22. In Which Juniper Finds the Fuchsia #2
“It’s weird, though, isn’t it? Because I look so much like my mom now. But as a kid, I looked like my—like him.” I can’t quite bring myself to call Lionel my father. I might never be able to do that.
“So what do we think—that Lionel—” He breaks off, and when he begins speaking again a second later, his voice is lower, more hushed.
“It’s looking like Lionel killed Sandy after she found out that he was your father.
We know she was the one who wrote the note to you about your parents.
And Lionel is the one who has the most to lose if news breaks about a decades-old assault that resulted in a child. Right?”
“I think so,” I say. “I just don’t know how Lionel and Sandy were connected. I don’t know if it would have been something she overheard, maybe? Since Lionel dropped by Tonya’s office that one day; maybe they crossed paths through her mom?”
“Maybe,” Aiden says, his voice musing. “Or at something pageant related.”
We lapse into silence, a line full of things we don’t know and aren’t saying. We’ve gotten close enough that our silences are usually comfortable, but this one isn’t; it’s expectant, waiting, wanting.
“Oh,” Aiden says suddenly, and my heart sinks at the almost desperate note in his voice—he feels it too, the weirdness.
I swallow my disappointment. “Yeah?”
“I got permission to turn the prom dinner into a hunger banquet.”
“That’s great!” My voice sounds horribly cheery, chipper and excited in a way that I don’t feel. My words should be genuine, because it really is great news, but I can’t muster the emotions.
Why am I being like this? Where are these feelings coming from? We’re just talking on the phone. Two roommates chatting about murder and paternity. There’s no need for the gloomies that have latched onto my heart and started feeding.
All I know is that I want to be talking to Aiden about things that don’t involve murder or whose turn it is to restock toilet paper. I want our silences to be comfortable and easy.
“How will you do that?” I say, trying to will myself to feel happy or excited or something positive.
“We’ll use the prom budget. It will still be the dance, but the meal portion will be the hunger banquet. I’m meeting with the prom committee next week.”
“Can I come to the banquet?” I say.
He makes a little humming sound. “The last time I took you to a school dance?—”
“Someone died,” I say dully. “Yeah.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” he says, his voice quiet.
I blink. “What were you going to say? The last time you took me to a dance…”
His sigh sends a burst of static down the line. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you sure?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Well, if you take me with you this time, I’ll buy us matching earrings.”
“Tempting,” he says, and I take it as a good sign that I can hear the smile in his voice.
I sigh. “All right, I need to get going. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yep,” he says, and then he hangs up.
I toss the phone away from me and close my eyes, forcing myself to take a few deep breaths.
Logically, pretty much any emotion from me would make sense right now.
I’m in the middle of learning terrible truths about myself and my parents and my past. I still see Sandy’s dead body when I close my eyes.
There’s no emotional reaction that wouldn’t make some sort of sense in this situation.
But my frustration and disappointment are still sharp and biting in my chest, welling up from who knows where and for who knows what reason.
Usually when I’m feeling off, I look forward to yoga—endorphins and all that. Today, though, I dress sluggishly, dragging my leggings up my legs and getting tangled in my sports bra for longer than a grown woman should be tangled in any sort of clothing.
Although…
I perk up a little at the thought that occurs to me. I could take another run at Gus. Figure out what “incident” stopped Sandy from coming to yoga.
I can hear the more mature part of my mind telling me to slow down, to stop hunting for new information when I’m struggling to process the things I already know.
But the other part of me, the louder part, is grasping at straws in the dark, trying to make sense of everything that’s happening.
To find reasons and logic in the things that keep me awake at night.
Because maybe, if I can figure the scary things out, they won’t be so scary anymore.
When I arrive at the studio, I’m pleased to see that Gus is smiling his usual too-happy smile. He chats here and there with class members in between classes, disappearing into his office every now and then. This should bode well for my possibly invasive questions later.
Right? A good mood should mean it’s easier to get him to talk.
I just need to try to be subtle. I bite my lip, thinking as I watch him moving around.
It might also be time to fill him in just a little bit on what’s going on.
That will help him realize that I’m really not being nosy; I just need to know.
I do take a few minutes to eye his muscles nervously, though.
Those babies could do some serious damage if he decided to pick me up and chuck me down the staircase or something.
I smile as Matilda’s words come to mind—that my blind date “probably couldn’t bench press three hundred pounds, but he could for sure bench press you. ”
Gus could bench press three hundred pounds, and me, and the whole bench—all at once.
I keep an eye on him for the remainder of the afternoon.
Partly it’s to stay apprised of his mood; partly it’s because if I let myself sink into my thoughts, I’ll inevitably end up stewing over all the troubling things that have been happening lately.
So I choose to stare at my unsuspecting boss instead, like a weirdo, while going through the motions of my classes.
I wait halfheartedly for the endorphins to show up, but—and maybe it’s just the state I’m in—they’re conspicuously absent.
When the last class lets out and the studio is filled with the bustle of sweaty yogis rolling up mats and chugging from water bottles, I begin solidifying my approach.
I smile and wave to everyone who leaves, my mind barely engaged with the interactions, my eyes once more lingering on my boss.
His mood hasn’t changed; he still seems happy and cheerful as per usual, that perma-smile plastered firmly in place.
It doesn’t take long for the studio to empty until it’s just the two of us again, and that’s when I approach Gus.
“Hey,” I say to him, gathering my fleeing courage like a cowgirl with a lasso, reining it in and forcing it to stick around. It’s time to do this. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” he says. It’s hard to tell exactly how he feels about this request, because while his eyes seem curious, his mouth is still smiling. So…maybe pleasantly curious? Happily curious? Or maybe he’s not happy but it just takes a few seconds for the smile to fade?
He looks around awkwardly for a second before gesturing to his office. “Come in, I guess.”
“Oh,” I say, holding up one hand. “It’s not official or anything. I really just—well. I wanted to talk to you about Sandra. Sandra von Meller.”
Gus’s posture shifts so minimally I almost don’t notice, but it reminds me of a cat when its ears swivel toward you and its entire body freezes. Alert, wary, paying attention to see what happens next.
“Gus,” I say, sighing when I see the slight stiffening of his shoulders.
“Please. I really need to know about the incident with Sandra. Something—she’s—I think something happened to her.
” I swallow, following my instinct to tell him at least part of the truth.
“She’s missing,” I say. “So if you know anything that could help, anything at all…” I turn my pleading eyes to him.
I’m not normally someone who begs, but I’m willing to right now.
Gus just looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tight. “What do you mean, she’s missing?”
Crap. This is not working. His expression couldn’t be more skeptical or suspicious if he tried.
I sigh, running my hand through my hair and frowning when I remember how gross and sweaty I am.
“The last time anyone has seen her was at the Homecoming dance. Her mom thinks she’s on a road trip, but…
” I trail off, debating how much to tell him.
“But she’s not,” I finally say, the words heavy on my tongue.
“I can’t tell you how I know. I really can’t.
It’s too crazy of a story. But I can promise you that something happened to her, and whatever you know might help me figure out why. ”
He continues to stare down at me, and his expression doesn’t change, but I do notice with rising hope that his face has paled a bit. Maybe I’m getting through to him after all.
He finally breaks eye contact, his gaze darting away as he looks at the photo above the water fountain.
“Did something bad really happen to her?” he says in a quiet voice.
I swallow. “Yes,” I say.
His eyes cut back to me. “Did she—is she—” His voice breaks, words cracking jaggedly in half before he finds them again. “Is she gone?”
“Yes,” I say, because I know what he’s asking. “She’s…gone.”
“And you’re sure.” It’s not a question.
I think back to Sandy’s body, lying on the forest floor. “ Yes,” I say softly. “I’m sure.”
“Why haven’t you told the police?”
That’s a fair question. “I have,” I say with a sigh. “But someone has Sandy’s phone and is using it to impersonate her. Her mother refuses to admit she’s missing, and there’s no…no body.” I swallow again. “So the sheriff isn’t convinced.”
“It’s a small town,” Gus says, rubbing one hand over his face and looking more tired than I’ve ever seen him. “Their resources have never been great, and they’re understaffed. It doesn’t surprise me.”
I nod. “I know. So…will you help me?”
He nods without hesitation, and I try to clamp down on the relief that floods through me.
“Sandy was seeing someone,” he says bluntly.
“I—what?” I say, my eyes widening. “How do you know? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says. His words are weary as he goes on, “And it wasn’t a high school boy, either. It was a man.”
“A…man?” Lionel? That’s how she knew him? They were sleeping together? “You’re positive? How do you know?”
“I saw a picture on her phone,” he says, looking uncomfortable.
“She left it on the bench”—he points to the bench lining one wall of the room—“and I picked it up just as it started ringing. His contact picture was the two of them in matching pink hoodies. Their hoods were up, and I didn’t recognize the guy, but I could tell he wasn’t a kid her own age. He looked older.”
“He could just be a tall student,” I say, thinking.
Gus nods slowly. “I thought that was possible too, until she answered the phone. I—well, I sort of eavesdropped.”
I raise my eyebrows, silently telling him to go on.
And then Gus drops a bomb that obliviates everything in my mind, every racing thought and half-formed idea. Four words, immeasurable impact.
“He was a teacher.”
Gus’s words play through my mind over and over as I rush from the studio, flying down the stairs and jumping into Sunshine.
She called him ‘Teach,’ and then they started arguing about her calling him that when someone might hear.
She told him he was acting like a crotchety old man and then started teasing him about his gray hairs.
I think maybe she was trying to calm him down.
She told him she would see him at school the next day.
I was about to stop listening when she started saying a bunch of lovey-dovey stuff—I really was.
But she, uh…well, she caught me listening.
It was awkward, and she got really angry.
My brain is buzzing so loudly that I almost miss the correct turnoff—twice.
I do manage to make it to the high school, though, maybe miraculously.
The student lot is small but mostly empty now that the school day has ended; I park at the edge of the lot overlooking the track and football field, not bothering to adjust my car within the space.
Then I hop out, slamming the door shut behind me.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. All I can think about is the photo of Sandra her mother showed us, the one of her in the fuchsia hoodie.
That image keeps flashing through my mind, alternating with the faint memory of the first day I arrived here in Autumn Grove—the bad parking job in front of Grind and Brew, and the one thing that was just obnoxious at the time:
The car that was following me.
I search that memory more frantically, playing desperately through every detail I can conjure.
The car followed me down Main and to Grind and Brew, and I thought I saw it when I left Namaste that day, too.
It was white, I remember, so it could have been Sandra’s, especially since I know she was following Aiden later.
The people in that car were wearing some kind of obnoxious pink, but was it that same fuchsia? Was that them—Sandy and her mystery man? But if she was dating a teacher on the down low, why would they be in public together?
Although…they were in a car. They might have assumed that would be safe, especially if they were just stopping by.
I turn around as I hear the sharp blast of a whistle. There are students down below, probably the cross country team—some of them are sitting in the grass, stretching; others are jogging around the track. A couple more are standing by the goal post, chatting.
Those things aren’t what catch my attention, though. What catches my attention is the number of vivid fuchsia shirts I see; several t-shirts and two long-sleeved shirts. My gaze darts more intently over the scene below.
And then a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the brisk breeze and everything to do with the cross country coach, who I’ve just spotted.
He’s standing at the edge of the track with a clipboard in hand, the other hand on his hip. Dark hair, graying at the temples. Charismatic smile. A bright fuchsia hoodie.
A man who knew my mother and her friends.
A man who I know to have the same clear blue eyes as the brother he so loathes.
The same eyes, in fact, that I see when I look in the mirror.
I swallow my scream as the man in question looks up suddenly, waving when he spots me. I force my trembling body to respond, lifting my hand and waving in response.
Rocco Astor smiles.