Bianca Torre Is Afraid of Everything, page 4
“I’m just saying, you look tired,” Kate says, watching me as I pour my drink. “Are you sure you aren’t sick?”
I try to casually take a sip. “Do I really look tired?”
“Full-on zombie.”
I can’t exactly explain that I couldn’t sleep because I was staring out the window and waiting for the police to arrive and feeling some kind of relief as an ambulance showed even though I knew they wouldn’t be able to do much. Plus, I didn’t want to sleep without making sure Anderson got my message. And it’s not exactly easy to get rest after witnessing a murder.
Maybe I saw it wrong.
Even if they did have a body bag zipped closed. My crime scene knowledge is completely from ancient episodes of Criminal Minds—what the hell do I know?
“Interesting,” I say, the condensation of the glass already dampening my grip.
“Zombie?” Mom says, breezing into the room in her flowy floral dress. “That’s no way to talk about your mother.” She shakes off her teasing smile. “But I couldn’t sleep at all. Police lights went straight into our bedroom window.”
If Mom is a zombie then I must be a half-rotted corpse. A fiery burp shoves up at the thought, and I swallow some more juice to force it down. Mom looks as put together as she normally does. Although I suppose she has a few more flyaway hairs than usual, and it seems like she already put on her makeup, so it’s possible the grayed skin around her eyes is covered, unlike mine.
I keep drinking to push down anything else that threatens to rise up.
“Police lights?” Kate asks. “Something happen?”
“It’s a good thing you’re not religious, Kate, because you’d sleep right through the second coming, I swear to God.” Mom puts her hand up, like she has to actually do it.
Kate rolls her eyes. “So, what happened?”
“Apparently someone died,” Mom says, holding her hand to her chest. “In a tragic way too. He was only in his thirties, can you imagine?”
Yes. Vividly.
Kate takes a seat but leans forward. “Oh. How tragic?”
Mom shakes her head. “Not many details were released, but they’re saying it was suicide.”
“What?” I snap, before I can stop myself.
Mom and Kate both turn to look at me and my face heats. I can’t exactly explain that I saw him killed, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to hear anything other than that.
“I know, dear. I wish I could have known someone so close to us needed help.” She wipes at her face, and I can’t tell if there’s an actual tear there or not. “Right before the holidays, too. They really need to take these things more seriously.”
“Are they sure?” I ask. “That it was suicide?”
Now Mom’s expression shifts a bit more toward worry for me. “I don’t think they’d say that if they weren’t sure.”
I quickly search for the news in the only way I know how, typing in some keywords on Twitter and pulling up the results by the latest tweets. Sure enough, I manage to find some reports matching the time and clearly listing the cause of death. It’s all with his real name: Steven Lebedev. It’s weird to think of him as anything more than Mr. Conspiracy. He went by Steven with Anderson, but we weren’t sure it was his real name, and Mr. Conspiracy always felt more fitting. Especially with how I saw him last.
But suicide?
Why would they assume that? Because the knife was in his hand?
I saw someone leave it there. It was murder.
Probably one of the most obviously murder ways to kill someone. How can they think Mr. Conspiracy did that to himself?
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Mom says. “And so close to home.”
“Yeah,” Kate adds. “That sucks.”
Neither of them can figure out what to say. It is awful and they never met Mr. Conspiracy. I hardly know him, but we had some connection—not that I could explain that to either Mom or Kate right now.
Oh, that thirtysomething grown man who offed himself across the street? Yeah, I feel terrible because he knew I was creeping on everyone and still decided to cheer me up with weekly bird drawings.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but his expression won’t clear from my mind.
The fear. The blood. The slice across his throat.
My breathing gets heavier as I place my hand over my neck, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin and cringing like I’ll suddenly split open.
I can’t do this. I can’t keep this to myself.
“Can someone take me to the police station?” I ask, voice shaky. “I think I saw something last night.”
Fear #22: People in Positions That Grossly Abuse Power
Which basically includes anyone in a position of power.
Especially ones that carry around guns.
At least I’m a minor, so Mom had to come into the room with me to talk to the detective. I’m not sure what I would do alone. Probably be unable to speak at all.
This detective is an old white guy with a scruffy beard and a beer belly. He looks like he’d be friends with my American-flag-toting neighbor. The kind of person who gets mad about gender-neutral bathrooms and content warnings.
I want to leave.
“So,” he says slowly. “You have some information you’d like to report?”
I mash my sweaty fingers together.
“Yes. Um, sir.”
He doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to continue. The moment that passes is too long as I try to formulate my thoughts.
“I’m an avid birdwatcher,” I say. “I use binoculars and stuff to look at birds out my window. I also like stargazing, so I have a telescope. I guess I really like to look at things outside from the in . . . side.”
It’s like I have two settings: barely able to utter two coherent words, or words falling out of my mouth in long chains.
“Great, why should I care?” the detective asks.
I gulp. Mom narrows her eyes.
“My teenage daughter is trying to assist in a case of yours,” she says. “Let her talk.”
It kind of bothers me that she says it like that. I can’t really put my finger on why, though. I almost wish she would’ve stayed silent, but Mom’s not like that. I keep my eyes down on my pants. The jeans I’m wearing suddenly feel too tight. I wish I had put on something else.
“Well, through my telescope, uh, I can see the apartment building across the street. Where the um . . . where there was a death last night.” I can’t look up to gauge his expression. It takes too much of my focus not to squeeze my eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to look, but the windows were open. I, I—uh, saw the body and called for help.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I also saw someone leave. A figure. They left from that apartment down the fire escape.”
I hear the detective shift in his seat. Maybe this was enough to intrigue him.
“Yeah? What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t really tell . . .” I say. “They had dark clothes and one of those pointy beak masks that, like, cosplayers use from the black plague, you know, uh . . .”
The detective leans back again. “So a plague doctor killed him, you’re saying.”
“Not, uh, not a plague doctor. But he had the mask, yeah.”
Sure, it’s a little weird. But his expression makes it seem like my statement is a complete waste of time. It’s not like strange things never happened in the valley before.
“I have a picture.” I pull out my phone and open to the series of photos, sliding it toward the detective. He scrolls through them, but it is clear from his expression that there’s not anything he can work with. “If you squint, you can kind of make out the beak,” I add weakly.
The detective sighs. “Look, kid. I believe that you called in the location, which was the right thing to do. You saw the body, it was messed up, shook you up. Of course it would. I didn’t like the sight of that, and I’ve seen a lot.” He shakes his head and holds up his hands. “So, in your shock, you think you see some villain, some way to make sense of it. It happens.”
I open my mouth and close it again. Sure, I haven’t faced a lot of shocks like this one, but I haven’t heard of hallucinating an entire person because of it. And that doesn’t explain Mr. Conspiracy’s weird behavior beforehand. It’s like he knew someone was coming and was trying to get help wherever he could.
And I failed him.
“No, no, I didn’t invent it, I saw them.”
Mom reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t explain the whole story to her, so for once, she’s probably at a loss for words.
His look is a weird mixture of pity and annoyance.
“Whether you saw him or not, it doesn’t matter. I’ll admit, I don’t see a lot of suicides like that, but there was a note, okay?” His hands fall back down onto his desk like that’s the end of it. “It explained everything. He was a lonely, messed-up guy. I’m sorry you saw what you did, but this is a real open-and-shut case.”
Mom leans forward. “You can at least look into—”
“No, Mom, it’s okay,” I say. My voice is hollow. “The detective is right. I was seeing things.”
She twists to me. “Bianca.”
“It’s fine.” I stand up from the chair and give the detective a nod without any eye contact. “Thanks for your time.”
I make a beeline for the office door and keep walking quickly until I’m out of the police station. Mom has no choice but to follow me back to the car.
“What was that?” she asks, finally getting ahold of my arm to pause me. “Do you truly believe there was someone else involved? I’ll go back in there and demand—”
“Mom.” My voice actually comes out forceful. I pull back a little. “It’s fine. There was a note. It . . . it was a lot to see.”
Her expression softens, and she pulls me into a tight hug. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I’m always available to talk if you need it. Or your father. I’m sure he’s seen everything in medical school, he probably has ways to deal with it.”
I nod. Dad is more like me, and not the most open about experiences and emotions, but I’m sure Mom will call him regardless of what I say, so maybe he can help.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, awkwardly trying to return the hug.
But despite everything, I know I’m right.
I know what I saw.
Mr. Conspiracy was definitely murdered.
Five
Asking for Help
I don’t leave my room for the rest of the day. I don’t even attempt to look at The Catcher in the Rye, even though I have the second half of the book left to read before class. It seems bad enough that I have to go to school tomorrow as if I didn’t have the worst possible weekend. I stay at the window, in front of my telescope, looking at the now drawn curtains of Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment.
What happened last night? Who was in the room with him?
Why would they kill him?
I can’t imagine Mr. Conspiracy doing anything to be added to someone’s hit list. He was the kind of guy to draw birds for a weird teenager across the street. Really detailed, good drawings too. And based solely on the glimpses of his apartment that I did get, it seems he didn’t get out much. He was probably the type of person who wouldn’t even use a computer for fear of being tracked.
At the very least, he definitely has his laptop camera covered like I do.
Fear #27: Being Watched through My Laptop Camera
Sure, it may also apply to my phone, but I have to try not to think about that one too much. I at least turn it facedown when changing—I hate seeing my naked body, no way in hell I’m subjecting my FBI agent or whatever to it.
I keep watching the window curtains of Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment like they will suddenly open.
What is Mr. Conspiracy hiding in there that would lead to his death?
I mean, it’s really none of my business.
The police determined it was a suicide, and that’s literally their job, so I should accept it. Maybe it was a suicide, and the person I saw didn’t actually exist. It’s not like I witness murders daily and know how it will affect me.
Help.
I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.
He knew I was watching. His only hope.
And I did nothing. I let him die.
My breathing grows faster again, a sickness nestling into the pit of my stomach. I don’t know a lot about Mr. Conspiracy, but he was a part of my life. And I was part of his. Don’t I owe it to him to figure out what really happened that led to his death?
Even though I know they won’t shift on their own, I take another look through the telescope at those curtains. Does he have any family or friends to go through his place? It didn’t seem like he had either, but maybe distant relatives? What are they going to do with his things?
Maybe he left a message for me. He was pointing to where he leaves the drawings. Was that his way of just saying he’s the one who did them?
No, he wouldn’t do that with his dying breath. He had to know he was in trouble. He was freaked out. He had the curtains open, so he wanted to tell me something.
But what?
Maybe he left something in his apartment. Something that I would notice that the murderer wouldn’t.
I back my face away. No. That’s absurd. I cannot break into a dead guy’s apartment.
Fear #16: Getting Caught Doing Something Bad
And that’s definitely criminal activity. I’m not bold enough for criminal activity. I’m a little weird and casually invade the privacy of others, sure—and okay, maybe that’s criminal. But criminal from the comfort of your own home is different. What kind of lesbian sheep could sneak into someone else’s apartment and dig around for clues? I’m no Nancy Drew. What would I be able to uncover that the actual investigators didn’t anyway?
Unless, like the bird drawings, only I would know the location.
The thought is a little out there, but what about this isn’t?
To distract myself from the unwanted internal dilemma, I look for anything interesting and nonmurderous in the other windows. Romeo is actually alone, it looks like, talking to someone on the phone. He has a huge smile on his face as he speaks, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
It’s kind of nice, even if I can’t hear what he’s saying.
He had to have gotten news someone in the apartment building died. I wonder if he knows it was right above him.
Today, Queen Elizabeth isn’t at her window, but the cats are. They’re both perched on the sill and watching the world outside.
A knock sounds on the other side of my open door.
“Come in,” I say, pulling away from my telescope.
Dad’s standing there. I already knew it was him, because neither Mom nor Kate are the type to wait after knocking. Or to knock at all. He looks tired, getting back from a long shift, but his eyes don’t droop. If I didn’t know him so well, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell how exhausted he is.
“Ciao, cara,” he says. “Come stai?”
His expression shows that he already basically knows the answer, so I don’t give it to him.
“Did Mom make you come talk to me?” I ask instead.
“Yes,” he says. “But I still want to know how you are.”
I’m assuming Mom told him the whole story in great theatrics. She probably portrayed me with a more dramatic reaction than I actually had.
I don’t really know how to start.
“Do you ever stop seeing it?” I ask.
Dad walks into my room to delicately sit at the edge of the bed. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself off the comforter as much as possible.
“Seeing what?”
I open my mouth a few times before I’m able to answer. “What people are like. When they’ve just died.”
“Nothing ever leaves you,” he says carefully. “But it gets easier.”
I nod. I’m not sure what to say to that.
“The good things in life, they’re not easy. Leaving my family back in Italy, marrying your mom, becoming a physician, having you and your sister.” He smiles. “It’s not easy, but I wouldn’t change anything.” Dad looks over at me, awkwardly standing by the window. “Helping people isn’t easy. But it’s something I feel I need to do.”
I swallow. “Even if nobody helps you?”
He gives a weak smile. “Especially then.”
In the small silence, my guilt rises. Mr. Conspiracy was alone. I could have been all he had, and I did nothing.
“Thanks,” I say.
Dad nods, standing slowly and heading back for the door. “You need anything, I’m here.” That’s like his version of “I love you.”
“Thanks,” I say again. “Me too.” That’s mine.
He gives a quick nod, kind of looking past me, and exits the room, closing the door to the point where only a sliver of light comes through.
How can I help Mr. Conspiracy? What can I do from my bedroom?
Then again, maybe I don’t have to do it completely alone.
I pull out my phone to shoot a quick text to Anderson.
Hey can we talk?
His response comes quickly.
Anderson: Sure B, is it about Mr. Conspiracy?
Yeah. How are you doing?
It takes a moment for his message to come through.
Anderson: I don’t know, it’s weird. Like we didn’t know him well but we still kind of did? Not really sure how to feel?
I get that
Anderson: Are YOU okay? You actually saw it
I bite my lip as I start trying to think of ways to compose this message. Maybe it isn’t something I should just text him about? He’s right, it is a strange situation, but actually talking about it could help. Especially because I can’t seem to let it go.
I’m okay, more or less the same. Can we talk more tomorrow? In person
If that’s okay
I rush to add the second message. It isn’t like we don’t hang out in person, but it is usually manga- or anime-related.
Anderson: Yeah ofc, just let me know
