I’m standing in the birch grove in the woods behind Saint Ambrose on Wednesday afternoon, music blaring through my earbuds as I watch my breath fog the air while I wait for Shane Delgado. It’s not quite mid-April, one of those unseasonably cold days that feel like an extension of winter, and the trees aren’t fully green yet. I’m not sure the timing is right to, as Ms. Singh put it, “Create a leaf collection showcasing the diversity of species in the area,” but oh well. Nobody asked for my opinion.
My three-ring binder is thicker than I need for a twelve-leaf project, its plastic sleeves full of leaves I plucked from my backyard this morning. I figured I might as well get a head start, because I’ve been Shane’s lab partner since January and I know for a fact that I’ll end up doing all the work.
Shane is the type of Saint Ambrose kid who skates by because he doesn’t have to worry about hanging on to a scholarship. He doesn’t have to worry about anything. He’s so relaxed, in fact, that he’s known for taking the occasional nap in our class coatroom. Teachers even joke about it, in a way they never would if I were the one falling asleep whenever I felt like it.
I know it’s pointless to be jealous of somebody like Shane, but today I am. Today I wish I were him—or anyone, really, except me.
My interview after Mr. Larkin’s murder was the first time I’d ever been inside a police station. We’d frantically called our parents—well, Shane’s parents, even though they were at work in Boston, because everybody knew instinctively that my dad wasn’t equipped to deal with the situation. The Delgados contacted the Sturgis Police, and we all met up in the Saint Ambrose parking lot so we could lead the officers to Mr. Larkin. Everything was a blur, so surreal that I barely remember it, until we were brought to the station to give our statements.
When my dad showed up, I was taken into a small room, away from Shane and Charlotte. I understood, even then, that the police needed to know if our stories matched up. I pushed the image of Mr. Larkin out of my mind and did my best to answer Officer Patz’s questions. I thought back then that he was in his forties, like my dad, because most adults looked middle-aged to me. Especially ones with receding hairlines. I learned later that Officer Patz was just twenty-five then, the same age as Mr. Larkin.
“Why were you in the woods, Tripp?”
“Doing a leaf collection project for science class. We’re supposed to identify twelve species and mount the leaves in our binders.” I’d brought my binder with me to the station. Someone had taken it when I’d arrived and then, about half an hour later, given it back.
“Why were you with Shane and Charlotte?” “Shane’s my lab partner, and Charlotte is his friend.” “Why didn’t they have binders like yours?”
Because they knew they could dump all the work on me and I’d do it. That was the truth, but I didn’t say it, because Saint Ambrose scholarship kids are supposed to be grateful, not bitter. What I actually said was “They forgot.”
“Where was Charlotte’s partner?”
I couldn’t get away from Brynn Gallagher; even when she didn’t show up, she was there. “I don’t know” is all I said, and he didn’t push it.
“Did you, Shane, and Charlotte ever separate? Lose sight of one another?”
Before my mother left, she rarely talked to me like a parent. Lisa Marie left the basics of life, like how to brush my teeth or prepare a bowl of cereal, to my father. But sometimes she liked to ramble about things she found interesting when I was nearby. It was more like she was talking near me than to me, but I still soaked it up. More than once, she said, “The world would be a better place if more people knew when to stop talking. Everyone says too much, all the time. Ask them a simple question, and they’ll give you their entire life story. No one cares! Just say yes or no. It doesn’t even matter which one is true.”
I rubbed the callus on my thumb with my forefinger and said, “No.” “Not even for a minute or two?”
“No.”
“And how did you happen across Mr. Larkin?”
This was the important part, I knew, so I took a few seconds to organize my thoughts before answering. “We were near the edge of Shelton Park—you know, where people go to watch birds sometimes? There was this huge tree branch that had fallen, like it had been struck by lightning or
something. Charlotte said it would be easy to find good leaves on it. So we walked toward it, and then we saw something white behind the branch. It was a sneaker.”
“Did you know right away that it was a sneaker?”
“No, I thought maybe it was trash. A paper bag or something. But then we got closer—”
“How much closer?”
“I don’t know. Close enough to tell it was a sneaker.” “Okay. And then what?”
“Then we saw Mr. Larkin.”
We spent a lot of time on that part. It felt like hours, Officer Patz asking question after question about Mr. Larkin and the space around him. Did we know he was dead right away? Did we touch him? Did we see or hear anyone nearby?
“There was a rock next to him. It was big and sharp and—it had blood on it.”
“How did you know it was blood?” “It was red, and it…looked wet.” “Did you touch it?”
“Shane did. He picked the rock up and turned it over, and got blood all over his hands. Some got on his pants too.”
“Did you think that was a good idea, to pick up the rock?”
A long pause, while I stared at four deep, even scratches on the table’s surface and imagined they’d been put there by a demon claw. Some creature the Sturgis Police had tried to capture and hold but couldn’t.
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really think about it at all.” “Anything else you want to tell me, Tripp?”
“No. There’s nothing more to tell.”
When we were finally done, Officer Patz thanked me and sent me home with my father. Dad heard later, through the grapevine, that all three of us had said exactly the same thing. Everyone was sympathetic about how traumatic the experience of finding the dead body of our teacher must have been, and our neighbors kept dropping off casseroles and desserts for me
and Dad. They hadn’t done anything like that four years before, when my mother had taken off. I guess it’s not much of a tragedy when people choose to leave.
Then, less than a week later, I got called back to the police station. “Tripp, are you aware that money was stolen from your school
recently?”
Of course I was aware. The money had gone missing at the end of March, and it had caused an uproar at Saint Ambrose. It was practically the only thing Brynn had been writing about in the Sentinel for weeks.
“Yeah. It was for the eighth-grade field trip to New York.” “Do you know how much it was?”
“No. A lot, probably. Now the scholarship kids can’t go, so nobody gets to.” This had caused a lot of division in our class, between the paying kids and the scholarship kids. Saint Ambrose liked to pretend we were all the same, but everyone knew who was who.
“Did you know Mr. Larkin was heading up the school’s investigation of that theft?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Tripp, I’m going to share some information with you that recently came to light. The money stolen from your school was found in Charlotte Holbrook’s locker last Friday during a routine search at Saint Ambrose. What do you think about that?”
I could have told him that there was nothing routine about it. Saint Ambrose students had never been searched before, let alone by a Sturgis cop. But the class money had been missing for two weeks by then, and Grizz was on edge and looking for somebody to blame.
I doubt Grizz had wanted that person to be Charlotte Holbrook, though. I doubted she would get into any trouble at all. That seemed like the sort of thing Officer Patz could figure out for himself, though.
“I guess I’m surprised,” I said. “What surprises you?”
“That it was there. Did Charlotte take it?”
Officer Patz didn’t like when I asked questions; or at least, he rarely answered them. “Are you and Charlotte friends, Tripp?”
“No.” That was true, back then.
“Are you friends with Shane Delgado?” “No.” Also true.
I don’t remember all the questions that followed, but at some point, Officer Patz shifted the conversation toward me. “We’ve spent some time talking to your classmates, Tripp. You seem to be pretty well-liked. Some kids told us you can be a little bit mean, though.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
I asked it offhand, like I had no idea what he was talking about, even though I was pretty sure he meant Brynn. My dad, who’d seemed half- asleep during most of the conversation, stirred to life and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What does it matter?” he asked. “Kids not getting along isn’t a crime.”
“Of course not, Mr. Talbot. I’m just trying to get a better sense of who Tripp is.”
“He’s a good kid. A good, honest kid who’s doing his best to help you.”
I should’ve been grateful to him for saying that, but I wasn’t. The only thing I wanted, right then, was for my father to shut up so we could leave.
—
It’s past six when I get off work, so I text Dad after I say goodbye to Regina and close the bakery door behind me. What’s the dinner situation?
Nonexistent, he writes back. Couldn’t make it to the store today. Should I pick up Chinese?
That’d be great. I’ll pay you back.
He will, eventually.
I call Golden Palace and place our usual order: shrimp fried rice and beef with broccoli, which are by far the best items on the menu. The owners like to coat most of their proteins in batter and fry them to death. A couple
of years ago, Shane’s parents took a bunch of us to Chinatown for dim sum, and it was the first time I’d ever had authentic Chinese food. I must’ve eaten my weight in dumplings alone; I couldn’t believe how good they were. I’ve resented Golden Palace ever since, but they’re fast, cheap, and right down the street.
I walk past Ricci Hardware, and pause at Mo’s Barber Shop when the door half opens. Someone’s having no luck pushing it the rest of the way, so I grab the handle and tug. “Hey, Mr. S,” I say as a small, white-haired man peers up at me with watery blue eyes.
“Excuse me?” he says uncertainly, and then his expression clears. “Oh, hello there, Noah.” Mr. Solomon, who used to be the groundskeeper at Saint Ambrose before he retired, has never been a fan of nicknames. “I didn’t recognize you at first. All you kids are so big now, my goodness. Practically adults.”
“It happens,” I say in a weird, hearty tone that’s nothing like my usual voice. I don’t know why old people bring that out in me. Especially Mr. Solomon, who’s gotten kind of spacey lately. His left hand is clutching a red tackle box, but I know better than to ask him if he’s going fishing. He’s started using it like a portable bank, pulling a pile of crumpled bills from it whenever I see him at the grocery store or the pharmacy. It makes me sad in a way I can’t explain, and I find myself asking, “How’s your garden doing?”
Which is a pointless question in January, but he brightens anyway. “It’s seen better days, but I’ve made some improvements to the yard.” Mr. Solomon lives on the line between Sturgis and Stafford, the much nicer town where Shane is from. When I was a kid, I used to imagine Mr. Solomon’s place was a portal to a different dimension, because it looked like some kind of magical garden that didn’t belong in New England. Climbing vines everywhere, fruit trees, and flowers as big as your head. “You should stop by and see it sometime. Catch up a little. I’ll make us some tea.”
“Sounds great,” I say, hoping he knows as well as I do that it won’t happen. “I gotta run, Mr. S. I’m picking up dinner. You got the door, there?”
I’m still holding it, because he hasn’t moved, and a frown crosses his leathery face. “You’re in my way,” he says peevishly. I guess nostalgia time is over.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping aside so he can shuffle past me with a side-eye. I know he’s just a confused old guy, but it’s stuff like this—that I can’t go two feet in this town without feeling like somebody’s judging me—that makes me so desperate to leave.
I get to Golden Palace well before the food is ready, so after I pay, I settle myself on the bench in the vestibule, barely registering that a man is already sitting at the other end, until he speaks.
“Well, if it isn’t Tripp Talbot.”
I just used up all my sociability being nice to Mr. Solomon, so my mood plummets even before I see who it is. “Oh, hey, Officer Patz.”
He’s bundled up in a down parka, scarf, and Patriots wool hat. Even though the hat is fully covering his head, I’ve seen Officer Patz around town enough to know that he’s embraced his receding hairline with a shaved head. “Picking up dinner?” he asks.
No, I just like this bench, I think. But I don’t say it, because I’m not an idiot. “Yup. You too?”
“My wife loves this place,” he says.
“Cool,” I say, wondering briefly if I knew before now that Officer Patz is married. Then I decide I don’t care, and turn back to my phone. But before I can pull up a game to keep me busy, Officer Patz speaks again.
“I hear Saint Ambrose is doing a memorial garden for your teacher. Mr. Larkin,” he says. I just nod, noncommittal, and silence falls until he adds, “I still think about that case sometimes. You know, you were the first witness I ever interviewed for a murder investigation.”
The first and last, probably. Sturgis has plenty of low-level crime, but there hasn’t been another murder since Mr. Larkin. But that doesn’t seem like the right response, so I just say “Oh yeah?” as politely as I can.
“It’s a tricky thing, interviewing kids,” he says, and I don’t know what he wants from me. Am I supposed to apologize for having been thirteen? “Last kid I talked to, witness to a robbery, kept changing his story. First he
said one thing; then he said another. Kept forgetting stuff, or leaving information out because he didn’t think it was important.”
There’s a space heater chugging away in the corner that’s making Golden Palace’s vestibule way too warm. I push my hair off my forehead and say, “Sounds like he wasn’t much of a witness.”
Officer Patz must be overheating too, because he takes off his hat and folds it between his hands. “It’s actually not uncommon with kids, I’ve learned. Children’s memories are less developed than adult memories. Plus they’re more suggestible, and less reliable. Not you, though. You were always very consistent in your statements.”
“I have a good memory,” I say, stealing a glance at the girl behind the counter. Where the hell is our food?
“Shane and Charlotte were lucky you were there,” Officer Patz says. “In the woods, I mean. Things could’ve added up differently if those two had been alone when they found the body. Even when you’re dealing with kids, if one of them leaves fingerprints and the other has stolen property in her possession—well, you’d have to keep asking questions.”
“Order for Patz,” the girl behind the counter calls. He doesn’t get up, so I say, “That’s you.”
Officer Patz acts like he didn’t hear either of us. His gaze is trained on the wall across from us, and his brow is furrowed, as though he’s lost in thought. I’d almost believe he was, if I didn’t catch his eyes drifting toward my reflection in the window. “But you? You weren’t friends with Shane or Charlotte. I interviewed every kid in your class, and they all said the same thing. Even the ones that didn’t like you.” Fucking Brynn. “You and Shane didn’t get along as lab partners, and you and Charlotte had hardly talked before she tagged along on that assignment. There was no reason for you to lie for either of them.”
“Right,” I say, rubbing my thumb. I knew that memorial garden was going to be trouble, and here’s proof; I can’t even pick up shitty fake Chinese food in peace anymore. “Why would I?”
“Order for Patz,” the counter girl repeats.
“Over here, thanks,” Officer Patz calls, finally getting to his feet.
I relax my shoulders, thinking we’re done, but before he goes any farther, he gives me one last, searching look. “That’s the question that keeps me up at night. Why would you?”
Then he puts his hat back on and grabs his food off the counter. “Have a good evening, Tripp. Enjoy your dinner.”
