Blood on My Hands

liked. She easily could have had a group of friends who accepted and enjoyed her, but instead, she seemed absolutely determined to break into Katherine’s group.
    “Why?” Mia asked, clearly startled.
    “Because I said so,” replied Katherine, delivering the line dramatically and with inflection, as if she were an actress. Of course, she wasn’t an actress. She would never put herself in a position where she could be judged or criticized.
    The other girls had stopped talking. Within Katherine’s crowd there seemed to be two subgroups—those who were close to Katherine and those who wished they were closer. I’m not speaking of proximity alone. First came Dakota Jenkins, the daughter of Congresswoman Cynthia Jenkins. Katherine whispered to and seemed to confide in her more than anyone else. That is, if they weren’t fighting, which they did a lot. Next came Zelda McDowell, whose family was said to be the richest in town, and Jodie Peters, who you sometimes saw in ads on TV. And then came the rest, down at the other end of the table, three or four girls who, like Mia, were always trying to get Katherine’s attention and approval.
    “What are you waiting for?” Katherine asked.
    Mia’s eyes darted toward a group of boys standing nearby, talking and shooting occasional glances in our direction as if they knew, or hoped, that we were aware of them. David Sloan was the tallest, and probably most handsome, of the group. The previous Friday he had been Katherine’s date to a Sadie Hawkins dance, and there’d been rumors that they’d vanished together into a bedroom during a party on the following night.
    Mia got up stiffly and started in David’s direction. Halfway there she shot an uncertain glance back at Katherine, who flicked her wrist as if shooing her forward.
    The boys quieted as Mia approached, taking timid steps, as if she were making her way across a pond covered by thinning ice. Finally she stopped in front of David, who, with dipping eyebrows and one side of his mouth turned up, looked both skeptical and amused. The boys around them were silent. Mia reached up and “slapped” David’s face. It was barely more than a tap. Then, her face much redder than his, she scurried back toward us.
    David looked in our direction, his eyes not on Mia but on Katherine. He shoved his fists in his pockets, nodded slightly, and smirked, as if he understood precisely why she had sent a minion to deliver the faux blow. Katherine nodded back, then turned to the table just as Mia sat down, still red-faced and breathing hard.
    “You call that a slap?” Katherine said, then ignored Mia for the rest of lunch.
    *  *  *
    “How does she do it? I mean, manage to instill so much fear?”
    “By being judgmental and having a wicked tongue. It’s a lethal combination.”
    “Only if people care.”
    “Some do; some don’t.”
    “I’d so like to put her in her place.”
    “Ha! See?”
    “See what?”
    “You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t care.”

Chapter 4
    Sunday 12:15 A.M.
    THE POLICE OFFICER will leave. My mother will shut the door and press her back against it to keep her from collapsing to the floor. She will be devastated—in the first moments of being ravaged by emotional turmoil. But of all the possible emotions, the one she will not feel is shock. At this point, there’s nothing left that can surprise her.
    In the playhouse the air is musty and smells like dry wood. I can’t help thinking of the children who have played in here. Little girls serving pretend meals to dolls seated around the table. Boys kneeling at the windows, firing toy guns at imaginary attackers. But here in the dark now, there is nothing pretend or imaginary. It’s all horribly real.
    My cell phone vibrates. With trembling fingers I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Mom.
    “Are the police there?” I ask.
    “They just left.” Her voice is high and anxious. “A murder? My God, Cal, what’s going on?”
    My heart heaves and my eyes become watery. As frightened as I am, I feel even worse for her. After everything she’s been through. Sebastian and Dad. And now this? It’s as if her family is slowly being destroyed before her eyes.
    Tears spill out and roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t do it,” I manage to croak. “I only found her after she’d been stabbed.”
    “Where are you?”
    “I’m …” I hesitate, knowing how she’ll react. “Hiding.”
    “What? Why?” Predictably, her voice rises even higher.