Chapter 27. Caleb
You listen as Evangeline talks about Antoine’s mother, and a picture forms in your head, not only of Mrs. Dubois, but of a small girl with no memory of her own mother, and a father who did too little, and a grandmother who did too much.
Evangeline.
“So it’s like a week into kindergarten,” Evangeline says. “Beginning of the day, I’m standing all alone with my grandmother lingering in the doorway like she always did, and Antoine comes up to me and holds out his hand and after a few seconds I take it. Which is when my grandmother springs into action.” She grimaces. “So the thing is, some Koreans and Korean Americans are kind of, uh, prejudiced, especially when they’re from the older generation . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Your grandmother’s racist,” you say. “Is that what you mean?”
“Well, she’s dead now, but yeah.” Evangeline grips the back of her neck with one hand. “That’s it. She was. She had good qualities too—but anyway. African Americans . . . any dark-skinned person, really. She didn’t want anything to do with them. So anyway, the next thing I know, my grandmother is right there, grabbing my other hand, trying to pull me away from Antoine. Only I won’t let go!”
“You just hung on?” asks Kenyon.
“I did. For dear life. It was like a tug-of-war, my grandmother pulling me away from Antoine, and me screaming for her to let go. Which was when Gabrielle Dubois intervened. She said something to my grandmother about how she told Antoine to play with me, because she noticed I was all alone. It was, uh, kind of humiliating.” Evangeline shrugs like this doesn’t matter, but you can see that the memory stings her a little.
Only then she smiles, if briefly. “But somehow I just kept on holding Antoine’s hand anyway, and he kept on holding mine. And even though my grandmother was awful about Antoine until the day she died, he was my friend from that moment. And Gabrielle was my friend, too. She noticed me and she took action to help me, because that’s who Gabrielle Dubois is.” She pauses. “Used to be.”
“Until her husband got sick?” Saralinda asks.
“Yes. Although she was still herself then. It’s since his death that she got so strange.” Her chin points out. “Listen, before the carriage house, she tried to kill Antoine a couple of other times too. Including messing with Ellie Mae’s brakes. I wanted to tell you guys that.”
Saralinda sucks in her breath sharply.
“He told me,” you say. You’ve been turning this over in your head for hours, since you remembered. It is unbelievable to you that it was only yesterday.
“So he never got in his car without checking thoroughly,” Evangeline continues.
“He didn’t check yesterday,” you say, interrupting again. “I guess because of me. I distracted him. So maybe she cut the brake line again? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Evangeline chews the inside of her cheek. “Maybe. All right, Caleb, now go ahead and tell us every single thing you remember about yesterday.”
You open your mouth, but Kenyon cuts in.
“Look, you guys. I mean this kindly, okay? We can talk all night, and I’m happy to do that. It’s why we came. But I think we all know where this has to end, right? We have to go to the police. We tell them everything we know, including that the two of you heard Antoine accuse his mother of poisoning him and cutting his brake line, and that Saralinda and I also heard him accuse her of sabotaging the carriage house. Then the police investigate and they find the evidence, if it’s there. After which Mrs. Dubois goes to jail, or gets psychiatric help, or both. The end. Right?”
“Yes, police, of course,” Evangeline says. “But I want to go to them with something solid. Evidence, not hearsay. Maybe we can find some if we try. What’s wrong with that?” She glares at Kenyon. “On the news they said it was an accident, after all. Why should we trust the police to investigate this and do a good job? I don’t trust them.”
“Well, you should,” Kenyon says. “They’ll investigate when we tell them to.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I grew up around cops. My grandfather is a cop, okay? I know how the police work. They have procedures. They follow them. So they’ll take care of this. They’ll figure it out. That’s their job.”
You are surprised to learn that Kenyon’s grandfather is a cop. Although there was no reason for her to mention it before.
Evangeline’s lip has curled. She says to Kenyon, “So would you suggest we go to your grandfather with what we think?”
Kenyon winces. “No. He’d never listen to me.”
“But you think other cops would. Even though we have no evidence.”
“They’ll find evidence for us. That’s their job. Why wouldn’t they?”
“Oh, maybe because Antoine wasn’t white?”
Kenyon makes a face. “That’s paranoid.”
Evangeline looks at you. Of course she does; you’re not lily-white either: She waits.
Diplomatically, you say to Kenyon, “They might investigate. But it would be naïve not to understand that Evangeline could be right. If we can possibly find some evidence, it can only help.” You pause. “For when we do go to the police. And to Dr. Lee. Because yeah, we have to do that in the end.” You nod at Kenyon. “You’re right.”
Kenyon bites her lip.
Saralinda pushes a York Peppermint Patty off the napkin in front of her, as if it were a chess piece. She says, “But it is hard to believe the police wouldn’t care that Antoine is dead and maybe was murdered.”
“Happens every day,” Evangeline says bitterly.
You nod.
Kenyon says, “Okay, so let’s see what we’ve got to work with. Caleb? You were going to tell us what happened yesterday?”
But before you can start speaking, Evangeline’s phone beeps.
“Irina,” she says, making a face. She jabs at her phone with one finger, and then her expression changes as she keeps looking at it. Her shoulders tense.
She holds out her phone.
“Look at this. It’s our evidence! It’s our evidence!”
Saralinda and Kenyon crowd on either side of you as you watch.
It’s a video: a grainy image of a parking lot. The student parking lot at school. There’s a time stamp. Evening. Day before yesterday.
A man—short, heavyset, with gray hair—crosses the parking lot, passing car after car, until he stands beside Antoine’s car, which is covered by the tarp. He glances quickly around. He kneels, and his arm moves under the car. A few seconds later, he gets up and walks away.
“This is it, right?” says Evangeline. “Won’t it force them to investigate?”
When you look up, Evangeline babbles at you. “My roommate Irina has been meeting this new boy by the parking lot. Because it’s private there. She says they thought they were being followed, so they recorded the guy. Do any of you know Irina much?”
You all shake your heads.
“Okay, well, let’s say she’s always looking for privacy and she always thinks she’s being followed. Irina lives in a very dramatic world. This isn’t the first time she’s done a recording or taken pictures. Anyway, she forgot about it until now, which is typical of her too. But then she remembered and of course she knows Antoine is my friend and that’s his car, so she sent this—”
“But that’s not Antoine’s mother,” Saralinda says. “That’s some guy. What are you thinking, that she got someone to help her, like a mechanic?”
“Yes,” says Evangeline. “And—”
“No,” says Kenyon, in a strangled voice.
“What—”
“I mean no, that’s not some guy. That’s my grandfather.” Kenyon pauses. “My grandfather, the cop.”
Chapter 28. Saralinda
I sink into my chair by the coffee table and push all my delicious junk food aside. I don?
??t want any of it anymore not even a York Peppermint Patty, and I stare at Kenyon. All of us stare at her.
“Are you sure?” Caleb asks at last. “It’s not like the video shows a close-up of his face.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Kenyon is pale in the artificial light of the cottage and her neck tattoo stands out as if it’s raised. WHY BE HAPPY.
Evangeline sinks down onto the floor and draws her legs up against her body and puts her cheek on her knees. “Really really sure?”
“I know how he walks, how he turns his head. Also, that’s his coat with the ripped back seam.” Kenyon’s voice dips. “It pissed my mom off, that he wouldn’t get it fixed or wear the new one she bought him. They had a whole thing about it, her saying it looked terrible, and he’d just keep saying it was comfortable.”
Kenyon laughs but it is a short unamused bark. “So. My grandfather killed Antoine? My grandfather killed Antoine! Only why? Why would he do that? I mean, he didn’t know him.”
“As far as we are aware,” Caleb comments. Abruptly he pulls the rubber band out of his hair and twists it over his fingers. “Probably there’s other stuff we don’t know . . .”
“At least we now have actual evidence of Antoine’s car being sabotaged,” Evangeline says. “So the police . . .” She falters as she remembers what I am remembering, which is that Kenyon’s grandfather is the police.
Then my mind tilts with an outer-space idea. I say it anyway, these are my friends.
“Kenyon, your grandfather blames you for your mom’s death. You told me that he wished you were the one who died.” They all look at me and I go for it. “So this thought I’m having, not saying it’s true, just, um, what if Kenyon’s grandfather met Antoine’s mother at some school thing and they got talking and, uh . . .”
“Swapped murders?” Kenyon says sarcastically. “Are you suggesting I should watch out in case Antoine’s mother pushes me under a bus? Now it would be her turn, right?”
I hunch my shoulders. “It’s just an idea.”
“There was a movie about something like that,” Evangeline says doubtfully. She looks at Kenyon and raises an eyebrow.
Caleb shakes his head. “How would the subject come up? ‘Here, have some pita and dip, and by the way, do you want your kid dead like I do mine?’”
“I meant it as a thought experiment,” I say defensively. “I mean, we have to explain why Kenyon’s grandfather would even do this.”
“For money?” asks Evangeline.
Kenyon holds her elbows.
There is silence again and into it I keep babbling. “Anyway. Back to Antoine’s mother. Is there a word for when you plan to kill your own child? Opposite of patricide and matricide. Fratricide? No, that’s when you kill your brother.”
“Infanticide,” Caleb says. Without the rubber band his hair hangs down around his face and I long to push it back, I ache to do that. I look away quickly to Kenyon, who is the important one here, what is wrong with me.
“Antoine was not an infant,” Kenyon says. “And I’m not one either.”
“I’ll find it,” Evangeline says, and taps on her phone and we all watch her intently as if finding the right word is so important. Kenyon is now upright and standing very still in the middle of the room. Finally Evangeline looks up. “Well, there’s something called filicide. Not an everyday word. Latin root, fils meaning son—”
“I get it,” Kenyon says.
Carefully she sits down.
“It was just a thought,” I say. “I don’t believe—”
Kenyon swivels toward me. “But I believe it, Saralinda. Suddenly I do. I tried to fight it, but my heart did this thing when you said it—like it popped inside my chest. It’s like—it’s like I heard the bell of truth.”
I bite my lip, I can think of nothing to say.
Words pour from Kenyon. “He hates me. And Antoine is dead, and he did it.” Kenyon waves a hand toward Evangeline’s phone. “Oh my God. We have evidence. And—and Antoine’s mother already tried to kill me once, in the carriage house. Right? Along with Antoine. Why else would I have been invited to that meeting? I was new to the school!” She sinks her head into her hands. “I was a target too. They were freaking conspiring to kill Antoine and me.”
“Saralinda and Evangeline and I were also invited to the carriage house,” Caleb points out.
Kenyon waves a hand. “We’ve talked about that. It was random coverage. Collateral damage—there had to be a few other kids there.”
I say, “But I don’t know if I believe this.” I feel afraid of what I have unleashed and of the expression on Kenyon’s face.
“My heart believes it,” Kenyon says.
Evangeline for once says nothing, but she watches Kenyon.
“But really, how would they have even met?” I ask. “Because Caleb’s right. It’s hard to imagine them talking about this at some school event. Also, Kenyon just started at Rockland a few weeks ago.”
Caleb pulls at the green rubber band. After some silence, he says, “Antoine told me his mother was going to a grief group. Was your grandfather doing grief therapy too, Kenyon?”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t have thought it was his kind of thing.”
“My father leads group therapy sessions.” Caleb snaps the rubber band around two fingers. “It seems to be a pretty common thing.”
A furrow appears between Evangeline’s arched brows. She tilts her head to the side. “Nah,” she says softly.
Caleb looks up from his rubber band at her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” This time it’s Kenyon.
“Oh, my stepmother was doing that too.” Evangeline’s mouth compresses. “It’s been two years since my dad’s death, and she suddenly tells me she’s getting help to work through it and is that all right with me. What a hypocrite! So just now, when we were talking about swapping murders . . .” She shrugs. “I had this thought. It’s craziness, though. It’s that if I die before I turn eighteen, Spencer gets all my money.”
My jaw hinges open like an oven.
“Holy—” Kenyon says.
“No.” Evangeline cuts her off. “Absolutely not. I just had this what-if moment. Because of the carriage house, and it’s not like Spencer and I get along. But I can’t see her having the guts to kill anybody.” She shrugs.
A chill has literally zipped up my spine.
“Does she have her own money?” I ask.
“Some,” says Evangeline.
“Forty million dollars like you?”
“No.”
It’s Caleb who asks: “So how much does she have?”
“I don’t know exactly. Two, three million?” She looks at the rest of us and we look back at her.
It sounds like a lot to me, but then again . . .
“When do you turn eighteen?” I ask.
“A month,” says Evangeline. “After that, the lawyer has the papers for me to sign, to leave my money to the Upper East Side Cat Society.” None of us laugh though amazingly she seems to have been trying to make a joke. “Okay, no, not really. I picked some extremely responsible foundations and charities. Spencer doesn’t need my money, you guys. She doesn’t care. She didn’t say a word when the lawyer said we needed to get my affairs in order for my birthday.”
Kenyon and I exchange a glance, not Caleb though, who is looking at Evangeline with no expression at all.
“Stop it,” says Evangeline. “Spencer has her faults, and I don’t like her. But I mean, if she finds a spider, she has someone set it free outside.” She rolls her eyes. “She can’t even kill a bug.”
“How do you know what she really thinks, though?” Caleb asks. “How would you know for sure?” He is again watching his hands as he winds the rubber band across all four fingers and pulls so that his fingers turn white.
Evangeline s
hrugs. “I’m pretty certain Spencer’s an airhead and could never manage the logistical aspects of a murder. Let alone a murder swap. If that’s still what we’re talking about here.”
As for me holy cow my head is exploding because Evangeline has forty million dollars and she already called her stepmother a gold-digger and honestly it is hard for me to think of a better motive than money for killing someone except maybe love/jealousy/revenge/hate.
I look at Kenyon and I can tell she agrees with me.
“Your stepmother could pay off my grandfather or Antoine’s mother,” says Kenyon tentatively. “To do things for her. So she wouldn’t have to dirty her hands.”
I nod.
Evangeline snorts. “Oh, please. Seriously? Exactly how would this conversation take place? This conversation where three people agree to swap murders? Who raises the idea first? Okay, so maybe I can imagine two people doing it. I mean, we have to imagine it because of the video.” She taps her phone. “But three? It wouldn’t happen—and stop giving me that look, Kenyon—it seriously would not happen. Even if Caleb’s right about them meeting at a grief group, or if they met at a school function, what do you think—that they came up with the idea during a coffee break? Somebody has to bring it up first, and who would? Seriously, who would? Who would be able to get away with saying that kind of thing out loud?”
The rubber band snaps in Caleb’s hands flinging itself across the coffee table to land in my Cheetos.
Chapter 29. Caleb
Saralinda picks up your rubber band and tosses it back toward you. You duck your head as you catch it. You’re afraid of what she might see in your face.
You’re afraid you look insane.
Your flash of insight is fading now, like lightning overtaken by darkness.
It can’t be. Can it? Your father can’t be involved in this, right?
Evangeline is talking, which thankfully shifts Saralinda’s attention away from you.
“Okay, so assume Saralinda is right and Gabrielle and Kenyon’s grandfather swapped murders. That would mean that Kenyon is in immediate danger.”