We Told Six Lies(3)

I breathed hard, knowing I shouldn’t have shoved Jet. Wanting to shove him again. But I couldn’t do anything besides stand there, frozen between your hands. Jet was yelling and pointing, and his friend was pulling him along, and a teacher was sticking his head outside his door, and you were still holding my face.

You released me then and walked away without turning back.

Did you know it, then, that I already belonged to you?

Because I did, you beautiful, wicked girl.





NOW


The detective leans back in her chair. “So you two met in the cafeteria at your school? She spoke to you first?”

I nod. The real story doesn’t exactly paint me in the most stable light, shoving Jet for talking to Molly. The last thing I need is the police suspecting me.

“You parents like Molly okay?”

I shrug.

The detective reads into my indifference. “It can be hard for moms to see their sons take an interest in girls. What’s that saying? A daughter is a daughter for life, a son is a son until they take a wife.”

“My mom isn’t around a lot,” I say with more venom than I mean to.

The detective makes a doodle on a notepad. I wonder if it’s code for something.

“And you have a brother? He get along with Molly?”

I frown, not liking that they looked stuff up about me before I got here. Still, at the mention of my brother, the muscles in my body relax, and I breathe a little easier. “They haven’t met yet. But he’d like her if he did.”

The detective taps a nail on the table. I glance at it and realize it’s painted red. She is a woman who carries a deadly weapon, who interrogates suspects and slams drug dealers onto hoods of cars and handcuffs prostitutes—Come on lady, I’m just trying to make a living—she does all this…and then goes home at night and gives herself a manicure. For some reason, this eases the tension in my shoulders.

She accepts my altered story and writes down First Friday Oct. on her notepad.

I crane my neck, trying to see what else she’s got there, when a knock comes at the door. A man comes in carrying a McDonald’s bag and drink. He was with Detective Hernandez when they came for me at school. Back when I thought of them as cop and officer, not detective and sergeant and all those other titles that I’m sure exist solely to intimidate people.

The guy has arms that are far too long for his body and thick black hair. He looks and speaks like he’d make killer Italian food. Is that racist? I’m not sure.

Detective Hernandez sits up straighter when he comes closer, but I’m not sure whether it’s because he might outrank her, or if she’s into him. He’s an all right looking dude, I guess.

Or maybe it’s just the McDonald’s he’s carrying.

“Chicken nuggets, fries, barbeque sauce.” He sets the bag down in front of me. “Coke.” He pops the cup down beside the bag.

My mouth waters, and my stomach clenches.

When’s the last time I ate a full meal?

Molly’s been gone three days. Three days past when we were supposed to meet. When we were supposed to run away and start our lives over together.

Detective Hernandez and the dude stare at me, and I stare at them.

The McDonald’s feels like a test.

If it is one, I’m going to fail.

I grab the bag and tear it open, lift the nuggets’ lid and jam two into my mouth.

“Glad you’re eating, kid,” the guy says. “You’ve been really good about staying and helping us out. It shouldn’t be too much longer, but I figured you could use a break.”

I cram salty fries into my mouth and search the bag for ketchup.

Stop when I remember what Molly said about the stuff.

Stop when I remember Molly.

“I’m Detective Tehrani, by the way. Didn’t know if you remembered.”

So, no Italian food, then.

I don’t respond. He knows my name.

There’s a second knock on the door, and a woman sticks her head inside. Her black hair is cut close to the scalp, and she has bright red lipstick on. “Ferris wants you two.”

Detectives Hernandez and Tehrani stand to follow her out.

“One minute,” Detective Hernandez says to me, and offers an apologetic smile.

I’m about to tell them I’m not waiting around. That they need to be questioning anyone other than myself, but then Detective Tehrani grabs the door and says, “Hernandez, you tell him we found her car?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer before turning back to me and saying, “We found Molly’s car outside a strip mall in Leesport. Do you know what she was doing there?”

My ears ring, and the food stills in my mouth.

A strip mall?

What was she doing there?

Questions fire through my mind as the dude says to someone outside, “What’s that? All right, coming.” He looks at me, and even though I’m clambering to my feet, he says, “Be right back. Eat, kid.”

My heart pounds inside my chest, and I lean against the back of a chair to calm myself down.

Molly was never supposed to be at a strip mall.

We were supposed to meet at a gas station.

But she was gone when I got there. Or maybe she never showed up in the first place.

I pick up the McDonald’s bag and throw it against the wall. I know they’re watching, and I don’t care. Molly is gone, and they’re in here talking to me when they should be combing the streets, the woods, the mountains. There should be search parties and helicopters and dogs that can smell a single drop of blood from a half mile away.