“Just being careful,” Frankie says. “But yeah. Caesar insisted.”
Caesar insisted? It’s a night of surprises. “God,” I say. “Oh God, Frankie. What if it’s my fault?”
“Easy, güero,” Frankie says. “This isn’t your fault.”
“We go see him and ask about Marisa, and the next day someone sticks a knife in him? That’s not a coincidence.” I run my hands through my hair. Bridges tried to apologize for how he had ended up in my house that one horrible night. And I rejected him, essentially spat in his face. And now he’s dead.
“It’s not your fault,” Frankie says again.
“So who would’ve killed him?” I ask. “Same person who killed Marisa?”
Frankie gives me a look like he’s waiting for me to realize something.
“What?” I ask. “Do you know who—” I stop. There’s one obvious choice. “Damn. You think it was Donny?”
“Makes sense,” Frankie says. “He has the motive—get rid of any witnesses to what he did to your family. Plus Bridges probably had loads of shit on him.”
I slowly nod my head. “Marisa starts asking questions and stirs things up,” I say. “And we still don’t know all that she knew, or how she—”
On my dresser, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Frankie and I exchange a look. On the second buzz, I stand and walk over to the phone to look at the caller ID. I look at Frankie. “You told my uncle?” I say.
“Hell yes, I told your uncle. This is serious shit, Ethan. You need all the help you can get.”
The phone continues to buzz, vibrating on the top of my dresser.
“You should answer that,” Frankie says.
I level a dark look at him, then pick up the phone. “Hello?” I say reluctantly.
“Are Frankie and Caesar there?” Uncle Gavin asks.
“Yeah,” I say, still looking at Frankie. “They’re here. Susannah and I are fine.”
“You’ve an interview with the Atlanta police tomorrow,” my uncle says. “At one o’clock, downtown. Johnny Shaw will meet you there.”
I stand there, trying to absorb what my uncle is saying. “Why?” I manage to say.
“They want to talk to you about the man you spoke with at the monastery. And they’re trying to get a court order for your DNA.”
There’s a specific camera shot in film called a dolly zoom where the camera lens zooms out at the same time that the camera moves forward. Spielberg uses it in Jaws, when the chief is sitting on the beach and the shark strikes. The camera moves or dollies forward at the same time the camera lens zooms out, so you feel like you are both rushing toward and away from the screen at the same time. It’s disorienting as hell, and it’s exactly the way I feel now, talking on the phone to my uncle about meeting with the police.
“You are not being arrested,” Uncle Gavin says. “It’s an interview. So far Shaw’s been able to gum up the works about your DNA, told a judge about the problems with the police lab. You go in and cooperate with the interview, that helps. Shaw has an independent lab to run the test, if it comes to that.”
I nod and wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. “At the monastery,” I begin, about to tell him what we learned, but I stop because Frankie is vigorously shaking his head no and waving his arms in a cut-off gesture.
“Call Johnny Shaw, Ethan,” Uncle Gavin says. “He’ll walk you through it all. It will be fine.”
I let out a laugh that could easily be a bark or a sob. “Fine,” I say. “Sure.”
“Call Shaw,” my uncle says, and then he hangs up.
I look at my phone for a few seconds, then lower it to the dresser. I’d like to lower myself to the floor, maybe lie there on the hardwood, but I have just enough dignity to walk over to my bed, where I sit down again.
“Why’d you wave me off?” I ask Frankie.
Frankie sits down next to me, carefully, like I’m a deer he’s afraid he might spook. “You never know who might be listening to a phone call,” he says.
I turn to stare at him. He looks back at me, calm but with a hint of worry in his eyes. “Are you saying I might be bugged?” I say. “My phone might be wiretapped or something?”
“More like your uncle’s phone might be,” he says. “The cops, the feds, he’s always doing that dance.”
I briefly imagine my uncle doing a little soft-shoe in Ronan’s. Uncle Gavin, the Fred Astaire of crime. I’d laugh if I weren’t afraid I’d descend into hysterics.
“Anyway,” Frankie says, “when you talk to the cops, don’t share anything unless you have to. Answer the questions you have to answer, but that’s it—nothing else.”
“They’re going to want to know if I had anything to do with his death,” I say.
“You were with me yesterday afternoon until I dropped you off here last night,” Frankie says. “You have an alibi for later?”
“I picked up my sister after lunch today. But this morning? No.”
Frankie dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be okay, güero. Johnny Shaw is good.”
He didn’t keep you out of jail, I think, but I don’t say it aloud because it would be cruel and because it’s not exactly a valid argument—Frankie confessed and took a plea deal. I plan on doing neither because I didn’t kill anybody.
My phone vibrates again, trembling on the dresser. It’s probably Johnny Shaw. I get up and pick up the phone, but it’s not a call. It’s an email alert, confirming my video visitation with Fulton County Jail inmate Jay Gardner tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.
I show my phone to Frankie. “Looks like I’m going to get all kinds of comfortable with law enforcement tomorrow.”
“This is the guy Marisa went to see in jail?” Frankie asks.
I nod, looking at my phone. “And the
