Friday morning, the news was all over school via social media. Eric James had been arrested for possession of cocaine. Bryce stared at his desk while the other kids in first hour math argued Eric’s guilt or innocence. Bryce’s cheeks burned and his stomach tightened. He could’ve prevented it. All he had to do was say something but instead, he’d walked away. Told himself it wasn’t his problem.
He was responsible. But what good would it do to say something now?
He hadn’t seen Eric this morning. Was he suspended? Or sitting in the county jail? Bryce shuddered at the memory of the greenish fluorescent lights, the odors of sweat and vomit, the screaming and banging on cell doors. Getting locked in a cell with others who had mental problems and some who looked downright evil had sobered him up fast after his DUI. Eric was a jerk, but arrogance wasn’t a crime, and he didn’t deserve jail time. An arrest like this meant he’d be kicked off the football team, for sure. Spring football wasn’t a big loss, but with graduation only a couple of months away, what about his scholarship? If he lost that, could he still go to college?
Halfway through class, Bryce looked up at the quadratic equation on the board. It was gibberish, and he couldn’t remember a word Mrs. Price had said. But he’d come to one conclusion. He had to do the right thing. No matter how much he disliked Eric, he had to tell someone what he saw. But who? The police? The principal? Would they listen to him?
At last, the bell rang, and he had a sudden idea who might listen. Bryce jammed his math book, notebook, and pencil into his backpack, and raced out the door. He ran through the crowded hallways, weaving and dodging between students, ignoring Mrs. Weisel’s warnings to Walk. At Mr. Kennedy’s classroom, he stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room. A few students were leaving, but no one was coming in. Maybe he didn’t have a class this period?
Mr. K stood at his desk shuffling papers. He stuck them in a folder, pulled a coffee cup from below his desk, and turned toward the door.
“Mr. Kennedy?”
“Hey, Bryce. I was just leaving. Did you need something?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.” Bryce stepped into the room. His hands tightened their grip on the straps of his backpack.
“Don’t you have class?”
“Yes, sir, but this is more important.”
Mr. Kennedy regarded him with one raised eyebrow, sighed, and said, “Okay, come on in.” He laid the folder on his desk and set his cup on the corner. Bryce walked in and stood in the spot where Eric had stood the day before.
“What’s up?” Mr. Kennedy folded his arms across his chest and half-sat on the front of his desk. Not exactly the body language he’d had with Eric.
“Remember yesterday after class when you and Eric were talking right here? Eric set his backpack on this desk.” Bryce patted the desk behind him.
Mr. Kennedy’s bored look took on a pained expression.
“Bryce, if this is about Eric, I have to warn you I’m not allowed to say anything.”
“You don’t have to,” Bryce jumped in. “I’m here to tell you the cocaine wasn’t his. Someone ditched it in his backpack when they heard the drug dog was here.”
Mr. Kennedy tipped his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this?”
“I saw it happen.”
“When exactly?”
“While you were talking. Remember how Eric saw me and asked if I was lost? It was right before that.”
“You said someone. Was it you?”
“No!” Bryce lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Why would I tell you if I did it?”
“Because he taunts you and gives you a hard time.” Mr. Kennedy shrugged. “Maybe you wanted to get him in trouble then had second thoughts about it.”
Bryce drew in a breath and released it. “It wasn’t me. Did they check for his fingerprints on the bag? Or test him for cocaine?”
“I don’t know, Bryce, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. I’ll mention this to the principal, but it would be better to come up with something more substantial." Mr. Kennedy stood, picked up his cup and his folder as the bell rang. “Do you need a pass to get into your next class?”
Bryce frowned but accepted the pass. There had to be some way to prove Eric wasn’t guilty. Bryce headed for the door, his gaze roaming the walls and ceiling as if they held the secret. He stopped when he saw it.
“Hey, Mr. Kennedy.” He nodded toward the tiny video camera in the upper corner at the back of the room. “Check the video. Eric’s innocent.”
Bryce walked out into the hall. He’d done all he could. He just hoped it was enough.
* * *
For once, Kit had a whole Saturday to clean house and do laundry and the thousand other things that fell by the wayside while she was working. She even had the house to herself with Bryce working and Maddie watching Harper. Kit hummed as she placed clean, folded towels in her bathroom cabinet then continued putting away the rest of the week’s laundry.
A couple of long-sleeve t-shirts went into her drawer, stuffed so full it wouldn’t close. Later, she’d weed out some she rarely wore, but where to store them in the meantime?
Jeff’s bureau stood against the other wall. She wasn’t ready to face the hurdle of cleaning out his clothes yet. But she could at least make use of whatever space was available. Opening his t-shirt drawer, she spied the envelope she’d laid aside earlier. Kit removed the envelope, left her shirts on top of his, and closed the drawer. She spread the two sheets of paper out on top of the bureau and read aloud.
“Certificate of Receipt. Guarantee Investment Corp.” The documents were identical except for the amounts. One showed $500, the other $9,400. The amounts matched what she’d found combing through past bank statements. Every expense, every deposit, every withdrawal was accounted for except two—the $9,400 withdrawal before the shooting, and another about a month and a half earlier in the amount of $500.
She checked the date on the first document. It coincided with the first withdrawal. And the date on the second matched the larger withdrawal. Why would Jeff put their money into an investment firm without consulting her, money they needed to live on? Was this even a legitimate company?
Kit snatched the documents and hurried to her computer. She searched Guarantee Investment Corporation but found only a real estate company in New York. Nothing else came close, and neither of the documents mentioned anything about real estate. What about the name at the bottom? The signature was an unreadable scrawl, but she entered the name typed below, Thomas P. Markham. Several matches on Facebook and Linked In but none mentioned any association with investment groups or financial institutions.
Deputy Matlage would want to see these receipts. She ran them through the copier in case he wanted the originals then folded and replaced the receipts in the envelope.
Charlie was a financial guy. Maybe he’d heard of this company. Maybe Jeff had even consulted him about investing with them.
She scrolled through the recent calls on her phone until she found one from Charlie. It rang and rang and finally went to voicemail. She ended the call and sent a text instead.
Found a couple receipts of Jeff’s that look like they’re from an investment firm. Can’t find any info online. Did he talk to you about this? Call me when you have a minute.