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  What happened next? The hand reached down towards the lock. I think he pulled his arm back, then put it through again. He probably pulled the jacket off, he couldn’t have turned the bolt with his fingers covered, but I wasn’t getting a replay. Nothing came.

  I couldn’t sit still any more so I got up and moved around my room. All this hard work wasn’t getting me anywhere at all. I never even saw the man again, because after he put his arm through the window, Flavia and I took off down the hall. Was that it? Was that all I knew about him? It couldn’t be; I didn’t see him again, but I certainly heard him. I knew exactly where he was the whole time he was in the apartment. I knew from his light, and from the sounds he made when he moved around.

  Footsteps, that’s what came next. If you know people well enough you can tell who they are by the way they walk. I could tell the difference between Mom and Raffi coming up the stairs, or even between Mom and Tammi. I wouldn’t necessarily know who Tammi was, I’d only know she wasn’t Mom. Unfortunately, about all I remembered about the footsteps was how terrified I was when they were coming towards me, and how relieved I was when they were going away. Maybe that was good. Maybe if it was Raffi up there, I would have known.

  But it wasn’t the footsteps that came next. What came next was the laugh. That came after he turned the flashlight off, or maybe even just before. It wasn’t a ho-ho kind of a laugh, it was a whispery sound, the kind you’d make if you were surprised, if something silly had happened.

  I tried out a few whispery laughs myself, trying to make them sound like his. “Ssss,” I said. I practised a bit, pushing the sound out of my mouth, but I wasn’t getting it quite right. There was something missing. I ran through the alphabet in my head, like I was playing that hangman game, where you know some letters of a word and have to figure out the rest. “Asss, Bsss, Csss, Dsss, Esss,” I said. That sounded better, but I kept going. “Fsss, Gsss, Hsss,” I said. “Isss, Jsss.”

  My name, was that what I heard? Jess, sort of hissing out of his mouth, like he was totally shocked to see me there? My name, from the mouth of the killer!

  I stared at my blind for a while, thinking how much that cranberry colour reminded me of blood. Then I put my thick fleecy housecoat on over my clothes, because I was freezing.

  Maybe I was mistaken, maybe that’s not what I heard at all. I played with that idea for a while, but I knew it wasn’t true. It’s pretty hard to mistake your own name. What was so amazing was that I didn’t clue in before, that I sort of heard what he said at the time, but I didn’t remember it until now.

  I shivered, because there was something else. Something worse. If the killer knew me, then I knew the killer.

  The phone was right in front of me. I looked at it, I even put my hand on it, but who could I call? Who could I tell?

  Sheena, who was ready to nail Raffi already?

  Mom, who’d fall apart?

  Kelly, who wouldn’t be at home, or even care?

  I could call Jon, or Flavia, but I knew what they’d say. They’d tell me to call Sheena, because they’d be scared I’d get hurt, because I knew too much.

  I didn’t even want to think about that, so I didn’t. Instead, I took a very long, very hot shower. Then I went to bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  CHAPTER 18

  Stomping around the apartment the next morning, getting myself organized for school, I made a list in my head of all the people I knew who were big and who had anything at all to do with the Birds. There weren’t many. Ray himself was big, but he was dead. Sheena was big too, but she was a cop. Jon was tall but not what I’d call big, and anyhow he didn’t come on the scene until after the murder. Then there was Raffi. The list was useless.

  By this time I was ready to get dressed, so I did what I do every morning. I put on some clothes; then I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “Wonderful,” I said. “Good work, Jess.”

  Mom, just home from work, popped down the hall to see if I was still alive. “Talking to yourself is a bad sign,” she said. Then she looked at me and giggled. “Bad hair day?”

  “Grotesque,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You went to bed with it wet?”

  “Um,” I said.

  “Maybe you should start over. Stick your head under the tap, then blow it dry.”

  “Thank you for that kind suggestion.” I probably didn’t sound too friendly.

  “A bit grumpy, are we? Hormones giving you trouble?”

  I made a blowing out, ticked-off sort of noise, and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind me, so firmly that the frame vibrated.

  When Mom is mad, her voice really carries. “Jess!” she yelled. “Get back in here!”

  I got back in there.

  “I know you’re upset,” she said. “But still ...”

  “Sorry.” I blinked twice, then I threw my arms around her neck and bawled.

  It poured rain all day. At school, I spoke only when I was spoken to, and then as little as possible. After my last class I found a message from the principal taped to my locker. Mrs. Carelli would like to see me as soon as possible, it said.

  The office was pretty full and there weren’t any seats left, so after I told the secretary why I was there, I leaned against the wall and looked around. Most of the kids were there to explain absences, past or future, and most of the absences were for pretty ordinary reasons. They were sick or they had to look after their kid sister, or go to the dentist, or to somebody’s funeral. One guy said that the train coming back from Kitchener broke down, but he didn’t say why he was in Kitchener on a school day. Another, who was wearing a little Band-Aid on his forehead, said he’d been in a car accident. The best excuse was the nose-bleed that wouldn’t stop. The worst was the washing machine that broke down with all the girl’s clothes in it, soaking wet.

  Mrs. Carelli came to the door of the inner office, wagged her finger at me and smiled, which was nice of her, because it was like telling everybody watching that I wasn’t in trouble. She was wearing a suit like a man’s but it had a skirt instead of pants. It was a bluish-grey colour, and when she sat down, she slipped the jacket over the back of her chair, showing a striped blue-and-white blouse underneath.

  “I take it Ronny Roach hasn’t apologized,” she said.

  I shook my head.

  “Have you had any communication with him at all?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “But ...” I leaned my backpack on my leg and dug into it, desperate for something, anything, I could use as a handkerchief.

  Mrs. Carelli moved from her chair and handed me a box of tissues, then perched on the front corner of the desk, facing me. “I hope you can tell me about it,” she said.

  I hoped I could too, without blubbering all over the floor. I put the box on the chair beside me, and did a mop-up job on my nose. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really a whiner.”

  “I know you aren’t,” she said. “Has he done something?”

  “It’s just the way he...” How do you say that it isn’t just the Roach, that it’s everything? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just stick to the subject. I snorted into the tissue again before I answered.

  “I didn’t see him for a while,” I said. “And then I did, in the hall. And he looked so mad, so ... absolutely furious. Like he wanted to just kill me.” I started shivering all over, just from remembering. “Seriously kill me,” I added. “I didn’t imagine it. My friend saw it too.”

  “I didn’t realize,” she said. “That makes the situation more difficult, doesn’t it?”

  “He lives on my street,” I said.

  “I’m aware of that.” She tapped her index finger on the desk for a moment. “What I’d normally do at this point is bring him in, ask why there’s no apology, and if one wasn’t forthcoming, suspend him until he gave it.”

  Our eyes met, and I gulped.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a dilemma, isn’t it? If I do that, you’re likely to be even more fr
ightened. With some cause, I suspect. But if I don’t enforce the policy, it won’t take long for word to get around that I’m soft on harassment.”

  I didn’t see what she could do, but at least she understood.

  She tapped her finger some more. “Maybe I’ll bring him in for a warning. Make sure he understands there can be absolutely no repercussions against you. I’ll tell him I’ve advised you to contact the police if he bothers you. Are you still in touch with Constable Sheena Bowes?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “But she’s mad at me too. I don’t think I want to ask for any favours right now.”

  “Is this something you want to talk about?”

  I do, desperately, but it will take a while... I shifted my eyes towards the outer office. There were at least three kids out there waiting to see her.

  “I’ll make time, Jessica.” She smiled. “Just let me speak to my secretary. She can reschedule some of my appointments.”

  I heard her voice outside the door. When she came back, she was carrying two little bottles of apple juice, one for each of us.

  The first sentence was pretty hard to get out, but after that, I just babbled. I told her about Raffi being a suspect without an alibi. I told her how Sheena thought I was covering up for him, and how I was beginning to wonder about that myself, and how bad that made me feel. Then I told her how Sheena’d pretended to be my friend, when all she really wanted was information about the Orellanas. I said I didn’t think that was fair, because they were people I liked a lot, who I had to live near, maybe for a long time. The more I talked, the more upset I got. Mrs. Carelli didn’t look too pleased either, especially when I told her about being questioned in the police car.

  When I finally finished, she let out a long sigh. “You have a serious problem,” she said. “Several of them.”

  For some weird reason that made me feel better.

  “What I’d like to do,” she said. “Is arrange for some police contact for you, either with Sheena Bowes or with a different officer, one who isn’t involved in the murder investigation.”

  “My second suggestion is that you should request that your mother or some other adult is present if the police want to interview you again. Are you close to your father? He’d be ideal, in this situation.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! I’d gone for years without anyone even mentioning my father. Now he was coming up in every second conversation! “How do you know about him?” I said.

  “He’s listed in your school records.” she said. “And, of course, I know of his reputation.”

  “I haven’t seen my father since I was twelve.”

  She looked sad about that, but she didn’t say anything, she just nodded. “My third suggestion is that you arrange to walk to and from school with another student, at least for a while. Can you do that?”

  I nodded. Flavia would help me, I knew she would. She was a really nice friend.

  “Now, about the murder, about not knowing who or what to believe about your friend Raffi, all I can suggest is that you be extremely careful. I realize that you don’t want to offend him or your mother with ... suspicions, but your first responsibility is to ensure your own safety.” She paused, as if she was thinking about what to say next. “If there is anything I can do, even to the extent of consulting your father on your behalf, I’d be glad to do that.”

  “No!” I said. “Please don’t.”

  “Without your permission, of course I won’t. But I am available myself, at any time. And I’m sure Constable Bowes is too. She may be annoyed with you, but I’m absolutely certain she wouldn’t let that stop her if you had difficulties with ... personal safety. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  CHAPTER 19

  When I came in the door from school my mother was holding the phone away from her, like it smelled bad. “It’s Sheena,” she whispered.

  I gave my nostrils a quick pinch and put the receiver to my ear. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi, duckie. I hear you’re mad at me.”

  “Did my mother tell you that?” I frowned at Mom across the room. She put her hands up in front of her, palms out, and shook her head.

  “Your mother was somewhat frosty,” Sheena said. “Is she mad too?”

  “You’ve been talking to Mrs. Carelli,” I said.

  “Yep. She chewed me out, if it’s any consolation. So I phoned to explain. If I can,” she said. “If you’ll listen.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I was sure thinking. Mostly about Mrs. Carelli shooting her mouth off. For my own good, of course.

  “You thought I was a friend,” Sheena said. “Now you think I wasn’t. I was just pretending, right?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She sighed. “You aren’t making this easy, you know.”

  I didn’t say anything to that either.

  “Did anybody ever tell you that your silences would stop a train?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Look, I’m a cop and I like people. So we had some fun together. But sometimes the cop part of me has to take over.”

  I still wasn’t saying anything, but I was listening. I guess she knew, because she didn’t stop talking.

  “Being a cop has to come first. I mean that’s how we met, right. You know what I am.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So I should always act like a cop? If I like someone, I should hide it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right. It would sure be a lot easier than trying to communicate with one really ticked-off person. Sweating to try and make her understand.”

  “I think you’re trying to talk to me because you need my help again,” I said. “Or maybe you got worried because Mrs. Carelli knows how you treated me.”

  Mom was sitting at the table, facing away from me, pretending to read the paper. I knew she was listening because her right fist shot up, and her thumb was raised high above that.

  “That wasn’t nice, Jess,” Sheena said. “Not nice at all.”

  It was just as well she couldn’t see my grin. “So I’m not perfect,” I said.

  “Well, look. I guess I’m not making much headway here. But I didn’t call for information. I called because I felt bad. My job took over, but it has to sometimes.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m not apologizing. I’m just explaining. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how are you doing?”

  “Not so good.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t, but I might need her if the Roach got any uglier. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess.” My voice sounded like I was ten years old. “Remember how I told you there was some guy hassling me?”

  “Sure. I was gonna shake him up a bit, but you weren’t too keen on that.”

  “Yeah. Well, I reported him to the principal. And now he’s in trouble at school, and ...”

  “The offer’s still open,” she said. “Just let me know, and I’ll do what I can.”

  “OK,” I said. I was just going to explain about the Roach, about how scary he is, when she changed the subject.

  “Before I forget,” she said. “Does the name Al Green mean anything to you?”

  “I thought you just called because you felt bad,” I said. “You didn’t want any more information. But no, it doesn’t. Who’s Al Green?”

  “Someone real close to Mrs. Bird. A kind of neighbour,” she said. “And don’t be so touchy.”

  Probably I was being touchy, but there she was, pumping me, up to her old tricks again. I never did get around to telling her any more about Ronny Roach; I never even told her his name. I guess I showed her.

  I figured I’d better take Mrs. Carelli’s warning seriously, so the next day I had two friends walk me home from school, Flavia and Jon. Neither of them knew anybody called Al Green.

  “Who’s he?” Jon said.

  “Somebody really close to Tammi,
according to Sheena.” I made quotation marks with my fingers when I said the word close. “He’s also a neighbour.”

  “Mrs. Tammi has a close friend?” Flavia said. “Does that mean she has a boyfriend? So soon?”

  We were stopped at a corner, waiting to cross. Jon and I shrugged at the same time.

  “If he lives around here,” Jon said, “we could try to find him.”

  “The cops must have done that already,” I said.

  Flavia looked thoughtful. “We could look also. It is possible that people would tell us things they would not tell the police.”

  “Sure,” Jon said. “We could go door to door. Ask people if they know him. Check out names on mailboxes.”

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Our block has fourteen houses that are chopped up into apartments, one duplex, one triplex (ours), a ten-unit building, a twelve-unit building (where Raffi lives) and at the far end of the street, an old-age home.

  The mail boxes were brass-coloured wall units, with slots holding name cards and individual keyholes. It took over an hour to cover the whole block, but a lot of that time we were just fooling around.

  We told some of the neighbours that we were doing a survey on front halls. We told others that we were counting cats. The neighbours told us about the cop who’d been around asking questions about the night of the murder. Nobody could remember being asked about Al Green.

  We graded the halls on a scale of one to ten for cleanliness, smells and security. Our building was a nine and a half, demoted from ten because of a pile of advertising flyers in one corner. The worst was a minus fifteen, which smelled like a drunk had just upchucked his last meal. Outside, after I’d taken a deep breath, I turned to Jon.

  “You know who lives there?” I said.

  “Yup. The Roaches. Rotten Ronny and his old man.”

  We counted between thirteen and fifteen cats: eight grey-striped tabbies; between one and three solid-coloured blacks, depending on how fast they travelled and which of us was counting; two blacks with white markings; one white with black markings, and one very unhappy Siamese caged beside an open window.