The Perfectionists (19 page)

Elliot blinked. “Uh, sure,” he said, stepping aside. “I was just trying to help.”

“You have to be careful with her,” Julie said protectively, carefully taking Parker's arm. The headache had come on full force, blocking Parker's vision, turning her stomach, sending waves of pain down her back. “It's okay,” she could hear Julie's voice above her. “You're going to be fine.”

“I couldn't do it,” Parker moaned, though every word she spoke hurt. “I just couldn't.”

“I know,” Julie said, seemingly understanding even though Parker didn't quite get it herself. Maybe it was another hole in her memory: Maybe old Parker had hated cemeteries. Maybe something bad had happened to her in one.

But she didn't care about the reason right then. All she wanted to do was sit on the bus bench with her eyes closed. All she wanted was to never think again.

THAT AFTERNOON, CAITLIN SAT ON
the edge of the paper-lined bed at her orthopedic clinic, pushing her foot into her physical therapist's palm for her weekly appointment. “Okay, now flex,” the therapist, a tall, strapping Russian whose name was Igor, said, watching her face as she moved her ankle around.

“It feels pretty good,” Caitlin said.

“Good.” Igor kept rolling her foot in different directions, his hands cool and careful.

In the corner, a local news station played, muted but with closed captions. A breaking-news alert rolled across the bottom of the screen.
LOCAL BOY KILLED WITH CYANIDE
.

She flinched. Igor looked at her sharply. “Did that hurt?”

“No.” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Igor gently let go of her foot. “Um, could you turn that up?” she asked. Igor looked confused for a second, then grabbed the remote from a nearby table and handed it to Caitlin. The sound came on instantly.

“Let's talk a little more about cyanide,” the reporter was saying, her voice strangely chipper. “And for that, I'd like to introduce Dr. John Newlin, forensics expert. Dr. Newlin?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Cyanide poisoning is a classic method of both murder and suicide, mostly because the drug acts so quickly and looks like a cardiac event. The poison impedes the victim's ability to use oxygen, making the victim feel as though he is suffocating.”

“And cyanide isn't a common substance, right?” the reporter interrupted. “In the Hotchkiss case, how could a murderer have gotten hold of it?”

“Well,” said the doctor, “there are several professions that would allow access to cyanide in one form or another: chemists, photographers, pest control, mineral refining, dyeing, printing . . . The investigators are likely looking at people who have connections to those industries.”

Caitlin stiffened. She assumed cyanide would be hard to come by, but it sounded like there were a million ways to get it. What if she or the other girls had it in their garage or basement, without even knowing it? What then?

“What about the chem lab at school?” the reporter asked.

John Newlin paused. “A chemistry professor
would
know how to obtain potassium cyanide—old chemistry sets used to include it, in fact. But it's difficult to imagine a teacher introducing such a dangerous chemical into the classroom.”

“Thank you for joining us, John. There continue to be no new leads in the Hotchkiss investigation. Now, at the top of the next hour—”

Caitlin turned off the TV and leaned back on the table. Her heart was racing.

“Were you friends with him?” Igor asked, a sympathetic look in his eyes.

Caitlin chewed on the corner of her lip. “I didn't really know him that well.”

Igor nodded. “Well, a crime like this affects everyone in the community, whether or not you were friends with him. It's terrible. I hope whoever did it rots in jail.”

Rots in jail
. Her heart thudded in time with the words. That might be her future. Caitlin thought back to the police interrogation and the detective's face grinning when he said she clearly had motive. She shuddered at the idea that the cops were sitting around,
talking
about her.

About
them.

She glanced at her phone. Ava had sent a message last night:
Just looked thru Bogie's shit at the lighthouse. Nada.
It was a code:
Bogie
was their name for Granger, after Humphrey Bogart, whom he was always talking about, and the
lighthouse
was Beacon Heights High. Where could they go from here? How could they pin this on Granger? Did he have access to cyanide? The reporter had said photographers used it, and Granger ran a photography club.

She quickly sent a group text.
Photographers use cyanide.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly. She expected it to be from one of the girls, but instead it was from . . .
Jeremy.

Dragon Ball
marathon on. Thought you should know . . .

It brought an unexpected smile to her face. She hadn't talked to him since he'd driven her to practice last week, but they'd seen each other in the halls at school, and smiled shyly at each other.

Nerd.
☺, she wrote back.

Takes one to know one.
☺, he texted.

“Well, everything's healing up nicely,” said Igor, taking a pen out of his pocket. “The good news is you probably only need to see me a couple more times.”

“Great.” Caitlin nodded.

“And Caitlin?” he said jovially.

She looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Kick some butt in your big game, will you?” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Thanks,” she said, suddenly aware that she'd barely thought about the upcoming semifinals that Wednesday. With everything else going on, it felt almost . . . trivial. She gathered her bag and walked outside. When she heard a honk at the curb, she looked up. Josh sat in his Jeep Cherokee.

“How's Igor?” he said.

Caitlin straightened up. She'd forgotten he was waiting for her. “Russian, as usual.”

She got into the car and buckled her seat belt. Josh leaned over to kiss her hello. But when she closed her eyes and kissed him back, she imagined herself sitting on the back of Jeremy's Vespa, her arms wrapped around him. She flinched, horrified.

“So where to? Dirk's?” It was their favorite burger place, famous for its sweet potato fries.

Caitlin made a face. “I just ate.”

Josh waved his hand. “Well,
I'm
starving, so do you mind?” He started the car without waiting for her answer. “Once you smell those fries, you'll totally want some.”

I said I wasn't hungry
, Caitlin thought as they pulled away from the curb.

Jay Z's “Empire State of Mind” came blasting out through the speakers. Caitlin jumped at the sudden noise, slamming her palm against the dash as if to brace herself. Josh cranked it up even louder. “This song always makes me think of the Cape Disappointment trip,” he yelled. “Remember? We listened to it on the way there, like, five hundred times?”

The bass shook so hard it felt like an extra heartbeat vibrating through her body. The Cape Disappointment trip had been right after their sophomore year. Josh had just gotten his driver's license and they'd gone to the coast for a week with a bunch of other soccer players. She still remembered the sun-dappled trees whipping by outside the car window, all of them singing at the top of their lungs without a care in the world. She remembered Josh's hand on her knee, and little charges of electric attraction shooting between them. That was when Taylor was still alive, when Caitlin was still happy and innocent. That was before she'd known how much the world could hurt a person.

It felt like so long ago.

A heavy weight settled on her knee, and she looked down to see Josh's hand resting on her pant leg. She was shocked at how foreign and clumsy his hand felt on her leg. Almost
annoying
, in fact.

She stared out the window, thinking about what she and Jeremy had talked about the other night—wandering the world like Jack Kerouac, having crazy and unexpected and unpredictable adventures. She couldn't stop thinking about it.

She looked over at Josh. “Do you ever think about what you'd do if you couldn't play soccer anymore?” The question came out in a tumble.

“Huh?” Josh shot her a confused look.

The seat belt felt tight across her throat and she tugged at it. “If you got hurt or something. Or if you burned out.”

Josh frowned. “Why even worry about something like that? Your ankle is fine, Cate. You're definitely playing soccer.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She gave a little grunt of frustration. “I mean, what if you hurt yourself really badly or something. Or what if you didn't
feel
like it anymore? What would you do then?”

Josh almost ran a stoplight turning to look at her. “Are you quitting?”

“No.” She turned to look out the window. “I'm just playing devil's advocate.”

He gave her a blank, almost nervous look, shaking his head. “I just don't see the point in thinking about something that isn't going to happen. Soccer is life.” He grinned. It was a slogan on one of the bumper stickers plastered on the back of his car.

“But actually, Josh, it
is
going to happen.” Caitlin's heart started to beat faster. “We're not going to be playing soccer forever. After UDub,
if
we both get in . . . well, the pros are a long shot, even if you are one of the best. We have to have
some
sort of plan.”

Josh looked hurt. “You don't think I can go pro?”

“That's not what I said!” she insisted. “And it's not the point. Don't you think it's a good idea to . . . I don't know. To slow down sometimes? To look around and see what you want out of life?”

He snorted. Caitlin watched him for a moment, but he didn't seem to give the question any consideration. “What's gotten into you lately, anyway?” he asked. “You've been acting weird.”

She shrugged, then decided to say the name she'd been holding back. “I guess I've been thinking about Taylor a lot. The Nolan thing . . . it's brought up a lot of memories. And it's like . . . life is
so
short. The only way we've spent it is running up and down the soccer field.”

Josh shook his head. “I honestly don't see what Taylor or Nolan have to do with soccer.”

She whipped her head around to stare at him. “They have
everything
to do with soccer. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in soccer, I might have seen what was happening to Taylor. And now I can't stop thinking about it.”

Josh still looked blank. “Well, maybe you should. Because it's going to screw up your game. Screw up your chances at getting into UDub.”

Her mouth dropped open. “And then . . . what? You won't like me anymore if I don't win the big game? You won't like me if I actually
think
about what happened instead of pushing it under the rug?”

Josh halted at a stoplight. “God, Caitlin. You've been picking on me for the past two weeks. And I didn't even
do
anything.”

A thousand words froze in Caitlin's throat.
I just want you to listen to me
, she wanted to scream.
I want to be able to talk about Taylor without you getting all weird. I want you to throw your arms around me and say you'll listen, however long it takes. I want you to understand, even if you don't understand
.
And that's what hurts the most.

But for some reason, she couldn't actually say it. Maybe it was because they'd been together for too long; they'd developed a pattern of
not
saying so many things that it felt weird to actually be honest. Or maybe it was because it was all too true, and saying it would prove how disconnected they really were. It was a harsh thing to realize, but suddenly, Caitlin saw it in sharp focus. Besides soccer, she and Josh had
nothing in common.
Nothing at all.

She tore her seat belt off and jerked the car door open.

“What the hell?” he asked, his shocked face turning toward her.

She stepped out of the car and threw up one hand.

“Babe, get back in the car,” Josh demanded.

Caitlin shook her head, slamming the door. “I need some time alone,” she snapped through the open window.

“Caitlin, what the hell did I do?”

For a moment Josh looked uncertain, and she was almost afraid he'd get out and follow her. But then the light changed. Behind him cars started to honk. He stared at her for a long moment, confused. Then he shook his head, held up his hand in a “whatever” kind of gesture, and roared off down the street.

She stood there for a moment, breathing in the smells of exhaust and faintly rotten leaves. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She'd never done anything like that before—she and Josh had barely ever even squabbled. It felt scary to do something so unlike herself. But also kind of liberating.

She pulled out her phone, about to call someone to pick her up—her moms?
Jeremy?—
when she noticed someone jogging by. She did a double take.
Granger.

He was dressed in running shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, but his pace was slow, almost leisurely. He locked eyes with her as he passed. A small, strange smile tugged up the corners of his lips. He gave a tiny, ironic salute, and then he was gone.

Caitlin's hand shook. She knew that look. She'd given it to Nolan a thousand times after Taylor died. Its message was loud and clear:
You're going down—and there's nothing you can do about it.

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULIE STEPPED INTO
Maru's Sushi and shook the water off the plaid umbrella she'd just borrowed. It was raining buckets, but although Julie's house was filled with, well,
everything
imaginable, she couldn't find a single umbrella in any of the piles. However, she'd run into two groups of kids from school in the parking garage, and multiple people had offered to lend her an umbrella. One girl, a junior named Sadie, said she'd
hold
the umbrella over Julie as she walked the short distance to the restaurant. “You guys are so sweet,” Julie had said, graciously accepting Sadie's Burberry umbrella and promising to return it on Monday. Popularity did have its privileges sometimes—it was the one bright spot in her otherwise collapsing world.