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.
8
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.