I stare at him for a moment, then reach into my pocket and pull out the balled-up tissues. “Didn’t see a trash can in there.”
Shaw lets out a sigh. “Good. You throw that away, it’s all the DNA they need. No expectation of privacy.”
“But I didn’t do it. So why not—”
He shakes his head. “I meant what I said back there. DNA evidence can be sloppy, and I don’t trust the police to do this right. Look at O. J. What you need to do is go home and lay low. Don’t make any out-of-state trips or anything. They know you’re suspended from work, it’s not a great look, but just sit tight. Don’t talk to your landlord about the cops, and do not talk to a reporter.”
“A reporter?”
“Pretty Buckhead girl gets killed and left in the trunk of her car? There’s going to be reporters. If you think talking to Panko was hard, try seeing yourself on the nightly news.” I must look horrified, because he smooths out his tone. “Look, if they get a court order for your DNA, I can raise a stink about the Atlanta PD’s crime lab; they botched a serial rape case last year. I know a good lab; the police would rather outsource to them than send a DNA test to GBI, because that would take weeks.”
Johnny Shaw continues trying to mollify me as we drive on through rush hour traffic, and I tune out his voice and try to process all of this, but it’s like trying to process a storm when you are in the middle of it. Someone killed Marisa, and I’m a suspect. And I just lied to the police about when I last heard from Marisa. I realize I still have Panko’s card in my hand. How would he react if I called and told him the truth about Marisa’s phone and the texts? Then Susannah and Uncle Gavin, and Frankie and Caesar, would all get sucked into the same vortex of shit with me. I can’t let that happen.
Before I know it, the car pulls up at the foot of my driveway, and I get out, then bend down to look at Johnny Shaw in the back seat. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” I say to Johnny Shaw, reaching out to shake his hand.
He takes my hand in a strong grip. “Oh, I’m good, but maybe not that good,” he says. “You oughta thank your uncle.”
I frown. “My uncle?”
“You see the precinct captain come in at the end, talk to Panko? He told Panko to cut you loose.”
“You’re saying Uncle Gavin got the cops to let me go?”
Shaw drops my hand and shrugs. “They got to ask you their questions. It was enough.” He leans back in his seat, and I take the hint and close the car door and watch as they drive away.
Wilson is overjoyed to see me and almost pees all over the doormat before I can get him out of the house and into the yard, where he starts sniffing the bushes for chipmunks. That night he sleeps curled up at the foot of my bed while I stare at the ceiling, everything about Marisa and my uncle and the police tumbling through my mind. I know that I need answers about what Marisa did, and I need to get them before the police decide to blow my life up even more. Tomorrow Frankie and I will drive to that monastery, Johnny Shaw’s warning be damned, and see what we can find out. With that thought, exhausted and more than a little sick at heart, I fall mercifully asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Frankie picks me up when the early-morning light is washing from blue to gray and the birds are not yet singing. I step out onto my porch when he arrives, the Frankenstein rumbling and shivering the air. Wilson lets out a single yip from inside and then falls quiet. I hate leaving him alone again, even though my neighbor Gene told me he would let Wilson out and take him for a walk.
Frankie sits behind the wheel, one arm slung out the open window. He is wearing a crisp blue-and-white pinstriped button-down, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows, and dark jeans. Briefly I consider my own outfit—shorts, a clean T-shirt, and a hoodie for the cool morning. I look ready for the beach. “You going on a date?” I ask.
“We’re going to a monastery,” he says. “Wanted to show some respect.” He glances at the sandals on my feet. I haven’t seen Frankie’s footwear, but I’m guessing he’s wearing black loafers.
“You’re dressed up enough for the both of us,” I say. “Look, before we go anywhere … the cops came by yesterday. Questioned me about Marisa.” Frankie just looks at me as I stand in the driveway, so I keep going. “They didn’t arrest me, but they’re clearly interested in me as a suspect. I’m still going to find out what Marisa did. But I don’t want to get you in any more trouble. If you don’t want to take me to the monastery, that’s cool.”
Frankie looks at me, his expression unchanging. After a few moments he says, “You wait to tell me until I show up to drive you there? You could have called.”
I stare at him. “I don’t have your phone number.”
“Could have called the bar.”
He has a point. “Shit, Frankie, I’m sorry; I didn’t want my uncle to ask—”
A smile slowly unfurls on Frankie’s face.
I stop. “You asshole,” I say.
“Get in the car,” Frankie says. “I told you I’d take you.”
I get in the car,
