All Eyes on Us, page 20
My mother sets her glass down on the island with a sharp clink. “Is that what you think, Amanda? That your father and I are not concerned for the safety and security of this family, above all else?”
If she loved me, she would wrap her arms around me tight. If she really cared, she would see how bad I’m shaking, and she would want to stop it, make it all better. She doesn’t move.
“Your father has been on the phone with Jackson several times since last night.” For a moment I can’t place the name, and then I remember he’s the lawyer we have on retainer. “He’s referred us to a very reputable PI, who we’ve hired, but with your phone locked up in evidence, I don’t know what good that’s going to do us now.”
“A private investigator?”
“Someone to handle this quietly. Without the police rifling through our personal lives. You seem to have forgotten that’s a priority. I told your Officer Lu that you were unstable, that this isn’t the first time you’ve dreamed up a stalker. I assured her you were receiving the best treatment possible, and that we’d be involving your doctor immediately. I was very apologetic, and I think I’ve managed to undo most of the damage you’ve done.”
“You told her what?” My mother’s words strike like a punch to the gut. Tears spring to my eyes as if I’ve been physically hit. It feels that bad. I think about all the little lies and deceptions she lives by so she can keep being Linda Kelly. So we can keep being the Logansville Kellys. Fraud alerts and new credit lines and the incessant push and pull with my dad and fantasy trips to Turks and Caicos we could never really afford. The endless alcoholic haze. The fact that we’re the only three people who know how deep our debt really runs.
It’s because of her—not me—that we’re on the verge of falling apart.
“Thank goodness I was able to think on my feet, and that she called me first, before involving the Shaws. I am acting in your best interests and the best interests of this entire family, and Carter’s. This is an especially difficult time for them. The last thing Krystal and Winston need is the police on their doorstep, digging around in their business affairs.”
I suck in a quick breath and wipe at my eyes. My hand comes away wet as my mind whirls back to dinner with Carter at Verde. I picture Mr. Gallagher carrying pizza out to his car. Carter said Carl and Winston hadn’t spoken for years. I try to picture Ben’s dad in his work boots and black jacket typing anonymous texts into his phone. No way.
“You’re right,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry. When I went to the station, I thought they’d have tracking software. Something they could use to identify the person who’s been texting me. I didn’t think they’d ask so many questions.”
My mother grimaces and picks up her glass. She drains it in one long slug. “That’s right, you didn’t think. Thankfully, after my damage control, the police have agreed not to pursue this line of inquiry any further, for the sake of your mental health.” She turns toward the sink, stumbling slightly against the counter. Once she’s straightened up and placed her glass down, she turns around to face me.
“Amanda, we are concerned for your safety, but as we discussed yesterday, this texter of yours is an opportunist. Someone who saw Carter’s name on the news and jumped to take responsibility for a car accident in the middle of a snowstorm, which thankfully wasn’t any worse than it was.”
I sink into my chair. I feel like a child. When she puts it that way, she sounds totally sane. And I sound like the delusional one.
“I assured Officer Lu that we’re doing everything in our power to look after your health and well-being,” she continues.
“Are they going to use the tracking software?”
“I don’t know, Amanda.” She sighs. “She didn’t go into detail. I couldn’t exactly tell her to pursue certain leads but not others.”
“And we can’t get the phone back? To have the PI do it?”
“I’m going to keep trying, but they’re refusing to release it.” She pauses for a moment. “I assume you did not have the foresight to erase your call record before turning it in.”
“Call record?”
“My call to the Beaufords on Monday night. And then Winston’s call while I was still on the line with Jacques. It doesn’t look right.”
I look at her blankly. “You were on the phone about the benefit. And then Winston called to tell us Carter was at Mercy. There’s nothing suspicious about that.”
My mother sighs. “Never mind. My work for the museum is private, that’s all. If you’d have just listened to me yesterday, our family would not be in this predicament.”
“I know.” My voice is small. I should have trusted my mother to begin with. Instead, I went and did exactly what she told me not to do. Now the police won’t bother us, but they won’t try to identify Private either. The cold dread from earlier spreads from my gut through my entire body. How could I have known she really was handling things? Hiring a PI never occurred to me. I screwed up, but she could have told me. She’s not entirely blameless here.
Suddenly, it hits me. There’s still a way out.
“I’m going to fix this. I promise.”
“No.” My mother’s voice is icy and thick with alcohol. “You’ve done enough. No more meddling. From this point forward, we work with Nathaniel. Everything goes through him. Clear?”
She doesn’t explain who Nathaniel is, or wait for an answer. She disappears into my dad’s office, then returns with a sticky note listing a phone number and email address for an N.Krausse@Krausseservices.com. He must be the PI. Fine, that’s exactly the kind of meddling I had in mind. If the police aren’t going to track down Private, I’ll get Rosalie’s phone to PI Krausse so he can do it.
I fold the sticky and slip it into my pocket. “We’re clear.”
My mother softens, face smoothing out into her usual composed mask. She returns to the sink and rinses out her glass, then reaches into the freezer for the vodka. That’s my cue to head upstairs.
When I get to my room, I reach for my phone, but then I remember. No phone. Instead, I open my laptop and compose a new email.
Subject: Need to meet
From: me
To: Rosalie Bell
Things have changed, we need to meet. Come to my place on Friday at 6, and bring your phone. Don’t delete anything from Private. Very important.
I assume you know where I live. House directly across from the Shaws’. Phone’s out of commission, so email me to confirm.
—AK
I hit send. There are seven days until Carter’s birthday. I have seven days to figure this out, and Rosalie is my last resort.
24
ROSALIE
THURSDAY, JANUARY 18
Paulina says she found a new spot, somewhere safe we can go. Auditions for the musical are this week, so the theater’s crawling with Greater Logansville’s triple threats after school, but the scene shop is empty. Pau and I both do the fall plays, and I’ll do the monologue contest in March, but musicals are definitely not my thing.
An empty scene shop, on the other hand, has promise. After school, I take the little staircase leading to the backstage area and walk toward the shop. The hallway is empty, but my stomach is still in knots. The clearing was far enough off school grounds to feel untouchable. Until it wasn’t. Here, the voices of the cast warming up bounce off the walls around me. I take in a deep breath and press through the scene shop door.
Pau’s perched on a stool, elbows resting on the worktable. The warm-up sounds are even louder, the cast’s combined voice rising to a slightly off-key pitch.
“They’re right there,” I whisper. “Are you sure no one’s going to come in?”
“No one’s ever here until we’re actually building sets. That’ll be weeks.” Pau smiles, and I relax a bit. I slip off my coat and drape it across the table. It is nice to be inside.
Pau reaches into her backpack. “I brought Smart Pop.”
For a few minutes, it feels like old times. Like everything is going to be fine. We tear into the bag and shovel handfuls of popcorn into our mouths. I dig into my backpack and produce a bag of Twizzlers.
“Amanda emailed me,” I say finally.
Pau’s eyes get wide. “When?”
“Last night. She wants to meet, tomorrow, at her house.”
“Can you get away?”
I nod. “I’ll say I’m going to see Carter again. My parents won’t question it.”
Paulina peels a Twizzler from the package and starts to nibble. “What do you think Princess Amanda wants?”
“Not sure, but something changed. Maybe she finally realized she’s not going to solve this on her own.”
Paulina’s face gets serious. “I have an idea.”
“Okay.”
“You should definitely talk to her, find out what she knows. But I think you should also do what Private’s asking. Get them off your back.”
“What?”
“Hear me out. You know the audio recording? What if you made a fake one? Ramon could pretend to be Carter. You’d ‘confess’ to him about us, and we’d tape it. We can do it on Tuesday; we’re going to an all-ages Latin Night in Logansville. You’ll come along, we’ll record in the car.” Her face is pleading, and it’s not just about making the tape. Come out with me, Rosalie. I want to say yes, screw it, I’m already on the verge of getting caught, but something is nagging at me, something aside from the usual reasons. . . .
“Then we’ll password-protect that shit,” Paulina is saying, “and send it off to Private. Think about it: Private gets what they want, and Carter wouldn’t tell anyone, because he’d never know.”
It clicks, and suddenly there are two different trains of thought fighting for control in my brain. The first goes: That would never work. Even if Private bought the recording, they’d figure out the truth soon enough.
The second says: I never told Pau about making a recording.
“How do you know about that?” I ask. “The audio?”
Pau’s face drops and my gut twists, hard.
“You told me?” she says, but it’s more of a question.
“I don’t think so.” My mind races back to our conversation on Tuesday night. Pau wouldn’t intentionally try to get me Extradited. Right? Her voice echoes in my ears. I swear to Pussy Riot and David Bowie and all that is holy that I will do everything in my power to make sure the FOC doesn’t get its hands on you. Even if it means kidnapping you until you turn eighteen. Extradition would mean no more FOC, because I’d just be out. Disowned. It would also mean no more Lily, no more family at all. In the wrong hands, the audio file would ensure that happened, and fast. But Pau would never make that decision for me. . . .
I glare, forcing her to meet my eyes.
“I looked through your phone,” she admits. “I’m sorry. You left your backpack on the table at lunch, and I looked. I’m worried about you. I had to see the messages for myself.”
“You could have asked. You need to trust me.”
“I’m sorry.”
I let her words hang in the air between us. I believe her, almost.
“Since you’ve read all my texts—”
“I said I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Fine. I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“Fine.”
“But since you’ve read them, there’s something else I’ve been thinking about.” I pull out my phone and open the conversation with Private. The latest string of texts came in last night. “Look at these.”
Just a friendly check-in, Sweetheart.
You’ve avoided Mercy long enough. Time to pay the patient a visit.
There’s no better birthday gift than the truth. Tick-Tock.
“Yeah?” Pau hands my phone back to me.
“How would Private know that Carter’s been asking me to visit? And that I haven’t gone.”
Paulina is quiet for a minute. She chews the left corner of her bottom lip. “Good guess?” she says finally. “Private found the clearing, and they showed up at your house. Those probably aren’t the only times they’ve been following you.”
I shiver. She has a point, but it’s not one I really want to think about.
“So if Private’s been watching you, they know you haven’t gone to the hospital. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that Carter’s asked you to visit. They made an educated guess.”
My voice drops to a whisper. “Do you think they’re watching us now?”
“No way.” Paulina reaches out and takes my hands in hers. “We’re safe here. But Lee-Lee, this person is not messing around. You know I don’t give ten shits about Carter Shaw, but someone put him in the hospital over this. Let me help you make the recording. Let’s end this.”
I swallow. The recording. Even if I thought it would work, which I don’t, I wouldn’t let Pau anywhere near that audio file. For the first time in the almost four years she’s been in my life, I’m not sure I can trust her.
She sees the panic on my face and squeezes my hands tighter. “Think about the future. In four and a half months, we’re going to graduate and move into our apartment. And then school will start, and our whole lives are ahead of us.” Her voice gets cold. “We’ll finally be free of your parents and the church. Don’t let some pervert jeopardize all that.”
Her eyes flash with something that looks like rage. When she kisses me, I have to make myself kiss her back.
I leave the scene shop first and walk toward the bus. Five minutes later, Pau climbs in and heads for the back row. All the way home, I think about how Private knew about Carter’s pleas to go see him in the hospital. Pau could be right; it could have been a smart guess. But I told Paulina about Carter’s texts on Tuesday. She’s the only person who knows that Carter’s been asking me to visit, and that I’ve been pushing him away. I follow her with my eyes as she gets off at her stop.
When she’s on the sidewalk, she turns around and waves. I give her a small smile in return, then wrap my arms around my stomach. It aches. I probably ate too much junk food, but it’s not just that. None of this feels right. When I get off the bus, I have to run to make it to the bushes in time. The panic pours out of me hot and sour along with the contents of my stomach and a flood of bitter bile.
25
AMANDA
FRIDAY, JANUARY 19
At school, Adele and Trina are all over me about a girls’ night out at this lounge where Trina knows the DJ. I play the boyfriend-in-the-hospital card, tell them I need a long soak in the tub and a Netflix binge, and by eighth they let it drop. I would love to go out with my friends, forget about everything, or spend the night pruning away with bubbles and streaming, but Friday has other plans in store. Rosalie’s coming over at six, and Trina and Adele can’t be anywhere in the vicinity when she rolls up. In the last week, everything has spun out of control. The pictures, the track, the hit-and-run, CVS, the police, my parents. The more that’s happened, the less I’ve wanted to share with my friends. It’s not that I don’t trust them; it’s more like I don’t trust anyone. Or the fact that any opening up I have done—to my mother, to Officer Lu—has blown up in my face. I never in a million years thought I’d say this, but the only person I can really trust right now is Rosalie Bell.
On my drive home from school, all I can see is Carter’s bandaged face in the hospital, how far away he felt when I finally broke down and drove to Mercy yesterday. The visit was strained, at best. First, he said he didn’t want company, then he snapped at me for not visiting since Monday. Adele, apparently, has been visiting faithfully every day with care packages and flowers. She even snuck in Five Guys on Wednesday after school. It’s all I can do to not roll my eyes at the mountain of magazines, snacks, and DVDs she’s stockpiled in his room.
After half an hour of sparse conversation, Carter admitted how bummed he is about lacrosse, about spending senior year on the bench. When he apologized for taking things out on me, he sounded really sincere. He sounded like himself. For a moment, things felt almost normal between us. Before I left, I found a nurse who told me they’re still monitoring Carter’s concussion, taking extra precautions at the Shaws’ request, and they expect he’ll be released early next week.
And then what? I can’t go back to the way things were. But when I think about life without Carter, there’s a big blank space where the future used to be.
The thought makes me panicky, but not as panicky as the thought of Private forcing me into a messy, public breakup. I touch my necklace and swallow. There are five days until Carter’s birthday, and Private does not get to dictate how this goes down. After what happened between my mother and Officer Lu, he is tripping if he thinks I’d do anything to embarrass myself, Carter, and both our families.
In a weird way, this isn’t even about Carter anymore. This is about taking Private down.
When I pull into the garage and head upstairs, the house is empty. The benefit is on Monday, and the last-minute arrangements require my mother’s full attention. She’ll be at the museum until seven, and then Dad will join her and the other board members and their spouses at Taviani’s. While they finalize plans for Monday, Rosalie and I will have the house to ourselves.
I grab some brie and grapes from the fridge while I wait. The new voice mail light is blinking yellow on the kitchen phone. I dial in and grab the notepad from its basket on the counter, prepared to take down yet another message from an arts patron needing to reach Linda Kelly stat.
But the message isn’t for my mother.
“This message is for Amanda Kelly. Amanda, this is Officer Cynthia Lu from the Logansville Police. I need you to come back into the station as soon as possible. Please bring one of your parents with you. I’m sure your mother told you that we spoke on the phone on Wednesday after you left. I need you to give a written statement to clarify what you told me. This is extremely important, Amanda. False reporting is a serious offense, not to mention a waste of police time.
