Lucy offered a hand, and Malcolm reluctantly stepped forward and shook it. He’d stopped looking at his watch in the last few minutes. I guessed he’d come to accept that he was not going to make his appointment. Then Lucy turned toward me.
‘Are you a friend of the family?’
‘I know the Vaughns,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just met the Carsons.’
Greta, still on the couch, said, ‘Mr Weaver is advising us on... Chandler’s situation.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy said. ‘That’s why I’m here. Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘We were right in the middle of something,’ Greta said, then turned on Chandler. ‘Were you here last night or not?’
‘Like I said, I went out for a little while.’
‘I never heard you leave.’
‘I think you were asleep. I tried to be real quiet.’
‘When was this?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Like, around midnight? I just had to get out, get some air. I was stressed out. I went for a walk.’
‘Do you drive?’ I asked.
‘I don’t have my license yet,’ Chandler said.
‘Where did you go?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Around.’
‘Around where?’ his father persisted.
‘I walked down to the gas station, bought a Coke, and then walked some more.’
The station would probably have Chandler on security surveillance video. Telling the police he’d never left the house probably wasn’t going to fly. ‘Where else?’ I asked.
‘I went over to Michael’s house. I’d been trying to contact him. I’d sent him some texts, tried to phone him and stuff.’
‘Did he get back to you?’
Chandler shook his head. ‘I didn’t knock on his front door, but I looked to see if his bedroom light was on, or if maybe he was hanging around the house. His light was off and he was no place around there. Then I walked down by Clampett Park and worked my way back home. Just thinking, you know?’
I walked down by Clampett Park.
Lucy Brighton was still standing next to me. I asked her, ‘What did the police tell you about what happened?’
‘They didn’t tell me anything. They spoke to Ms Caldwell — that’s our principal — and she told me what they’d said.’
‘Which was?’
‘That Michael’s body had been found in the woods. That he’d been beaten.’ She hesitated. ‘Probably with a bat. I think it was that bit of information that prompted the principal to bring me in, to ask me what I thought.’
‘What you thought about what?’
Lucy looked from me to the parents. ‘About whether she should tell the police about Chandler’s story.’ She turned back to me. ‘Do you know about that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What did you tell the principal?’
‘I told her I thought I should come out here and talk to Chandler and his parents first. And so here I am.’
‘Is there some reason why you or Ms Caldwell wouldn’t tell the police about it immediately?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy Brighton said, and asked for the second time, ‘May I sit down?’ There were nods. She took the spot I’d been in, and I stayed on my feet. She trained her eyes on Chandler.
‘I was on your side at that meeting,’ she told him. ‘I think students must be allowed to use their imaginations, to write from the heart, to explore ideas that others may find unpleasant, to push the boundaries. That’s what good writers do. I didn’t see what you’d written as evidence of some kind of mental disorder or anything like that.’
I felt we were all waiting for a but.
‘But,’ Lucy said, ‘I did see evidence of something else.’
She pulled her purse around in front of her, opened it, took out some papers. ‘These are a few of your reports from other classes, other subjects. Samples of your work.’
She held them on her lap, made no move to distribute them. She seemed to be holding onto them as though they were grenades that might go off seconds after they left her hands.
She looked at Chandler.
‘Is there anything you’d like to say about your story that you haven’t revealed to us so far?’
Chandler seemed to be squirming beneath his skin. He was a mouse backed into a corner, looking for a way out and not finding one.
‘Answer the lady’s question,’ Malcolm Carson said.
Chandler took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘Okay, so there is something I kind of didn’t tell you.’
We all waited.
‘I didn’t want to get in trouble,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t want to get anyone else in trouble.’
‘Go on,’ Lucy said.
‘I guess I sort of didn’t write it.’
Seven
‘You plagiarized it?’ Malcolm asked.
Chandler shook his head violently. ‘No! I didn’t do that. I would never do that.’ He paused. ‘But someone else wrote it for me.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Joel Blakelock,’ he said.
Lucy and the Carsons couldn’t have looked more surprised if the boy had told them Ernest Hemingway had come back from the dead to do his homework.
‘Chandler,’ Lucy said skeptically, ‘you can’t be serious.’
It took me a second to remember that Joel Blakelock was the kid Michael and Chandler had photographed making out with another boy, and then posted the photo on social media.
‘Honest,’ Chandler said. ‘He wrote it.’
‘Wait, I’m not getting this,’ Greta said. ‘You somehow got hold of a story Joel had written and passed it off as yours?’
‘The last part, yeah,’ he admitted. ‘But I didn’t steal it or anything. He offered to write it for me.’
We all exchanged looks at that point.
‘Why would he do that for you, after what you did to him?’ I asked.
‘It was a kind of peace offering,’ he said. ‘Like, I guess he knows I’m not the best student in the world.’
He waited a second, maybe hoping someone would offer to contradict him, but when no one did, he continued. ‘I’m not that good at getting assignments in, and I haven’t been doing that good well in Ms Hamlin’s class, so he offered to write a story for me that I could hand in. And in return, Michael and I would leave him alone and never make fun of him again or anything. I mean, we weren’t going to anyway, because we got in so much trouble, but if he wanted to write something for me, I wasn’t going to say no.’
‘Did you tell him what kind of story you wanted?’ Lucy asked.
Chandler shook his head. ‘I didn’t even look at it before I handed it in.’
That explained a lot.
I said, ‘Where would I find this Joel Blakelock?’
‘Hold on,’ Lucy said. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘I’m a friend of the Vaughns,’ I said.
‘The way you’re asking questions, I wondered if you were from the police.’
‘I’m a licensed investigator,’ I said. ‘All I’m trying to do now is get to the bottom of this.’
‘Well you’re not talking to Joel without me there.’
The way she said it, the subject was not up for debate.
We decided to leave her car at the Carsons’ house and go to the Blakelocks’ in mine.
‘Joel’s a sensitive kid,’ Lucy Brighton said. ‘Someone like you throwing your weight around, badgering him, that’s not going to be good. Not for him, that’s for sure.’
‘I don’t badger,’ I said.
‘How about throw your weight around?’
‘Not that either.’
‘Well I’m going to make sure you don’t. Do you have any idea what Chandler and Mike put him through?’
‘I know what they did, but I can only imagine the impact it would have had on him. Was Mike a bad kid? Is Chandler?’
She glanced at me. ‘Bad? No. A lot of kids at that age do bad things, but I don’t think that makes them bad kids. They do things without thinking of the repercussions. They don’t consider how what they do will affect others. They haven’t developed a strong sense of empathy yet. They’ll go along with what the rest of the crowd is doing, even if it’s hateful, because they need so much to belong. I think we all did things as teens that we wish we could go back and undo. Cruel, thoughtless things.’