Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(93)

“What about the school,” D.D. pressed. “My understanding is that they learned of the shared image. What did they do?”

“The story is that the principal called Roberto into his office. Roberto handed over his phone. There weren’t any pictures on it. Principal had to let him go.”

“I heard that, too,” I volunteered from the floor. “From the guidance counselor, Ms. Lobdell Cass.”

“Just because the photos were no longer on Roberto’s phone,” Roxy said hotly, “didn’t mean he didn’t still have possession. He could’ve uploaded them to an external drive, or the cloud, or even a second burner phone.”

“Ms. Lobdell Cass wondered the same.”

D.D. returned her attention to Roxy. “The school didn’t push?”

Roxy shrugged. “Roberto died. Then there was nothing to push against.”

“Do you believe he shot himself?” D.D. asked evenly.

“The police said he committed suicide.”

“You suspect your sister was involved in his death.” My turn again.

Roxy turned toward me. Frowned.

I repeated: “You suspected that your sister and her gang arranged for Roberto’s shooting.”

“She was never going to be the victim again,” Roxy said stiffly.

“Did she seem happier, more relaxed after that?” D.D. asked. “Did Roberto’s death solve her problems?”

Roxy blinked, seemed to consider the question. “No. I thought it would. Immediately after the news, maybe. But then, she grew subdued again. Nervous. She started pulling at her hair, picking at her scalp.”

“Las Ni?as Diablas denied any involvement in Roberto’s suicide,” D.D. said.

“Sure. Like they’re really gonna tell the truth to any cop.”

“She didn’t ask the question,” I said. “I did.”

Roxy shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“In hindsight, Roberto’s death feels too coincidental to be a suicide,” D.D. said slowly. “I’ve already left instructions to reopen the investigation. But for now, I’m willing to believe your sister and her friends weren’t involved either. Which leaves us with . . .”

Roxy appeared genuinely bewildered. “I don’t know. Roberto mostly hung out with Anya. And with Anya always starring in some production, school was just where they passed the time until rehearsals began at the community theater. Roberto worked as stage manager. At least, last I knew. I wrote . . .” She paused, caught herself. “Um, there was a school essay assignment.”

“The perfect family,” I murmured, stroking Blaze’s silky ears. “I heard about that.”

She didn’t look at me. “I already turned in the first two. Mrs. Chula, my teacher, she seemed to really like them. The writing. But she got worried about me. Wondered if maybe we should call in my mom, have a meeting. I’ve written more, a lot more actually, including a piece on the community theater. But I never turned them in. I’d already reached the assigned page count. I didn’t want to attract any more attention. And it occurred to me, if Lola found out what I’d written, she’d be upset. I’d broken our promise. I was writing about things we’d both agreed to leave forgotten.”

“Do you have those essays?” D.D. asked. “The ones you wrote but didn’t turn in? I’d like to read them. I’d like to understand better what happened five years ago, because I can’t help thinking it has something to do with what’s going on now.”

Roxy nudged the battered blue folder across the table. D.D. took it.

“Roberto died,” D.D. said, “but things didn’t get better, did they? If anything, your sister grew more agitated. And then you, too.”

“My mom.” Roxy barely got the words out. “She meant well. I know she did. But there’d been some incidents with Lola, and then getting called to the principal’s office over the photo . . . She started asking questions. Pressing both of us. She kept saying she just wanted to know the truth. But we couldn’t . . . We wouldn’t.”

I got it. “You thought she’d think it was all her fault. You were afraid learning what had happened to you and Lola at Mother Del’s would drive her to drink again.”

Slowly, Roxy nodded.

“Other than the photo Roberto distributed, do you know of any other evidence of what happened during your time at Mother Del’s?” D.D. asked.

Roxy shook her head.

“What about Mother Del?”

A rough smile. “That woman could sleep through a train crash.”

“Did she hit you? Threaten you? Engage in any inappropriate behaviors?”

Roxy shook her head.

D.D. chewed her lower lip, considered. “Who do you think shot your family?”

“I don’t know.”

“No. You do. Everyone we’ve been talking to has commented that you’ve been stressed these past few weeks. You’ve been afraid, Roxy. Of what?”

“I don’t know,” Roxy repeated, starting to sound agitated now. “When Roberto died, I thought life would get easier. Lola would relax. But instead, she’s been more . . . erratic. Mom’s questions upset her. Something with her new gang had her on edge. Maybe she thought they’d killed Roberto, or were angry that they hadn’t. I don’t know. I followed her one day to the community theater. She wanted her part back, she said. It took me a moment to realize she meant the Little Orphan Annie role she should have won years ago, before Roberto and Anya showed up.