Free The Girl in the Park by Mariah Fredericks Page B

it’s my mom. “Hey, Mom.”
    “Hi, honey. Listen, sweetie?”
    “Yeah?”
    “The police would like to talk to you.”
    *   *   *
    “Just tell them what you know.”
    “I don’t know anything.”
    My mom squeezes my hand. “Honey.”
    It’s evening, but we haven’t eaten dinner yet. Just as well. Food would never make it into the twisted mess that is my stomach right now.
    A moment ago, the buzzer rang. It was the police. Any second, they’ll ring the doorbell.
    “They’re taking a long time,” I say. “Maybe they got lost.”
    The doorbell rings. Hurrying to answer it, my mom says, “They’re just going to ask you some questions.”
    Just, I think. Questions mean answers. Which I don’t have.
    I hear my mother say, “Detective …?” Murmurs back and forth as she lets him in. Then: “My daughter’s in the living room.”
    They appear, my mother and the detective. It’s the guy from the assembly, Detective Vasquez. He is rounded and bald. When he comes close, I see that his skin is pockmarked. I like him for that.
    “My name’s Detective Vasquez.” He raises his hand awkwardly. “Good evening, Ms. Donovan.” Which sounds very weird; Ms. Donovan is my mother, not me.
    As he sits down, I say, “You can call me Rain. I mean, if you want.”
    “Rain,” he says easily. “So, Rain. First of all, I’d like to thank you for speaking with me.”
    “You’re welcome.” My mother sits down next to me. The detective notices that.
    He opens his hands. “Is there anything you would like to tell me to begin with? Anything you’d like to ask?”
    “Just … I don’t know. The obvious. Do you know who—?”
    “No,” he says promptly, “but we’re doing everything possible to find the individual, I promise you.”
    He says that to everyone, I think. To Wendy’s mom, her dad, the newspapers.
    Shifting slightly in his chair, he gets down to business. “I understand you attended the same party as Ms. Geller that evening?”
    I nod, wondering who told him. Wendy’s mom, I bet.
“A very reliable girl, Detective. You’ll want to speak to her.”
    “Did you speak with her at all?”
    “Yeah, a little.”
    “Can you tell me what you talked about?”
    Have you ever been in love with completely the wrong person?
Part of me really wants to tell the detective about Wendy’s insane crush on Nico. But I don’t want to add to the crazy slut story. I want the police to know about Nico—but I don’t want them knowing it from me.
    “Don’t worry about me,” says my mom. “Just say whatever it was.”
    I smile weakly. Then say to Detective Vasquez, “No, it was girl stuff. Party talk. Boys.”
    “Any boy in particular?”
    His voice is casual; I can’t tell what he’s heard about Nico. “Well, you’ve looked at Wendy’s Facebook page, right?”
    “We’re aware of it.”
    “So, you know she liked Nico Phelps.” I’m not sure; does he nod or not? But he’s writing it down.
    As he writes, I get up the courage to ask, “Have you talked to Jenny Zalgat?”
    He flips through his notebook, nods.
    “Jenny said she thought maybe Nico and Wendy left the party together. Did she tell you that?”
    “We have several witnesses who say that Ms. Geller left the party alone that night.”
    “Oh.” So, Jenny was wrong. Wendy didn’t get Nico.
    Abruptly switching tone, Detective Vasquez says, “Can I ask if you observed anything else about Ms. Geller that night?”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, for example, did she seem intoxicated to you? High?”
    Startled, I say, “No.”
    “Can you tell us if she took drugs of any kind?”
    “No, I can’t. Why do you want to know?”
    He shrugs. “A young woman ends up in the park late at night—we need to know her state of mind, that’s all. Some of the other kids at the party indicated that Ms. Geller was maybe … a little altered.”
    “Not when I saw her,” I say firmly. I’m not even sure that’s the entire truth; but if people are blaming