The Confession (6 page)

Anyway, I bladed for about half an hour. I enjoyed it. It felt really good to give my legs a workout. And the rink has an awesome sound system and plays really great music.

I guess it was about eleven o'clock when I decided to leave. I couldn't find anyone to give me a ride. So I counted out my change for the bus. It didn't run very often this late at night, but maybe I'd get lucky.

I jammed my Rollerblades into the carrying bag and made my way out the back exit of the rink. There's a narrow alley back there, a shortcut to the bus stop.

I stepped into the alley. The air felt surprisingly cool. I guess I was overheated from skating. My legs tingled. I gazed up at a small crescent moon hanging between the buildings. A single yellow lightbulb cast a pale cone of light over the alley.

I could hear voices from the street beyond the alley. I heard the screech of car tires. I could hear the steady drumbeat from the sound system in the skating rink behind me.

I took five or six steps into the alley—then stopped.

I recognized Al's face.

That's the first thing I saw. His face.

It made me stop and raise my hands to my cheeks.

Al's face.

Why was he lying on his back in the alley?

I saw his legs sprawled on the concrete, one knee raised.

I saw his hands angled from his sides, balled into tight fists.

And then I saw the skates.

The laces around his throat. The laces stretched so tight around his throat that his eyes bulged.

His eyes bulged, staring lifelessly up at the crescent moon.

His face pale, so ghostly pale in the dim alley light.

The laces so tight, twisted around and around his throat, cutting into his neck.

And one skate—the front of the skate—jammed into his mouth. Jammed so tight it stood up in his mouth.

Al. Dead in the alley. Strangled by the skates. Strangled and smothered.

And dead.

Chapter

9

“O
hhhhh.” I uttered a low moan. More of an animal cry than a human sound.

The skate bag fell from my hand. My legs were shaking so hard, I dropped to my knees.

And knelt over Al.

Knelt over Al's body—and stared. I realized I had never seen a dead body before.

It's so weird the thoughts that flash through your mind when you're gripped in shock, in horror. But that's what I thought, leaning over Al, staring down at him: I've never seen a dead body before.

I stared at his eyes. They reflected the crescent moon. Like glass. Glass eyes. Doll eyes. No longer real.

I stared at the skate. The toe of the boot crammed so deep into his open mouth. The wheels glowing dully in the yellow alley light.

The other skate lay under Al's head. The two skates were tied together. The laces that connected them were wrapped around Al's neck.

Wrapped so tight. So tight.

My stomach lurched. I held my breath. Struggled to keep my dinner down.

Without thinking, I reached one hand out.

What did I plan to do? Touch the skate jammed in Al's mouth? Pull it out?

I'm not sure. I wasn't thinking at all. I mean, all sorts of wild thoughts were flooding my mind. But I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking or making a plan or deciding what I should do or where I should go or who I should call—or anything!

I leaned over Al's body.

He's no longer Al, I thought.

He's not Al. Now he's Al's body.

I reached out. Started to touch the heel of the skate.

But a burst of sound made me pull my hand back.

I heard the thunder of drums, an explosion of guitars.

The back door to the rink opened.

I heard footsteps. And then a scream.

“He's
dead!”
someone squealed. A high, shrill voice. I didn't recognize it at first.

“He's dead!”

And then another shrill voice. “She
killed
him!”

“Noooo!” I screamed. I spun around. Off-balance. Dizzy.

I turned to the high-pitched voices. And in the
shadows behind the yellow alley light, I saw Artie and Chucky.

Their red hair glowing dully, rising like flames over their pale faces. Their blue eyes wide with fear.

“She
killed
him!”

“No—wait!” I pleaded, stumbling, staggering to my feet. My legs so rubbery, shaking so hard. “Wait—!”

“She killed him! I saw her!”

“Call the police!”

“No—please!” I started after them. “Artie! Chucky—no!”

Another explosion of music as they pushed the door open. And disappeared back into the rink.

Leaving the image of their startled eyes glowing in my mind.

Leaving their shrill cries of horror in my ears.

“No—wait! I didn't! I didn't!” My panicked cries falling unheard to the concrete alley floor. “You're wrong! You're wrong! Wait—you're wrong!”

I didn't do it, I told myself. I didn't. I didn't.

The police will believe me, I decided.

I know they will.

Chapter

10

“W
e believe you,” Officer Reed said softly, leaning over his cluttered desk. He was a big bear of a man, with a red, round face and bushy gray eyebrows over small, round, bloodshot eyes. The glare of the overhead light reflected off his bald head. The collar of his blue uniform shirt was open. He pulled off his navy blue tie and tossed it onto the desk.

“We believe you. But we have to ask a lot of upsetting questions anyway.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you understand, Julie?”

I nodded and glanced at my parents. They sat huddled close together on the other side of the policeman's desk. Mom kept dabbing at tears in her eyes with a balled-up tissue. Dad had one arm around her shoulders as if holding her down.

“I know we've been over everything twice before.
But I need to go over it one more time,” Officer Reed said wearily. He mopped sweat off his bald head and forehead with the palm of his hand. “You see, it just doesn't add up. It doesn't make sense to me.”

“But I told you everything! What part doesn't make sense?” I demanded. I clasped my hands tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking.

Mom held my skate bag on her lap, shifting it from leg to leg. I wondered why she didn't put it down on the floor.

Even when you're being questioned by the police about a murder, your mind wanders. I found myself thinking about Hillary. Wondering if she was enjoying the party.

I tried to imagine how she would react when she heard about Al later tonight.

Officer Reed rubbed his jaw. “What you told me makes sense, Julie. You came out of the skating rink and found the body in the alley. It's the
murder
that doesn't make sense.”

I stared at him, swallowing hard. My mouth felt so dry. I took a long sip of water from the paper cup he had placed on the corner of his desk for me. The water was warm and tasted kind of sour. Or maybe that was just the taste in my mouth.

“For one thing, he wasn't robbed,” Officer Reed continued. “He still had his wallet with about fifteen dollars in it.” He raised his bloodshot eyes to me. “He didn't usually carry around large sums of money, did he?”

“No,” I replied softly. “Al was usually broke. He was always trying to borrow money from me.”

My parents both stared at me. I was sorry I said it. I didn't want them to start asking a lot of questions about why I loaned money to Al.

Officer Reed rubbed his jaw again. “He wasn't robbed. So why was he murdered?”

“I don't know,” I started. “I don't think—”

“And why was he murdered in such a brutal way?” the policeman continued, staring over my shoulder at the pale yellow wall behind me. “It almost looks as if someone was showing off. Or maybe showing Al something. You know. Paying him back for something. Teaching him a lesson.”

“Some lesson,” my dad muttered. Mom let out a whimpering cry and dabbed at her eyes.

“I'm okay, Mom. Really,” I whispered to her.

“I just can't believe you had to see something so … horrible,” Mom replied.

The policeman didn't seem to hear her. He stared at the wall, deep in his own thoughts.

A heavy silence fell over the small office as I waited for him to say something. I took another sip of the warm water.

What is he thinking? I wondered. What does he think happened?

At least he believed my story, I thought with relief. At least he didn't believe those stupid twins. He knows I'm not a murderer.

Someone is
.

The thought forced its way into my mind, making me shudder.

Someone is a murderer
.

Officer Reed cleared his throat. He leaned over the desk, elbows brushing stacks of paper aside.
“So we have to ask ourselves about a motive,” he said. “Why did someone kill a teenage boy so brutally if not for money?”

He tapped his stubby fingers on the desktop, staring hard at me the whole while. “Julie—any ideas? Do you know anyone who might not like Al? Anyone who might have something against him? Something serious against him?”

“Well … ” I took a deep breath.

What should I say? How honest should I be?

Should I tell him how much we all hated Al? Should I tell him how Al bullied us and blackmailed us and threatened us?

“I'll need a list of his friends,” the police officer interrupted, frowning. “Do you know his friends? I believe you said he used to be part of your group?”

I nodded. “But not this year,” I told him. “Al got some new friends. Guys we didn't like. From Waynesbridge. Sort of tough kids. He—”

“Tough kids?” Officer Reed's eyes suddenly flashed with interest. “He started hanging out with a group of tough kids? Do you know them, Julie? Do you think any of them might have a motive for killing Al?”

“I—I don't know,” I stammered. “I don't think—”

He raised a big paw to quiet me. “Think hard. Take a deep breath. Think for a minute. Anything Al ever said to you about his friends? Any comment he made about someone being angry or annoyed at him?”

“We
all
were!” I blurted out.

The words escaped my mouth in a rush. I hadn't
meant to say them. They just exploded from me. I couldn't hold them in any longer.

I heard my mother gasp. The skate bag toppled from her lap.

Officer Reed stopped drumming his fingers on the desk.

“We
all
hated Al!” I cried. Once the dam had burst, the words just kept flowing. I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to.

“All of my friends hated him!” I told the startled policeman. “We all had reasons to hate him. All of us. Me too!”

I took a deep breath. My heart pounded in my chest. “But we didn't do it!” I cried. “My friends and I—we didn't kill Al. We're just teenagers. We're not murderers!”

That's the truth, I told myself, watching Officer Reed's surprised expression.

We're not murderers. We're not.

That's the truth.

Isn't it?

Isn't
it?

Chapter

11