Free No Such Person by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

close,” says the officer.
    This is the same idea Miranda had when she took the shot. “Well, they didn’t know each other yet,” she says. “Not in that picture. Lander thought he was—um—in shock—and needed—um—a warm wrap. A towel.”
    But last Saturday was a very hot summer day. Nobody needed a wrap. What the photograph implies is that Lander thought Jason needed affection.
    Miranda tells the officer everything. The tug, the barge, the lime-green tow rope, the moment in which Jason cut back on the throttle. She shows him the little video, in which Jason is too far upriver to be recognized, but the tow rope is visible. A green thread against dark water.
    The officer scrolls back to the photo of Lander and Jason on the dock looking softly into each other’s eyes. “This picture was taken while the water search for Derry Romaine was still happening?” says the officer slowly.
    It
is
horrifying that those two beautiful people are exchanging an intimate look while the friend of one of them is drowning. It
is
horrifying that Jason is not out there participating in the search. Miranda is beginning to see why lawyers want the accused to say nothing. The accused’s sister is making it worse.
    “Miranda, did you tell your sister your belief that Jason Firenza attempted to kill his friend?” asks the officer.
    “Yes, of course.”
    “And what did she say?”
    Miranda’s answer will matter. All answers matter now. One of the officers is writing everything down. Perhaps what Miranda says will be used against Lander.
    Miranda imagines Lander having her rights read to her.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.
    She cannot imagine the terror Lander must be feeling. Nothing is used against people like
us,
thinks Miranda. For people like us, everything is on our side.
    Miranda wants her father or her mother to interrupt, but they are as silent as stuffed toys. It feels as if only Miranda and the four police officers are in the room. She needs time to think about Lander’s actual answer and whether those words will play well or whether she should make something up or maybe just pretend she has forgotten.
    “And what did Lander say when you told her your suspicions?” the cop asks again.
    Miranda decides on a careful version of the truth. “Well, Lander isn’t usually that impressed with my take on things. And she wasn’t impressed by that, either. She told me it was an ugly thought and not to repeat it.” This sounds virtuous. Even noble. Miranda is rather pleased.
    But the detective says slowly, “She told you not to repeat the possibility that Jason intentionally dumped his friend in the path of a barge?”
    And now Miranda’s quote is laden with implications. Lander doesn’t want anybody else to think this. Why not? Because it’s true? Because Lander knows it’s true?
    “Why did Jason motor right up to
your
dock on the day of the barge incident?”
    Because Lander waved a big striped beach towel at him, thinks Miranda. But she does not say this. It sounds like a signal, as if the whole thing really was prearranged.
    She knows what the next question will have to be.
Why did Jason arrive at any dock at all when he should have been out there searching for his drowning companion?
    Time to stop talking. Miranda turns to her parents. “Lander needs a lawyer, I think.”
    The police do not remark on this, but produce their search warrant. Her father takes it, unbelieving. It is in an envelope and he cannot get it out. His fingers are stiff with shock. He has trouble reading the words. He is incapacitated by what is happening.
    Miranda shows them Lander’s room. When they turn on the ceiling light, they see a small very tidy space, with a single bed neatly made, a small white chest of drawers, a small white bedside table and a mint-green iPad. There are paperbacks on a wall shelf, a wire tote filled with cosmetics and shampoo hanging on the back of the door, a