“Why do you hate Colt so much?” I ask. But instead of answering, she throws her arm around me and starts talking about getting me my own black armband and helping me bedazzle it. I tense up under her embrace and fight the urge to toss her off me. It’s not like I love Colt, now, or anything. I just can’t help but feel freaked out by the uproar. Dom told me that some judge in Madison is still deciding whether to allow the whole shebang to happen in Friendship. “Wouldn’t that bias all the jurors?” I asked. But Dom just shrugged.
“People in this town will do the right thing,” he said.
I look at Libby, who’s still talking, swinging her ponytail even faster. Nobody could accuse her of being on the wrong side—I’m the one who’s technically supporting a bad guy, or whatever. But still, it makes you wonder. All her tenacious philanthropy—not to mention her predilection for threatening me if I don’t want to do something as superficial as attend a meeting for a made-up club with no purpose. Regardless of how Christian Libby is, I probably shouldn’t rule her out as a suspect.
I pluck Ruth’s journal from my utility belt and flip to an empty page, groping for a pen.
Libby Quinn = sociopath?
Reasons:
I know she has some kind of serious learning disability but she really seems to have it out for Colt.
Grief gawker. Made up a fake group thinking it would get her into college and pretends to be Ruth’s friend even though she wasn’t. I was.
She basically just threatened me (scary!) and she’s really strong.
I mean, Libby’s probably not tough enough to drag a body, but I’m not a scientist so I can’t say for sure. And as long as she’s leading the charge against Colt, I’ll have to keep an eye on her.
First things first, though: I’ve got to talk to Mrs. Klitch, get her testimony on tape, and find out who told everybody I went to see her in the first place.
BEAR SPRAY
After school, I text Dom.
To: Dom. (Mobile):
Hanging out with some girls, home 4 dinner
The excuse comes out of nowhere and I realize I’ll probably be lying to him a lot from now on. I’m pretty sneaky now. Like an actual fox. Today at lunch I even made an appointment to meet with Jim Steele.
“To discuss legal matters,” I told his secretary. As far as I know, Ruth might have just been one more animal for him to stuff. At the very least, I feel like someone should confront him about their sex relationship and see how he responds. Better yet, I’m going to get the whole thing on tape.
“Okay, honey,” the secretary said. “How about we have you come after school tomorrow?”
“I’m in tons of trouble with the law,” I explained.
“That’s just fine,” she said.
When the bell rings I go to my locker and call Ralph, thinking we can talk before I head to Mrs. Klitch’s.
“Hello?” He’s slurping something. Cocoa, probably.
“Ralph?” I’m suddenly worried about offending him. “Hey! I thought you were doing your one-hundred-thirty-five hour marathon.”
“One hundred thirty-six.”
I fiddle with my combination. “What?”
“The world record is one hundred thirty-five, so I would have to play another whole hour to beat it in any memorable way.” He gulps some more cocoa. “Anyway I decided against it. Maybe I’ll try again this summer when I’m not so busy.”
I lug out my backpack. “Right.” Probably someone saw me there, or Mrs. Klitch called—but still I’ve got to ask. “So I know this is probably totally ridiculous, but did you like . . . email Libby and tell her I’d gone to Mrs. Klitch’s? I got this weird confrontation smackdown thing today and—”
“Yeah, I did that.” He says it like this is completely normal.
“What?” I can’t believe it. “Why?”
“Oh. Well, currently I am setting up the website for her RFFB thing—you know, the blond girl with the orange face?”
“Libby,” I correct him. “Libby Quinn—and it’s self-tanner.”
“Leaving the house that day of the protest was hard for me so I told them that from now on I’d be fulfilling the rest of my duties from home. I’m the webmaster. Did you know we already have over one hundred fifty contacts on the email list?”
I swallow. “Yeah, no offense but that doesn’t explain your tattling on me to a bunch of people I go to school with—I mean, you don’t even know them.”
“Kippy.” He takes another slurpy sip. “How could I not have told them? The more I thought about what you had said, the more I thought it was something that our town should know—and the RFFB mailing list is the only way I have of getting in touch with that many people.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It was about making sure people were informed. Technically I think it’s all pishposh and that you’re going through the motions of a grief debacle, but I thought to myself, ‘Ralph, someone else out there might agree with her, and it’s best to let them decide.’ I thought maybe it might garner you some support.”
I take a deep breath. The thing about Ralph is that he thinks everyone’s as nonjudgmental as he is. Anyone who got that email is going to think I’m a total freak—and I know Ralph didn’t know that would happen, but still. If he weren’t such a good guy I’d be pretty mad at him right now.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks.
“No,” I blurt. “You were . . . you were just trying to help.” I slam the locker.
“Want to come over?”
“I’m staying after school. I actually gotta go.”
“Okay. The door’s unlocked and I ordered more hot chocolate off the internet if you change your mind.”
I decide to leave my car in the parking lot because the sun’s out, and I’ve got Ralph’s bear spray on the off chance the killer decides to strike in daylight. Plus, walking to Fang Road will give me some time to think about what I have to say to Mrs. Klitch. I mean, I know she’ll let me in to talk—she basically begged me to join her last time—but the question is whether she’ll be too drunk to speak coherently. If I can just get her to lay off the Beast, and practice her version of things a little, then maybe I could take her back to the courthouse and get the police to listen to her one more time. Or else we could make a YouTube video and get news programs interested in how the case is being “mishandled.” That would really blow things out of the water.
I pull the back of my hat down so it meets my scarf and buckle my backpack straps in front so that they don’t slide off my shoulders. Most of the trees on Fang Road are going bald, which means that soon it’ll start dumping snow. It’s slightly warmer than it was yesterday, seasonable enough for wool socks and a down coat, but Mrs. Klitch isn’t outside this time. Her gate is closed and her tiny pink car is outside next to one of the cement dragons, so I know she’s home. I smack the bell but nothing happens. So I reach up and smack it again.
“Hello!” I call.
The kitchen light is on, and I edge along the fence, taking out the bear spray just in case someone lunges from the bushes.
That’s when I see someone standing on the kitchen table and recognize Mrs. Klitch’s snow boots. At first I think she’s standing up there dancing in tiny circles. But then I realize her feet aren’t touching the tabletop at all. Her hands are hanging down by her sides and she’s spinning very slowly. I tighten my grip on the bear spray and my world explodes in orange smoke.
“It’s obviously a suicide,” a voice says. “Nobody could have gotten through all of this security. More barbed wire than a prison. This woman was a true weirdo and that’s part of why she hanged herself—oh look, our new hoodlum is snapping out of it.”