I tiptoe into the only other room in sight and know instantly that it belongs to Chase. It’s almost as tidy as his dad’s room-bed made, clothes picked up, shades drawn even, but at half-mast, not all the way. On the nightstand is a framed picture of a beautiful woman with blond hair and Chase’s eyes, green as emeralds. His mother. Except for some loose change, the photograph is the only thing on the little table.
I glance around the room, taking in an autographed baseball in a plastic holder on his dresser, a phone charger, and a paperback book I can’t make out. There aren’t any posters on his walls, but there are photographs of the Cleveland Indians and a team picture of the Red Sox.
I should leave. On the way out of Chase’s room, I take one more peek into his dad’s. The only halfway messy thing is the built-in desk. File folders line the back of the desktop, and even those stand at attention, like books on a library shelf.
I wonder if Jeremy’s case file is in there. I check the window that faces the garage and see Chase with some kind of blow-dryer thing still hard at work on the car.
I have to see Jeremy’s file, if there is one. I go back to the line of folders that stretches from one edge of the pine desk to the other. I don’t have time to go through all of them.
I’m willing to bet that these files are arranged alphabetically. I thumb through, and I’m right. But there’s no “L.” No “Jeremy Long.”
Then I get another idea. The victim.
It only takes a second to find the file labeled “Johnson.” Quickly, I pull out the folder and open it. There are piles of court documents, copies of arrest and search warrants, forms and petitions.
And then I see the photos, lots more crime scene photos than I saw at Raymond’s house, maybe four or five times more. I wonder if Raymond has more pictures than the ones I saw.
The photo on top is the same one I saw at Raymond’s-Coach Johnson, bloody and curled into a ball on the floor of the stable. Or maybe it’s not exactly the same photo. I go to the next photo in the file, and it’s also like the one I saw at Raymond’s, only different too. More complete somehow. But I can’t put my finger on it. In a dozen photos, Coach is lying in the exact same spot. Junk from his pockets mixes with the straw and sawdust-cell phone, a receipt or something wedged under one shoulder, a ticket or stub.
A door slams.
I shut the folder and cram it back with the others, hoping I have it in the right place. “I’m coming, Chase! Right out!”
I tear out of the bedroom, straightening my shirt and trying to look normal. “Sorry, I-”
I stop. It’s not Chase standing there, frowning at me, looking like he’d shoot me if he had a gun handy. It’s Sheriff Matthew Wells. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
18
Sheriff Wells is even bigger in his own house. “I said, what are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but only a squeak comes out. All I can think of is what Chase said about the famous Wells temper. I try again. “I… The back door was open.”
“So you just came on in?” He takes a step toward me. “What were you looking for? Answer me!”
“Hope?” Chase appears from the kitchen. His gaze darts from me to his dad. “Dad? What are you doing home already?”
“All right, what’s going on here?” Sheriff Wells turns on his son. “You tell me right now what you two are doing snooping around-!”
“Snooping around?” Chase glances over at me. I shrug. Then he smiles at his dad. “Come on, Dad. Snooping around? We were just getting something to drink.” As if to prove it, he walks to the fridge and gets two bottles of spring water. Then he comes over to me and hands me one.
“This is where you come to get water?” his dad asks.
“I’m sorry.” Chase frowns. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to bring friends over to the house.”
“Friends?” He shoots me a look that clearly states I’m no friend of his.
“Dad, please?”
I recognize something in Chase’s eyes as he talks to his dad. It’s the way he tries to please him, not just make peace with him like I do Rita. Chase still wants to please his father, and that makes me sad. I gave up trying to please Rita a long time ago. Maybe I’m not sure if I’m sorry for Chase still hanging on, or sorry for me having let go.
What I do know is that I don’t want to make things worse for Chase. “Sheriff Wells,” I begin, “this isn’t Chase’s fault. It’s all me.” Chase starts to object, but I keep going. “I wanted to find you.”
“You wanted to find me?” He’s not buying this. Not yet anyway.
I nod. “I guess I should have called, but I wasn’t thinking straight.” He’s staring holes through me, but I press on. “Somebody’s been stalking me, and I-”
“Stalking you?” Now he looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh me out of the house or force me out at gunpoint.
“I know it sounds crazy,” I admit. He nods in agreement. “But it’s true. Somebody’s been following me, watching me. And there have been phone calls too.”
“Phone calls?”
“Yeah. Heavy breathing. Hang-ups. That kind of thing.”
Sheriff Wells glares at his son. “What do you know about this?”
Before he can answer, I jump in. “I’ve told Chase most of it. I think he got tired of me and went out to the garage for something. That’s when you came in.”
“What does your mother say about all this?” asks the sheriff, some of the fire drained from his eyes.
“I haven’t told her everything, but she’s seen the pickup.”
“The pickup?”
“A white pickup truck. Rita saw it parked on our street, and I’ve seen it a couple of times. It’s pretty scary. And I think that’s why it shows up everywhere. Somebody’s trying to scare me.”
“Why would anybody try to scare you?” Sheriff Wells asks, like I’m lying.
I shrug. “Maybe because I’m the only one who knows my brother didn’t murder Coach Johnson. The only one besides the murderer anyway.”
The fire shoots back into his eyes. “Are you insane?”
“No, sir,” I answer. He scares me to death, but I won’t let him see it.
Sheriff Wells squints at Chase. “Did you see this mysterious white pickup?”
“Not exactly,” Chase admits. “But I believe Hope.”
His dad reaches behind his neck and twists his head, exactly the way Chase does sometimes. “Do you have any idea how many white pickups there are in this town?”
“No, sir,” I answer.
“Or kids who make crank calls?”
“Dad,” Chase reasons, “could you just look into it, please? Maybe one of the patrol cars could drive by Hope’s house at night.”
“That’s a great idea,” I chime in.
“You think so, do you?” Sheriff Wells says, glaring at me.
“Absolutely. And I appreciate it. Thanks.” I turn to Chase. “It was a long walk over here. Would you mind giving me a ride to work?”
“Not a problem,” Chase says, following me out.
I smile back at Sheriff Wells. “I’ll be looking for that patrol car tonight. Thanks again.”
Once we’re outside, Chase whispers, “You were great in there!” He cranes his neck around so he’s staring into my face. “I never saw anyone stand up to my dad the way you did.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I’m every bit as amazed as he is. I don’t stand up to people.
“I wish I had it on film. Did you see his face when you told him you’d look for that patrol car tonight? You, Hope Long, are one brave lady.”
We walk the rest of the way to the car without speaking. My head is filled with what Chase said. You, Hope Long, are one brave lady. I have never been brave, not in my entire life. Only right now, for this one instant, as the car backs out of the driveway and onto the street, I feel brave. With Chase beside me, I feel so brave that I think I could reach up and stop Rita’s hand from touching Jeremy’s cheek.
Chase drops me off at the Colonial, and I head back to report in to Bob. The booths along one wall are full. So are two of the eight tables. I ignore the stares as I traipse through.