Following Page 7

  “I won every game of Chutes and Ladders,” his sister says.

  “Are you sure your brother didn’t let you win?” her father says, grinning at Greg.

  “I beat him fair and square.”

  “Uh, yeah, you did,” Greg tells his sister with a tentative smile.

  Greg had been babysitting his sister. Playing games with her. So maybe he wasn’t looking out of his window to see me retrieving my notebook.

  I breathe a little easier.

  But as soon as they enter the house, his smile vanishes, and he glances up and down the street once more before closing the door.

  Moving away, I cross the street farther down, then hurry back to the playground. With more resolve than ever to find the evidence I need, I jump on Charlie’s bike and pedal furiously toward home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The last shot was fired, followed by silence. Fired by the shooter, having saved the last bullet for himself, it turned out. As I learned later, the police who’d been there to offer security for the fair had not gotten off a single shot while the shooter had gotten off eight rounds, with six of them finding their targets. The whole thing took less than a minute.

  Within seconds there were people crying, calling for help, and police shouting out orders.

  So many voices. “Get over here!”

  “Here’s another one. Just lay still. Help is coming.”

  “Christ, how many are there?”

  “Four, I think. They’re all alive. Is there anybody else shot?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t see…”

  “Did someone call for ambulances?”

  “I did. They’re on their way.”

  Chaos. Confusion. A woman screamed. A male voice said, “Don’t try to move—it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

  Then two men were talking. Cops, maybe?

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. Blew the back of his head off.”

  “Good. It saved me from doing it for him.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Never saw him before in my life.”

  All at once, Chief Walker appeared above me. “Can you get up, Alden?” he asked. I nodded, and he helped me up, eyes running up and down my body. I realized I have blood all down the front of me. “Are you shot?”

  “I…I don’t think…”

  He looked past me at the ground, his face turning ashen. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. Then turning, he shouted, “I need help over here, right now! Right now! Where are those goddamn ambulances?”

  And as if on cue, I heard sirens far in the distance, but I was looking down at what had caused the police chief’s face to drain of color.

  I remembered my father trying to pull me down, protect me, but I’d somehow ended up on top of my parents; it was their blood on me. My father was now lying partially on top of my mother, his right arm around her shoulder, as if he had hoped to protect her, too. Blood from both of them continued to flow out, mingling together.

  “Hurry!” Chief Walker shouted, louder, almost screaming. “Hurry!”

  There were tears on his face before another police officer gently pulled me aside. “Over here, sweetheart,” she said in a kind voice. “Let them do their work.”

  And, again, as if on cue, two paramedics arrived, crouching down to check on my mom and dad. Chief Walker appeared again, this time with Dr. Taubin, one of our local physicians. The doctor must have been attending the summer fair. “I don’t think it’s his blood,” the police chief said, “but could you check him out for me, Joe?”

  The doctor said, “Sure, Matt,” and gave me the once-over. I couldn’t remember what either of us had said. “No wounds,” he told Charlie’s father. “But I think he’s in shock. You should have him looked at at the hospital.

  Where was Charlie? I’d been talking to her just a few minutes ago. Or was it an hour ago? I wasn’t sure.

  I’m watching the paramedics and the doctor continue to work on my parents. I should be crying at least, or screaming, or begging the paramedics to please save my mother and father, but nothing seemed real.

  At one point, I found myself walking toward the body of the shooter, who was lying on his back, uncovered, on the ground. Blood and brain matter formed a pattern on the grass at his head, but I was staring at his eyes, which were wide open, and his mouth was frozen in a half smile, as if, even in death, he was glad about what he’d done.

  His name, Alan Harder, would be in the news every day for the next week, as would many theories as to why he did it—most, if not all of them, only guesses. But that day, at that moment, before the officer returned to put her arm around me and steer me toward Chief Walker’s car in order to follow the ambulances carrying my parents to the hospital—before all that, I stared at the face of the man who had killed my parents.

  And realized I had seen him before.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Apparently, Uncle Bill was never much of a churchgoer, but that changed when he became my guardian. He knew Dad and Mom had taken me to church most Sundays, and he was determined to continue the weekly tradition. At first. But lately, as work has piled up, making him more tired than usual, we’ve missed some Sunday services. Missed the last two Sundays, in fact, which has suited me just fine. Any interest I might have had in attending church has been pretty much gone since my parents’ deaths.

  But this particular Sunday morning is different. I want to go. That’s because the Matthes family will be there. They go almost as often as Amy Sloan’s family; with Mr. and Mrs. Sloan out of town, this might be the first Sunday service they’ve missed in years. Greg even goes on the few Sundays when the rest of his family aren’t there, so he can be with Amy. He and Amy always sit together. Not this morning, though. People will think it’s because Amy’s at church camp, but I know the truth. So does Greg, and I want to see how it affects him.

  If he shows up at all.

  I’m already dressed and eating cereal when Uncle Bill trudges downstairs, scratching his crotch, still dressed in the lounge pants and worn-out T-shirt he wears to sleep in. Seeing me, he stops at the bottom of the stairs, surprised.

  “You’re dressed already,” he says, taking note of my black slacks and light blue polo shirt.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Church.”

  “I was thinking…uh…maybe we wouldn’t go this morning,” Uncle Bill says. “We’d just sleep in.”

  “But you’re up,” I point out.

  “I was just coming down to get the paper, some coffee, then go back to sleep for a bit before I have to go to work.”

  “We haven’t been in a couple weeks,” I remind him.

  He doesn’t seem to know how to answer that and fumbles for words. “Well, uh… Well, I guess…” He looks upstairs longingly, as if his bedsheets are calling to him to get back under them. “Just let me change…”

  “I’ll go by myself,” I say.

  He looks at me. “I just need a minute—”

  “I’m serious. You’re right. You’ve been really busy. You need the rest. Sleep in until you have to go to work. I’ll be fine going to church by myself.”

  “How will you get there?” Uncle Bill asks.

  “I have one of Charlie’s bikes. I’ll use that.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay then.” He hesitates, then asks, “You’ve got plans this afternoon?”

  “Like I said last night, homework. I’ll probably go to the library.”

  “Right.” He nods. “I’ll be home by seven. I’ll bring pizza with me. You want the usual?”

  “Sure.” I keep smiling as he heads back upstairs, apparently forgetting his intention to get the newspaper and coffee, just happy to get a little more sleep, which makes me feel more guilty about all the hours he pu
ts in so he can take care of me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I arrive at church five minutes before the 10:00 a.m. service is scheduled to begin, with the sanctuary about three-quarters full. There’s an open space at the end of a pew next to Charlie, whose parents are sitting next to her on her left. Her mom says, “Hello, Alden,” and her dad nods a greeting to me, then glances around the room, looking for my uncle. It’s not uncommon for me to sit next to Charlie and her family on the Sundays she and I both attend while Uncle Bill sits across the aisle by himself. He could sit with me if he wants, but he seems to prefer being alone, looking very solemn and sad, with his head down most of the time. Still mourning my parents, my father—his brother—in particular, after all these months.

  When he doesn’t see him anywhere, Chief Walker seems about to say something to me before changing his mind and turning his gaze back to the front of the church. I hadn’t thought about how strange it might look, me coming here by myself.

  Charlie leans toward me and whispers, “Where’s your uncle?”

  “He decided to sleep in before he has to go to work,” I whisper back.

  I expect her to ask why I would come alone then, but she’s no dummy. I watch her gaze go to the third row where the Matthes family is sitting, where they always sit every Sunday; Greg, with no Amy here, sits between his father and little sister. After a moment, she leans toward me again and whispers, “Be careful. Don’t overdo it.”

  After another minute of waiting, Reverend Davis stands and approaches the altar, and the service begins.

  While I’ve taught myself how to keep an eye on someone without flat-out staring, I’ve never tried it in a room with this many people. Greg and his family are three rows in front of me, which is good. But they are sitting to my right. If they were on my left I could watch Greg while also looking at the minister as he talked. But in order to see Greg and still keep my gaze pointed toward the altar, I need to watch him from the corner of my eye without turning my head too much. It’s not easy to do, and at one point, after catching myself staring too long at Greg, I find Chief Walker frowning at me. Keeping my calm, I act as if I didn’t notice and return my attention to the pastor. I keep my gaze toward the altar for a good five minutes before going back to watching Greg in the periphery.

  During announcements, when the preacher brings up the “precious young people from our congregation who have been attending camp this weekend” each by name, Greg seems to flinch when he mentions Amy. Later in the service, the pastor sermonizes about the destruction of keeping secrets from our loved ones, and I notice Greg pulling his gaze away from the minister. He puts his head down and stays that way.

  I wish I had my notebook to write this all down.

  At one point while focusing on Greg, I feel a sudden jab in my side, and I turn to see Charlie glaring at me with the tray of communion bread in her hand. As she passes it along, I notice her father frowning at me again. He turns, and I concentrate on chewing communion until it liquefies in my mouth.

  Greg still has his head down. At one point, his father looks at him then leans over to say something. Greg nods and keeps his head up after that, watching the pastor. When Pastor Davis asks the congregation to rise, Greg is a little slow to move. His sister jabs him, and at first he seems annoyed, but once he’s on his feet, he smiles at her, whispering something that makes her giggle, and prompts a frown from Mr. Matthes.

  He seems normal for the remainder of the service. Just another typical Sunday morning.

  Except I know it’s not typical.

  I notice more than Greg during the service. People look at me too. Nothing obvious, just quick, furtive glances. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve come to church by myself, but I think it’s something else.

  I know the look, and I understand it. People were very nice, very kind to me right after the shooting. Even classmates who had paid no attention to me before offered me words of condolence. But it’s been ten months since my parents were killed, and, still, people give me looks of pity, or sadness, or try to convey how brave they think I am. Like they thought I would’ve just gone into hiding after what happened and never come out. I understand them, though. They want to be compassionate. And they’re doing their best.

  What’s worse are those who look at me as if they’re grateful. Grateful that what happened to me didn’t happen to them. Thank God they didn’t lose any loved ones that day. Thank God it was my parents who died that day and not them.

  So many people in this town have known me since I was born, have watched me grow up. But I’m not that Alden Ross anymore. Now I’m Alden Ross whose parents were killed.

  A living, breathing reminder of that awful day.

  Once the service is over, people make their way toward the exit. I walk out with Charlie while her parents hang back to talk to friends. As always, Reverend Davis is positioned at the church’s front door so he can shake hands with each congregation member as they leave the building. It’s virtually impossible to avoid talking to the preacher without looking like you’re snubbing him.

  “So nice to see you, Alden,” he says when I reach him, shaking my hand vigorously, a broad smile on his face. “I’ve missed you the past two Sundays. How are you doing, son?”

  “I’m fine,” I answer.

  “I didn’t see your Uncle Bill today,” he notes, looking around. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. I hope he’s feeling all right.”

  “He’s fine. He’s just been busy.”

  “Oh, I see.” He’s still smiling, but judgment flashes in his eyes. “Well, you be sure to tell him I was asking about him.”

  “I will,” I say. And, knowing Uncle Bill, once I tell him, he’ll be sure to be at church next Sunday, no matter how tired he feels. I can’t blame Reverend Davis for laying on a little guilt, though. He performed the funeral service for my parents, and it was clear he’d put some thought into it. He didn’t just go with some canned remarks. He’d chosen a few scriptures I know Mom was fond of and had us all sing three hymns my Mom and Dad had enjoyed. And his sermon had included personal stories about them, emphasizing the humor that had been so much a part of their lives.

  Of our lives.

  I really appreciated that.

  Walking away as other people move up to greet the minister, Charlie mutters to me, “Could you have been more obvious?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You might as well have been wearing a sign saying, ‘I’m here to spy on Greg Matthes.’”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It was close.”

  “You just noticed because you knew what I was doing. Nobody else did.”

  “My dad might have picked up on it a couple of times.”

  We come to a stop. Beyond Charlie’s right shoulder, I see the Matthes family, Greg included, greeting Reverend Davis. Charlie’s parents are next, patiently waiting their turn.

  “Did you notice Greg flinch when the reverend mentioned Amy’s name?” I ask Charlie.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Maybe.”

  The mention of Greg’s name causes both of us to look at him. He’s shaking the pastor’s hand and smiling. Reverend Davis laughs at something Greg says. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was brilliant.

  After moving out of the line, Greg gives his mom and dad each a hug. Then he picks up his sister and hugs her, too.

  “Looks like he’s leaving,” Charlie says.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “Aren’t you going to follow him?”

  “I know where he’s going.”

  “So did you learn anything spying on him here? Or were you hoping to stare him into standing up and confessing to killing Amy in front of everyone?”

  “That would have made things easy.” I watch him walking quickly away from his parents. He’s clearly not the angry, frustrated Greg I s
aw at practice yesterday. He’s more in control, though he still looks like someone with something on his mind. Someone happy to get away from other people so he can drop the everything-is-fine act, if for just a little while.

  Clearly, he hasn’t gone back to the hiding place in his closet to learn that his backpack stained with Amy’s blood is gone. How is he going to react when that happens? Will he be able to keep up the pretense then? And what’s going to happen when Amy’s parents come home Monday night and their daughter is missing?

  “You sure you don’t want my help today?” Charlie asks.

  “I’m sure.” Charlie looks disappointed, so I add, “It’ll be easier and less conspicuous if only one person follows him instead of two. I’ll call you if I need you. Or if something big happens.”

  “You’d better,” she says.

  “I will. I promise.” I don’t want to tell her the other reason I want to do this alone: that maybe she had too much fun breaking into Greg’s house, pushing the limits a little further than they should be pushed.

  “Okay,” she says. “And call me tonight no matter what.”

  Before I have a chance to respond to that, Charlie’s parents appear. “What are you two talking about?” her father asks.

  Without missing a beat, Charlie says, “I was telling Alden I think I just saw Jesus and now I’m saved.”

  Chief Walker frowns at his daughter but can’t help but grin. Mrs. Walker shakes her head at both of them and says, “I’d say something if I thought it’d do any good.” Then she turns to me and asks, “Would you like to have lunch with us at the diner? If your uncle isn’t busy, he could join us there.”