More Like Her (13 page)

Chaos.

Slow-motion chaos. Teachers running out of the lounge, out onto the balcony, diving under the tables. Barely audible screams and gasps of horror seem far away as the bouquet of flowers drops to the ground. Ryan sits frozen in his chair. I can see Jill reaching out for me, reaching and being pulled under the table by Martin. She’s crying. Sobbing. Someone’s grabbing me from behind, pulling me back and tugging my arm. Sam. He’s saying something, telling me to do something. He’s covered in blood. All over his face, his shirt. It’s everywhere. I pull away from him and kneel down next to Emma. Her beautiful blond hair is matted and bloody in my hands. Her blue eyes are glassy. Her lips, lined and glossed, are still curled into a haunting smile. A red oozing hole in her forehead. Lifeless. Dead. Sam’s hands are around me again, pulling me away.

Jamie points the gun at us. I turn away from Emma to look straight down the barrel of Jamie’s gun. Recognition. I’m the Girl from the Bathroom. The one who stood over him and asked him what he was doing. Jamie narrows his eyes at me. Aiming. I can’t . . . I try to cover Emma with my body. I’ll be damned if he puts another bullet into her. Grady charges Jamie like a lineman blitzing a quarterback.
Crack
. Grady is whirled around and slams into the ground. Blood. I see Lisa clutching Grady and howling primally. His eyes are alert. She drags Grady under the table.

“Emma? Emma?! Please . . . please . . . please wake up. Emma!” I scream, my bloodied hands cradling her face. I try to find somewhere to stop the bleeding. She’ll be okay. Stop the bleeding. The back of Emma’s head is slick and sticky . . . there’s nothing to . . . there’s nothing
back
here. More muffled screams and turned-over tables and chairs.

“You want to ask me what I’m doing now?” Jamie growls, stepping toward me. Time stops. I hear the click of the gun. The creak of the floor beneath Jamie’s feet. And then, I’m being scooped up. Sam. He turns his back toward Jamie and that big, black gun and blocks me from any further gunfire. Lisa lunges at Jamie from under the table. Knocking him off balance. The gun skitters toward us. I look up. Jamie knocks Lisa away and her own fierce momentum crashes her forward into a bank of cupboards in the lounge. She is dazed as Jamie pulls another gun from that heavy blazer pocket. His pockets are loaded down. There are more? How many guns does he have?

Crack.

Another shot. The coffeemaker inches from Lisa’s head shatters and broken glass is everywhere. Lisa covers her head with her arms, tucking her entire body into the fetal position. Through the shrieks and sobs I can hear her muttering, “I just want to go home . . . I just want to go home.” More shrieks. People are sobbing. Calling for help, their mothers, anyone. I reach for Lisa. One hand on the back of what was once Emma’s head and another lunging for Lisa.

“Stay down. She’s gone. I’ll go. I’ll go,” Sam growls, his arms tight around me, his full weight on top of me.
She’s gone.

“No! No! Sam!” It’s all in slow motion. Sam’s eyes are focused. Fixed. On me. Calm yourself, he nods. Calm yourself. Wait. Wait for me. Here. I nod, even though no words were spoken. I understand. I understand.

Sam stands. Another crack. Another group of sobbing teachers shield themselves.

Jamie’s first gun lies inches from Sam. Jamie focuses in on us. Emma—what was once Emma—me and now Sam. And then the gun. The gun. Jamie tries to act fast. He aims. He aims. His face is monstrous, not even human. Empty. With flashes of anger. Flashes of annoyance.

Sam dives for the loose gun, his lanky frame stretching out, his fingers curling around the gun.
Crack
. Into the wall behind Sam. Sam ducks. Refocuses. Jamie can’t aim at a moving target. So, he turns. To me.

Jamie. The gun. The barrel. I’m next.

I close my eyes. And wait.

So, this is how it ends.

When I was little, my parents took me horseback riding in the beautiful lush mountains surrounding Mill Valley. My parents. No.
No
. I feel the tears stream down my cheeks. And as we trotted down this dirt path, I began to fall. Off the saddle. Off the horse. And I thought, Well, this isn’t that bad. I’m going to fall. It’s not as bad as I thought.

It’s not as bad as I thought.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Chapter 10
I Didn’t Consider Him a Threat

N
othing. All I can feel are my eyes tight . . . so tightly shut that my entire face closes around them like a black hole. My hands are uncontrollably shaking as I try to steady them: one on Emma’s heart, the other behind her head. But it’s as if my entire being stands on those three points like a barstool. The rest of me is vapor. I find myself unable to connect to the ground. I will myself, with whatever I have that remains, to just . . . be brave. Wake up. Look.

I open my eyes. Just as Jamie falls. His tiny body falling like a crackling autumn leaf just as the seasons change. He’s even insignificant in death. I blink. And turn.

Sam. Lying on his side, his face steely and focused, his arm outstretched and the gun—Jamie’s gun—smoking, aimed and ready for another round if need be. Jamie. Unmoving as the pool of blood spreads from his lifeless body.

ALL SHE WANTED TO
do was start painting again.

“Ms. Reid? Do you want me to repeat the question?” the detective asks. His name is Detective Samuelson and he looks about nineteen years old. It’s been almost an hour since Emma was murdered and I’m sitting on a bench outside the school with a blanket around my shoulders. My clothes will be evidence. When I finally had the chance to go to the ladies’ room, what I saw in the mirror was horrifying. Even after the techs had been all over me, blood and other more gruesome bits of Emma were still splattered across my face, crimson droplets glistening eerily in my dark hair, my pale skin a road map of Jamie’s crime. My dark eyes were as haunted and glassy as Emma’s.

I have yet to really fuse the two identities back together—the person I knew myself to be and that specter looking back at me in the mirror. I would like nothing better than to forget what happened this afternoon. But whoever that is in the mirror won’t forget it.
Can’t
forget it. Can’t stop hearing those gunshots. Can’t unhear the sobs of my colleagues who thought they’d never see their loved ones again. Can’t unfeel the weight of Emma’s lifeless body in my arms.

The red, blue and white police lights flash and swirl against the outside of the school. Every emergency vehicle in Pasadena is in this parking lot. The Markham staff and administrators dart around the school and parking lot with two agendas: make sure everyone’s safe and see that this is handled in the most delicate way possible. The human resources department has already issued a press release to the gathering media: This was an after-hours shooting due to a preexisting domestic abuse issue. There were two fatalities and one minor injury. No students were on campus at the time of the shooting. The Markham School will take tomorrow off in remembrance but will resume classes on Friday. They will also be offering grief counseling to those who need it. Pamela Jackson, the acting headmistress and former school psychologist, has already been called in and all staff will be expected to conduct an exit interview with her before we leave the crime scene.

“Yes, please,” I say, shivering. Jill and Martin were under a table during the shooting. Ryan slipped away before emergency services arrived. The rumor was that he had wet himself. Grady was taken to the hospital with a gunshot wound to his right shoulder. Lisa went with him in the ambulance after physically threatening the EMT who told her, “You can follow the ambulance in your car if you want.” That’s
not
what Lisa wanted and instead she told the EMT that she was either getting in that ambulance or snatching the EMT’s hair from her head. The EMT wisely chose the former. From Lisa’s updates, we know that Grady is still in surgery. He should be fine, the doctors are telling her. He’ll have some muscle trauma, but the bullet didn’t hit any bone, which is apparently very lucky. Jill and Martin are there with them now. From what I’ve gleaned, the guns (all four of them) that Jamie used were .45s. I don’t know a whole lot about them, but I can tell you exactly what a gun like that will do to a person. I’m not comfortable knowing any of this new information.

“Here you go,” Sam says, giving me a Styrofoam cup filled with tea and settling in next to me. The steam from the hot tea wafts up and into the cold night air. We were supposed to be at Jill’s by now. We were looking forward to just another Wednesday night. I don’t understand what happened. I have to know why. I have to know why a room filled with people became extras in Jamie and Emma’s tragic and bloody demise. How Grady Davis is in the hospital, Emma is dead and Sam was made to shoot someone because . . . what? Because Jamie didn’t want Emma to start painting again? Because she had the audacity to call her sister?
Why?
So senseless. How did this happen?

“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup in one hand and holding on to Sam with the other. I’m still shaking. I can’t stop shaking. Sam spent most of the last hour being questioned about the shooting. Everyone is assuring him that he did what he had to do. That Jamie had been planning this and had every intention of killing everyone in that room had Sam not stepped in. Sam did what he had to do, they keep saying.

He’s a hero.

“How many shots were there?” Detective Samuelson asks, his notepad out, his eyes eager. I close my eyes. The deafening sounds of the gunshots. The slide show of images that will be forever burned in my brain.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack . . . Crack.

“Nine,” I say, reliving each shot.

“Nine,” Detective Samuelson repeats.

“One at Emma, one at Grady, one at Lisa, one at the other teachers, one at Sam and then . . . ,” I say, my voice robotic.

“Then?”

“My four,” Sam says. I look at him. Take him in. His jaw is tense, the muscles tightening, his teeth clenched. This is what I look at. Not his focused eyes or his mouth that keeps telling everyone he’s fine. Yes, you’re welcome. Thank you, he doesn’t feel like a hero. Yes, it was terrible. It’s his jaw. His jaw is telling the truth.

He continues. “Mine were six through nine.”

“You’re a real hero, Mr. Earley. You saved everyone in there,” Detective Samuelson says, still writing in his book.

“Thank you,” Sam says, pulling me close. His gaze is fixed, his jaw tight.

“And where were you, Ms. Reid?”

“I was stupid enough to throw myself over Emma. So stupid . . . I could have gotten . . . I could have been killed, gotten you killed, Grady . . . Lisa . . . ,” I say, trailing off, looking at Sam. He pulls me closer.

I know, even though I dread the knowing, that my life is going to be divided into the time before Emma’s murder and the time after. It’s not that I suddenly feel like making a Bucket List or shaving my head and trekking to India in search of the meaning of life. But I understand I’ve been sucker punched and I won’t know what the impact is until the bruise forms.

But there’s nothing for me to do. Emma’s dead. She’s gone. I was just getting to know her and now I realize I had no idea who she was at all.

“A violent crime such as this one isn’t something you can necessarily prepare for, Ms. Reid. You did what you thought was right,” Detective Samuelson says.

“You’re clearly new to the force,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.

“Yes.” He nods.

“Thought so. My dad’s a cop and will be none too pleased with my behavior,” I say.

“He’ll understand it, though. Right?” Detective Samuelson asks.

“He might,” I say.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” Sam asks.

“Besides Mr. Davis and the two fatalities?” Detective Samuelson says, reading from his notepad.

“Yeah,” Sam says, his breath catching.

“There were some bumps and bruises, but that was mostly from the commotion,” Detective Samuelson says, waving over a CSI.

“The commotion,” I repeat.

“Would have been a lot more if Mr. Earley here hadn’t stepped in,” Detective Samuelson says.

“Stepped in,” Sam repeats, a haunted curl of a smile quivering on his lips. I don’t know what to say. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull. Curling my fingers around him. Trying to curl my entire body around him. He shakes his head and looks down. At me. Calm yourself, he says. I’ll be fine. I pull tighter and take a deep breath.

“We’re going to need your clothes, I’m afraid,” Detective Samuelson says to me.

“I think I’ve got some extras in my car. I was preparing for the dunk tank on Friday,” Sam says, standing.

“We’re going to need yours, too,” Detective Samuelson says to Sam. Sam looks down at himself as if for the first time. His light-blue collared shirt is covered in blood—down the sleeves, the collar. It’s everywhere.

“Right. I have enough for both of us,” Sam says. I stand, gripping my tea with one hand, whipping the blanket off my shoulders with the other.

Sam continues. “May I go out to my car, detective?” The detective nods, telling him to be quick. Sam gives me a look—furrowed brow, tight lips. I try to smile. It feels creepy and misplaced. I’m okay. I’m alive and okay. And something about this piece of information makes me feel crushingly guilty. Sam takes off down the street at a run, his lanky frame disappearing quickly into the dark night.

“I can’t stop shaking,” I say to Detective Samuelson.

“That’s normal,” he says.

“So stupid,” I say.

“So, your father was a cop?”

“San Francisco PD.”

“Wow.”

“Just retired.”

“And how did you know the victim?” Detective Samuelson is buttering me up with talk of my dad. We’re back on point.

“Emma was the head of school. The headmistress,” I say, snapping back into witness mode.

“And that was the extent of your relationship?”

“We might have been becoming friends.”

“Might have?”

“She talked about wanting to paint again. Reconnecting with her family.”

“Was this new?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?

“Initially, we had gone back and forth about one of my speech therapy kids . . . Harry Sprague. We went back and forth about Harry being bullied.”

“Back and forth?”

“Harry was being bullied and, uh . . . she . . .” I trail off. I’m sick to my stomach. All the pieces. All the clues. I knew. I knew something was wrong and I—

“What is it, Ms. Reid?”

“In the beginning she sided with the bully, said Harry was asking for it. Provoked it. Deserved it, even.”

“Harry?”

“My student.”

“Go on.”

“Right before her party she took me aside and told me she’d changed her mind. Said that when we focus on the bully, the victim’s needs go unmet. She had clearly had a change of heart.”

“Did you know anything about the domestic abuse?”

“What domestic abuse?”

“So, that’s a no.”

“He was creepy, but I never thought . . .”

“You never noticed anything?”

Sick. Sick to my stomach.

“Ms. Reid, if you know something or saw something . . . ,” Detective Samuelson says urgently.

“I was at this party at their house last week and he caught me snooping in their bathroom cabinets,” I say, embarrassed. Sam reappears over my shoulder with a duffel bag and some clothes tucked under his arm.

“And?”

I hesitate. Sam listens. “I could have sworn that as I was walking out of the bathroom, he tried to snatch me back. By my hair,” I say.

“What?” Sam asks.

“We fought. I didn’t consider him a threat; he was small, you know?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Sam asks.

“I convinced myself it wasn’t what I thought it was. I was snooping and he said he was just trying to close the door behind me. How was I . . . How was I supposed to know?” I say, the emotion choking in my throat. Sam pulls me in close. Closer.

Detective Samuelson starts to say, “How did—”

I cut him off. “Emma was perfect and fancy. I can’t express that to you more. Her clothes were impeccable, her demeanor. Everything. She was lovely. Just . . . lovely. There wasn’t a hair out of place. In my mind, a woman like that lives on a puffy cloud with little cherubs and violins,” I say, my eyes wild.

“Well, that didn’t seem to be the case here.”

“No, I guess not.”

“It was all a fantasy, Ms. Reid.”

“Wait. No, there was a . . . there was a dog!”

“A what?” Detective Samuelson flinches slightly at my yelp.

“A dog. Did you get the dog?” I say, panicked.

“I don’t know.” Detective Samuelson looks to the CSI. She shrugs her shoulders like she doesn’t know.

“Do you have a crew at their house?” I ask.

“Yes,” Detective Samuelson says.

“Can you ask them if they found a dog? It’s a Weimaraner. Super-trained, nothing to fear. Name is John Henry,” I say.

“John Henry?” Detective Samuelson says.

“Yeah, like the guy with the hammer,” I say, watching.

They stare at me.

I continue. “It’s not made-up—well, the folktale has sketchy origins, but the dog is real. It’s not a fantasy dog. I saw it. I saw him. Well, I saw a picture of him. But he’s real. And he’s probably terrified right now. Can we see if the dog is okay?” Detective Samuelson pulls out his cell phone and dials. The look on his face is annoyed; the dog’s not a priority to him.

“Hey, Jay—yeah, it’s Mark over at the school. Can you tell me—is there a dog? At the Dunham house? A Weimaraner? Yeah, it’s one of those gray—” He is cut off. He’s nodding. Nodding. He continues. “Right. Okay. Thanks, man.” Detective Samuelson hangs up.

“Well?” I ask.

“The dog was in his crate. Animal control took him to the pound,” he says.

“The pound?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s procedure,” Detective Samuelson says.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” Sam asks, handing me a stack of clothes. I take them.

“Emma loves that dog. She
loved
it; now I know that it was the only thing . . . he’s at the pound. They took him to the pound,” I say, my voice rising as I clutch at Sam. Make him understand.

“Okay,” Sam says.

I continue. “Detective Samuelson, that dog shouldn’t be at the pound. Emma had family. Clara. Her sister is here in Southern California. She should know . . . that . . . she should have the . . . the dog should be with them!” I am using the newly acquired stack of clothes to make my point.