AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 16
In a rare display of parental empathy, my mother knocks on my door Tuesday morning to tell me she’s notified the school I’ll be staying home today. I can’t even believe she’s up. She says something about needing my rest after the stress of last night. I’ll take it. I fall back to sleep and when I wake again, it’s after eleven.
I check my phone. Adele wants to know where I am today. Graham says he’s driving Ben and Bronson to the hospital at lunch, if I want to come. I can’t deal with anyone right now, and most of all, I can’t face Carter again so soon. I text back saying I’m sick.
The last text is from Alexander, a sweet note asking how I’m feeling. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen, then write:
Honestly? I’m scared.
And if I’m being really honest, fear is only the thick outer layer. Beneath that, I’m furious someone thinks this is part of a game I never asked to play. And sick to my stomach that Carter got hurt because I wouldn’t surrender to Private. And even deeper? I feel like I’m breaking. Because we aren’t happy, and we haven’t been for a long time. This isn’t really about Rosalie, much as I’d love to pin it all on her. This is about Carter and me, and I’m not sure there’s any way to fix us.
I don’t know what to say to Carter, where we go from here. But I’m not about to give some egomaniac with an anonymous number and an anger management problem the satisfaction of thinking he destroyed us. If we break up, it’ll be on my terms. And I’m not about to dump my boyfriend of over three years while he’s in the hospital. Which means I have a few days to think, figure out what I really want. And in the meantime, I’ve got to channel every ounce of anger and sadness and fear into exposing Private. It’s the only way to end this.
My stomach clenches, and I realize the only thing I’ve eaten since breakfast yesterday was that smoothie before the hospital. I need food. I need to think. I need to go to CVS. That bear is going to lead me straight to Private. Game over.
Downstairs, Linda is in Dad’s office with the door closed. More fund-raising calls. The TV in the kitchen is on mute, but the scroll bar at the bottom of the screen reads: Police searching for unknown driver in Logansville South hit-and-run, followed by a request for anyone with information to contact the station. I keep reading; they don’t even have a make or model for the vehicle. Which means the traffic camera didn’t catch anything. They have nothing. I leave a note on the island and head out.
An acai bowl and giant coffee later, I’m recharged. I leave a tip for the girl behind the counter at Vanilla Bean, then drive to CVS. There are no spots in the tiny lot out front, so I turn onto the side street next to the store and park illegally against the curb.
I pass the bin of stuffed animals on my way in. It’s right up front, at the end of the service counter. I spy at least three identical teddy bears among the puppies and giraffes.
“I need to speak to the manager on duty,” I tell the kid working the cash register. He’s scrawny and pimpled and looks like he should be in school right now.
“Is there a problem?” he asks.
“No problem. I just need to speak to him or her, okay?”
He points toward a door at the end of the counter. “You can knock. Fred’s in the office.”
The door opens, and Fred motions me inside. He’s a middle-aged guy with a too-tight cotton shirt tucked into his belt and a grease stain on his collar. A yellow wrapper with a half-eaten burger is spread out on his desk. He invites me to take a seat in the plastic chair across from him.
I put on my sweetest smile and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “So terribly sorry to interrupt your lunch. I promise I’ll be very quick.”
Fred smiles at me, charmed.
“I just need to ask about a purchase,” I continue. “Were you the store manager on duty yesterday afternoon?”
“Sure was. You want to return something?”
“No, nothing like that. Someone bought a teddy bear from that bin of stuffed animals you have up front.” I pull it out of my bag and show him the CVS price sticker on the tag. “Do you have sales receipts or security cameras or something? I need to know who it was.”
“You need to know who bought that bear?” Fred raises his eyebrows, unamused.
I smile again, cranking up the charm. “Yes, yesterday. I just need to know who bought it for me.”
Fred lifts the burger to his mouth and takes a big, greasy bite. “If you got it as a gift, we can take it back for store credit,” he says around a mouthful of ketchup and bun. “Can’t accept returns without a receipt.”
This isn’t working. I change tactics.
“You know the hit-and-run that happened up the road last night? I’m sure you saw it on the news.” I stare meaningfully at Fred, letting the gravity of my words register. He blinks. “The bear is criminal evidence. I need to see security footage. Or I could just look through the stack of yesterday’s receipts. You wouldn’t even know I’m here.”
Fred is glaring at me now. “Listen, ma’am. We can’t show you security tape or customer records. If this teddy bear was driving the car, you’d better get the police involved. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m on lunch.”
“No, wait—”
Fred stands and pushes past me, opening the office door.
“Out. If the police want to poke around, fine. You have to talk to them.”
I stand and stumble back into the store, and Fred closes the door in my face. Jerk.
The kid working the cash register has been replaced by a forty-something woman with a bad dye job and a stone face. She gives me the side-eye as I snap a picture of the stuffed animal bin with my phone, but doesn’t comment.
“Were you working yesterday?” I ask.
“Nope, off on Mondays,” she says.
This is useless. I walk outside. The storm has been over for hours, but the snow is thick and crusted on the sidewalk as I tramp around the side of the store toward my car. When I’m about to cross the street, I notice the kid from the cash register smoking a cigarette next to the dumpsters around back. I spin on my heel and walk over to him.
“Can I have one of those?” I hate cigarettes, and the dumpsters reek, but I need an in.
He stares at me like he can’t believe I’m actually talking to him. “Sure,” he splutters, digging out his pack.
“I’m Amanda,” I say, smiling. “You’re Greg?”
“How’d you know that?”
I shrug. “I have an excellent memory. Read your name tag inside.”
He hands me a cigarette and his lighter. I strike out three times in the wind before he takes the lighter back. “Let me do that for you.”
“Thank you so much, Greg. I really appreciate it.”
When I’ve successfully inhaled a foul lungful of smoke, I get serious.
“Yeah, afternoon shift pretty much every day. I study mornings. I’m going for my GED.”
I nod like I care. “Awesome. Listen, someone bought me a teddy bear here yesterday. The kind from the bin up front. You know?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Sure, great deal. Clearing out all the little ones before we get in the big Valentine’s Day order next week.”
I smile and take another drag.
“Greg, I need your help. The bear was a gift.” I lean in close and lower my voice. “Like from a secret admirer?”
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground and grinds it into the slushy pavement with the heel of his boot. “Yeah?”
“And, it was really sweet and all, but I don’t know who gave it to me. I’m just going wild trying to figure it out.”
“Huh,” he grunts.
“I need to know who bought it, Greg. Can you help me with that?”
He stares at me blankly. This kid needs a crash course in social graces. I touch his elbow and give him my most sincere gaze.
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, and my hand drops. “I’d like to help you, Amanda. I really would. But we’ve sold lots of stuffed animals from that bin over the past couple weeks. Like I said, we’re clearing them out. Sold five or six just yesterday.” He pauses, deep in thought. “How do you know this secret admirer of yours bought it yesterday, anyway? We’ve had them in stock for ages, been on clearance for three weeks. Could have bought it anytime.”
I’m about to tell him to shut up and think about yesterday’s customers, but then it hits me that he’s right. Private planted that bear on Carter yesterday, but he or she could have stocked up before staging the blood bath at my locker. This is totally pointless.
“Thanks for the smoke.” I hold out the half-spent cigarette, and he takes it, surprised.
“Sure. Sorry I, uh, couldn’t help more with the bear thing.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I hurry across the street and get into my car, leaving Greg standing wide-mouthed next to the dumpsters.
On the drive home, I feel totally defeated. All that trip to CVS proved is that I’ll never figure this out. But giving up means letting Private win. And I don’t even want to think about what that might mean.
Think, Amanda. When did Private plant the bear in Carter’s backpack? If they did it at the scene, wouldn’t the police have found footprints? Or was it snowing so hard they were covered up by the time the cops got there? That’s possible. Maybe Private was counting on that. Or maybe Private planted the bear before the accident, during practice. With school closed yesterday, the lacrosse team probably didn’t even lock up their stuff. It could be one of them.
It could be one of our friends.
The thought is equal parts reassuring and terrifying. I can’t imagine anyone we know doing something so cruel. But someone hit Carter with a car. Someone is out for blood.
I shiver. I thought I had this under control, but clearly I don’t. Carter’s in the hospital, CVS was a dead end. I need someone to talk to, someone who can really help. I think about Rosalie’s offer to meet up. She might be useful, but I’m not exactly ready to team up with her either.
I need my mother.
• • •
At home, I knock on the office door.
“Yes?” She sounds annoyed. I should wait until this evening when she’s done with her calls, but by then she’ll be drinking. I need her sober for this.
“It’s Amanda. Can we talk?”
I open the door without waiting for a response. She’s sitting at Dad’s desk, call list in front of her and a donor spreadsheet open on the computer. She rubs her temples.
“I suppose I could use a break.”
I sit down on the couch and pull my knees up to my chin, like I used to when I was a little kid. I inhale the scent of old books and the faint spice of Dad’s cologne. I thought I could be strong—for Carter, for his parents, for my parents. I thought I could be the person they all need me to be. The girl who won’t disappoint them. But I can’t do it anymore, not with Carter in the hospital, not totally alone.
My mother has her vices, but she’s still my mother. She’ll know what to do. I can’t be Amanda Kelly right now—sharp wit, on top, in charge. In this moment, I just need to be a kid. I need my mom to fix this.
“It’s about the accident,” I begin, voice shaking. “The thing is, I don’t think it was an accident. I think someone hit Carter on purpose.”
As soon as I start talking, I feel a giant flood of relief. I tell her about the anonymous threats, the track, the teddy bear in Carter’s backpack. I remind her about the scene at my locker. The only thing I leave out is Rosalie. If I mention Rosalie, my mother will make this all about her. She’ll jump to conclusions, insist that somehow this is me being petty. She’ll turn my words back on me. So I leave Rosalie out and focus on Carter. How someone is trying to break us up. How this person is dangerous.
When I’m finished, Linda doesn’t say anything right away. She’s not a touchy-feely person, so I don’t know why I expect her to leap from her chair and hug me, but I do. I expect her to pull me close and tell me she’ll protect me. I expect her to be a real mother for once.
She doesn’t move. “So you think the deviant who defaced your locker is the person who hit Carter?” Her voice is steady.
“I’m sure of it. I can prove that the person sending the texts was responsible. They contacted me after both incidents. After they locked me in at the track too. I don’t know who it is, but I can prove it’s the same person with the text history on my phone. It’s why I have to go to the police.”
I’m not sure I’m going to do it until the words are out of my mouth. But as soon as I say it, it’s clear. I can’t trace Private’s messages, but maybe the police can. This is exactly what I was hoping for, back when I thought the texts were from Rosalie. That afternoon with Trina and Adele seems like a million years ago. Until yesterday, there was no real crime. Just creepy stuff and veiled threats. But now, there’s already a police investigation into Carter’s accident. A hit-and-run is a serious crime. The police are looking for leads, information that could help them find the driver. They’ll take me seriously now.
“No. No police.” My mother gets up from the desk and sits beside me on the couch without touching me.
“Why not? We need—”
“No police, Amanda. The benefit is less than a week away. This family needs to focus. An investigation is the last thing we need right now. It’s good that you came to me about this. Your father and I will handle this privately.”
“The benefit?” My voice is too loud. My mother flinches. “You want to withhold evidence that could lead to the driver’s arrest because of the benefit?”
“Don’t twist my words, Amanda. There are things happening on the board right now that you couldn’t possibly understand. This is not a good time for an investigation. Besides, I just don’t see how text messages from an anonymous number are going to help the police catch the person who hit Carter.”
“I don’t know, okay? I’m not the police. But isn’t that their job?”
My mother gives me a sad smile. “I’m sorry that someone’s been bothering you, darling. This must have all been terrible for you, and I wish you’d opened up to me sooner. But going to the police isn’t going to help. The accident is hardly a secret; it was all over the evening news. Anybody could have turned on the TV and tried to take credit. It’s sick behavior, but if someone wanted you to believe he was responsible, it wouldn’t have been very hard. The police will see that immediately.”
I sit in silence. That Private could have seen coverage of the accident on TV never even occurred to me. I think back to the texts. The earliest one was from around eight thirty, over three hours after the accident. By that time, they’d released Carter’s identity. My heart sinks. Private could have just seen it on the news.
I start to cry. Big, hot tears spill down my cheeks onto my shirt. My mother dangles one stiff arm around my shoulders.
“Darling, it’s going to be okay. You just needed to talk it out.” She pauses while I grab a tissue from the box on the side table and dab at my face. “You know what we’ll do? I have the best idea. We’ll plan a family trip, after the benefit. You can bring Adele if you’d like. We’ll get away for a few days, somewhere warm. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I try to smile. I picture Adele and me in our bikinis, stretched out in the sand. Somewhere tropical. Somewhere miles away from Logansville and Private and fake blood and Rosalie Bell. It’s a nice fantasy.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, playing along. “Maybe Turks and Caicos? Trina raved about this resort on Provo when she went with her dad last year.”
“That’s the spirit.” My mother pats my shoulder, then removes her arm. “I’ll talk to your father tonight. About the text messages and the trip. We’ll handle this, Amanda, I promise. I don’t want you to worry.”
I stand and start toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to your calls.”
“Be strong, Amanda. When you have something that people want, they’re going to try to take it from you. You have class, respect. You have Carter. I’m sorry to say this is only the beginning. People are going to be jealous of you all your life. You have to grow a thick skin,” she admonishes me for the second time in a week. “An investigation invites scandal. The Kellys cannot afford to be the family who cried wolf. Understand?”
I nod. She’s still looking at me. She’s waiting for me to say it out loud.
“I understand.”
“Good.” My mother stands and walks briskly back to the desk. “Now go do some research. Turks and Caicos or wherever you want to go. It’ll make you feel better.”
My head is swimming when I close the office door. I’m more confused than I was before we talked. If Private isn’t really connected to the hit-and-run, the police won’t thank me for coming forward. It could look bad for our family. But what are my parents going to do? We’re not the mob. No one’s going to put a hit on Private.
Knowing my parents, their way of handling this will be to put in a call to our lawyer. Then, they’ll forget all about it. And if Private really is dangerous, a phone call to our lawyer will do exactly nothing. If I don’t do something, and fast, someone could wind up dead.