I stared at Detective Furlow, heat in my cheeks. My mom’s heavily made-up eyes drilled into me like lasers. Her glossy red lips were pressed. The question was so unexpected, yet my tongue wouldn’t move to deny it. It was a terrible feeling, their focus on me. As if I’d done something to cause Tom’s murder.
“Shaley, what’s going on?”
Mom’s voice was steady but tight. She was pretty lenient about my dating. Had never kept me from having boyfriends. But I’d always gone out with guys from high school, and she knew about every one of them. She wouldn’t have approved of someone Tom’s age. The grim accusation on her face showed her disappointment that I’d kept this news from her. Even more, kept it from the detective last night.
I swallowed hard. Tearing my eyes away from Mom, I forced myself to look at the detective. “No. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Ever. We didn’t … do anything like that. I mean anything. We were just good friends.”
“Is that the truth, Shaley?” Mom demanded.
My throat half closed up, and my eyes burned. “Yes. I don’t lie to you.” My focus stayed on the detective. Would he even believe me?
Why had he asked in the first place?
Detective Furlow nodded, then gazed at the floor, as if dissecting my answer.
Air seeped from Mom’s throat. She turned to him. “What did you find in Tom’s apartment that made you ask?”
He unzipped his binder and withdrew an eight-by-ten glossy photo. “This.”
Holding it horizontally, the detective handed it to Mom. She examined it closely, eyes roaming from side to side. Her forehead wrinkled.
“They were on the wall in Tom’s bedroom,” Detective Furlow said.
“What?” I thrust out my hand. Mom gave me the photo.
I leaned over it, feeling almost lightheaded. The photo showed a wall full of pictures. A whole montage of snapshots on Tom’s wall. All of me. Or of us together. Some blown up, some regular size. Dozen and dozens of pictures.
Weaving around them in large letters, stretching across the entire length of the montage were the words, “I love Shaley.”
The words stabbed me. I dropped my gaze to the floor.
Memories of Tom flashed through my head. His face close to mine as he leaned in to put liner on my eyes. His crooked smile at me across a room. The way he used to scarf down potato chips. His favorite flavor — barbecue. His laugh — deep from his chest. I always loved his laugh.
But, I didn’t really know how he felt about me.
Had I caused him more pain than fun?
The photo burned in my hands. I leaned forward and pitched it onto the table.
“Shaley?” Mom scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned forward to touch my knee.
I shook my head and whispered, “I didn’t know.”
My arms folded. I looked down at my lap, my head spinning. It was too much to take in. I hated to admit it, but Tom had been right not to tell me. I never cared for him that way. If he’d said something, our friendship would never have been the same.
Mom sat back, her movements pulsing with protectiveness for me. I could have hugged her for that.
“All right, Detective.” Her tone turned matter-of-fact. “This clearly isn’t what you’d thought. So … does it now have any relevance to the case?”
Fleetingly, I wondered what difference it would have made even if I had been dating Tom.
Detective Furlow rubbed his jaw. “Don’t know.” He pulled in a long breath, let it out. “Tell me, does a white rose have any significance for either of you?”