Page 91

My phone rings, scaring me. I bring it up, see it's Jordan and inhale in relief. “Hello?”

“Hey, are you still at the hotel?” Jordan asks.

“No, I'm home.” Looking at the scene, I lower my voice. “Jordan … the police are here. They think—”

“Let me talk to them.”

Blinking, unsure what he'll tell them, I catch the eye of one of the cops. “Excuse me,” I say, holding out my phone. “It's Mr. Hartford. Dezmond's father. He wants to talk to you.”

Dezmond perks up, glaring at me suspiciously. I glare back, mouthing,Fuck you.

He drags his tongue over his lips but doesn't respond. Both of us watch as the cop talks to Jordan. I can't hear a word, but I note how intently the officer listens. Jordan is telling him something important.

The cop frowns severely. Hurrying to the side, he begins speaking with the others, leaving one officer to keep an eye on Dez. Finally, they return, and Brickle says, “Can we search your car, Dezmond?”

“What?” he asks, balking. “Why, what's going on?”

“Just checking something out. You can say no, but if you do, we'll get a warrant.”

“The fuck—what do you think I have? Drugs, a gun?” He snorts, shaking his head. “I'm the one that told you guys to come here! You think I'm dumb enough to invite cops when I've got illegal shit in my car? Search it, fine, then get these cuffs off me.”

The one officer with my phone keeps it against his ear. His lips aren't moving, yet he's still on the line with Jordan. Brickle and Evie walk to Dezmond's maroon sedan parked halfway on my front lawn, its rear in the street. Brickle enters the driver side, digs around. Within seconds the trunk is popped open.

Evie peers inside, freezes, waves Brickle over. Both are staring at something. Dez fidgets, picking up on the rising energy of the situation. Something is happening, and he can't see from inside the police car. But I can. Easing myself away from my mother, I stand on tiptoe to glimpse what's in the trunk.

Holy shit.

Mom stares at me, silently asking. I say, “It's a shovel. There's dirt everywhere.”

Dez trips over his feet from how quick he leaps out of the backseat, hitting the ground on his chest. “What the hell did you just say? A shovel?”

“Hey!” Brickle points. “Easy, Dezmond. This isn't the time to try anything crazy.”

“Crazy?” he laughs, voice breaking. He manages to rise to his knees on the asphalt before the cops lift him by his biceps, shoving him against the side of the cop car on his stomach. They push his cheek to the metal while he fights uselessly against them. “I'm not fucking crazy! I didn't put a shovel in there!”

“I said relax!”Brickle snaps. Shaking his head, he grabs my phone from the other cop, speaking into it. “Hello, Mr. Hartford? You might want to arrange to meet your son at the station.” He pauses, listening. His frown deepens. “Alright. I'll be right over with some guys. Stay put.”

Brickle stares directly at me as he gives me back my phone. Jordan is gone, the call is over, but the situation isn't. “What's going on? What did he say?” I ask.

“Nothing I can discuss.” His face softens mildly. “Why don't you take your mom inside, she looks shaken up.”

He's right, she's clearly upset. My attention zigzags between Dezmond’s yelling, my trembling mom, and the cops who are speaking into their radios. The crackling voices coming over the speakers say things like, “Copy, sending a coroner's van now,” and “Verify the address.”

Blue and red lights flash over my skin and in my mom's uneasy eyes. I give her a long look—I hope she remembers what I said before, about saying nothing.

I grab my purse from her car through the open window. Fishing for my keys, I brush a slip of paper. It's the note from Jordan. “Lori?” Mom calls behind me.

“Stay here,” I say, sprinting into the driveway. I'm in my car before someone realizes what I'm doing. I reverse through the caution tape, ignoring the shouts from the cops standing around. I'm not under arrest, they can't stop me. No one can get in my way as I drive away from my house. I'm not going as fast as the police that already left, I can't follow them, but I don't need to.

I know where they're going.

The road in front of Jordan's house is already blocked off. Rolling my window down, I stick my head out, but the sharp bend near the private property sign makes it impossible to see anything but flashing cop cars.

“Fuck it,” I hiss, putting the parking brake on to keep the car from rolling backwards. Shoving out the driver's side I race up the street. Police officers see me coming; they shout for me, waving to get my attention. I pretend I don't see them and keep running.

There are bushes along the side of the road—I jump into them to avoid one of the cops grabbing my arm. “Come back!” he shouts, “You can't go up there! This is a crime scene!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! A crime scene?