. My bag, with my camera, my toothbrush and makeup, and most important, the essay I was writing for my NYU application, was still in Verity's room. "I kind of need it, before school starts. Would it be okay if I went up and got it?"

Hopefully she'd attribute my trembling hands and shaking voice to nerves, but Uncle Billy wasn't fooled. He tsk'd, so quiet I barely heard it, but let go of my arm and examined the candles on the mantel.

Evangeline pursed her lips, looking out the doorway Con and her mom had gone through and nodded once. "You know the way, yes?"

I'd climbed those stairs countless times. I could have done it blindfolded. Up the golden oak treads, my footsteps heavy even in black ballet flats. Past the portraits of Verity and Con as grinning babies, round-cheeked toddlers, gap-toothed little kids, and teenagers. Unlike the mantel full of school pictures at my house, there were no awkward preteen pictures of Verity, since she had skipped that phase completely. It would have been irritating if she wasn't my best friend. Actually, it still was, kind of.

There were pictures of Con, too, always the baby, tagging along behind. I remembered suddenly how we used to play Barbies with her, and the way Con never complained when we gave her the dolls with the bad haircuts and the weirdly bent legs. She'd just been happy Verity had let her join in. Now there would be no more pictures of Verity, and Con wasn't the little sister anymore.

I studied the family portraits, too, antic.i.p.ating the twinge of envy that always. .h.i.t me when I saw them. It was never enough to stop me in my tracks, and Verity never commented, but it was always there. A quick little twisting in my gut at the sight of them, cl.u.s.tered together year after year, a solid, smiling family. We didn't have those pictures at my house, either. Hard to take a good Christmas picture through the prison's security gla.s.s.

Outside Verity's room, I paused with my hand on the gla.s.s doork.n.o.b, palm slippery and breath shallow. Dread wasn't going to help me. Missing Verity wasn't going to help me. I needed information, and this was my best chance to get it. I opened the door and stepped inside.

The scent of Verity-lemon candles and fancy shampoo-hit me. I breathed as deeply as I could, squeezing my eyes shut. Already, she'd started to fade in my mind, but the smell brought her roaring back, and with her, millions of memories. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten so much, so quickly.

Carefully, I shut the door behind me and circled the room. Aqua blue walls, white furniture, chocolate duvet on the bed. It was the same cluttered, comfortable place we'd left that night. I set her wind chimes jangling against each other and stilled them with a touch.

Verity's desk was still jammed with stacks of magazines, mix CDs, sheet music with her scrawled notations, Playbills from shows we'd seen, an empty rectangle where her laptop had rested. The police had taken her computer. If her secrets were there, they were lost to me now.

But I knew Verity wouldn't have put anything worth hiding on her MacBook, not when Con could sneak in and find it. Her ability to guess pa.s.swords was beyond annoying-it was awe-inspiring. In ten years, she'd probably be running the NSA. Between her sister and my mom, it was amazing Verity and I had ever had any secrets. That's what I'd always believed, anyway.

Think. In a few minutes, someone would come looking for me, and my chance would be gone. I turned slowly, trying to see something out of place, something new, something from the summer. Something that didn't fit the patterns of the Verity I'd known. The girl who had died in that alley, I was beginning to realize, I didn't know at all.

Slumped on the window seat was my olive drab messenger bag. I rifled through it to make sure the police hadn't taken anything of mine by mistake, then slung it over my shoulder as I continued searching. Nothing stuck out, but everything in the room felt slightly altered, like it had shifted a few inches to the left since the last time I was here.

"Are you glad to be back?"

Verity shrugs. "Sure." She seems off. Uneasy.

"Did New Orleans totally suck?"

She shrugs again and rolls over on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Not totally."

"Hot guys?"

"I guess." She sits up, crossing her legs into the lotus position. "The architecture's amazing, Mo. A lot of it's trashed now, but the stuff in the Garden District is gorgeous. And the music is insanely good."

"Any beads?" I tease. "I've heard what you have to do to get those, you know."

She throws a pillow at me, laughing, and shifts, hanging upside down off the edge of the bed. Her hair fans out, bright gold against the dark duvet. She seems nervous, fidgety and distracted. Every time I ask what's wrong, she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

She stands and goes to the bookshelf, inspecting the snow globe she brought back.

"I really missed you," she says after a minute. She tips the globe upside down and rights it again. "It wasn't my idea, you know."

"Duh," I say. "I know. But who cares! You're home. Everything will be just like before."

Verity opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and looks away. "Right."

"Except that we're seniors. Best year ever, I'm telling you."

She doesn't answer for one long moment, just taps the snow globe gently and stares at it. "Let's go get some ice cream. I'm sweltering."

"You brought the heat back with you."

"Yeah," Verity says. "That must be it."

I looked at the shelf. There were snow globes from everywhere Verity had been-New York, San Francisco, Mexico, Minneapolis-and from all over Chicago, too. Wrigley Field, the Art Inst.i.tute, Navy Pier, the Shedd Aquarium. She had one from an apple orchard, another from our eighth-grade ski trip. She had one for every big musical she'd seen- Wicked and Legally Blonde and Phantom, just for starters. The neat lines of gla.s.s domes were so familiar, I hardly noticed them anymore. But the New Orleans one was missing. I peered closer and finally spotted it, shoved to the back. The bright yellow base and Mardi Gras scene were barely visible through the crowd of gla.s.s domes. Why had she pushed it out of sight? The newest globe always had the place of pride, the kitschier the better.

I reached in and pulled it free, careful to keep from clinking the others. Inside was a gaudy harlequin sitting on a treasure chest, leaning against a wrought-iron lamppost. Ugly snow globes were her specialty, but this one was even tackier than usual.

I turned it upside down, swirled it gently, and righted it again, waiting for the glittery flakes to fall.

They didn't. I squinted at it to make sure.

There was no snow.

The stairs creaked, and without stopping to think, I tucked the snow globe into my bag, nestling it in an old Wilco T-shirt. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up a picture of last year's Homecoming dance from the shelf below, trying to look like I was reminiscing.

Evangeline opened the door, looking like a very well-bred bouncer. Her remote blue gaze swept the room, finally settling on my bag.

"You found what you were looking for?" Her voice was steely under the honeyed drawl. Evangeline, I decided, was not someone to mess with.

"I think so." I set the picture down.

She moved toward me, and I took an involuntary step back. But all she did was brush the hair away from the cut on my temple. Without a word, she took my injured hand and studied it carefully.

"This looks to be healing nicely."

I wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h my hand back and hurtle down the stairs, but I forced myself to stay still, not wanting to seem guilty. "The doctor said it wasn't as bad as they first thought. She said it's lucky there wasn't nerve damage."

"Luck's a fickle thing," she said, folding my fingers over and releasing my hand. "You should be more careful."

"I'll remember that." The bag's strap dug into my good shoulder, and I shifted. "I should get going. I have to work tomorrow."

"Of course. I'll walk you out."

Careful not to let my bag strike the wall, I trailed down the familiar stairs for the last time, my heart careening in my chest, the scent of Verity's room receding with every step. But her secret was within reach-my fingertips itched with the certainty of it. Luc had said I needed to bring something to the table before he'd help me.

Time to pull up a chair.

CHAPTER 6.

Even though he'd been lumbering around like a badly dressed bear since Verity's death, Kowalski moved fast when he wanted to. Which is why, the next afternoon, I met my new lawyer at the police station.

I felt conspicuous sitting in the lobby, wearing Sunday clothes on a Wednesday afternoon-my mother's demand. She'd wanted to come with, but the diner was shorthanded again. Besides, the last thing I needed was her helicopter routine while I was looking at mug shots and pumping Kowalski for information.

I'd expected something grittier than the all-beige waiting area I'd been directed to. Beige plastic chairs, dinged-up beige walls, beige linoleum. Even the blinds covering the windows into the rest of the station were beige plastic. I wouldn't have thought crime-fighting was quite so drab. The air was slightly stale, the lights overhead buzzed, and people pa.s.sed by me with the briefest of glances. I kind of liked the anonymity.

Tracing a finger over the initials carved into the seat of the chair next to mine, I let my thoughts drift to Luc. Was he Verity's boyfriend? They would have looked great together, Verity all blond and bright, Luc so dark and smoldering. Unlike me, she would have held her own with him. She would have gotten more answers and fewer insults. No insults, actually. Still, I couldn't make myself believe she'd blown off our New York plan over a guy, even Luc. She wasn't that disloyal. Whatever had happened with them, whatever she'd gotten involved in . . . it was so bad she'd bailed on me. I seesawed between fear and hurt, but both made me queasy.

A woman-midfifties, maybe, with well-cut ash-blond hair; a square, shrewd face; and an expensive suit-strode into the waiting room. Spotting me, she headed over.

"Mo?"

I nodded and stood up awkwardly, hitching my bag over my shoulder. I'd left the snow globe at home, buried in my hamper. Bringing stolen property to a police station seemed beyond stupid, and since my mother only did laundry on Mondays, a pile of dirty clothes was the safest spot in the house. For once, my mother's ironclad routines were coming in handy.

"Elsa Stratton. We spoke yesterday." She shook my hand, her grip strong and her nails perfectly French manicured.

"It's nice to meet you," I said, lying through my teeth. She was completely terrifying, a pit bull in pinstripes and Chanel No. Five. I didn't know what she was charging Uncle Billy, but I already had the distinct impression she was worth it.

"You too. Let's sit for a moment. Has anyone spoken to you since you've arrived?"

"The officer at the desk said to wait here."

"Excellent. I don't antic.i.p.ate any surprises today. You'll look at some pictures and Kowalski will review the statement you gave at the hospital. If you're not sure about something, leave it to me." She flagged down a uniformed officer. "Tell Detective Kowalski his hour started five minutes ago."

The officer ducked through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, and Elsa turned to me. "Anything I should know before we go in there? Anything you forgot to mention on the phone?"

I shook my head. There was plenty I wasn't telling her, of course-the nightmares that woke me at two AM, Luc and his half answers, my own search for Verity's killers-but none of those things fell under the heading of stuff Elsa and my uncle should know. My grat.i.tude toward Uncle Billy for providing what was obviously some high-powered legal help wasn't enough to make me tell him everything.

Kowalski came through the door, looking tired and rumpled even though it was only one o'clock. Elsa would chew him up, I thought, which should have made me more confident. Instead I almost felt a pang of sympathy for the guy. He might be looking for Verity's killer in the wrong places, but at least he was looking. He clutched a coffee cup decorated with "World's Best Daddy" in fading blue ink in one hand, and a bulging file folder in the other. "Afternoon, Miz Stratton," he said, raising the cup in greeting. "Afternoon, Mo. Thanks for stopping by."

He held the door with his foot and ushered us through. At the end of the hallway was a room filled with desks and file cabinets and police officers, chatter and ringing phones drifting toward us, but Kowalski gestured to a side room instead.

We sat down at the Formica-topped table, Kowalski on one side, Elsa and I on the other. Elsa took out a fresh legal pad, set it on the desk, and met Kowalski's eyes coolly. Silence-the awkward kind-stretched out between the three of us.

"You're not a suspect," Kowalski said abruptly, shifting his gaze to me. He put the folder on the table and shoved some papers back into it. "You don't need a lawyer."

"Advise my client to dismiss counsel again, Detective, and I'll bring a lawsuit against the city, and you, that will take everything but your boxer shorts."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Strange, what struck me as funny these days.

Kowalski scowled at her, then refocused on me. "I've got some books of mug shots, Mo-guys who have a history of violent attacks. Can you look through them for me? Tell me if any of them look familiar?"

The laughter fled. When I answered, my voice sounded small and scratchy, even to me. "I didn't get a good look at them before I pa.s.sed out."

"Won't hurt to try, will it?"

"I guess not."

He slid the first book across the table to me, and I opened it, paging through slowly. None of the men pictured rang a bell, but even with my memory slowly returning, I still wasn't sure what I'd seen in the alley. I studied the faces-sullen, angry, vacant, every race, every size-but there was no spark of recognition, no flutter of fear, no flickering of memory.

I shook my head. "Sorry."

Kowalski pa.s.sed me another book. "Don't worry. We've got plenty more to go."

I continued to look at the pictures, wondering how I was going to get any information out of Kowalski, when he spoke again.

"Mo, did you see anything unusual happening in the last few weeks? Somebody new, not a student, hanging around your usual spots? Maybe more than one? Had Verity noticed anything?"

Maybe I wouldn't have to dig after all. "Verity was in Louisiana. If something unusual was happening, I wasn't there to see it."

"I meant here, in Chicago. Was anyone suspicious hanging around? Anyone you didn't recognize?"

"I told you. Everything was totally normal." Which is what I'd been telling him all along. Why wouldn't he listen?

"n.o.body new at the diner?"

"She's answered the question," Elsa cut in.

"No," I said through clenched teeth. My temper felt like a fraying rope, and I could imagine each thread snapping with a sharp ping. "n.o.body new."

"Did Verity hang out at the diner a lot?"

"She'd been gone all summer." He was asking all the same questions, like I might change my answer.