CHAPTER NINE
THE THING ABOUT GUILT
MERIDIAN
Quick, innocent question: was it a) rude and/or b) illegal to throw up all over two police deputies?
I was definitely aware that the odds weren't in my favor. For starters, I was covered in beer from head to toe, and my own breath reeked of the same beverage. Secondly, I had yet to turn twenty-one, along with everyone else in the room who wasn't wearing a police badge, which meant all of us were in serious, illegal trouble. Thirdly, if they wanted to talk to me about June, it probably meant they had already spoken to literally everyone else but the people who had been closest to her.
My stomach churned—not just for me, but for my parents, too.
Sofia.
I made a mental note to text her, to call her, to warn her; if the police wanted to talk to me, chances were they had either spoken to her or that she was probably next. My warning could give her a possibly well-needed head start, since, according to her, Grace had accidentally slipped up and told the cops June had tried to contact most of us on the night she died.
Everyone tried to contact her back. I didn't return the phone call, and it was eating me alive. That was the thing about guilt, I supposed; it was a gnawing voice in the back of your head, with tentacles that felt a lot like chains, that wouldn't leave you alone. It kept you awake during the night, made you dwell on it during the day, and, no matter what you were doing, you'd always let it overtake you.
I also knew I was fully to blame for the way I was feeling. Even though it would certainly be easier to pin it on someone else, it had been my own decisions that had led me down this road, that had probably been a massive factor behind June's death, and that had brought the goddamn police to Stanford.
So, yeah, I supposed it was not the right time for them to be here.
A coppery scent filled my mouth and I realized, one second too late, I had bitten my tongue way too hard. That was certainly ironic, as I had conveniently forgotten to do so mere moments ago during the unpopular opinions drinking game (if I focused enough, I could feel Natasha's glare glued to the back of my head), but I didn't regret the things I had said, not even one bit. If Natasha could dish it out, she had to learn how to take it, too.
"Uh, sure," I blabbered, stepping back to let them enter the room. "I can talk."
"We'd rather do it in private," the female deputy retorted, while her partner gestured for everyone else to leave. They made a beeline towards the door, with Vienna giving my arm a gentle squeeze on her way out and with Natasha not even bothering to look back, and, soon, the three of us were the only people left. I suddenly felt minuscule, even though I was taller than both of them. "Please, sit down."
That was rude. Even though I hadn't lived in the dorms for over a month and a half, Stanford was still my territory, not theirs, and they shouldn't have the authority to tell me to sit down. However, I obeyed like a well-behaved puppy, knowing any wrong moves or words could screw me over in case they already thought I was guilty—which I knew I was, but not directly so. Regardless of how wrong and stupid my decisions from that night had been, I knew I hadn't physically hurt or killed my own sister.
My parents and I had been the lucky ones who got to know the cause of death. According to the autopsy report—and we were still waiting for the toxicology results, because there were things not even my parents' money could buy—she had hit her head somewhere, hard enough to snap her neck when she hit the ground. They knew that from the dent in her skull and knew she hadn't been hit thanks to the direction of the blood splatters, or whatever.
They just didn't know whether she had slipped and fallen on her own or if someone had shoved her—purposefully or by accident. To make things harder for everyone who needed and wanted to figure out the truth, there were no surveillance cameras inside that motel room and, considering it had rained, any tire tracks or footprints had been washed away and the cameras outside hadn't been of much help, either.
That meant all they could do for now was talk to people. I wasn't thrilled, even though part of me knew I should be glad they had made some progress so far. It didn't make me any less furious; in fact, I was even more aware of my own powerlessness, overpowered by that persistent feeling that I could have done more—that I could be doing more right now.
If it had been an accident, something would have driven her to go to that motel, upset enough to call me. If someone else had shoved her—and my blood boiled in my veins just by thinking of that possibility—maybe I could have prevented it from happening by picking up the damn phone. If someone had killed my sister, I—
"As you already know, we're trying to figure out what exactly happened to your sister on the night she died," the male deputy, Deputy Joffrey, began, interrupting my inner monologue, and I crossed the room back towards the couches, feeling as though I was floating. My feet took an eternity to reach the floor with each step I took, like I was staggering across heavy snow. "We're hoping the testimonies from the people who were closest to her can help us piece together an explanation."
My bones hurt.
My lungs struggled to fill with oxygen, the air sticky in my airways like petrol, and bile rose its way up my throat—and I knew it wasn't just because of the alcohol.
Gravity pulled me down to an armchair (we all curiously avoided the wettest one, which was the one where I had been sitting when Natasha ever so kindly poured down her entire beer all over me). "Sure. Ask whatever it is you need to ask me." Then, stupidly, I added, "I'm an open book."
The woman, Deputy Clare, quirked an eyebrow. "Good. That's the type of people we prefer." She pulled out a small notebook and a pen, but I saw no recording devices, not even a cellphone. "Where were you on the night Juniper died?"
"At home," I replied, "studying."
"Can anyone confirm your alibi?"
"My parents were downstairs." My tone sounded overly defensive, even to me, but I knew my answer was too simple, too obvious, only being surpassed by 'I was asleep'. "I could hear the TV and their voices," I added, just in case they suddenly thought I was pitting it on them, out of all people.
She nodded and wrote it down. "I see. Had you noticed anything . . . strange, out of the ordinary? Was June acting any differently?"
I was pretty sure that was a trick question. Lying to cover my own ass and God knows whose else's would make me look negligent, which I was, and wouldn't give them the answers they needed, but they wouldn't look into me. Even though I didn't have anything to hide—I had been fully honest during my first statement and was going to do the exact same thing now—I wasn't sure why I was hesitating.
So, I said,
"I've been living at home ever since a pipe burst here and the maintenance staff has had other stuff to worry about, so they've been postponing repairing it. I guess I should have noticed something"—I ran a hair through my sticky hair—"because I saw her more often than I usually did, but she didn't talk to me much, at least not before she . . ." I cleared my throat, hearing my voice thicken. "She had her friends, you know? If she needed to talk or vent, I wasn't the right person for that. That doesn't mean I didn't notice some things."
"Such as?" Deputy Joffrey insisted, and I shifted in my seat.
"Her ballet school called, one afternoon. They said she had been dodging their calls and hadn't shown up for lessons in, like, a month; she had never skipped one single lesson in her life ever since she first started dancing, so I should have . . . I should have said something. I should have checked in with her, to see if she was okay; I should have told my parents, or something." I exhaled through my mouth, staring up at the ceiling with clouded eyes. "I assumed she'd do it by herself, on her own terms. She had her friends, she had her boyfriend, and I've never been that good at giving pep talks."
Both deputies exchanged a knowing look and I stiffened. That meant I had said something of major significance, and I didn't know what it meant for me or for anyone else.
"Do you think there's anyone who would want to hurt Juniper?" Deputy Clare questioned.
"No, of course not. She never got into trouble with anyone." I gulped, sincerely hoping this wouldn't come back to bite me in the ass. Even though I had never particularly liked the guy, I didn't want him to get in trouble over something he hadn't done; though, if he had something to do with her death, if he had done anything to hurt her, I wanted him to rot in hell. "I did overhear something, though. I'm assuming you've gone through her phone."
Deputy Joffrey sighed. "We did. We also assumed you have talked between you, even though it could potentially jeopardy the investigation."
"You know she called me on the night she died, but that I didn't pick up." Deputy Clare's lips twitched, and I decided to focus on Joffrey instead, who didn't seem to be against me and was playing the good cop. "I heard her argue with her boyfriend days before, and they were on the phone for, like, an hour."
"Do you know what they argued about?"
I shook my head. "Not really. The walls in our house are kind of soundproof for the most part, but I overheard something. It was something about San Francisco and ruined plans."
"What's in San Francisco?"
"My grandparents have a house there. I think she was borrowing it for Spring Break."
I was almost certain they left the Stanford campus convinced Leon was a potential person of interest—even though I wanted to believe otherwise with every fiber of my being—which gave me enough time to bolt out of the building and run towards my car. I needed a shower ASAP, proven by the stench emanating off me, and I could only pray I wouldn't run into any police officers on my drive back home.
It couldn't wait. I had to talk to Sofia.
SOFIA
For the first time in what had seemed like an eternity, I decided to go out for a run before dinner to clear my head.
It hadn't been a completely spontaneous decision, although I wished it had been. I was simply minding my own business in my bedroom, catching up on all the homework piling up on my desk (as it was getting progressively lower on my list of priorities thanks to my dead best friend and all that), when I realized I needed a glass of water. Halfway down the stairs, I overheard my parents.
With an awful, sharp feeling of déjà vu, I stopped on my tracks and listened.
"Maybe we should pitch that idea," Paul suggested, albeit timidly. He had always been one to avoid conflicts, whereas my mom dealt with things headfirst, too headstrong. "We just . . . have to be careful, explain our point of view and how we think it could help her."
"Yeah, well," my mom retorted, pouring yet another glass of red wine (I could smell it from where I was standing), "sugarcoating things never made things better for anyone in this house, has it, Paul?"
"I don't think dropping such a massive bomb on her without accounting for any potential negative consequences is the wisest move, Joyce. Put yourself in her shoes for a moment, will you? June died not that long ago—"
"Which is why we need to act now before things get worse and out of control! Your friend Jeb is a therapist, isn't he? Give him a call, tell him we need to book an appointment for Sofia, and I'll handle the rest." She downed her glass of wine and, when she set it back on a hard surface—the kitchen table or one of the counters—it clinked. "I'm still her mother, Paul. I know what's best for my daughter."
Paul sighed. "She might be your daughter, but she's still eighteen, too. That's going to weigh quite a lot."
"As long as she's living under my roof, she follows my rules. I'm not letting her fall down the same hole Juniper did."
My stomach churned and I had to support myself on the wall next to me to keep my balance. What upset me the most wasn't how they were talking about me as if I weren't here, making decisions about my life in my place as if I weren't a legal, consenting, and sane adult; it pissed me off that my mother was talking about June that way, as if she knew anything.
I ran back upstairs, changed into a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, and put on a pair of running sneakers. My ponytail swung from side to side as I stomped my feet down the stairs once more, and I barely managed to get the words out of my mouth when I announced I was going out for a run and didn't want to be bothered.
I was sure they knew I had eavesdropped. They had been super secretive lately, although they were usually careful to not let me overhear anything, but that had been the second time in a month I had walked in exactly when I should have—and had heard what I didn't want to.
Outside, I plugged in my earphones (I didn't trust my airpods when I was running) and pressed play on the new episode of Selina Locke's podcasts. Ever since she had started doing podcasts, along with her radio talk show, Lock'd, I had felt somewhat lighter, like there was someone out there who could hear me. I related to some of the things she had gone through—feeling like I didn't fit in among so many white people while being Asian, fearing I'd end up like my mother—and it made me feel less lonely.
June had never joined me for a run. She hated jogging, she hated running, and I had never managed to drag her out of her bedroom whenever I needed some exercise. No matter how much I stomped my feet, I never won; she had always been a lot more stubborn than me. Xena usually did it with me, even though her mothers were super strict regarding curfew.
When I got home, forty-five minutes later, my head was lighter, and my muscles ached from head to toe. My mom met up with me in the hallway, holding her glass of wine, and I knew what she was going to say. At least, I thought I did.
However, what came out of her mouth was not what I expected.
"Meridian stopped by," she announced, as I pulled out my earphones, and my heart skipped a beat. After so many years of living right next to him, I would never get used to him showing the slightest bit of interest in me. "I told him to wait upstairs in your room."
"Fine," I murmured.
"Keep the door open," she warned, "at least three inches."
I knew that's not all she wanted to tell me, but I decided to not push the subject. My heartbeat thundered beneath my feet, against my ribs as I made my way towards my bedroom and found everything exactly as I had left it—with one small, yet massive exception.
Meridian stood by my window, staring out of it at the setting sun, all golden, and I swore I had never seen anything so breathtaking in my life. He turned around when he heard my footsteps and, even though I was standing by my door and he was on the opposite side of the room, I could feel the fresh scent of his shampoo.
"Hey," I greeted.
"We have to talk," he replied.
"Okay." I took a deep breath. "You can sit down if you'd like."
He fell to my bed, dragging his backpack along, and I suddenly felt hyper self-conscious. He was fresh out of the shower, hair slicked back and sparkling blue eyes, and I had a layer of sweat trickling down the nape of my neck.
"I found this at my house"—he handed me a used copy of Fahrenheit 451, which I easily identified as the copy June and I had used for our joint essay—"along with a note that said this should be returned to you. June didn't forget about it."
"Oh." I held it carefully with both of my hands and, sure enough, there was a baby-pink post-it note glued to the cover. It read 'THIS IS SOFIA'S'. "Thank you. You could have texted me; I would have—"
"I just talked to the police." My heart momentarily stopped. "June died because she hit her head somewhere and snapped her neck when she fell. We're not supposed to tell this to anyone, so please . . . let's just keep this between us." I nodded once and occupied the space next to him, crossing my legs over my duvet, with tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "They still don't know if it was an accident or if there was foul play involved, but . . ."
"What do you think happened?"
"I don't know, Sof." He lowered his voice. "I wish I did."
We fell silent. I made the mistake of opening the book, flipping through it as though it would change anything, and found something between the pages, halfway through it. It was just a note, probably from the library or something I had left there, but Meridian noticed me staring.
He leaned forward, brushing his hand against mine, I might as well have had a heart attack right then and there. "What's that?"
"I don't know."
I pulled out the note, unfolded it, and nearly felt it disintegrate between my fingers. My lungs were as dry as a desert, even when I let both the note and the book fall to the wooden floor of my bedroom, and, if it hadn't been for Meridian having quick reflexes and wrapping his arms around me, I would have been next.
Sof,
See you in San Francisco.
x J
you know it's serious when i title drop. HA.