Burning Blue

Bendix: “How do I feel about Nicole?”

Barrone: “See, right there. That’s the first tell. I ask a question, you repeat it. You need time to think, and you try to fill the silence by repeating the question. Here’s the second tell: A liar looks right. What’s your name?”

Bendix: “Da-David Bend-”

Barrone: “You’re looking me in the eye. You’re telling me the truth. If I replay this video for you, you’ll see that every time you tell the truth, you’re either looking at me or to the left. When you lie, your eyes tick right. I ask where you live, you tell me Haasbruck Estates: eyes left. DOB, parents’ names for the record, kid brother’s grade in school: eyes left. But when I ask you about Nicole? Eyes right, every time.”

Dave folded his arms on the tabletop and dropped his head into them. “I’m telling you the truth. I swear.”

Barrone: “I get that a lot. Where, David? Where were you when Nicole was hit?”

Bendix’s lawyer: “That’s more than enough, Detective.”

Dave Bendix wiped his eyes and looked directly into Jessica Barrone’s. “Nicole either didn’t see me, or for some unimaginable reason she’s lying to you, Detective. I don’t know why. I really don’t. I was there. I was in the cutout, at the water fountain.”

Barrone squinted as she studied Bendix. She shook her head and muttered, “Shit.”

I watched the interview again, and then again.

Dave Bendix came into Schmidt’s office that day to beg Nicole Castro to testify that she saw him in the cutout. But she wouldn’t, because she hadn’t. So then where was Dave when Nicole was hit?

Coach used to make us do sidestep drills to keep us light on our feet, light enough to tail somebody in silence. When Nicole turned to blow Dave a kiss, he could have sidestepped around her. When she spun back for B-wing, he could have been there with the squirt bottle. This was if Dave was lying. What if he was telling the truth? I replayed the end of the interview. He seemed absolutely sincere.

Maybe Nicole really didn’t see him. The alternative was horrifying, especially after spending time with her that afternoon, seeing how awesome she was with the kids in the hospital: Nicole was lying.

I dug through my closet for my own Volta-Shock bottle. I was going to fill it with water to see if I could accurately squirt just one part of my face. Then I remembered I’d put it with my wrestling crap into the Goodwill bag my father was getting together.

I was checking out the Volta-Shock site to see if I could order the exact same bottle online when my email popped a notification that I had a new message. The sender line was N CSATRO with a Brandywine Hollows High School domain, and the subject line was SOMEBODY HAS A CRUSH ON ME. I realized too late something was very wrong, clicking as I reread the sender line. No way the real Nicole would misspell her own name. There wasn’t any attachment, but just clicking the email was enough. A video overtook my screen, piercing strobe lights. My Nokia buzzed, caller ID “Angela Sammick.” My brain couldn’t coordinate my hands to pick up the phone. I just stared at it as it buzzed away, the strobe flashes popping at me from my computer screen. Angela tried a text, too late: DID YOU GET CRUSH EMAIL? DO NOT OPEN! Lightning flashed inside my bedroom. Everything went fish-eye.

I woke an hour later in the hallway, on the floor. My sweatpants were wet. I lay there for a long time, gasping, and then I sat up. I stayed like that for a while longer, trying to figure out who hated me enough to send me that seizure trigger. I was almost hoping it was one of the Kerns brothers or some other bully from school, knowing it wasn’t. Eventually I was able to stagger to my laptop and the phone. I called Angela. She picked up with, “Tell me you got my messages.”

“Yup.”

“Glad I caught you in time.”

“You didn’t, but thanks for having my back.”

“Sorry, Jay. Was it bad?”

“Nah. Did you get a backtrack on the source?”

“He scrubbed the machine ID when he ran the email through the school server, but I got the address, for what it’s worth.” She emailed it to me. I stared at it:

swdidpibwdipvbigoigiwubpi@brandywine_hollows_hs.edu.

“What’s it mean?”

“Randomly tickle the keyboard, and you’ll get the same sort of mess. Not that we needed any more proof of this, but this dude’s a dick. He’s just having a ball with himself. What’d you turn up last night?”

I gave her everything I had and instructions on what to do with it, then I headed for the shower, lay down in the tub and let the water burn me.

THIRTY-ONE

From Nicole’s journal:

What day is it? What night? I’m burning, burning, burning blue.

THIRTY-TWO

Thursday morning I woke late. No way I’d make it to second period on time. I forged myself a note from my father and headed off for school, stopping in at the Clarion on the way. “Do I look as bad as you do?” Pete said.

“Do you feel as crappy as I do?” I said. I asked him if he could talk to his boss about killing the Burned Beauty’s Beau storyline. He said he knew nothing about it. I flipped the paper to the gossip page.

“You think I read this rag?” he said. “I just work here.”

“Can you get Puglisi to back off Nicole?”

“He’s not one of ours. We don’t have the budget anymore to do stakeouts.”

“He’s on your payroll.”

Pete frowned. “Now Jay, I’m not going to ask how you know that. Anyway, if we are cutting him checks, it’s on a freelance basis. I’m sure we pick up his pictures from the syndication pool. And even if he was in-house, the chances of my being able to freeze this story are zero.” He circled the cap line over the picture: BURNED BEAUTY BEHIND THE UMBRELLA. “This kind of trash is the only thing selling papers these days. Her best bet is to stop running. The story dies when the mark comes forward and sits for an interview.”

“The mark?”

“The object of attention. Nicole. Gossip junkies love the chase. End that, you end the story.”

“She’ll never sit for an interview. The only alternative is to nab him.”

“Say again?”

“The perp. Catching him would kill the story.”

Pete shook no way. “That’s when it begins. They’ll be running columns and talking-head interviews with so- called experts until the trial ends and they march the unrepentant nutcase to the psych ward. Your friend is going to be living with this for a long time, and the more she hides, the worse it’ll be.” Pete studied the picture of Nicole, her mother and me in the diner parking lot, doing our best to hide behind Mrs. Castro’s umbrella and only half succeeding. “My advice?” he said. “Stay the hell away from her.”

My phone had been buzzing with a text. Starbucks Cherry: Hey, have you been getting my texts? Swing in for a free coffee sometime. Don’t. Be. Scared. I don’t bite, promise. I merely gnaw.

THIRTY-FIVE