Change of Heart (10 page)

“Thanks,” I said.

“Hey, Robyn? If there's anything I can do...”

But there wasn't.

He tugged gently on Orion's leash and headed for the door to my father's building. I opened my mouth. I came close to calling him back and telling him that I wasn't with Ben anymore, that I wanted to be with him instead, that I wanted us to be together again. But in the end, what was the point? If he was interested in being with me, he would have said something by now. Maybe he wouldn't have come right out and told me, but he would have given me some clue.

I turned and walked away, and as I walked I thought about Sean Sloane. There were only two ways to look at his death: either Billy had killed him or he hadn't. If he hadn't, then someone else had. The question was, who?

L

ater that night I was sitting in the room in my mother's house that my father used to call his den but that my mother calls the family room. I was half-studying and half-watching TV, something that I could get away with only because my mom had stayed late at the office again. But my mind kept drifting to Billy and how scared he had looked the last time I'd seen him. I also thought about what Nick had said—how tough it could be, being locked up, and what some of the kids were like.

I thought about something else Nick had said—that Billy needed someone to believe in him, no matter how bad things looked. It was obvious Morgan wasn't going to be that person, so that left me. I decided that I was going to believe Billy, even if, in some deep corner of my mind, I could see how maybe he could have done it—not intentionally, but in the heat of the moment. I was going to believe him because he was my friend, because he's one of the most decent people I know, and because I wanted to think that if I ever found myself in a similar situation, someone would believe me.

Okay then.

Billy hadn't done it.

So who had?

I picked up the TV remote and started surfing through channels,
click, click, click
, rhythmically, while I pondered the question.

Sean's face flashed before my eyes for a second and then was gone.

I blinked. Was I seeing things?

I clicked back couple of channels and there he was again—Sean Sloane, on TV, looking handsome and very much alive. It was some old postgame footage. Sean had been good-looking in real life, but he was movie-star gorgeous on the TV screen. No wonder Morgan had fallen for him. His interviewer was an equally attractive young woman—Tamara Sanders, Sean's ex-girlfriend.

Tamara had been at the arena the night of Sean's accident. I had heard her talking to him outside the players' entrance. It sounded as if she were begging him to do something that was important to her—probably the documentary that Morgan had said Tamara wanted to do on Sean—but he had told her no. Just how important was that project to Tamara? Important enough that his refusal had made her want to get even? I made up my mind to find out.

Going to school the next day was torture. I spotted Morgan at the end of the hall while I was on my way to my first class. She looked directly at me before turning and disappearing around the corner. When I got to French class, she had traded places with someone else and was sitting up front. When Madame Leclos asked Morgan why she had moved, she said she was having trouble seeing the chalkboard.

Right.

Morgan was also in my math class. There, she sat two rows behind me on the opposite side of the room. But if she got to class before me, she usually waved at me on my way in. Not today. She didn't even look in my direction. As soon as the bell rang, she scurried out of class and disappeared in the crowded hall.

Fine.

At lunchtime I made my way to the cafeteria and stood near the door, scanning faces, searching for Tamara.

I didn't see her. But I did spot a girl named Lissa who I had seen hanging around with Tamara. She was sitting with Colin Sloane. It wasn't until I was halfway to their table that I saw who was sitting next to Colin—Morgan. Colin had slung his arm casually over the back of her chair. I hesitated and was about to retreat when Morgan's eyes met mine. The expression on her face made me feel about as welcome as wasps at a picnic. How could she be like this?

I steeled myself and made my way to their table.

“Hi, Morgan,” I said. I don't know why I bothered.

She looked away as if she hadn't heard me.

I turned to Lissa.

“I was wondering if you've seen Tamara around,” I said.

Colin leaned over and whispered something in Lissa's ear. She frowned at me.

“So what if I have?” she said.

“I'm looking for her.”

Colin looked at me with undisguised hostility. “You're friends with the kid who murdered my brother.”

I could have argued with him—about the murder part, not the friend part—but it would have got me nowhere. Instead, I concentrated on Lissa.

“Do you have any idea where Tamara might be?” I said.

“My mother found Sean,” Colin said. “Did you know that?” He had a loud, booming voice, but it quavered when he spoke to me. “How do you think she felt when she saw him lying there?”

Morgan laid a hand on his arm. “It wasn't your fault, Colin,” she said gently.

“I should have been on time,” Colin said. “If I'd got there when I was supposed to, Sean would be alive.” His voice broke. I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. His mother had made it clear that she blamed him for what had happened.

Morgan squeezed his arm and held it for a moment. Lissa gave me a dismissive look. No one said another word. I had no choice. I turned away.

Someone touched my sleeve as I made my way toward the cafeteria door. It was Dennis Hanson, math wizard and champion bird-rescuer.

“Tamara's at the TV station,” he said. His head was slightly bowed, and he didn't look directly at me. “She spends most of her lunches there. She's working on a program.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” I said.

“But you can't just walk in there,” he said. “Not without an appointment. If you want me to, I could get you in.”

“You can?”

“My dad works there. I heard someone say you're helping Billy.”

“That's right.”

“I can get you in,” he said again. He still didn't look at me.

The local public broadcasting station where Tamara hosted a show for teens was two blocks from school. Dennis and I walked there together. I tried a couple of times to make conversation but got nowhere. I thought maybe he was shy, but when we got to the TV station he wasn't at all intimidated by the high-security reception area with security cameras and electronic-pass entry system. He marched right up to the receptionist and, without looking directly at her either, said, “My friend wants to see the station.”

The receptionist greeted him with a smile, gave us two security passes, and let us through.

“Be careful on the third floor, Dennis,” she said. “They've been painting every night since last week. There's wet paint everywhere.”

Dennis led the way to the elevator.

“Tamara is probably in Editing,” he said. “I'll show you where it is.”

We rode up to the third floor. When the elevator doors opened, I was overwhelmed with the smell of fresh paint. There were ladders, drop cloths, and paint cans everywhere.

Dennis told me how to get where I was going.

“I'll wait for you here,” he said.

I followed his directions to a door marked Editing. There was a schedule tacked to a small bulletin board on the wall beside the door. Sure enough, Tamara's name was printed neatly in one of the boxes. I peeked through the window. The room appeared to be newly painted. Corkboards and framed pictures leaned against a couple of filing cabinets, waiting to be remounted. Tamara was working at a computer at the back of the room. The same preppy-looking young man who had accompanied her and her cameraman to the hockey game was bent over her. I pushed open the door.

The man straightened up quickly when he heard the door click back shut. There was a pink glow to his cheeks. Then Tamara looked up. Her cheeks turned red.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Tamara glanced at the preppy-looking guy.

“Yes, well, good work,” he said. He nodded curtly and left the room.

Tamara watched him go before she turned her eyes on me.

“Do I know you?” she said.

Morgan was right about one thing: Tamara thought she was special—so special that she didn't recognize someone she had passed in the hall at school probably a couple of hundred times. I knew who she was, but she didn't know me.

“I was watching TV last night,” I said. “I saw an interview you did with Sean Sloane. It was really good.”

She leaned back in her chair and regarded me with new interest. “Another Seanette, huh?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Another little girl who had the hots for Sean.”

“No. No, I—”

“Hey, I don't mean it as a put down. He was a good-looking guy. Fantastic athlete. Great body. Lots of fun—well, most of the time.”

“Everyone says he was going to end up in the big leagues,” I said. “In your documentary, you called him the next Wayne Gretzky.”

“Yeah, except that from what I hear, Gretzky was always a gentleman. Always.”

“And Sean wasn't?”

She laughed. It came out sounding bitter.

“But you went out with him, didn't you?”

“For two years.” She studied me again. “No offense,” she said. “But what do you want? Did you know Sean? Because I don't remember ever seeing him with you. And, believe me, I would have noticed.”

“I'm a friend of Billy Royal.”

Tamara's face changed the way the weather does when a storm front moves in.

“That's the kid they arrested for murdering Sean,” she said.

I nodded.

“And you're friends with him?”

“He didn't do it.”

“Yeah, right.” She turned back to what she had been doing.

“That interview I saw last night was really good,” I said again. “Sean was so hot. How come you didn't do a longer show on him? That could have really turned into something if he ever got drafted to the majors. You know, Sean Sloane, the early years.”

“Don't think I didn't try,” Tamara said. “His team was going to win the finals. And whether he took one or not, he'd been offered full scholarships. A lot of schools here were interested in him.”

“What do you mean, whether he took one or not? I heard he was smart. Didn't he want to go to college?”

“That's what his mom wanted.” Morgan had told me the same thing. “She really wanted him to accept a scholarship. It was a big deal for her. She wanted him to get the best education. I thought he wanted that, too. I mean, it's why he wasn't playing major junior. If you do that, you lose your NCAA eligibility. You can always go to school later, but Mrs. Sloane knew how that usually went. Most guys in major junior let their grades slide. They all think they're going to the NHL. Sean was really going to do it, though.” She shook her head. “There was definitely an audience for a doc on him—all those hockey fans who love to spot the next Great One, all those kids who want to be the next Great One, and all the girls who want to be with the next Great One. He was going to beat the odds. He really was.”