Someone on the tour? The mere idea was horrifying.
“I don’t believe it,” I declared.
Detective Furlow inclined his head. “I know that’s hard to think about. But for the sake of your safety” — he gestured from Mom to me — “you need to know that’s where my suspicions lie.”
“You mean someone here — with us at the hotel?” Mom pressed. “Because all the people on the bus are long gone on their way to Denver.”
“Not necessarily someone here. Also we can’t assume only one person is involved. One person could have killed Tom — and maybe ordered that white rose ahead of time to be sent to Shaley. But someone else could have put the photo in her shopping bag this afternoon.”
Mom frowned. “But then Shaley would have recognized the person.” She turned to me. “Did you see anyone from the tour at the mall?”
“No. Well, only Bruce, of course.”
“Your bodyguard?” the detective asked.
“Yes.”
He mulled over the information. “Is it possible you could have missed someone in the crowd? Maybe someone who could have sneaked up behind you, dropped that picture in the bag, and faded away?”
I bit my cheek, remembering the crush of people. All the flashes and questions and yelling. “I guess that could have happened. But again, Bruce was there. He didn’t see anyone from the tour either.”
At least not that he told me about.
The thought punched me in the gut. Bruce. He’d waited outside the dressing room all that time. Had he made phone calls that brought the paparazzi? Had he staged a crowd around me so he could slip something into my bag unnoticed?
No. I couldn’t believe that. Not Bruce. Not someone that close to me and Mom.
Detective Furlow watched the emotions play across my face as if reading my every thought.
I raised my chin. “It couldn’t be Bruce, if that’s what you’re thinking.” My voice wavered, and that ticked me off. My brain sped through the timeline of Tom’s murder, seeking proof.
No, wait.
“Bruce was right there when we got out of the limo last night,” I said. “So there’s no way he could have taken that picture of me.”
“That’s true — he was with us.” Mom spoke the words slowly, with an edge. The idea that Tom’s murderer could be someone she knew, someone she worked with every day, clearly petrified her.
The detective spread his hands. “These are just theories. I don’t want to rule out anything. Maybe these three things are connected, maybe they aren’t. Maybe two people are working together, which obviously means one person wouldn’t have to be in all the places. Again, I’m only telling you this to say, be careful. Don’t assume when you fly on to your next concert tomorrow that you’re leaving the perpetrator behind in San Jose.”
His words hung in the air.
You’re wrong, I told him in my head. You are wrong. “You’re not going to say this to any reporters, are you — that you think it’s someone on tour?” One opinion like that on the news, and Brittany’s mom would have her on the next plane home.
“No, no. I don’t divulge details of an ongoing investigation.”
Still, what if TV news people started saying that? They were already throwing out all kinds of opinions about the crime.
Mom shifted in her chair. “But why the photo of Shaley, anyway? What would that have to do with Tom’s murder?”
Detective Furlow drummed his huge fingers on the coffee table, as if deciding how much to say.
He focused on Mom. “If we look at the murder and these ‘watching’ messages together, they could hint at a motive.”
Cold prickles crept across the back of my neck. “What kind of motive?”
The detective lifted a hand. “Now that we know how Tom felt about you, if someone else found that out, maybe a jealous someone …”
My jaw hinged open, and my whole body numbed. Was he saying it was my fault Tom was dead? Someone killed him … because of me?
No way. I couldn’t live with that knowledge. Ever.
I shoved to my feet. “You’re wrong!” I hurled the words at Detective Furlow, my body stiff and shoulders cocked back. “You’re wrong, and I’ll never believe it!”
Nausea rolled up my throat. I pressed a hand to my mouth.
“Shaley —” Mom reached for me.
I shook my head hard, stepped out of her reach. My stomach rolled.
Swiveling on one foot, I stumbled toward the connecting door to my room. I hit it hard and bounced off. Then I grabbed the knob and twisted. Leaping into my room, I slammed the door behind me.
“Shaley!” Brittany jumped off her bed. “What happened?”
I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even look at her. My feet moved under me, weaving, headed for the bathroom. Falling on my knees before the toilet, I slammed up its seat … and threw up.