Nearly Gone (5 page)

Archimedes knew the play wasn’t really the thing.
Do the math and find me after the show.

I drew a wide blue circle around the ad with my lab marker, careful not to touch the print. I had no doubt the ad was written by the same person who wrote the Newton one. The tone and cadence felt so similar. Both read like a puzzle waiting to be solved. But what did it mean?

Someone grumbled behind me. I flipped the ad facedown on the desk and looked over my shoulder to see TJ fighting with his leg brace, looking exhausted. He was early today and I’d thought I was alone. Class didn’t start for another ten minutes.

He stretched forward, struggling to capture the bottom strap. It was unfastened and dangled just out of reach. The weariness on his face, that flat and colorless veneer—the one my mother painted over with makeup—reflected every loss he’d sustained. His father was gone, in prison since TJ was in middle school. His mother had killed herself shortly after. And now he was stuck living in Sunny View with his drunk uncle, maybe indefinitely, since he’d lost any shot at a football scholarship when he’d hurt his knee last season. We weren’t all that different really, and turning my back on him felt wrong.

“Do you need a hand with that?” The words were out before I realized I’d offered to touch him. I tucked my hands under my legs.

He noticed. “No, thanks anyway.” He gave a forceful heave, his face reddening as he grabbed the Velcro strap and secured it in place.

“I’ve been meaning to ask about Emily,” I said, guilty that I hadn’t at least tried to look helpful. “I hope she’s okay.”
“She’s okay,” he said, frowning as though it hurt to think about her. “She’s just freaked out. I’m going to see her after school. I’ll tell her you were asking about her.”
I stared at my fingers, rubbing at the dark smudges, curious about the glue that held Emily and TJ together. Emily was really all he had. She’d stayed—through his move from Belle Green to a trailer in Sunny View, through the breakdowns that followed, through the countless rejections when the last of the college scouts and recruiters stopped coming for him. For some reason I desperately wanted to understand, Emily had stayed, knowing a future with TJ might not be all she’d dreamed it would be.
A handful of students filtered in and I curled my fingers over the edge of the newspaper, studying their faces for the hundredth time this week. I was still trying to figure out who had left the dead cat on my doorstep and the graffiti on my desk. It had to be someone in one of Rankin’s chem classes— or someone who’d seen the Schrödinger assignment on the blackboard and knew where I sat—but that could be anyone. I looked over just as Oleksa Petrenko was sliding into his seat. He’d been absent the last three days and a not-so-small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t come back. Our stares held as he eased back in his chair, amusement clear in his eyes.
“Stop staring. He’s going to think you like him, and that’s just plain scary.” Anh dropped her backpack and settled in beside me. “And you’d better put those away before Rankin sees them.”
I looked down at the exposed corner of the
Missed Connections
and blushed. I squirreled them away, crossing my arms and staring straight at the blackboard before she could say another word.
She raised an eyebrow. “If you need a date—”
I opened a textbook, pretending to read it. “Don’t you have extra credit to do?”
“Fine. But if you
did
need a date,” she whispered. “Like maybe to the school play tonight? I could set you up with my brother.”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell her that was the dumbest idea she’d ever come up with and no freaking way I was going on a date with Bao. But the words stuck in my throat. I had that slippery feeling in my head again.
“What did you say?” I whispered, careful not to attract Rankin’s attention.
“I said my brother can take you to the play tonight if you need a date. We could double.”
The school play.
Hamlet
. It was tonight. I flashed back to my conversation with Marcia.
You know, the play’s the thing and all.
The play’s the thing.

Archimedes knew the play wasn’t really the thing.
Do the math and find me after the show.

What did it mean?
Rankin pounded away on the blackboard. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and whispered to Anh, “I’m not feeling well. Tell Rankin I went to the nurse.”
I was gone before he turned around.

I picked up the city bus at the corner of Route 1, got off as close as I could to the police department, and walked the remaining three blocks. I presented my school ID and signed the police log book, then fidgeted in my seat while I waited to be called, avoiding eye contact with the weary faces in the corridor. Each one eventually disappeared through the thick metal door. A phone rang over and over behind the Plexiglas window and I chewed my nail, waiting for someone—anyone—to pick it up. I’d never been in a police station, and being here made me twitchy, like I’d broken one of Mona’s rules.

“For chrissake, who the hell drank the last of the decaf and didn’t put on a fresh pot?” The office chatter died, and the booming voice became louder. “Where the hell are all my detectives? I don’t have time to be taking statements from snot-nosed kids. That’s what I hire all of you for!” The metal door buzzed and slammed open, and a scowling bear of a man filled the frame.

“Nearly Boswell? Come with me.”

I followed him into a sterile gray room with mirrored walls, a sturdy table, and two metal chairs—like the setting of every cop drama I’d ever seen on TV. I clutched my back 
pack, feeling smaller than usual under my oversized clothes. I wanted to tuck my knees up into my shirt like I did when I was in middle school. Mona used to get so pissed, saying I’d stretch my clothes all to hell. I’d hollered back that at least I was wearing clothes. No back talk wasn’t one of Mona’s rules, but being anywhere near a police station was.

Coming here was stupid. What was I going to say?
Hello, Officer. I think there may be a crazy stalker at my school.
My suspicions were literally paper-thin, based on two lines of text from a newspaper clipping. There was no quantifiable evidence to suggest my theory had anything to do with Emily at all, and it was probably just a dumb prank anyway.

The officer set a small bottle of water in front of me and sat down. He crossed one leg and locked his hands behind his head, the butt of a very large holstered gun casually revealing itself through the gap in his jacket. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Nicholson.

“So, Miss Boswell.” He snapped my ID down on the table. “I understand you are a junior at West River High School and you think you have information about an incident that occurred last weekend? Are you friends with Emily Reinnert?”

“No.” Jeremy was a friend. Anh was a friend. Emily was more of an acquaintance who I was forced to talk about algebra with.
Lieutenant Nicholson sighed and his eyebrows drew together. “Did you witness something you think is relevant to the incident?”
“No . . . I mean, yes . . . I mean possibly.” I shook my head. “What I mean is, I think I may have witnessed something, sort of.”
“Let me get this straight.” He glanced very deliberately at his watch and crossed his arms over his chest. “You
think
you
may
have witnessed something,
sort of
? What
exactly
do you
think
you
may
have witnessed?”
When I didn’t answer right away, his stare burrowed into me, like he was digging around in my head. The harsh fluorescent lighting accentuated the tight wrinkles around his mouth. It wouldn’t matter what I said next. He wasn’t going to believe me.
“I’m sorry to waste your time. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.” I stood up and started to sling my pack over my shoulder.
“Sit down, Miss Boswell.”
I looked between the lieutenant and the door. I was sure there was some law that said they couldn’t detain me if I hadn’t done anything wrong. Wasting the lieutenant’s time wasn’t a criminal offense.
“You know, I hate writing truancy reports. It gets messy. Too many people involved. Parents, teachers, principals . . . Whatever you have to say must be pretty important. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have skipped school to come and say it. So why don’t you just say what you came to say and let me be the judge of what’s a waste of my time.” He looked pointedly at my chair, making it clear he wasn’t giving me a choice. If I walked out of here now, my mother would get a phone call, and a truancy report would definitely blow my chance at the scholarship.
I dropped into my chair and laid the two
Missed Connections
ads side by side on the table.
“What is this?” The lieutenant turned them one by one, to face him. His expression didn’t change, but I sensed the slight shift in his posture as he drew the first ad toward him. The one about the colors.
“I know about what happened to Emily under the bleachers at North Hampton. I know about the blue and yellow paint.”
He pushed the ad back in line with the other one and looked at me, confusion written all over his face.
“I don’t think she’ll be the only one. I think these ads were written by the same person. This was in today’s paper.” I tapped the table above the second ad. “That part about the play not being the thing is a reference to
Hamlet
. It’s a play on words.” I slid the
Hamlet
flyer across the table. “Tonight is opening night. I know this sounds like a stretch, but I think something bad is going to happen tonight during the play.”
The lieutenant stared at me blankly. He didn’t look at the flyer. The only sound was the second hand on the wall clock over the door. I fidgeted in my seat and fought the urge to look at it, staring him straight in the eye until the first beads of sweat trickled down my back.
Lieutenant Nicholson drew the flyer toward him, his face as expressionless as the room. “Why did you come?”
I wondered the same thing. Why had I come? I wasn’t close to Emily. And I didn’t owe her any favors. I should have minded my own business. Too late now.
“Telling someone seemed like the right thing to do, that’s all.” I wiped my palms over my jeans.
The lieutenant watched me. “What makes you assume these ads are related?”
I shrugged, not having any plausible answer for that.
“Do you know the person who wrote these ads, Miss Boswell?”
“How would I know that?” I wiped my lip, uncomfortably aware that I was the only one sweating. The small interrogation room felt stuffy and hot.
“I don’t know. That’s a really good question. Maybe you should tell me.” He thought I was lying. “Who are you rolling over? An ex-boyfriend? What happened? He piss you off and now you’re going to air his dirty laundry?”
Of course that’s what he thought. What kind of person would report a crime before it happened? Unless they were somehow involved. Normal people don’t make a habit of studying the personal ads.
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair. His smile was supercilious, and it put me on the defensive. “I don’t have a boyfriend. And I have no idea who wrote the ads.”
“Then how can you assume they’re connected to Emily?”
“It’s not rocket science. Emily was found under the bleachers at North Hampton on the same day this ad came out.” I shoved the ad back toward him. “Our school colors are blue. North Hampton’s are yellow. You know . . . Newton? Isaac Newton?” The lieutenant either didn’t remember or hadn’t passed this particular class in high school. His face was impenetrable. “And then today’s ad about
Hamlet
 . . . it seemed too coincidental.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. This conversation was giving me a headache, and I hadn’t even touched him.
Lieutenant Nicholson stared a hole through me, as if the answer to some question was hidden inside my skull. “Do you make a habit of reading the newspaper cover to cover . . .” He paused to read my ID card. “Nearly, is it?” The corner of his lip turned up, like he was amused. Like I was a joke.
I crossed my legs, knees tight together, feeling exposed. “No.”
“Just the personals, then?” He cocked a silvering eyebrow.
“No.” I jammed my fists into the pockets of my hoodie.
“I thought all you kids were into the online dating thing. I thought only old farts like me still read the newspaper.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “Why were you reading the
Missed Connections,
Nearly?”
Heat crawled up my neck and my head began to pound. The metal chair legs scraped as I stood up. I’d come voluntarily. I could leave on my own terms as well. If he slapped me with a truancy report, I’d find a way to deal with it. I threw my pack over my shoulder. “I found the ads by accident. I was only trying to help.”
I stepped toward the door, but the lieutenant’s meaty hand beat mine to the knob. He handed me a card, his face softening. He pinched the card. “Look,” he said, waiting for me to meet his eyes before letting me take it. “If you think of anything else you
think
may be important, call me at this number. I want to help you.”
For a second, I thought maybe he did. That maybe I’d done the right thing by coming. I reached for the card, letting our fingertips brush, then yanked it from his hands.
He didn’t believe me. Not at all. And his distrust clung to me like smoke.
I pocketed the card without looking at it, and trained my eyes on the door. He stepped aside, but his suspicion held fast, all the way to the exit.
• • •
My relief fizzled as soon as I realized I’d left my school ID behind. I backtracked through the maze of desks and offices, retracing my steps.
The narrow hall was lined with identical doors under cold fluorescents. Police escorted disheveled prostitutes and gang-bangers up and down the hall. I kept my head down and walked like I had a clue where I was going. I couldn’t remember which door I’d come from, so I peeked in each one. Some were shut.
Laughter echoed, becoming louder as I approached an open door.
“I don’t see much money on the table.” A man’s voice— not Nicholson’s.
“I got my money on my man, the Game Boy.”
“How much?”
I paused in front of a room identical to the one I’d been in. Peeking my head around the opening, I couldn’t tell who was speaking. A group of four uniformed officers stood on either side of the metal table with their backs to me. My ID wasn’t on it. Instead, the bright sides of an un-solved Rubik’s cube sat in the center, surrounded by small bills. Oleksa Petrenko slouched in a metal chair. His steel-gray eyes flickered between the gaps in the blue uniforms, finding mine.
“I say no more without my attorney,” he said in his brusque Ukrainian accent. The laughter in the room fell silent and four sets of eyes turned to me. I jumped when the door slammed shut.
Walking faster, I checked the next two rooms. At least I didn’t have to worry about Oleksa spreading rumors. He didn’t talk to anyone, as far as I knew. And obviously, whatever crime he’d committed, including hustling police officers out of their donut money, was far worse than any reason I had for coming in on my own.
I stopped just outside the next door. Lieutenant Nicholson grumbled in a low voice.
“Emily Reinnert’s father sits on the city council. He’s been all over me for answers and we’ve got nothing. I want a plainclothes at the play at West River High tonight.” I heard the
taptap-tap
of plastic against the metal tabletop. My ID card. “And I want to keep an eye on this Boswell girl. She knows more than she’s letting on. Who do we have inside West River?”
A woman answered. “This is everyone we’ve got working inside the local high schools.” A heavy thud, like a stack of files hitting the surface of the table. A quiet rustling.
“No, I don’t want a cop,” Nicholson growled. “I need someone who can get in close to the girl without giving Internal Affairs one more reason to crawl up my ass.”
“We’ve got a C.I.—Whelan—at West River,” she said. “Sprung him from juvenile about three weeks ago.”
A brief silence and a shuffling of papers.
“Wasn’t the Whelan kid involved in the shooting at North Hampton?” Nicholson asked.
“We cut him a deal. He stays in school and keeps his nose clean, and in exchange we registered him as a confidential informant. His file says he’s got an apartment in Huntington. The kid’s parole officer says he’s back in school as of this week. She’s got him checking in daily by phone. Meets with him on Saturdays.”
Nicholson grunted. “And what do we get out of the arrangement, aside from charitable warm fuzzy feelings and another paycheck against my budget?”
“He agreed to help us bust Lonny Johnson.”
I held my breath. More papers shuffled in the silence.
“Toss him a bone. Tell him to get in tight with this Boswell girl and we’ll expunge the last assault and battery charge from his record. And make sure he stays in line.”
“We met with him this morning and debriefed him on the Reinnert case. He’s cocky, but he doesn’t seem like such a bad kid. Asked him to keep his eyes open in case he hears anything. Lonny’s mostly distributing speed and coke, but he’ll try to get us something on the local roofie dealers. The lab found ketamine residue in Emily Reinnert’s water bottle.”
Tap-tap-tap . . .
“I want more than that. I want Whelan to get me everything he can on Nearly Boswell.”
I abandoned my ID and crept back from the door.