“Can you estimate? I’m supposed to be at my mother’s assisted living facility right now.”
“Ma’am, I appreciate this is stressful for you. You have the choice to leave or to remain on the property, but you may not interfere with the search.” She nods toward a young woman standing nearby in uniform. “Officer Michaelson?”
The woman takes a tiny step up the walkway toward me, her hands hooked in her pockets, her hips laden with a radio and a gun.
I walk past her and back to the curb. It’s a beautiful autumn day, with crisp air and cloudless blue skies. A duo of young mothers with jogging strollers whizzes through the intersection toward the park. It’s suburban bliss, but I am in my own personal hell. At the far end of the block, I can see a small group of dog walkers who have collected in the middle of the road and are staring in my direction. I can’t blame them. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened here since, well, since Rob Avery was murdered.
I shiver. The reality of it is closing in. A man was murdered, and the police think that I am involved. Even having a lawyer isn’t going to stop them from going through my house, my personal things.
If there was a tiny part of me that thought this was all a sick prank, the truth is glaringly obvious: I am in deep trouble. I realize that if Artie Zucker does call back, I don’t even have my phone on me. Like a swimmer far from shore, I cannot let myself panic, lest I go under and don’t come up. A lump forms in my throat, making it all but impossible to swallow. I won’t cry. Not in the street, not in front of my neighbors.
I watch as several uniformed officers and Detective Katz march into my house after Detective Lopez. What could they possibly find in my house? The first thing that pops into my head is whether the house is neat enough. Did I make the bed? Do I have clothes, underwear, bras lying around? What about the dishes? I shake away those petty concerns and open the warrant. It looks like a standard form that has been filled in with my name and address and today’s date. The middle section has space to write in the basis for the search. Someone has typed Evidence relevant to the commission of an act of murder in violation of Maryland Criminal Law Code 2–201.
The words swim before me. I sink down onto the curb and put my head between my knees. I stare at my feet, unsure of my next move.
Soon a pair of scuffed-up, black Converse high-tops moves into my field of vision. Shielding my eyes from the autumn sun, I look up to see Dustin looming above me.
“Do you want me to call my mom?” he asks.
“Isn’t she at the doctor’s?” I ask. He frowns, confused. “No, don’t bother your mom. Shouldn’t you be at school?”
He shrugs. “I don’t have first period.”
I nod as if I believe this. I have too much going on to parent someone else’s child right now.
“I got arrested once,” Dustin says. “It was pretty scary.”
“I bet.” I stand up, uncomfortable seated while Dustin hovers above me. For a few moments, we stand in an embarrassing silence, and it occurs to me that the way this neighborhood works, loads of people must already know the police are at my house, and the only person who has come by to offer support is my socially awkward teenage neighbor.
“Can I borrow your cell phone?” I ask. Dustin types in his password and hands it to me. I try Mark’s numbers, but like before, there’s no answer. I turn my back to Dustin to leave a message. “Mark, you need to call me as soon as you get this. Or come home. The police are searching the house.”
I use Dustin’s phone to search for Artie Zucker’s office number. When his voice mail picks up, I leave another message even more frantic than the last. “Please call me, or just come to my house now.”
“Police have your phone?” Dustin asks when I hand his back.
“Yeah.”
“They can get all your data, deleted pictures, locations, everything, in a matter of minutes now.”
“You know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?”
He gives me a half grin. “Yeah. You know, if someone messes with you online, in that many different places, there’s going to be crumbs left behind.”
“Crumbs?” Despite myself, I am intrigued. “Like digital fingerprints?”
Dustin frowns. “Bad analogy. It’s not unique to a person, but there’ll be enough little traces that it’ll all add up to something.”
I toy with whether to tell him about the fake Facebook and Tinder pages.
“The question is,” he says, “are they doing this remotely? I mean, how did they put the Tinder app on your phone?”
I feel the blood rush to my face. “How do you know about that?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe I heard my mom talking about it? Anyway, if you change your mind about wanting help…”
“Thanks, Dustin, but I’m just trying to get through this.” I wave my hand toward my house. What I need is a good lawyer, not a computer hacker.
A white Lexus screeches to a halt on the corner, and Daisy climbs out and jogs over to me.
“Oh, Allie! Are you okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer but wraps her arms around me and hugs.
“How did you know?” I ask, pulling back.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s all over the Eastbrook Facebook page. There are even photos.”
I swivel my head around. Photos? I didn’t see anybody taking pictures. I realize Karen Pearce is gone. She was here when the police pulled up.
“Do you know who posted them?” I ask.
She frowns. “Didn’t check. Just hopped in my car and came right over.” She looks over at Dustin. “Dustin, what are you doing here? Don’t you have school or something?”
He shrugs and
