Ultraviolet (6 page)

“I can hear people’s thoughts sometimes,” he said seriously, as though I’d spoken out loud. “And I can see the future. That’s why the aliens want me. Because I know their plan.”

I looked at him helplessly. He seemed so earnest, so convinced of what he was saying. But even though I knew how lonely it felt to have a story that nobody else believed, I couldn’t bring myself to agree with him just yet.

For one thing, his evil alien conspiracy theory didn’t really hold together. One minute the aliens were trying to kill him because he knew too much, the next they wanted to capture him and use him in their experiments. First he claimed that the aliens disguised themselves as humans, but later he’d said they put their mark on humans and brainwashed them into doing their bidding. I’d heard him telling Roberto that the aliens came from a planet in the Horsehead Nebula, but I’d also heard him tell Cherie that they came from another dimension. There seemed to be some new variation on the story every time Sanjay told it, and if anybody pointed out the inconsistencies, he’d just ignore them.

And yet when I’d passed Dr. Ward in the corridor earlier this morning, the one Sanjay had accused of carrying the aliens’ mark, my gaze had dropped to his arm before I could help myself. He’d been wearing a lab coat, of course, so I couldn’t see anything. But when I raised my eyes again, he was giving me such a cold, probing look that my heart skipped, and I’d scurried into the library just to get away from him.

So maybe I wasn’t quite as much of a skeptic as I’d thought.

I was still there an hour later, trying to wrap my brain around the principles of electromagnetism, when the message came. The Consent and Capacity Board had agreed to hear my appeal in five days, and in just a couple of hours my lawyer would be coming to meet with me.

So this was it. My chance to prove that I could control my behavior without therapy or drugs, that I had enough clarity of mind to decide whether I needed those things or not. And if I made my case well enough, they might even let me go home.

Home
. Even whispered, the word spread like maple syrup over my dry tongue. I’d always been a little embarrassed by the old split-level house I’d grown up in, but now I missed it more than anything. I missed slipping into my father’s study and curling up in the armchair while he graded essays. I missed the taste of my mother’s pot roast, which always had the right shape to it even when everything else between us was wrong. I missed the scuffle and thump of my younger brother practicing his slap shot in the driveway. I even missed our fat, brainless cat jumping onto my chest in the middle of the night and breathing out amber waves of
fisssssh
.

Maybe it was irrational, but I truly believed that if I could just go home, everything would be all right. Sure, my relationship with my mother wasn’t the greatest, but my bitterness toward her was an old ache that I’d lived with for years, nothing like the blind rage that had made me lash out at Tori. I couldn’t imagine disintegrating her, any more than I could imagine doing it to my father or Chris.

Other people might be more of a problem. But even if my neighbors had seen the police taking me away to the hospital, even if my schoolmates knew I’d been the last one to see Tori on the afternoon of June seventh, they had no reason to accuse me of murder—especially since the police weren’t even calling Tori’s disappearance a murder yet. If I just kept quiet and stayed out of sight, they’d probably leave me alone. And maybe once I’d had a few days to rest and get the drugs out of my system, I’d be able to work out exactly what I’d done to Tori, and how to stop it from happening again.

I just hoped the police wouldn’t arrest me before I had the chance.

It sounded similar to a court appearance, with both sides calling witnesses and presenting evidence to support their case. But the board would also consider some kinds of evidence that wouldn’t necessarily be allowed in a formal trial, such as hearsay. The whole process would take about an hour, and once all the witnesses had been cross-examined and final statements made, the board would dismiss us while they made their deliberations.

“And within twenty-four hours, they’ll notify you of their decision,” he said. “Does all that make sense to you?”

I nodded distractedly, my eyes still on the file. Until now, I hadn’t realized how many of the things I’d done and said, things that seemed perfectly innocent to me, had been taken down by Dr. Minta and the nurses as proof of my mental illness. My reluctance to interact with the other patients on Red Ward, for instance, was antisocial behavior. When I’d tried to stay calm, that showed a lack of emotional response. My short answers and poor math skills were evidence of disordered thought processes. I often seemed distracted, which suggested that I was experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. And the one time I’d let my guard down enough to giggle in front of Dr. Minta, he’d marked it down as “inappropriate laughter”.

There was more, but I’d seen enough. I closed the file.

“So,” said my lawyer, “do you have any questions?”

“I do, but . . . not about the appeal.” I took a deep breath, gathering courage. “You’ve read my file, right? So you know I told the police I’d killed Tori Beaugrand, when I . . . when I was crazy?”

“Yes.” He paused, and I could tell he was trying to decide how fragile my mental state might be, and whether or not it was a good idea to ask if I’d actually killed her. But all he said was, “So what’s your question?”

“Could they charge me with murder, based on that confession? Even though they haven’t found a body, or a weapon, or any other evidence that Tori’s . . . not alive?”

“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands together over his stomach. “Well, I can’t say for certain what the police will do, but I can tell you that the Youth Criminal Justice Act is very strict about what it takes to get a valid confession from anyone under seventeen. First, the police would have to take you into a comfortable interview room and read you a lengthy statement of your rights—including the right to consult a lawyer, the right to have a parent present, and the right not to make any kind of statement to the police at all. You’d have to confirm that you’d understood everything they’d just told you, and then clearly state that you had chosen to waive those rights, before making your confession on video and audio tape. Is that what happened?”

I shook my head.

“Then no matter how many times you said you’d killed Ms. Beaugrand, that statement would not be admissible in court. Especially in your case, because there are questions of mental health involved.”

“But could they still charge me, if they found other evidence? Like . . . Tori’s blood on my hands, or on the ring I was wearing?”

“Without a sample of her blood for comparison, they probably wouldn’t be able to tell if it was hers,” he said, “only that it wasn’t yours. They might be able to identify her DNA, but it would take at least a month, perhaps two, for those results to come back from the lab. And even if they did find a match, that wouldn’t be enough evidence to charge you with murder, not by itself. Especially since so little time passed between the time Ms. Beaugrand was last seen and the time you returned home. To lay a charge against you, the police would have to be able to explain how you murdered her and disposed completely of her body, in such a fashion that no trace could be found, in less than an hour.”

I let out my breath slowly. So as long as the police didn’t find any more evidence against me, I should be safe. For now.

“So,” said my lawyer. “Back to the appeal. Now you’ve seen what your psychiatrist has to say, do you still want to go through with it?”

It was a good question. Reading Dr. Minta’s comments in my patient file had shaken my confidence—he was the expert, after all, and he seemed to have no doubt that I was dangerously ill. And I couldn’t deny that only a few days ago I’d been feeling and acting pretty crazy. What if I was really as deluded as Sanjay, and just didn’t recognize it? What if I really did need the antipsychotics, antidepressants, and antianxiety pills I’d been taking?

And yet . . . that would mean my mother had been right all along. That her fears about me, her reluctance to get close to me, had been justified.

No. That, I refused to believe.

“Yes,” I told my lawyer. “I want to go through with it. Just tell me what I need to do.”

But the library was open, and although I still found it difficult to read I managed to dig up a few old books on tape— including, to my surprise,
War of the Worlds
by H.G. Wells. I wondered how a story about aliens invading earth had made it through the selection process, especially with people like Sanjay around. But it looked like it might be interesting, so I pulled out the battery-operated cassette player and slipped the first tape in.

The Martians had just launched their first attack against the helpless human race, and the narrator was fleeing the scene, when an aide knocked on the doorframe to get my attention. “Alison? You have a visitor.” Apprehensive, I walked out to the visitors’ lounge—and there, to my relief, was Melissa.

“Ali!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and giving me a hug. “Oh, wow, I can’t believe how good it is to see you.”

I returned the embrace clumsily, blinking back tears. How could I ever have doubted her? “It’s really good to see you, too.”

“I wanted to come before, when you were at St. Luke’s,” she said, “but at first they wouldn’t let anybody in who wasn’t family, and then I got totally swamped with exams. I’m really sorry it took me so long. Look, I brought you something.” She opened up the flowered tote bag at her feet and pulled out a box the size of a small dictionary. “The nurses unwrapped it to make sure it was okay, but—”

I lifted the lid, and broke into an involuntary smile. “Minties!” I exclaimed, inhaling until purple-blue pleasure hazed my vision. Forget therapy, a box of mint-flavored chocolates and Mel were all I really needed to make me feel better. “That’s amazing. Thanks so much.”

“I brought you some stuff to read, too,” she said, hauling out a stack of magazines. “They’re pretty old, but I figured they’d probably be new to you, right?” She dropped them onto the chair beside me and sat forward, her brown eyes on mine. “So how are you feeling?”

“A lot better than I was,” I said. “I’m hoping that in a few more days, they’ll let me go home.” I helped myself to one of the chocolates, letting its silky taste melt over my tongue, and offered the box to Mel.

“No, they’re for you. But seriously . . . you think you’ll be out soon? That would be fantastic.” She glanced around and shifted closer to me. “So did you ever figure out what happened? Seeing those two policemen dragging you out of the house like that, and all the stuff you were yelling about Tori and how the colors were hurting you—it was really scary, Ali. I was so worried for you.”

Something cold snaked between my ribs. “You saw that?”

“Well, yeah! I ran over as soon as I saw the cop car in your driveway. I thought maybe you’d had a break-in or something. But then I heard you screaming, and I knew something was really wrong because I’d never heard you sound like that, ever.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry. It must have been way more horrible for you than it was for me. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand.”

Somehow, just hearing her say that made me feel better. When Dr. Minta said things like that they always sounded phoney, but Mel had been my best friend for five years, and I knew she really cared. “It’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t figured out what happened yet, but I’m working on it. I don’t want it ever to happen again.”

Mel nodded. “So, uh, I guess you know about Tori Beaugrand? Not that I think you had anything to do with that,” she added hastily. “I mean, I know what you said at first, but there’s no way.”

A sour taste blossomed in my mouth, like fermented apple cider, and I had to eat another one of the chocolates to cover it. “I haven’t really heard that much,” I said.

“Are you serious? It’s practically the only thing anybody can talk about. They’ve had teams of volunteers combing the area, the police talked to just about every teacher and student in the school, they had dogs sniffing around the parking lot . . . but nobody’s found a thing. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth.”

It would have been so easy to just nod, and let the subject drop. But I needed more details—and if anybody had them, Mel would. She’d dreamed of being a journalist ever since she was eight years old, and when she wanted information she knew how to get it. “So . . . what did they find?” I asked. “I mean, what do they know so far, about . . . what happened to her?”

“Well, she had detention with you after school, of course— what was all that about, anyway? I heard the two of you got into some kind of fight in the cafeteria, but nobody seemed to know why.”

It all seemed so pointless now. I’d accused Tori of one thing, she’d accused me of another, and then she’d shoved me and I’d shoved back, which was what got us both in trouble. But that was nothing compared to the fight we’d had later, the one that had destroyed everything. “It wasn’t important,” I said. “Go on.”

Mel looked dubious, but for once she didn’t push me to tell her more. “Anyway, Tori told Lara and Paige that she’d meet them at the mall at three thirty, but she didn’t show up. So they waited a while and then Lara texted her, but she didn’t answer. Then they walked back to the school looking for her, but all they found was her backpack lying by the side door, with her cell and all her ID and stuff still inside. And then—um, this part is kind of creepy—”

I knew what she was going to say. I’d been there, after all. “It’s okay,” I said.

“Well, there was blood. Not a lot, just a few drops and splashes, but Lara freaked and called Tori’s mom, and then Tori’s mom freaked and called the police. And at first the police thought Tori might have just skipped town, but everybody who knew Tori told them there was no way. So they started looking at other stuff. Like I heard there was a videotape that showed Tori leaving the school right after you did—”

My heart stopped.

“—but there was some kind of technical glitch and the picture cut out, so they couldn’t get much off of that. . . .”

Of course there had been a video; there were security cameras all around the school property. And if the tape showed Tori, it would also have shown me. How much of our fight had been caught on camera before it malfunctioned? Might it be enough to justify a charge of assault—or even of murder?

But if the police knew we’d fought, knew I’d hit her, why hadn’t they come back to question me about what had happened? Were they waiting for Dr. Minta to tell them I was well enough to talk about it? Was there a law that kept them from questioning mental patients without a doctor’s permission, or something like that?

“Hello, Earth to Alison?” Mel was peering into my face. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry.” I shook myself back to attention. “You were saying?”

“I was asking, when was the last time you saw Tori? Do you remember?”

I didn’t want to lie to her. But how could I tell her the truth? She’d already heard me say it once, and I couldn’t bear it if she thought I was still crazy. I needed her friendship too much. “I . . . can’t talk about it,” I said.

Mel leaned forward. “Alison, this is me, okay? You can tell me anything.”

She had no idea how much I wished that were true. “It’s just too messed up, Mel. None of it makes any sense. I’m not even sure—” I took a deep breath, trying not to grimace as I lied. “I don’t even know what really happened anymore.”

“But you don’t still think that you killed her, right? You’re not scared of . . .” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of my face. “You
are
scared.”

I couldn’t look at her anymore. I closed up the box of chocolates and put it down beside me, running my finger over the label.

“Wow.” Her voice was hushed. “I knew you hated Tori, but . . .”

“No!” The word tore out of me, sharp with desperation. “That’s not what I mean! Even if I killed her somehow, do you really think I’d have done it on
purpose
?”

“Of course not,” she answered quickly. “Ali, I know you. You’re not that kind of person. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Again, that acid taste in my mouth. I swallowed, wishing it would go away. “Mel,” I said, “you’re not going to tell anybody what I said, are you?”

“What? No! Why would I do anything like that?”

My eyes prickled, and I closed them. “Okay,” I said hoarsely.

“I’ve got to go, my mom’s waiting. But I’ll come and see you again soon.”

“Sure,” I said, and forced a smile as I watched her go. But although the taste of untruth was still on my tongue, it felt different than before—less rancid and more bitter. And though it seemed impossible and I wanted desperately to deny it, I knew what that flavor meant.

It was the taste of my best friend lying.

“Kirk,” cautioned a female voice on my other side, “maybe you should leave her alone.”

I raised my head slowly, my eyes focusing. How long had I been sitting in the lounge by myself? I’d been so preoccupied thinking about my visit with Mel, I’d lost all track of time.

“Alison?” asked the aide gently. “Is something wrong? Anything you’d like to talk about?”

What was I supposed to say?
Well, I’ve just found out my best friend thinks I’m a homicidal lunatic, and also that I can taste when other people lie.
I shook my head.

“Are you sure? Sometimes it can help to talk to someone who isn’t involved—”

“Stop bugging her,” Kirk interrupted. “She doesn’t want to talk, okay? End of story. Hey—” He elbowed me again— “I found some old Audrey Hepburn thing in the DVD box, wanna watch it? You like old movies, right?”

It was true: black and white films didn’t offend my sense of color the way that modern ones did. I was surprised, and touched, that he’d noticed. “Yeah,” I said.

“Okay, let’s do that then. We’ll hang out, just you and me.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” the aide began, but Kirk made a scoffing noise.

“I’m a pyro, not a rapist, okay? We’ll leave the door open. Come on, Jill, you know there’s crap-all to do on weekends, and it’s only an hour until TV time anyway. Bend the rules for once.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been amazed by Kirk’s boldness with the staff, but they all seemed to take it in stride. I wondered how long he’d been coming here.

The aide sighed, and got to her feet. “Oh, all right. Come along.”

It would have been nice to imagine that Kirk was here to support me in my time of need. But he’d already helped himself to several of my chocolates and seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, so I found it hard to give him quite that much credit. Probably he’d just gotten sick of volleyball, or whatever activity they had going on in the gym at the moment.

I rubbed my eyes as they started to sting again. When Mel showed up, I’d dared to believe that she’d come because she cared about me, and for no other reason. Even when she started questioning me about Tori, I’d still managed to convince myself that she was only doing it for my sake. Because I needed so badly to talk to someone.

Not because she suspected I’d really killed Tori. Not because she wanted to be the first one to find out where I’d hidden the body. And definitely not because she planned to share that information with the newspapers—or the police.

She’s just been using you
, taunted Tori’s voice in my head.
She’s nobody’s friend but her own
.

No. Tori had been wrong, and so was I, to even let myself think such a thing. Mel did care, and she would come back. And she wouldn’t tell anyone what I’d said to her, especially since I’d asked her not to. . . .

“Wow,” said Kirk. “You’re
ripe
for this guy, aren’t you?”

I blinked back to attention, and realized that I’d been staring slack-jawed at Gregory Peck for the better part of a minute. “Uh, yeah,” I said. “But don’t tell anybody.”

Kirk pretended to zip his lips, but the mischief in his eyes warned me I’d be hearing about this for a long time to come. “So you’re into older guys. Is this some kind of Freudian thing? ’Cause your father’s, like, sixty?”

I opened my mouth to retort—and then the box of chocolates caught my eye. Just the box, because the wrappers inside were all empty.

He’d eaten my Minties. Every single one.

The night before the hearing I was desperate enough to take a sedative, but still I couldn’t sleep. Breakfast tasted like gravel and sawdust, and when Jennifer showed up to escort me to the conference room, my heart was thumping so hard there was no space in my chest to breathe.

My lawyer met me in the corridor. “So,” he said. “Ready?”