Chapter 14
Sunday 4:37 P.M.
I KNOW THE yearbook photo Slade was talking about. In it I’ve got shoulder-length blonde hair and a bright smile. A lot of that hair is now at the bottom of a brown paper bag, and what’s left on my head is jet-black and spiky. I’m wearing enough black eye makeup to pass for a raccoon, and I dyed and plucked my eyebrows until they were thin black slivers to go with my black lips and nails. Topping it all off is a thick, abstract Sharpie tattoo on the side of my neck. Thanks to the rubbing alcohol, it looks almost real.
The police scanner blurts on.
Female voice: “Bravo five-eleven, what’s your ten-twenty?”
Male voice: “Bravo five-eleven. Over by the train station.”
Female voice: “Go over to Kearn’s Deli. Ten-sixty-two on a possible sighting of person wanted for questioning.”
Male voice: “Ten-four.”
A 10-62 means to take a report from a citizen. I don’t think it’s paranoid to imagine that the person wanted for questioning is me. So that means someone thinks he or she saw me and has called the police to report it. Of course, it’s a mistake. No one’s seen me. No one … except Slade.
I feel my stomach knot, from both hunger and anxiety, and I rip out the seams of Alyssa’s jeans and resew them so they’re skinny, then rip the knees and a pocket before scrawling on them and the sneakers with black Sharpies. All this work keeps me busy until, despite my nervousness, I’m starving. Finally, stomach grumbling, I stand before the bathroom mirror and consider what I’ve created. Scratches hidden by makeup. Black hair, black eyes and lips, black clothes. Short of piercings, I am as punk as can be.
But now I have to leave this place, and if this disguise doesn’t work, I won’t be punk. I’ll be in jail.
If, as I suspected, Dakota was Katherine’s killer, I wouldn’t be totally surprised. I had learned that she was practiced at appearing to be things she wasn’t. I knew, for instance, that she could be fast and aggressive with boys, even if she pretended to be the opposite. Even though she was pretty, with shoulder-length auburn hair, a trim figure, and an unusually ample chest for a girl her size, she never talked about dating. And while lots of girls wore tight low-cut tops and flaunted their cleavage, she stuck to turtlenecks and blouses.
But Slade had told me what had happened while he and his dad had been doing the renovation of the Jenkinses’ kitchen. Dakota had taken a shine to one of the workers, a guy about Slade’s age. She started hanging around, finding excuses to talk to him, “accidentally” bumping into him, and dropping hints.
“What kind of hints?” I asked.
“Oh, you know.” Slade reddened slightly. “The kind of stuff a girl does and says when she’s interested. And she’d touch him, too, when she talked.”
“Your friend told you that?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was kind of weird. Not the kind of thing that happens a lot when you’re on a job.”
“What did he do?”
“Well, that’s where it got even weirder, because there’s this unwritten rule that you don’t mix business with pleasure, especially when it’s the daughter of the client. So at first the guy just tried to laugh it off, but the more he did that, the more insistent she got. Like once she set her mind on something, she had to have it. Finally the foreman had to take him off that job and put him on another one.” He paused for a second, then added, “But even that wasn’t the end of it. She got hold of his phone number and sent some text messages. You know, that kind of thing.”
“So … she was really aggressive?”
Slade nodded. It sounded strange. Not that a girl would do something like that but that the girl in question was Dakota.
“And?”
“Don’t really know. After that, I never heard anything more about it.”