Page 17 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Margo Angelhart

I left my house before six thirty in the morning, drove to Black Rock Coffee and turned into the miserably long drive-through lane.

I’d gone to bed late and woke early. I’d sent a spreadsheet of Elijah’s calls to Luisa to reverse identify.

He didn’t have many, which suggested he conversed primarily through apps or via text message.

I’d show the numbers to Angie when I found her since they likely had common friends.

It wasn’t just the investigation that had me tossing and turning; memories of Rick refused to stay buried.

As I waited in line, Josie texted me:

Clark was stabbed with a letter opener that appears to be part of her personal desk set, it was left at the crime scene. Three deep jabs. Body found by teacher Parsons. Autopsy this afternoon.

Brutal and personal , I thought. Lena Clark was petite and could easily be overpowered by someone taller and stronger—man or woman.

Who stood there and let themselves be stabbed without fighting back?

Someone who knew and trusted their killer, that’s who.

But even if you knew your killer, wouldn’t you try to get away or scream for help?

I rolled my Jeep up a car length, then braked and texted.

Can you get me more deets? Where exactly in her office? Do the police have a suspect? Surveillance? Please and thank you!

I checked in with Theo—so far, no Angie—but he had a good view of the most logical exit from her end of the complex. I hoped Lena was right and Angie would call me, but she hadn’t called last night so I wasn’t holding my breath.

One drug overdose off campus and one homicide on campus, less than two weeks apart. Would the police think they were connected? I doubted they’d make that assumption, but I did.

I still couldn’t reconcile how Elijah ended up at Mountain View Park more than two miles from his home. My guess was a friend with a car. Which meant someone likely knew he was dead before his body was found.

Speculating with minimal information wouldn’t give me insight. I needed to talk to Angie.

After getting iced coffee, I drove by the school to see if it was open; it was.

There were two police cars parked outside the administration building, and an officer stood by the main door.

Cars were parked in the employee lot, and at least two dozen cars were already in the student lot. The flag had been lowered to half-mast.

As I passed the school, Theo called.

“Yep.”

“Your girl is leaving the building.”

“Heading?”

“Hmm... She just crossed Nineteenth heading east down Butler.”

“That’s the back way to the school. Thanks, I’m not far.” I made a U-turn at the next light, then turned right into the neighborhood and drove down to Butler. She’d pass me in a few minutes.

“That’s it? You got me up early to sit on the street for an hour?”

“Call Tess and see if she needs help with research.”

“Aw, man, that’s boring shit.”

“You want to be paid for more than an hour’s work, call Tess. Or you can call my mom and see what she needs.”

“I’ll call your sister,” he said and hung up.

I grinned. Theo was terrified of my mother. He towered over her even when she wore heels (which was always), but he once told me when she looked at him, he wanted to confess to crimes he hadn’t committed.

My mom was intimidating and almost always knew if someone was lying. It could be unnerving.

Angie walked on the opposite sidewalk heading in my direction.

She was alone, her head up, her shoulders curved in.

She was about my height with dark hair that had once been dyed pink—she had three inches of roots and the rest of her hair was a faded pinkish-beige color that was pulled back into a sloppy bun.

She wore torn jeans and a retro black Pink Floyd shirt.

I’d seen the thin shirts—made to look old and faded—selling for fifty bucks in the mall.

If I wanted to wear Pink Floyd or any other classic band, all I had to do was rummage through my dad’s closet.

I waited until Angie was directly across from where I had parked, then I got out of my Jeep and crossed the street. I didn’t want to scare her by following in my vehicle.

“Angie, hold up,” I said.

She stopped walking and looked at me with narrowed eyes. Her gaze darted around, either looking for help or a place to run.

“I’m Margo Angelhart,” I said when I was ten feet from her. “Lena Clark said you wanted to talk to me.”

“She’s dead.” The words came out quickly. “Last night. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“I heard,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you, then I’ll take you to school.”

She looked skeptical.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to get into a car with a stranger. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“I’m not getting in your car.”

I didn’t blame her. I’d go to Orozco’s, but that was too far to walk from here. “There’s a bakery on the corner of Dunlap and Fifteenth, know it?”

She nodded. It was only a few blocks away.

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Why are you doing this?”

I assessed her. Teens had an uncanny way of knowing when adults were lying, so I was straightforward.

“You were at Elijah’s funeral, right?”

She nodded.

“Father Rafe—the priest who presided over the funeral Mass—is my uncle. He brought Elijah’s mom to my office and asked if I could find out what happened leading up to his death. I agreed.”

“Why?”

“Why did I agree to help?”

“I know she doesn’t have money to pay you.” It was like an accusation, as if I had some nefarious motive.

“I have clients who pay. That gives me flexibility to work for those who can’t.”

“You didn’t even know him.”

Lena was right. Angie had a lot of anger.

“True,” I conceded, “but his mother deserves to know what happened to her son, don’t you agree?”

Angie stared, suspicious but curious at the same time.

“Meet me, or don’t. I’m going to find the truth with or without your help.”

I walked back to my Jeep, climbed in, and drove to the bakery. I ordered a couple of muffins and sat at one of the tiny tables along the window.

Ten minutes later I had just finished my muffin when Angie walked in. She took her backpack off, sat down across from me, and protectively put her bag in her lap.

I slid over the second muffin.

“Thanks,” she muttered and picked at it.

I’d already decided to talk to her like an adult. From what Lena had told me, Angie was no stranger to a tough life—her posture, attitude, and anger all confirmed that.

She was also loyal. Her steadfast belief in her friend hadn’t wavered. But I needed to test it, test her.

“You don’t think Elijah did drugs.”

“I know he didn’t. If you think it’s a possibility, I’m leaving.”

“He could have hid it from you. He could have been experimenting.”

“See? You’re just like everyone else, you want to believe the worst.”

Patience, Margo , I told myself. “I’m trying to figure out how he ended up in a park more than two miles from his house, dead of fentanyl poisoning. I want to know why you are positive he didn’t use drugs, why you have no doubts about Elijah.”

Angie put her chin up. “Lori—my mother,” she said mother as if it were a curse, “has done drugs most of my life. Her boyfriends are users and losers. Lori has a job, she gets by, hasn’t completely gone off the rails, but I know when people are addicts.

I can see it in their eyes, in the way they move, in what they say and do.

A lot of people ignore the signs, or don’t really watch what’s going on around them.

Elijah had a plan, goals, he thought about the future.

He loved his mom. Until recently, I’ve seen Elijah nearly every day for four years. He did not use drugs. Ever .”

A little bell went off in my head.

“Okay,” I said. “What happened recently? Did you have a falling out?”

“No, why?”

“You said until recently, you saw Elijah nearly every day. What happened?”

She looked confused, then just rolled her eyes. “He got a job in March, worked full-time over the summer. He was busy.”

She sounded defensive.

“And since school started?”

“What are you getting at?”

How did I say it without making her mad? “Well,” I said, “you and Elijah were good friends. But he was busy and you really didn’t see him much over the last few months. Maybe things changed.”

“Someone drugged him,” she insisted.

“We don’t know that.”

“ I do.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Angie.”

She bit her lip. “He was preoccupied, okay? I saw him in class and we talked and stuff, and after school we almost always studied in the library before he had to go to work. But...” she hesitated, then said “...lately, he’s been quiet.”

“Did he tell you anything specific? Trouble at work? With a friend? A bully? A teacher? Something going on at home, with family?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me, so I asked. He just said he had a lot on his mind and didn’t want to drag me into it.” She paused again, as if thinking about what to tell me.

“Be honest,” I said. “If you hold back, I can’t help.”

“I’m not. I just don’t know. Elijah was a really good guy.”

“Good guys sometimes make mistakes.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think him dying is his fault?”

“I didn’t say that.” Damn, this girl was jumpy. “Elijah was under a lot of pressure. I want to know everything about him. If he was preoccupied, why? Worried about his grades? College? Money?”

“He wanted to go to U of A and would most certainly get a full scholarship. Mrs. Clark—” She stopped, frowned.

“Anyway, she was really good at helping us with all the paperwork and stuff for scholarships and financial aid. It’s not like my mom would know what to do.

And his mom had a good job; he told me she changed jobs over the summer, that she liked it and it paid more.

He was competitive about grades, but why would he worry about school when he had straight A’s? ”

“You and I both know kids sometimes take stimulants to stay up all night to study for a test or write a paper.”

“So? That doesn’t kill anyone.”

“It’s a pattern.”