“But how is that possible?” she says. She slouches over to the couch and pushes all the unused decorations off, sending them to the floor. Then she flops down in her newly cleared space. “There was alotof it.”
“There was,” I say, trying to remember. “But most of what we saw was on the front of her head and in her hair. We don’t know where she was injured, exactly. She might not have bled on the ground much.”
“And you didn’t recognize her?” Juniper says, a sad little frown on her face. “I hate that I don’t know her name. I told her I would remember her.”
“I recognized she was a student, but I don’t know her name,” I say, and I’m once again filled with the desire to run over to the school, dig out a yearbook, and memorize every name and face. “I’m going to figure out who she was. I’ve got access to student rosters and photos and all that. I think I’ve got a yearbook or two here as well; I’m going to check there in a minute.”
“That’s good,” she says, nodding distractedly. “That’s good.” Then, in a voice so quiet I barely hear her, she says, “You think she’s the one who sent me the note, right?”
I hesitate, unsure of what to say. In truth, my answer is probably yes; no one else came, and the little heart on the exclamation point seems like something a high school girl might use. “I think it’s possible,” I finally admit.
“I can’t help but feel like she died because of whatever she wanted to tell me about my parents.”
I don’t answer that. That’s what it seems like to me too. But it also seems crazy to be having these thoughts at all; this isn’t a crime show. I’m not a detective. Things like this don’t happen in Autumn Grove, and people like me don’t solve mysteries.
And yet when I finally open my mouth to speak, what pops out is another question. “And you don’t know anything about your father?”
“Nothing,” Juniper says, still looking lost in thought. “Except…”
My heart skips a beat. “Except?”
“Except,” she says, turning to me, and a thrill runs through me at the sudden light in her eyes. “There might be someone who does.”
10
IN WHICH JUNIPER MAKES A PHONE CALL
“So you’re asking your mom’s ex if he knows your dad?” Aiden says skeptically.
He’s still sitting on the floor, but now he’s flipping through a yearbook that he retrieved moments ago. It’s apparently the only one he has, and it’s from three years ago. It seems unlikely to me that the girl from last night will be in there—or if she is, I’m not sure she’ll be recognizable—but that doesn’t stop me from looking at him every two seconds to see if he’s found anything. Every so often he holds up the book and points to a picture, and I shake my head or shrug. It’s really hard to tell.
“But she was definitely blonde,” I tell him, not for the first time.
He just nods and continues flipping. Half of his body is bathed in a swath of late-morning light coming from the window, making him glow. That light is deceptive; it promises warmth and sunshine, when I know for a fact that it’s in the thirties out there. I looked like a marshmallow this morning, all bundled up in my puffy coat and earmuffs as I hauled my stress-induced shopping haul back into the house.
In between page flips and frustrated sighs, Aiden has been staring pointedly at the fruits of those shopping labors—the pile of fall decorations I pushed off the couch and onto the floor. That’s where he directs his attention now in his most blatant display thus far; he stares at the mass of garland and pumpkins, then stares at me, and then stares at the decorations again.
“I’ll pick them up, okay?” I finally burst out, rolling my eyes. “Stop with the weird glaring. I’ll leave this room spotless. Happy?”
A spark of devilish amusement flares to life in his eyes, though there’s still a tightness in his lips that I know stems from the yearbook in his lap. “Temper, temper,” he says, tutting. “But yes, that would make me very happy.”
Ugh. So annoying.
“So your mother’s ex?” he prompts, his eyes back on the yearbook as he scans the pages.
“Well, yes, but it’s not quite like that. My half brother, Roland?” I say, and he nods. “It’s his dad. So it’s not just a random ex; it’s her son’s father. His name is Lance. He’s cool; I like him. He’s always been nice to me, and he’s a good dad to Roland.”
Aiden nods slowly, looking up at me. “You think he’ll know something?”
I shrug, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt—which, I notice for the first time, is on inside out. How did that happen? Hopefully Aiden missed that. “He might,” I say. “If anyone would, I think it would be him.”
“Well, call him, then,” Aiden says, nodding at my phone, which is next to me on the couch. “See what he says.”
I’m not sure this is the right direction, but I can’t stand the thought of doingnothing.Maybe my imagination is just running wild, but it’s not impossible that that girl was killed because she wanted to talk to me. And until Aiden finds out who she is, I don’t know what else to do besides search for information about my parents, since that’s what she wanted to tell me about.
“Anything?” I ask him, pointing at the yearbook.
“No,” he says in a frustrated voice. “This is either too old, or I can’t pick her out. The photos are in black and white, and they’re small.”