Blood on My Hands

make her reveal the truth about what happened. So I text back: Bet?
    This time a reply doesn’t come so quickly. Is she frantically plotting her next move?
    The phone vibrates: Where U @?
    As if I would tell her. But it makes me think. Going purely on gut instinct, I write: Lets f2f .
    Again I wait, but not that long. She texts back: Where?
    An unexpected chill envelops me. By asking where we should meet, has Dakota just unknowingly confessed her guilt? Would anyone ever agree to meet someone they thought was a killer? No, of course not. So if Dakota is willing to meet me, it means one of two things: Either she doesn’t believe I’m the killer, because she knows who the killer really is—her. Or she will bring the police. In either case, do I really want to go through with this?
    I’m in the middle of trying to figure out the answer when the phone vibrates again. Thinking it’s another text from Dakota, I flip it open. But it’s not a text; it’s a call from “unknown.” I nervously lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
    “Callie?” It’s a male voice.
    “Yes?”
    “Hey, it’s Jerry.”
    “Oh, hi!” That’s a relief. For a moment I thought maybe it was Dakota purposefully calling from a different phone so I wouldn’t think it was her.
    “So listen, I just wanted to see how the phone’s been working,” he says.
    “It’s working fine, Jerry. Thanks for checking. And thanks again so much for helping me.”
    “No prob. So, uh … you okay? Need anything?”
    I’m just about to tell him that I’m as well as can be expected when I realize that’s not true. “Actually, there is something I need. I’m out of money and I’m scared that if I use my ATM card, I’ll give the police another way to track me. I hate asking you, but could you lend me some? I promise I’ll pay you back.”
    Jerry laughs. “Are you kidding? Of course. You want to meet somewhere?”
    I almost agree when I catch myself. Jerry leave his house? Why would he risk being caught helping me? Isn’t it strange how a few moments ago Dakota agreed to meet me and now Jerry calls and agrees to do the same thing? The third of Slade’s three P s pops into my head—paranoia. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jerry. If anyone sees you with me, or we get caught, you could get into really big trouble. I think it would be a lot smarter if you just leave the money for me somewhere and I come and get it.”
    There’s a pause. Then Jerry says, “Uh, well, uh, hey, listen, can I call you right back?”
    “Okay …”
    He’s off the line and now I can’t help feeling even more paranoid. What just happened seems odd. Like he had to check with someone else before answering me.
    When the phone rings a few moments later, I almost don’t answer. Then I do. “Hey, okay,” Jerry says. “I got an idea. You know the warming room at the train station? There’s an old bookcase there. People leave books after they finish them. I’ll leave the money for you this afternoon in the last book on the first shelf, okay?”
    I would feel grateful to him were it not for my suspicion that something isn’t right. Still, I know I have to pretend. “Thank you, Jerry. You’re such a sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
    “Hey, no prob. So I’ll probably get over to the station around three. You can pick it up anytime after that. But I wouldn’t wait too long, you know? Someone might come by looking for a book to read and get a big surprise.”
    I pretend to laugh at the thought of someone picking up a used book and finding money inside.
    “In fact, do me a favor, okay?” he goes on. “Send me a text after you get it. Just so I know?”
    I tell him I will.
    “Promise?”
    “Yes, Jerry, I promise. And really, thanks so much.” I close the cell phone. The more I think about it, the stranger it all seems. Jerry leave his cave voluntarily? He’s going to touch a used book that who knows how many germy hands have held? No way. Not in this lifetime.
    And now I realize something else. Dakota asked where I wanted to meet and I didn’t answer. She hasn’t followed up. Or has she, by getting Jerry involved?
    Two nights after school began, my phone rang. The number came up as private. After staring uncertainly at it for a moment, I decided to answer.
    “Hi.” It was Dakota.
    “Oh, hi,” I said, surprised.
    “So what’s up?” she asked.
    “Oh, well, nothing, except, you know, everything,” I said. “I mean, how