Girl in Snow(7)

When it finally came time, Russ passed all his tests at a mediocre level: civil service, written exam, oral board, psych evaluation, fitness test. Then, training, where he spent twenty weeks shadowing an older, more experienced patrol officer.

His assignment was Lee Whitley—the pale, bony officer the rest of the patrol guys whispered about, the weakest member of the Broomsville Police Department. A man who’d been given four whole years to prove himself entirely unremarkable.



Russ doesn’t allow the memories very often. But in these rare moments of reminiscence, Russ wonders if he always knew—somewhere locked and hidden away—what would come of Lee Whitley.

They met outside the lieutenant’s office on Russ’s first day of training. A dreary afternoon, seventeen years ago—1988. Hair was bigger and cigarettes weren’t so bad, and they all wore faded denim with white, foamy sneakers.

Lee was the skinniest thing. His gaze flitted down and to the left when he spoke. Bulky nose, turned-in feet. Hazel eyes with pinprick pupils. His concave chest made a hollow sound when you slapped it in jest.

Okay, Russ said, and that was all he could manage.

Okay, Lee said back.

Russ thumped him on the back in that jovial young-man way. Lee coughed. A crooked, impish smile. Lee crushed a paper cup in his hands, and dregs of instant coffee ran down his elbow. Russ liked him then, this scrawny pup trying to look big as coffee made its sluggish descent down his forearm.

And so it began: this brilliant, unlikely pair. Both too aware that this partnership, just minutes in, had already begun to expand into some slippery shape, water on a hardwood floor, an ever-changing mass that neither could contain.



Who found her? Russ asks one of the other patrol officers.

The night janitor, the officer says, then uses his middle finger to point. Russ follows the arc of knuckle, though he already knows whom he will see.

Sure enough. The night janitor.

Ivan stands with one hand in the pocket of his janitor’s uniform. A cigarette dangles from the other. When Ivan puffs those massive lungs his breath is doubled and thick—nicotine, carbon dioxide. The glow of Ivan’s cigarette is a lively orange, flickering against a sea of black police jackets. Dismal gray snow. Russ is not surprised by Ivan’s presence on the playground. Ivan works the night shift at the elementary school—Ines asked Russ to pull some strings; Ivan was having such a hard time. So he did.

Russ loves his wife very much. Quiet Ines. But Russ does not love her brother. In fact, Russ wishes, deeply and acutely, that Ivan did not exist.

Alone with the body now, Russ lifts his radio to his lips and speaks. The microphone is off. You there? Russ mumbles to the plastic, keeping his gaze on the girl’s hair, all blood and straw. Can you hear me? Russ presses the radio to his chapped lips but he can think of nothing else to say. Ivan smiles, cheshire and mischievous, a hulking mass of testosterone, the amber-glowing cigarette dangling like a dare.





Cameron





“You’re the dead girl’s stalker, aren’t you?”

The girl in the scratchy armchair outside Principal Barnes’s office was speaking to Cameron.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the freshman they’re all talking about. The kid who stalked the dead girl. Right?”

Her head rested against the wall behind her chair, bored and effortless. Cameron had noticed her before. She lived in the neighborhood and she was always alone. Her jeans had chains hanging from the pockets. Her eyes were ringed in black; raven, greasy hair swooped over one eye, and she wore a T-shirt that sported the name of a band Cameron didn’t know. The T-shirt was cut sloppily above her midriff, and two inches of pale stomach rolled over her waistband even though it was winter and she was probably cold. A spattering of acne spread across her chin and forehead.

The girl raised one slanted eyebrow at Cameron. He wanted to raise one back, but every time he tried, the other went up automatically, and he didn’t want to look stupid.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I was just wondering. I don’t care either way.”

“Oh,” Cameron said.

“The dead girl and I babysat the same kid.”

“Lucinda.”

“Whatever. It’s illegal, what they’re doing. They can’t interview minors without the consent and presence of a parent. They think because there are no officers in the room they can frame it as grief counseling, but that’s bullshit, if you ask me. They still had police officers walk us down the hall. Scare tactics, I think.”

She nodded, satisfied with her own rebellion. Her eyes were perfectly round. Cameron loved Lucinda’s slanting eyes, and these were their opposite: marbles, circular and glassy.

“I’m Jade,” she said. “Like the rock. I’m a junior.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“I got off easy.” She shrugged. “My sister’s name is Amethyst. And you’re Cameron Whitley. Freshman. You live down the block from Lucinda. They’re all very worried about your mental health, because your dad is the police officer who—”

“Please,” Cameron said. “Don’t.”

“Didn’t that happen, like, a long time ago?”

Cameron wished he were better at carrying on a conversation. He generally disliked talking to people because he never knew what to say. Even with the simplest questions, he was overwhelmed by the number of potential answers—which would sound best, or which was appropriate, or which would make the other person feel least awkward.