Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, Sunday, Riley waits for Evan to show up in his mother's car. She'd texted him this morning about her crazy idea. She wants to go to Joe Prior's place and see if they can get a look at his truck. She wants to have a car so they can be discreet and can make a quick getaway if necessary. She's not sure about this, or what they will even do if they see his truck, but what has she got to lose? She doesn't have anything else to do today.

When Evan arrives, she climbs into the passenger seat beside him. Before he even backs out of her driveway, he turns to her and says, ‘How did you find out Prior's address?'

She smiles. ‘I don't know his exact address, but he lives in the building on the corner of Division and Goucher. I called one of the local reporters, pretended I was a reporter, too, and asked if she knew where he lived. She told me.' Evan looks back at her for a moment with raised eyebrows, then backs out of the driveway and heads in the direction of Prior's apartment. It's not far. She's quiet for a moment and then says, ‘There's been nothing in the news about Turner.'

‘I know,' Evan says.

‘I mean, shouldn't he be a suspect? If she complained about him?'

‘Maybe he is, and they're just not saying anything. There's not much in the news about Cameron either, or Prior, just that they've been questioned and released.'

‘I guess.' She asks him something that's been bothering her. ‘Why do you think Diana didn't tell any of us about Mr Turner?'

Evan says, ‘I don't know. It's not like her.'

‘No, it isn't. Why the big secret?' Riley says. ‘I wonder what was going on.' She's been thinking about this all night. ‘If she complained about him to Principal Kelly, he must know. He must have done something about it. He would have to. There must be a record of it somewhere.'

‘Yeah, but he's not going to tell us.'

‘The police must know what happened, but they're not going to say anything,' Riley says. Then she says, ‘Pull over for a minute.'

Evan turns into a side street and parks. ‘What?'

She faces him. ‘What if we told the press and they went to Principal Kelly? He couldn't deny it, could he, if the police already know?' Evan stares back at her. She adds, ‘I hate to think of Mr Turner doing something slimy to Diana and getting away with it. I mean, even if he didn't kill her, he's clearly done something bad. Maybe he shouldn't even be teaching. Why shouldn't people know?'

‘Yeah.'

It's been troubling her: why didn't Diana confide in her? She can understand why she didn't tell Evan. And she can understand why she didn't tell her mother. It's embarrassing, and they didn't have that kind of relationship – her mother was a bit old-fashioned, uncomfortable with topics like sex. Maybe that's why she simply described it as ‘inappropriate behaviour' and didn't go into detail last night. But she's surprised that Diana didn't tell her. Riley certainly would have told Diana if something like that had happened to her, but then, she would have told her mother too. It doesn't make sense. It makes her wonder, now, whether it was just too awful to talk about. ‘Maybe I should call KCVS.'

‘Seriously?' Evan says. ‘What would you say?'

Riley considers. ‘I'll tell them Diana told me she complained to Mr Kelly about Mr Turner, but I won't give them my name.' Before she can lose her nerve, she starts to look up the number on her phone. She places the call, suddenly nervous.

A woman's voice answers. ‘KCVS News.'

‘I have some information,' Riley says breathlessly. ‘Information that might be relevant to the Diana Brewer murder,' she says, as Evan watches.

‘Go ahead.'

Riley swallows. ‘Diana made a complaint about a teacher at school. Her gym teacher, Mr Turner. He was her coach. He was being inappropriate with her.'

‘Where did you hear this information?'

‘I'm a friend of hers. She told me,' Riley lies. ‘I suggest you ask Principal Kelly at Fairhill High about it.' She disconnects before the woman on the line can ask her name. She turns to Evan; she can hardly believe what she's just done.

‘You've got nerve, I'll give you that,' he says. He starts the engine, and they continue on their way.

Sunday morning, Shelby is on her third cup of coffee. She has barely slept, and neither has her husband. It's a terrible thing to have your teenage son suspected of murder. She can't look at Cameron the same way any more. When she looks at him, she doesn't see what she used to see. She's terrified that the police are going to come to the house any minute and arrest him. She's still surprised they released him after questioning him the day before. The way they hounded him!

She has always doted on Cameron. He is their only child. She has loved him fiercely, encouraged him, protected him, been proud of him. He's been a good, but not brilliant, student. He's made up for that by being an excellent athlete. He was a cute toddler, a good-looking boy, and is now a handsome young man. She can't pretend that didn't matter to her. She tells herself that it matters to all mothers what their children look like, even if they won't admit it. The ones with good-looking children feel superior, lucky, blessed. The mothers of the pretty girls feel special, you can tell. It confers a special status on the mother when her child is attractive and popular. And Shelby got caught up in that, so pleased that her handsome boy was dating one of the most attractive, most popular girls at school. She admits that to herself now, and it makes her feel ashamed. Because now she doesn't know what lies behind her son's handsome face.

He's a liar, certainly. He lied about when he came home. He lied about where he was that night, about getting out of the truck. The way that detective looked at him! It sent fear ripping through her guts, because she knew from his eyes that the detective thought Cameron had killed Diana. He was in her backyard that night, he had been angry, and he had lied to all of them about it. How can she ever believe anything he says ever again?

Did he kill her? She thinks about it, holding her breath. Did he get inside her house somehow and creep up to her room and strangle her? Or argue violently with her and lose control? And then put her in their truck and dump her body in a field? If he did, she doesn't know how he can live with himself. How he could possibly have thought he'd get away with it. That he'd even try. Is that who her son is?

She sits alone at the kitchen window, growing colder and colder. It's as if her heart has stopped, and there's no longer any blood circulating in her veins. She doesn't want to believe it's possible, but she forces herself to think long and hard about how Cameron adored Diana. How he wouldn't let her out of his sight. It was an attentiveness bordering on obsession. And she and Edward had thought it was sweet. First love is like that , they told each other. They were too caught up in how good the two of them looked together, what a great girlfriend Diana was, how proud Cameron made them.

But if she's honest with herself, his behaviour with Diana sometimes made her a little uncomfortable. The love that bordered on the urge to control. And yet she pretended not to see it and said nothing. She told herself she was looking for problems. They were obviously happy together. But couples can look perfectly happy, can fool everyone – until the worst happens.

She's loved Cameron, protected him – and made excuses for him. She knows he has a temper. She's seen it on occasion. There was that time that he got into a fight at school and was almost suspended. And there was his recent tendency toward jealousy, where Diana was concerned.

It was a shock to learn that Diana had wanted to go to a different college, without Cameron. It shouldn't have been if Shelby had been thinking clearly; she should have seen it coming. But she wanted them to stay together. She thought Diana was good for Cameron, a girlfriend who encouraged him to study, to get better grades, instead of partying all the time.

Now she wishes Cameron had never started dating Diana at all. Now she wishes her son had been a little less handsome, a little less athletic, a little less popular, just – ordinary.