Breaking Beautiful (31 page)

Dad looks at me, surprised, but he says, “Glad to see you’re going to school today.” I eat breakfast and then brush my teeth, like everything’s okay. I get my backpack while Dad clears his bowl and puts the dishes in the dishwasher. I’ve never seen him so slow. Every move he makes takes forever. Finally he picks up his coffee mug. “Do you want me to take you to school or do you want to take Mom’s car?”

“I’ll take Mom’s car.” I grab my backpack and head for the door.

The short drive to school is excruciating. I have to keep telling myself, don’t speed, don’t speed. Detective Weeks is watching me, waiting for me to slip up and so is James.

Maybe I can get to Blake before he goes to class. We can run away. Leave Pacific Cliffs, forever.

My heart drops as soon as I get to the parking lot. Detective Weeks’s black Charger is parked in front of the school. I try to stay calm as I get out of the car. Maybe there’s something else in my locker. Maybe he came for me. My head pounds and the crowd of students heading into the building are too close, but I push inside.

All hope drains out of my heart when I walk in the building. The crowd makes way as Blake walks by, his head down, in handcuffs. He looks past me, like he can’t see me, but I see the pain in his eyes. It tears my heart out. Behind him, Detective Weeks is all business, but I catch the look he gives me when he walks by—triumph.

I start to follow, but someone grips my arm. I pull away. “You’ll only make it worse,” Angie whispers in my ear. She pulls me back gently and puts her arm around me.

“Wait, Allie.” Clair pushes through the crowd toward me, her eyes full of false sympathy. “They put a new lock on your locker. Here’s the combination.” She hands me a blue piece of paper. “Your teachers will be issuing you new textbooks. There wasn’t much that was salvageable from your locker.”

I look at the paper in my hand, but I can’t move. I want to scream at her for doing something so normal when everything is so wrong.

Angie tugs at my shoulder. I let her guide me toward my locker. A low buzz fills the school. It fades when I get close, grows louder as I pass by, and then fades again. It sounds like waves rushing onto the shore and then pulling back.

My locker smells like fresh paint mingled with seawater. My fingers are numb as I spin the new combination. It sticks, and then sticks again. Angie is hovering, waiting for me to open it. “Do you want me to find someone to help you get it open?”

The only one who can help just got arrested, because of me. I shake my head. The bell rings. I should forget putting away my backpack, I should forget school, I should forget everything, but I work the lock desperately, like Blake is inside and I can get him out.

I twist the lock again, and this time the door springs open. “Um, I need to head to class.” Angie leans toward me. “So you’re okay?”

I think I nod; whatever gesture I make sends her away. I’m too busy looking at what’s inside my locker.

It’s the little white purse I used for cotillion, with a note attached in Blake’s handwriting.

I needed to return this to you. I can’t explain everything here. We need to talk. Come find me as soon as you get this. Please don’t hate me. I love you more than anything. I’m sorry.

—Blake

I blink back tears as I press the purse between my fingers and feel the shape of the ring box inside.

I turn around and come face to chest with Randall. He’s mad, punching his hand into his fist. I step back, suddenly remembering that he was Trip’s friend, too. Suddenly remembering that he
saw Trip hit me. But he doesn’t come any closer. “This is so stupid. We were all there. When would he have had time to … why would he torch his own paintings anyway?”

“Wait.” I look up at his face and what he’s saying registers. “What did you say? Why did they arrest Blake?”

“For torching the gym. I heard my dad said they found his knife in the gym. Somebody used it to strip some wires in the ceiling. That’s what caused the fire.”

Arson, not murder. I almost slide to the floor with relief. If James started the fire … if Blake is being blamed … I can help. I saw James at the school that night. My heart squeezes tight. If I tell on James, what will he do to me?

I leave school and head for Hoquiam. I don’t know what Blake’s bail will be, but I hope the ring will cover it. It’s the only hope I have left. Get Blake out of jail and then we can get away together.

.........

Paul has his back to me when I come into the pawnshop. I work on making my voice casual and confident, but it sounds strained as I say, “Hey.”

He turns around and smiles. “Hey, Allie. You here to shatter another guy’s heart by pawning off his gifts.”

I lick my lips. His teasing strikes too close to the truth.

“Some girls are just heartless.” He turns back toward the other side of the counter and shuffles through some papers.

I grip the ring in my pocket and start to pull it out, but I stop when Paul turns and I see what he has in his hand.

“Can you believe some girl would be so cold as to try to pawn
her engagement ring?” He slides the paper across the counter so I can see it. It has a picture of the ring in my pocket with the words “PAWNSHOP ALERT” written across the top. He looks up at me with an intense gaze. “But you wouldn’t do anything like that, would you?”

I push the ring back in my pocket and pull out the tigereye. “Is this worth anything?”

He leans forward and studies it. “It’s a nice piece, but tigereye isn’t very valuable, and this one is split.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid it’s worthless.”

I slide it back in my pocket. “That’s what I thought.”

Chapter
46

The wind is howling and ominous black clouds are blowing in off the ocean. I get into Mom’s car, and for a second I think about going the other direction and running away, but I can’t leave Blake to take the blame. I have to do what I can to save him. It’s like I’m outside my body as I head toward the police station. My fingers are so numb that I can’t even reach for the tigereye that’s digging into my thigh through my jeans’ pocket.

It’s pouring rain when I get into town. I’m drenched by the time I get inside the police station. The lady at the desk smiles when I walk in, like I’m here for a tour.

I grip the tigereye. “I need to talk to Detective Weeks.”

She pushes a button on her phone. “Allie Davis to see you, Detective Weeks.” I’m positive that wherever Detective Weeks is, he’s not more than forty steps from where she’s sitting.

“I’ll be right out,” his voice answers.

He’s through the door in less than ten seconds. No stewing in the waiting area, no trying to get the story straight in my head. He’s just here with that stupid triumphant grin on his face. “Glad to see you, Allie,” he says. “Saves me the trouble of going back to the high school to talk to you there. Come with me.”

I follow him back to the now-familiar office. Detective Weeks sits at the desk, motions for me to sit in a chair across from him, and waits.

The more he just sits there, the more time that ticks by, the more nervous I get. Finally I burst out, “Blake didn’t start the fire.”

“Oh?” Detective Weeks sits back and laces his fingers over his knee. “How do you know that?”

“He was with me, the night before the dance. We were together the whole time,” I stammer.

“The whole night?” he says calmly.

I feel myself blush. “No, he took me home when we were done decorating for the dance, but it was late.”

“According to the janitor, the two of you were the last ones to leave that night, and he locked up behind you. Are you sure Blake didn’t go back later, after he took you home?”

I rush forward. “I saw another guy there, just before we left. He was standing by the Dumpster. I couldn’t see his face.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Do you know who it was?”

“Yes.” I press the tigereye through my pocket. “I think I do.”

He leans forward and writes on a pad of paper. “And?”

“James Mathey.”

“Really.” Detective Weeks doesn’t believe me, I can tell he doesn’t. “The boy who threatened you at the dance?”

“Yes.” I focus on the blank wall behind him.

“What makes you think he was the one who started the fire?”

“He was following me. He told me he was following me, waiting for me to—”

“To?”

I breathe in. “To mess up. He thinks I—”

He cuts me off. “That’s all very interesting,” He picks up the pen and starts tapping it on the desk. “But what I find more interesting is that I arrested Blake for bringing a weapon to school, and you’re talking about arson.”

My heart drops so fast I feel like I’m going to faint.

“As far as I know, the fire in the school gym is still being called an accident. But if you have any more information you would like to share about that—”

I look down at my hands. How could I be so stupid?

“Since you’re already here …” He takes a box off a shelf in the corner. “I have a couple of things I’d like you to identify for me.” He pulls out a pocketknife, stuck in a plastic bag with a label attached. “I got a tip-off that your friend Blake had this at school. Have you ever seen it before?”

“No,” I answer so fast that I’m sure he knows I’m lying.

“The fact that he brought a knife to school would be bad enough. What makes it worse is what’s on the blade.” He reaches into the drawer in front of him and pulls out a magnifying glass. He pushes the glass and the bag toward me and taps the blade through the plastic bag. “Do you see what I’m looking at?”

I lean forward. The blade is nicked in a couple of places. Caught in the edge is the same puke-brown paint that covers all of the lockers at Pacific Cliffs’ combined school. I want to
believe the paint came from the one time Blake helped me get into my locker, but I’m not sure. “We think this is the knife that was used to break into your locker. That he was the one who left the notes.” He sits back with a smug smile. “How long did you say you’ve known Blake?”

“Since we were kids.”

“You know him better than I do, so maybe you could help me figure out why Blake would bring a knife to school. Or why he put those notes in your locker. Or what he might have to gain by threatening you.”

I don’t answer. It feels like the point of the knife in front of me is being twisted into my chest. I don’t dare move. I don’t dare close my eyes.

“No? Maybe you should think about it.” For a second I think he’s going to let me leave, let me go home to think about it. But he has more.

“A couple more things and then I’ll let you go.” He pulls out the plastic bag with the bloody white T-shirt in it. “Do you remember this?”

“Yes.”

“We got the lab results back. Do you want to know whose blood is on this shirt?” I don’t say anything, but he pauses like he’s waiting for me to answer. “It’s your blood. No trace of Trip’s blood, or anyone else’s blood. But unless you wore this T-shirt to the dance, we can be pretty sure there was someone else at the accident scene. Any idea who that might be?”

I stare back at him, blank, emotionless, a look I perfected last year. The only look that kept me safe. The only look that didn’t make things worse.

“No?” He goes back to the box. This time he picks out a big yellow envelope. He takes out a piece of paper and slides it across the desk in front of me. It’s the same piece of paper that Paul had at the pawnshop. He points to the picture of the ring. “Ever seen that before?”

I take a breath and try to sound calm. “No.”

“Insurance companies send these out when a claim is made. Mrs. Phillips filed a claim after the accident for this ring. A ring her son spent a lot of money on. A ring he was going to give his girlfriend. Are you positive you’ve never seen it?” He keeps his eyes locked on mine. I shake my head and work on keeping my face blank. He puts the paper back into the envelope. “I guess he never got the chance to give it to you. It’s a shame. It was worth a lot of money.”

I grit my teeth and don’t dare answer.

“Just a couple more things, and I’ll let you head back to school.” He replaces the envelope in the box and pulls out another bag. “Do you know what this is?” He slides another package across the desk. Inside is the shoe I found in the bushes, the one I wore to cotillion. “Your friend James brought this to my attention. He said he found it in a little clearing where Trip used to take you off-roading. He was nice enough to take me there. It looked like a beautiful place for a proposal.”

How could I be so stupid? I led James right to it.

He pokes at the oily spots on the shoes. “You want to tell me what those spots are?”

“Blood,” I say as dully as possible. “My blood.”

“Not this time.” He leans across the table and his eyes glint with anticipation. “Your dad’s a mechanic. He ever explain to you how brakes work?” My stomach clenches.

“Brakes are hydraulic; that means they have a series of pistons filled with a liquid—brake fluid—you’ve probably heard that before. When the brake fluid levels get too low, like if there’s a leak, then the brakes don’t work as well. Lose all of that fluid and the brakes don’t work at all.” He taps the plastic bag with my shoe in it. “Those brown spots are brake fluid.”

“What the hell did you step in, Al? It looks like oil. Watch it. You’re getting it all over my truck.”

“In a modern vehicle, and by modern I mean post-1970s, any loss of pressure in the brake lines would set off all sorts of warning lights. But Trip’s truck wasn’t a modern vehicle, was it? What was it, a 1967 Chevy?” He raises his eyebrows, but I don’t think I need to answer. “I checked into it. Trip’s truck was never retrofitted with modern brakes. Did you know that?”

“No,” I answer. “I didn’t know anything about Trip’s truck, or the brakes, or anything like that.”

“Angie Simmons told me you guys rode from the dance to your house in the limo. You got out at your house and then left in his truck together. How long was Trip’s truck parked at your house before he took you to the forest? Long enough for someone to cut the brakes?”