“No.” I wasn’t thinking. I never say no to Dad, not like that. It’s always couched in soft language, like what about or I’ve been thinking. I realized my mistake as I saw his face turn red. But a rare anger swelled in me. Some things he can decide as my father. But not my life. Not my future. “I don’t want to be a police officer.”
“Then we’ll get you something else. The Christmas shop is always hiring, and in a few years we’re going to have a big boom. Lorne’s going to be the next ski town. Everyone’s saying it, and Greg Cross is building like it’s going to happen yesterday. The tourists will want their fancy coffees, and their fancy cafés, and their private security. You’ll have plenty of opportunities here.”
They weren’t the opportunities I wanted. But I didn’t know how to say it.
Dad caught the look on my face. I expected him to scream or snap. But he put his spoon back in his cereal and his voice softened. “I need you here, Emma. I need you safe. You’re all I’ve got since your mother . . .” He stopped, swallowed, stared hard at his breakfast.
And then I realized why he didn’t scream. I was supposed to feel sorry for him. Poor Chief Baines, he spends so much time caring about his daughter when his evil wife abandoned him. What happens when he’s injured on the job? What happens when he’s old? Emma can’t abandon him, too.
Only Emma didn’t ask to be abandoned by her mom. Emma didn’t ask for security cameras through the whole house. Emma didn’t even ask to be born. The rage came back, and worse. “Really? You want me safe? Or do you just want me here? Controlled?”
Dad’s lip curled. “You’re not going to college. It’s a waste of time for people who think they’re better than everyone else. And while you live in my house, you follow my rules.”
“If I win the scholarship, you can’t stop me.”
“You don’t talk to me that way,” Dad barked.
“I’m not Mom,” I shouted. All the color drained from Dad’s face, like I’d sucker-punched him. My brain was stuck on a loop of shitshitshit and my whole body wanted to run. But I stood my ground. “I’m not going to leave and never come back. But that’s what this is about, right? Mom, me, women in general?”
“Get your coat,” he said. “You’re going to be late for school.”
The problem is, I am turning into Mom. I hate her, too, but all the same, I want to leave this place and never come back. And if Dad wanted to prove to me that he cared? About me, about women in Lorne, about futures?
He should’ve investigated Lizzy’s death like a murder.
12
Like Mother, Like Daughter
“Hi, Mom.” Claude’s voice is quiet, lacking the ragged-rough edge that she brings out for her classmates and teachers. She’s crouched against the end of a long line of lockers at the edge of a hall, squashed between gray-brown metal and yellow brick, bag tucked between her knees. She runs her finger along the spine of a textbook inside it.
“Is something wrong?” Mom says. In the background, Claude can hear the beginnings of a heated argument.
“I can call you back if you’re busy—”
“No. Don’t worry about that—” Mom turns away from the phone and Claude hears, in distinct but hushed tones, “Can you fuckers be quiet?” Her voice softens again as she comes back. “Okay, honey. What do you need?”
“It’s about Emma Baines. They’ve interviewed me twice and I know they don’t believe me—”
“Claude, calm down.” Mom’s voice is even. Claude takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. “Have they charged you with anything?”
“No, but they clearly think I had something to do with it.” Her fingers snag on the zipper, tugging it back and forth.
Mom’s voice is gentle. “We’re going to take this one thing at a time, okay, Claude?”
Claude sniffs. But the tears haven’t dropped yet. “’Kay.”
“Finish the school day. I know I don’t normally say this, but don’t push the status quo. Come right home and we’ll figure the whole mess out. And Claude?”
“Yeah?”
“If they detain you after school, don’t say anything. They can’t question you without your lawyer present.” Mom takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. They’re letting your reputation color their opinions. You didn’t do anything wrong last night.”
“No, I didn’t.” The bell rings and she flinches. Doors scrape open for passing period. “I gotta go. Love you.” Claude smiles at her mother’s reply before ending the call.
Passing period is filled with whispers. All day they’ve incubated, and now they’re coming up for air. Emma took pills. Emma cheated. Emma liked risks. Emma was on the verge of solving Lizzy Sayer’s murder. No one knows truth from lie, and no one cares. There is only one truth, the universal one—the dead girl is tragic. She can’t be anything else. Her story sucks at the town, pulls the vitality like endless matchstick-hot summer days without rain. It looms, larger than the mountains that surround Lorne. And everyone in the hall drinks up that story, spitting it back out with a new rumor attached.
It started snowing last period. Fat flakes fall past the windows at the top of the hall and the big glass wall at the end. Students pull sweaters from their lockers and curse Colorado’s weather gods. Then, with a last quip, they head for their final class of the day.
Claude carefully touches her finger to the space under her eyes, collecting her unshed tears so they don’t ruin the eyeliner she reapplied after lunch. She runs a hand through her short black hair, and when she picks up her bag, she’s back to her usual fuck you appearance—skinny jeans, leather Docs, chipped polychrome nail polish, bored expression.
A few people eye her as they pass, perhaps eager to see if Claude Vanderly is as collected as she was before her first interview this morning. Claude leans against the lockers, staring at the gray world outside and the snow that sticks to the windows.
One boy stares a little too long, so she turns her head. She looks him up and down, assessing his sharp chin, the way his hair brushes his jaw, his large eyes under a sweep of too-long eyelashes. He blushes and walks right into a door before realizing he probably should have opened it first.
The second bell rings. The halls are empty.
Claude pushes off the wall and begins to prowl. Her boots click on the floor, echoing in a hall that is suddenly silent. She leans around the corner, and there’s Emma’s locker.
In its sea of dirty-dishwater compatriots, her locker bursts with color. A bouquet of garish multicolored roses has been taped to the front. Cards surround it, spilling apologies, love, and remorse with the frenzy of unsaid prayer. Please don’t blame us.
The community that cares, now that their consciences are at stake.
A detective stands in front of Emma’s locker, spinning the combination lock. On the third try he swings it open—just as Principal Mendoza calls down the hall for him.
His shoes squeak like caught mice as he leaves without closing the locker. The police of Lorne truly are fools. But their inability is Claude’s good fortune. She steps out from behind the corner. As she does, two freshmen girls approach. One of them says something behind a curtain of loose blond hair. The other one giggles. They shush each other, like they’re sneaking out on a date.