“She just said a friend,” says Pratima, reaching for a tissue from the box on the table.
“A male’s jacket?” I ask.
“I would say it was definitely a guy’s jacket,” Pratima says. “It was too big for Leena, and she isn’t—wasn’t—a petite girl. She was always dieting, trying to be smaller. She . . . she’d lost some weight, and she was so proud . . .” Tears pour afresh down Pratima’s cheeks. She swipes at them with the tissue.
“Did Leena have a boyfriend?” I ask.
“No,” Jaswinder says immediately. Firmly.
My gaze ticks to his. “Any boys she was interested in, perhaps?”
“No.”
I nod. “We found some journal pages in the water near Leena, and a small address book that was inside the left thigh pocket of Leena’s cargo pants.” I place more photos on the table, showing the wet pages and the address book, both open and closed. The address book is slim, and it has a pale-blue plastic cover. “This book was wet, like the journal pages, but the lab is working on drying it all out so that we can preserve the contents and ink as much as possible.”
Her mother leans forward and picks up the photo of the wet journal pages. “That’s Leena’s writing. Yes.” She passes the image to her husband and reaches for the photo of the address book.
“This is not Leena’s. I’ve never seen this book.”
“Are you certain?” asks Luke.
She nods.
“Any idea who it might belong to, then?” I ask.
A strange look enters Pratima’s eyes. She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No.”
“It contains phone numbers of some of the kids in Leena’s grade,” I offer.
“It’s not hers.”
I regard Pratima for a moment. She’s holding something back. I glance at Jaswinder. His gaze is locked on me. Beneath their grief, I sense another kind of mounting tension. It prickles my curiosity.
I say, “You’ve already identified the key that was found in her backpack. Her wallet. And the Nike sneakers. Have you come up with any ideas who the book of poems could belong to, or what the initials A. C. might stand for?”
“No,” Jaswinder says. “But Leena borrowed books. She was doing a higher grade in English literary studies. She was seeing a tutor. He sometimes loaned her books. And so did some of the other teachers at school.”
“And her cousin, Darsh,” says Pratima. “He lends Leena books.”
“Not poetry books,” says Jaswinder. “Darsh doesn’t read poetry. He reads popular novels.”
“Darsh also gave Leena those Nike sneakers,” says Pratima. Her lip quivers. “She . . . Leena wanted them so badly, but they’re expensive, you know? And he surprised her with them for her birthday.”
“Darsh and Leena were close?” asks Luke.
Pratima nods, her eyes filling with tears again. “He was good to her. Very good. Leena . . . struggled with friends. Darsh was always there for her. When she ran away last year, she went to him. He gave her a place to stay for a few days. He told us behind her back that she was safe, so we let her be for a little while, and then she came home again.”
A memory fills my mind. Leena sitting hunched over and alone on the bleachers in the school gym, eating from a bag of potato chips while the other girls on the team finished their basketball drills. I’d arrived early to pick up Maddy. As I climbed the bleachers to sit and wait beside Leena, a group of kids passed below the bleachers on their way to the locker room. They were discussing Leena, loudly enough for Leena to hear their words.
“If she hadn’t tried to block me like that, she wouldn’t have fallen and twisted her ankle. It’s her own damn fault . . . I don’t even know why she’s on the team.”
“Maybe Coach feels sorry for her.”
“Boo-hoo. Maybe she should try bhangra dancing.”
Laughter.
“She’d break both ankles, she’s so freaking big and clumsy.”
“Just watch her father go and blame me for blocking her.”
“He’s a freaking bus driver—what’s a bus driver going to do? Sue me?”
“Hey, he’s scary. Have you seen his eyes? I bet he has one of those curved knives to go with his turban . . .”
Snickers and giggles follow the girls out of the gymnasium door. The door swings slowly shut.
I glance at Leena, my blood pounding. She munches sullenly on her chips, looking directly at the basketball court, as if she’s oblivious. But she has to have heard.
“You okay, Leena?”
She nods without looking at me.
I notice a dark bruise around her wrist, and another along her forearm. “Did you fall?”
She flicks a glance at me, surprised. “I . . . just tripped and hurt my ankle. It’s not bad. Coach told me to sit out.”
“What about those bruises? Did you get those from doing drills as well?”
“I slipped on ice on our stairs the other day.”
A person didn’t get bruises like the circle around her wrist from falling on ice. I’d opened my mouth to question her further when Maddy came running over to the bleachers, her sneakers squeaking on the gym floor. She was all bouncy ponytail, pink cheeks, and smiles, and begging me to hurry so we could get to the library downtown before it closed for the evening. She had a project due the following morning.
I’d forgotten about that day in the gym. About Leena on the bleachers eating her chips. Until now. Until sitting in this modest, neat home. With her broken parents. And I regret deeply that I never followed up, reported the racial slurs, the bullying words. This kind of thing would isolate a young teen, make her vulnerable. And possibly lead her to move alone in her world, without a support group. It could be why Leena was solo on the bridge. And suddenly I realize I was wrong. What happened to Leena was less likely to happen to a girl like Maddy who moved in a pack of close friends.
I rub my mouth. “Do . . . you have any idea where the rest of Leena’s journal might be?”
“No.” Pratima’s voice breaks again. “Leena was always writing. She wanted a job as a writer when she left school. She wanted to travel. Maybe even become a foreign correspondent. You can look in her room again.”
“Thank you, we’d like to do that.” I hesitate, feeling the heat of Luke’s scrutiny. He’s waiting for me to finish showing the photographs. I take a deep breath. “We . . . also found this.” I place the picture of the Celtic locket on the table. “It was tangled in Leena’s hair. The chain was broken.”
They both stare at the image. Jaswinder slowly shakes his head. “I have not seen her wear that.”
I turn to Pratima. She looks almost afraid. “I . . . I haven’t seen that before.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not hers.” Pratima shifts and angles her knees away from her husband. She glances downward.
“Possibly you just didn’t notice it, under her clothes?” I prompt.
Silence.
Pratima rubs her thigh, her gaze still downcast. I make a mental note to circle back to this, but Luke leans forward before I can move on. He taps his finger firmly on the image of the locket.