“Now”—Richmond turns back to me—“do you feel ready to tell me what happened?”
No, but I nod anyway.
“I’m going to record you,” she warns, pulling out a digital recorder from a pouch on her belt and setting it on the hood of her car. I know I could kick up a fuss about a lawyer right now, but I don’t have the energy.
I take a long breath. “Ava asked me to meet her here.”
Richmond crosses her arms over her chest and stares at the ground, her brow furrowed in concentration as I tell the story. The phone call, the gunshots, the alley. Wes Grays, or whatever Ava tried to say. Each horrifying image flashes through my mind again, but I don’t let myself really see any of them. My voice is flat and even.
When I finish, Richmond stops recording. She busies herself shoving all of my stuff back into my bag.
“Thank you for your statement,” she says, holding my backpack out to me. “I am very sorry about your friend.”
That unbearable practiced sympathy is back. Part of me wants to lose it. Scream and sob. See how she reacts to that, how well she could stick to her script.
I swallow. “Do you guys have anything yet?” The question is more a reflex than anything. The familiar urge is there to get up, look around, ask questions, but the feeling is distant, like an echo from the depths of a dark pit. I’m trying to climb out of it, but I’m weak, and my arms hurt, and Ava is dead.
“That’s none of your concern.” Richmond won’t meet my eyes. She’s trying to treat me like any other bystander, following protocol to the letter.
I sit up straight, some of the numb fog gone. “It is my concern. I found her.”
She snaps, “Flora, do you realize what’s happening right now? You were found at the scene of the murder. The killer has mysteriously vanished. This is the second time you’ve conveniently been the first one to find a dead body, and you knew both girls personally. You get how that looks, right?”
“You know I didn’t do this. You know who killed Lucy.” Tears prick at my eyes again, but I grit my teeth against them. Guilt flashes across Richmond’s face, and it only makes me feel smaller, more childish. I hate her for it.
She tries to regain her professional demeanor. “This is a sad thing that happened, Flora. I’m sorry that you have to go through it again, but I need you to understand that I’m not going to tolerate any interference this time around.”
I know what Richmond thinks of me. I’m just some privileged, unbalanced kid without enough discipline in her life, inserting herself into places she doesn’t belong.
I look away. My eyes land on the puddle of vomit again.
Richmond isn’t done. “You have an arrest record. Now, your grandfather might be powerful enough to have that expunged when you turn eighteen, but get in my way this time and not even he’ll be able to help you. Do you understand me?”
I nod. I can make out a kernel of corn in the puddle. Tacos. We had tacos for dinner tonight.
Richmond inhales, collecting herself. She takes a long, pitying look at me huddled on the sidewalk, space blanket still clutched around my shoulders.
“By the way.” She hesitates, as if deciding whether or not she wants to say it. “Patrol officers picked up Greg Garcy a few hours ago. He’s going to jail.”
Garcy. The tip I called in earlier. The flyer. Ava running a finger along its edge. Already that feels like years ago. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
Richmond shrugs awkwardly. “Thought you’d want to know. Your grandfather will be here soon.” She departs.
The patrol officers walk back toward their car. They’re not needed anymore. They don’t bother trying to keep their voices down as they load back up.
“The Calhoun girl found her? Gotta be the unluckiest kid in the world.”
I swallow. My tongue is still sour with vomit.
“I don’t know, man. Have you met that girl? I could see her going all psycho killer, easy.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s just cursed.”
The doors of the patrol car slam behind them.
I am cursed, only not like they think. First Lucy, now Ava. Twice I’ve seen up close what the world is capable of. What it can do to people. Trouble is, no one else has seen the same thing. I get to walk around knowing it all by myself.
A car pulls up. My car. My grandfather gets out. His eyes find mine, and the fear and then relief in his expression are so powerful that shame slices through me. He woke up to a call from the police, and I wasn’t in my bed. Again.
Two and a half years ago, I was arrested in the middle of the night. When they led me out of the holding cell, he was the one waiting for me. I was surprised. I had thought Mom would come. That was the last time I was ever surprised when she didn’t show up.
But Gramps always comes for me.
He talks to Richmond at the mouth of the alley, and she looks increasingly pissed. Their conversation ends, and he approaches. Red and blue lights play across his face. He’s wearing a suit, even though it’s the middle of the night. No one but me would notice that the knot in his tie is slightly looser than normal.
“Flora, I thought—” His voice shakes. I blink and look away. He places a hand on my cheek, like he’s checking to make sure I’m really here. His palm is warm and dry.
His arm falls to his side. “You’re free to leave. They will follow up with more questions if necessary.”
“Thank you.” I suck the tears back in. “For coming. For…” I lose my words.
My grandfather nods with grave understanding. “Let’s go home.”
I leave a streak of blood on the car door when I close it behind me. So much blood all over me. Under my fingernails. These clothes will have to be thrown out—there’s no saving them. I feel a smear of it drying on my cheek, left over from when I tried to wipe away the tears.
Inside the car, the sounds, feelings, and smells of the outside world are deadened. The smooth, chiming click of the turn signal is surreal after the horror and violence of the alleyway.
The silence between us stretches on. We say nothing as we retrieve my bike from where I left it a few blocks over. We’re quiet as the streetlights and buildings give way to the dark, wooded streets of Hartsdale.
We’re nearly home before he speaks. “I know that on occasion you leave the house without my knowledge.”
I pick at the dried blood under my nails.
When I was three, my heroin addict dad left my mom. She was pregnant with Olive, and so depressed that she could barely get out of bed for months. Then she was busy with the new baby.
My grandfather raised me. He fed me and tucked me in and took me to the park on weekends to people watch. He taught me how to look at a person and read all their secrets. Olive was always Mom’s kid. I belonged to Gramps.
She applied for an artist residency in Berlin the same week I was arrested. The same week she didn’t come to the police station in the middle of the night.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I tell my window. “I didn’t think—”
“I know,” he stops me. “I know. You do not need—” He pauses to collect himself. Finally: “All I ask is that next time you leave a note.”
I look at him now. His eyes leave the road and find my face.