Always Watching (8 page)

W
hen we reached the hotel, Bruce escorted Brittany and me up to our room. I still felt a little trembly. We carried our shopping bags inside and set them down. The photo glared up at me.

Bruce checked in the bathroom and closet. “Make sure you put on the extra bolt.” He gestured toward the door.

“Don’t worry.”

He headed out.

“Bruce?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks again.”

He ran a hand down his goatee and gave me something close to a smile. “No problem.”

“I’m going to give that picture to the detective. He might want to talk to you about what happened.”

“He knows where to find me.”

When he stepped into the hall, I closed and bolted the door.

Tiredness flowed through me as I walked to my bed and sank down on the edge of the mattress. I narrowed my eyes at my suitcase. The white rose was in there. Probably withered by now.

“You’d better go so you have time to talk to your mom before the detective gets here.” Brittany sounded tense. She lifted her new jeans from a bag. “I’ll take everything out for you. Cut off the tags.”

Nervous energy. She was trying to keep busy. “Thanks.”

Wincing, she plucked the “always watching” photo from a second bag and laid it on top of the TV. “Here.”

With a sigh, I pushed to my feet and headed for the bathroom to fix my tear-tracked makeup. One look at my face like this, and Mom would guess what we’d been through.

Done with that, I changed into one of my new pairs of designer jeans and a pink top. I checked myself in front of the full-length mirror.

“Looks good.” Brittany had laid all her new clothes on the bed. “Shaley, thanks again for these.”

“Sure.” Both of us were trying to sound excited about the clothes, but our hearts weren’t in it anymore. We’d have done better to stay in the room and watch movies all day.

I crossed the room to my suitcase, peeled back the lid and picked up the boxed rose. It still looked fresh. “You hungry?”

“No.”

“Me either.”

Facing Brittany, I took a deep breath. I knew what was going to happen. As much as I would try to hold back, I could feel the old questions rattling around in me already. No way could my Mom and I talk about a white rose without mentioning my dad. And those conversations, full of questions that refused to be answered, never went well.

One look at me, and Brittany knew my thoughts. She walked over and gave me a hug. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

I nodded.

The “always watching” picture — my second problem — still lay on the TV. If I approached Mom with it in my hand, she’d want to know what it was right away.

I picked up the photo and stuck it in my purse.

Here goes.

Holding the boxed rose down against my leg, purse on my shoulder, I knocked on the connecting door that led to Mom’s room.

T
he latch clicked. Mom swung the door open.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hi.”

She’d changed into jeans and a casual button shirt but was still in all her makeup from the interview and photo shoot. She looked fantastic. Marshall had done her eyes dramatically in mauve, gray, and dark blue with glitter in the eyeliner. Perfectly applied blusher accented her high cheekbones.

Pain stabbed me, and I glanced away. Tom hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, and already Marshall was taking over. Like we didn’t need Tom at all. I knew it was irrational, but at that moment I resented everything about Marshall. I’d always liked him before. But now just picturing him — his wide jowls, the black dreadlocked hair, and diamond studs in his ears — I felt resentment racing through my veins.

I forced my eyes back to Mom. “You look so pretty.” If only Tom had done her makeup, she’d look even better.

Mom smiled, and little tired lines appeared around her eyes. “Thanks.” She gave me a sad look, as if she’d read my thoughts. “I miss him too.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded.

Mom cleared her throat. “That outfit new?”

“Yeah. Like it?” My voice sounded dull. But I turned around, giving her full view of the jeans and top.

“Yes. Looks good on you.”

I shut the door, leaving it unlocked. We walked over to swiveling gold armchairs in the lounge area and sat down. I put my purse on the floor. “How was the interview and photo shoot?”

“Ill timed.” She sighed. “The photo shoot was fine, but all the interviewer wanted to talk about was last night’s murder. She thought she’d stumbled onto a gold mine, talking to me so exclusively after the story broke.” Mom tossed back her hair. “How was shopping?”

I licked my lips. Juvenile as it sounded, I didn’t want to admit to Mom she’d been right. “It … didn’t work. Paparazzi and reporters came. We had to shove our way out.”

“Oh, Shaley.” Her eyes rounded. “I know how much those crowds scare you.”

I shrugged. “It was okay. We managed.”

She looked at me askance. “I should never have let you go.”

My gaze slid to the floor.

“No wonder I didn’t see any paparazzi.” Guilt etched Mom’s voice. “They were all following
you.”

“It’s okay. Really.” I gave her a smile. It came out crooked.

She sighed. “Getting to the airport tomorrow might be a zoo too. All those folks could be waiting for us.”

Oh, joy. “Once we’re through security, it’ll be okay.”

We were silent for a moment. I knew my feigned optimism wasn’t fooling Mom.

Her gaze fell to the box. “What’s that?”

With reluctance, I handed it to her. “It’s part of what I needed to talk to you about. It was left for me at the front desk this morning.”

She lifted up the top, and her eyes widened. I could see her shocked gaze taking in the details. The white rose, green cellophane, red ribbon.

“Look at the card.”

Mom pulled the card out of its envelope. For some time she stared at the words. Emotions played across her face — sadness … regret … confusion.

Firmly she replaced the card and lid, then plunked the box on the floor.

Mom laid her elbows on the arms of the chair. “It’s not from him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know?”

Her eyes roved across the room. “What I’ve told you is true, Shaley. He doesn’t know about you. And besides, he couldn’t send this.”

A terrible thought gripped me. “Are you telling me he’s
dead?”

She shook her head.

“Then what?”

She pulled in a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m telling you it’s not him.”

Bitterness flooded me.
“Why
won’t you just tell me the truth?” My voice turned off-key. “It’s not
fair.
I have a right to know!”

Mom closed her eyes, and in that action, I saw myself. We were alike in so many ways, wanting to shut ourselves off from the world when we didn’t like what we saw. Her fingers sank into the chair. “Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

“You
always
say that.”

“Shaley. Her tone hardened. “We have enough going on right now without bringing this up.”

“I
didn’t bring it up. Whoever sent
that
did.” I flung my arm toward the box. “And if it’s not my dad, who is it? How would anyone else know?”

“You’re not —”

A knock sounded at the door.

Mom turned her head toward it and sighed. “That’ll be the detective.”

I saw right through her — she was glad for the interruption. I pushed forward in my chair. “I’m not
what,
Mom?
Tell
me before you let him in.”

She was already walking toward the door. Toward her excuse for not having to say anything more on the subject.

I shoved to my feet. “Mom!”

The sharp edge in my voice brought her to a halt. She turned three feet from the door, folded her arms, and gave me a long, pained look. In that moment, standing in her fancy hotel room, wearing my new designer jeans, I wished it would all go away. The tour, Rayne, the fame, the money,
everything.
I just wanted my mom, the way it used to be. And my dad. The three of us living together. Happy.

And I wanted Tom alive. Even if, without Rayne, I’d never have met him.

Mom studied the floor, then raised her chin. “Shaley, you’re not the only one who knows about the rose.”

Turning her back on me, she checked through the peephole, then opened the door to Detective Furlow.

T
he detective entered, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. Thoughts of my father morphed into memories of the previous night. Of Tom’s still body, his missing eye. I slumped back into the armchair, wanting to hide. I wished I could be home in Southern California, in my own bedroom. We’d been on the road for three months, another one to go. It felt like an eternity.

Detective Furlow lumbered over behind Mom, carrying his notebook and a battered zipped binder. The tape recorder mocked me from his shirt pocket. Was the killer’s voice, sounding innocent, captured in there during one of the detective’s many interviews?

The idea sickened me.

Detective Furlow was dressed in the same clothes as last night, his shirt looking more rumpled than before. “Hi, Shaley.”

I tried to dredge up a smile but couldn’t. “Hi.”

“Sorry I have to interrupt your afternoon like this.”

“It’s okay.”

He stopped in the middle of the lounge area, glancing around as if not sure where to sit. Dark circles hung below his eyes. My heart panged at that.

“Haven’t you slept?” From this angle he looked bigger than ever, like some heavyweight boxer. Or maybe he’d been a bodyguard back in the day.

One side of his large mouth curved. “Clothes give me away?”

“Kind of.” I didn’t want to say how bad he looked.

“Please.” Mom gestured toward the loveseat facing our two armchairs. “Sit down.”

“Thank you.” He settled himself in the middle of the small couch, the two cushions spreading apart beneath his weight. He placed his binder and notebook on the table.

I swiveled my chair to face him more directly.

“No, I haven’t slept,” he said to me. “Haven’t even been to bed.” He shrugged. “It happens in a murder case. The first seventy-two hours are the most critical. If we don’t apprehend the suspect in that time, the likelihood that we
will
find him decreases with every hour. So we keep at it.”

Guilt washed through me as I watched him turn on the recorder. While I’d slept and gone shopping to get my mind off Tom, this man had never stopped working to find his murderer. “What have you been doing all night?”

“Questioning people. Gathering evidence at the scene with the lab techs.”

My fingers rubbed the arm of my chair. I’d swiveled enough that I couldn’t see my purse on the floor, but the photo inside it practically screamed at me. Could it possibly be new evidence? Somehow connected to Tom’s murder?

“Okay.” Detective Furlow laced his fingers. “I’d like to get started now.” He looked to Mom.

She nodded. “We really appreciate you coming here instead of us making us go to the station.”

He raised his bushy eyebrows. “No problem. Easier that way, given the media following this case.”

I thought of the reporters and paparazzi and shivered.

Detective Furlow switched on the recorder. He cited the date, time, and names of all present. He leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. His notebook remained unopened. An almost apologetic expression creased his face.

He cleared his throat. “Shaley, I’m going to have to ask some
questions that may not be comfortable for you. But I need your full cooperation.”

Chills zigzagged between my shoulder blades. Mom’s startled eyes flicked to me.

“One of the things I did early this morning was make a phone call to the jurisdiction where Tom lived.” The detective examined his thumbs, one rubbing over the other as he spoke. “We asked officers first to notify Tom’s next of kin. His mother lives in the area.”

I dug my fingers into the chair, pulled momentarily from my own apprehension. Tom’s poor mother. He’d talked to me about her more than once.

“Second, I wanted the officers to look around Tom’s place. See what evidence they could find of relationships he was involved in. Often that information can lead to a suspect.”

His thumb rubbed back and forth, back and forth. My skin started to tingle.

“Mrs. Hutchens didn’t have a key to his place, so they had to break in. Since he lived alone, the officers were able to do that without a warrant. They got in early this afternoon.”

All around us the air thickened. I sat very still.

The detective’s thumbs stopped moving. He turned his head and looked deep into my eyes.

“Shaley, I know you’re only sixteen, and Tom was twenty-five. That may have been your reason to keep the information from your mother. But I need to know now.

“Was Tom Hutchens your boyfriend?”

I
stared at Detective Furlow, heat in my cheeks. My mom’s heavily made-up eyes drilled into me like lasers. Her glossy red lips were pressed. The question was so unexpected, yet my tongue wouldn’t move to deny it. It was a terrible feeling, their focus on me. As if
I’d
done something to cause Tom’s murder.

“Shaley, what’s going on?”

Mom’s voice was steady but tight. She was pretty lenient about my dating. Had never kept me from having boyfriends. But I’d always gone out with guys from high school, and she knew about every one of them. She wouldn’t have approved of someone Tom’s age. The grim accusation on her face showed her disappointment that I’d kept this news from her. Even more, kept it from the detective last night.

I swallowed hard. Tearing my eyes away from Mom, I forced myself to look at the detective. “No. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Ever. We didn’t … do anything like that. I mean
anything.
We were just good friends.”

“Is that the truth, Shaley?” Mom demanded.

My throat half closed up, and my eyes burned.
“Yes
. I don’t lie to you.” My focus stayed on the detective. Would he even believe me?

Why
had he asked in the first place?

Detective Furlow nodded, then gazed at the floor, as if dissecting my answer.

Air seeped from Mom’s throat. She turned to him. “What did you find in Tom’s apartment that made you ask?”

He unzipped his binder and withdrew an eight-by-ten glossy photo. “This.”

Holding it horizontally, the detective handed it to Mom. She examined it closely, eyes roaming from side to side. Her forehead wrinkled.

“They were on the wall in Tom’s bedroom,” Detective Furlow said.

“What?” I thrust out my hand. Mom gave me the photo.

I leaned over it, feeling almost lightheaded. The photo showed a wall full of pictures. A whole montage of snapshots on Tom’s wall. All of me. Or of us together. Some blown up, some regular size. Dozen and dozens of pictures.

Weaving around them in large letters, stretching across the entire length of the montage were the words, “I love Shaley.”

The words stabbed me. I dropped my gaze to the floor.

Memories of Tom flashed through my head. His face close to mine as he leaned in to put liner on my eyes. His crooked smile at me across a room. The way he used to scarf down potato chips. His favorite flavor — barbecue. His laugh — deep from his chest. I always loved his laugh.

But, I didn’t really
know
how he felt about me.

Had I caused him more pain than fun?

The photo burned in my hands. I leaned forward and pitched it onto the table.

“Shaley?” Mom scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned forward to touch my knee.

I shook my head and whispered, “I didn’t know.”

My arms folded. I looked down at my lap, my head spinning. It was too much to take in. I hated to admit it, but Tom had been right not to tell me. I never cared for him that way. If he’d said something, our friendship would never have been the same.

Mom sat back, her movements pulsing with protectiveness for me. I could have hugged her for that.

“All right, Detective.” Her tone turned matter-of-fact. “This
clearly isn’t what you’d thought. So … does it now have any relevance to the case?”

Fleetingly, I wondered what difference it would have made even if I
had
been dating Tom.

Detective Furlow rubbed his jaw. “Don’t know.” He pulled in a long breath, let it out. “Tell me, does a white rose have any significance for either of you?”