Every Single Lie Read online

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Out!” Coach Killebrew shouts as she steps into the main aisle again, holding her phone. “And keep the rest of the students back.”

  I don’t know if there’s anyone else out there, other than Jake and the basketball guys, but there will be soon. The bell ending sixth period is about to ring, and seventh period is optional, so all the athletes and band kids will be traipsing through the gym on their way to the far parking lot.

  Jake backs out of the locker room and lets the door swing shut, as Coach Killebrew dials.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end asks.

  “This is Angela Killebrew, up at the high school. One of our students found a baby in a duffel bag, in the girls’ locker room. It isn’t breathing.”

  The shock of her words—of hearing it out loud—snaps my focus back to the open gym bag, where it snags on a distinctive white blotch marring the crimson on the right side, near the bottom. I dig my phone from my pocket and open the camera app. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. I don’t know whose baby this is, or why it isn’t moving, or why the hell someone would leave it in a duffel bag in the girls’ locker room.

  But I know who that bag belongs to.

  I tap the camera icon, and my phone clicks as it takes a photo.

  Coach Killebrew doesn’t hear the click. She’s still talking to the 911 operator, and by the time she rounds the lockers again to pull me back from the duffel bag, I can hear the sirens.

  Clifford is only three miles across. You can get anywhere in town in under eight minutes, even without sirens.

  Officer Doug Chalmers is the first one on the scene, because of course he is.

  I expect to be asked to leave the locker room so the cops can do their job, but a crowd has gathered in the gym, so Doug asks me to sit on the bench near the door instead. Most of seventh period passes in a blur of blue uniforms and low-pitched voices. Quiet procedure and whispered outrage. No one wants to speak very loudly, even though there’s no chance of waking this baby.

  I want that not to be true. I want to hear the baby cry, offended by the indignity of having a gym bag for a cradle. But any distant hope of that happening fades when the county coroner shows up, his job title printed on the back of his jacket, to officially declare the poor infant dead.

  A few minutes later, Doug introduces me to his direct supervisor, John Trent, the patrol sergeant, who is the first to ask me questions and write the answers in a little notepad.

  Several minutes after that, my mother arrives. I’m not really surprised that she’s the investigator in charge. Clifford PD only has two of them, and I can almost understand why Chief Stoddard might assume a case involving a dead baby and a bunch of high school students should go to the “lady detective.”

  “Okay, somebody catch me up,” she says as she pushes her way into the locker room wearing a tailored blue button-up and a gray blazer, her badge clipped to her hip. “And Doug, you and Robert Green get out there and start asking questions.” She points through the closed door at the gym. “Take all their names, and send anyone who didn’t see anything home, but let them know they might need to give a statement later. School’s over, isn’t it?”

  “It’s still seventh period,” I say, and my voice sounds like there’s a frog in my throat.

  My mother’s gaze lands on me, and her brows dip. “Beckett? What are you doing here?”

  Doug’s hands are propped on his duty belt again. “Julie, Beck found the . . . um . . . body.”

  She exhales. Then she points at the closed door again, without ever looking away from me. “Go, Doug. Question teenagers.”

  He heads into the gym, and my mother’s assessment of me deepens, like maybe everything she needs to know about this case is hidden somewhere on my face.

  “Stay put,” she says at last. “I’ll be right back.”

  Then she gives Coach Killebrew a pat on the shoulder on her way down the aisle and around the first bank of lockers, to See What We’re Dealing With.

  That quiet look of unflappable resolve is a Julie Bergen classic. It’s the same one she wore when she marched calmly into the kitchen to see why my little sister Landry was screaming, only to discover that she had chopped off the tip of her middle finger, along with the end of a carrot.

  Silence descends from the other side of the lockers, and in that silence, my mother’s heavy exhalation echoes like a distant roll of thunder.

  A heartbeat later, she starts talking. “John, call the state police and let them know we need to borrow a couple of lab techs.”

  Because while the Clifford PD is perfectly equipped to collect evidence, it lacks the manpower and facilities of a larger police force. At least, that’s what my mom told me when that meth lab blew up half the Dogwood Village trailer park last year.

  “I want the security footage from any camera that faces the locker room door. Has anyone touched anything in here?”

  “The coach said she touched the baby, to see if it was breathing,” Officer Trent says. “But no one’s touched anything since.”

  “What about the bag? Do we know whose it is?”

  “Coach says that duffel bag is available to any school athlete with twenty bucks to spend, so it could belong to a couple hundred different people.”

  “Yeah, my son has one just like it,” my mother says. “So do all his friends.”

  “The school secretary is putting together a list of everyone who bought one in the past three years.”

  “Okay. I’m going to have Coach Killebrew walk me through this, while you call State, then I want you to take her to the station to submit prints and DNA for exclusion, just in case.”

  “I’m on it.” Officer Trent appears in the main aisle with his phone pressed to his ear, and a second later my mother follows him.

  Nothing fazes Lieutenant Julie Bergen. Nothing. Yet she looks a little pale as she waves me up from the bench.

  “You okay?”

  I nod as I sling my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “No.” I should tell her I know whose bag that is. And I will. But not yet.

  “All right. I’m going to have Robert escort you to the library, where it’s quiet. I’ll be there to take your statement in a few minutes.” She frowns, still studying my face. “You sure you’re okay, Beckett?”

  “I’m fine. I just . . . ​Why would someone leave a baby in a gym bag?”

  “I promise you, we’re going to figure that out.”

  Officer Robert Green seems uncomfortable in the library. He keeps pacing, like he’s afraid that if he sits still for too long, one of the books will sneak up on him.

  I want to assure him that literacy isn’t contagious, but he doesn’t seem like the type who uses humor as a coping mechanism. Which means we basically have nothing in common.

  We’re alone in here, since the librarian retreated to her office and everyone who doesn’t take seventh period has gone home, to work, or to some kind of extracurricular practice.

  Officer Green stalks past the table where I’m sitting, and for the dozenth time, he stops to stare at me for a second. He clearly wants to ask me something, and I can’t blame him. But my mom told him she’d be the one to take my statement.

  Finally, the library door opens and she comes in. She doesn’t sleep much, and she eats too much junk food at work, but neither of those have anything to do with how tired she suddenly looks.

  It’s the dead baby.

  She sits across from me and sets her phone on the table, open to the audio recording app. “Okay, Beckett, I need to ask you a few questions, and I’m going to record the whole thing, so I can refer to it later.”

  “Are they going to let you do this?” I ask, and she looks confused. “I mean, shouldn’t they take you off this case, since your daughter is involved?”

  “You’re not ‘involved,’ Beck. You’re a witness. And Andrew”—the o
ther investigator—“is busy with that copper theft out at the substation.”

  Yet I can’t help noticing, as she taps the RECORD icon on her phone, that she lets Officer Green stay as a witness.

  While the app records, my mother states her name and rank, then she announces me as a witness and gives my full name, birthdate, and address. Then, finally, she looks at me. “Okay, Beckett, so tell me what happened.”

  “I went into the locker room and noticed a drop of blood in one of the showers. Then I saw the duffel bag. When I realized what was in it, I ran into the gym and got Coach Killebrew. She called 911.”

  “What were you doing in the locker room? Coach says it’s supposed to be off-limits for a couple more days, because of the fresh paint.”

  I glance at Officer Green as warmth floods my cheeks.

  “Beckett?” My mother frowns. “You’re not in trouble. Just tell me.”

  “I was kind of . . . ​hiding. I broke up with Jake last night, and I took a college day today because I didn’t want to see anyone. Then I remembered that I can’t miss that French test, so I came to school just for seventh period. When I saw a bunch of his friends in the gym, I ducked into the locker room so they wouldn’t see me.”

  Fact-Check Rating: True, but incomplete.

  My moment of cowardice was as much about my near arrest as about our breakup. But I don’t think that matters so I don’t feel bad about leaving that part out.

  Much.

  “And did you touch the baby, or the bag, or anything in the locker room?”

  “No. I already told you that.”

  “It’s for the recording.” My mom nods at her phone. “Did you see anyone else in or around the girls’ locker room?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of anyone at Clifford High who is or was pregnant? Students or teachers?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Torres, my precalculus teacher, is pregnant, but she’s not showing yet. She’s left class to throw up twice this week, though. And Lilly Copeland. She’s a senior. She’s about to pop.”

  “Okay.” My mother writes down both names. “Did you see anything else out of the ordinary in the locker room, other than the blood and the duffel bag?”

  “Yes. There was a distinct lack of mildew.”

  Another frown. “Beck . . .”

  “No. Nothing else out of the ordinary.”

  “Great. Thanks, Beckett, you’ve been a lot of help,” she says as she stops the recording.

  The words feel like professional courtesy. More like Lieutenant Bergen than like Mom.

  “I have to ask you not to speak to anyone about what happened today. About what you saw in the locker room. Out of respect for that poor baby and its family. And for the integrity of the investigation. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.” I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder, assuming I’m free to go. “What’s going to happen now? What are you guys going to do?”

  “Well, while we wait for the results from the coroner, we’re going to try to find the baby’s parents.”

  “By questioning students and teachers?”

  “By interviewing them, yes. And by analyzing the evidence at the . . . at the scene.”

  “The blood and the duffel bag?”

  “And whatever the baby was wrapped in. And any security footage we can find. Though it turns out there are no cameras facing the locker room door.”

  “What will you do when you find them? The parents?”

  “Maybe nothing more than offer counseling. We don’t know that any crime was committed. It’s possible the baby died of natural causes.”

  “It’s premature, isn’t it? That’s why it was so small and red?”

  “I think so. The coroner will be able to tell for sure.” My mother finally stands and signals to Officer Green that he can go. “I’m sorry about Jake,” she says as the door closes behind the other officer. “What happened?”

  I shrug. “We’re teenagers. We get bored.”

  My mom wears skepticism like a second badge. “Well, I’ll be home tonight, if you want to talk about it.”

  “Sure.” But we both know that isn’t going to happen, even if she does make it home before I go to bed. I tug the strap of my backpack higher on my shoulder and head for the door.

  “Beckett,” my mother calls. I turn, and the way she’s looking at me now is all Mom. “I know that couldn’t have been easy. Finding the baby. I’m so sorry that . . . ​Well, I’m just sorry. I hate that you had to see something so sad.”

  Again.

  She doesn’t say that part out loud, but I know she’s thinking it. Because I am too.

  I miss you, Dad.

  In the parking lot, I start my car, but before I head home, I text Jake.

  come over. now. i found your duffel bag.

  THREE

  My dad’s truck is in the driveway. It’s my brother’s truck now, but it always takes me a second to remember that, even seven months after the funeral.

  Before my dad died, Penn and I shared the car I drive now—a ten-year-old Corolla with a dented rear bumper that Dad always said he was going to pound out with a rubber mallet. But he never got around to it.

  I run into my brother on my way into the house. He’s wearing sweats, running shoes, and a Clifford High hoodie.

  “Hey,” he pants, jogging in place on the front porch, and I can see from the sheen of sweat on his forehead that he’s already done the first part of his workout, which was probably a million push-ups, or something equally insane.

  “Hey.” I let the screen door slam behind me as I head through the living room and into the kitchen.

  A second later, the door slams again as he follows me back into the house.

  “Where’s Landry?” Penn asks from the kitchen doorway, and now he seems to be jogging in place just to annoy me.

  “Isn’t she here?”

  “Beck, you were supposed to pick her up.”

  “Oh shit.”

  Mom never gets off work in time, so Penn and I take turns driving half a mile to the middle school after seventh period, and he’s right. Today was my day.

  “I forgot.” I close the fridge door—we’re out of sodas anyway—and text my little sister.

  sorry i’m late. on my way

  It’s after four o’clock. She’s been out of school for more than an hour, probably sitting on a bench out front, all by herself. Why didn’t she text?

  Her response comes almost immediately.

  kitchen window

  I pull back the curtain hanging over the sink, and there’s my little sister, waving from the kitchen window of her best friend Norah Weston’s house, next door. Norah’s sister, Anna, is a senior. I think she has a couple of classes with Penn.

  I call Landry.

  “Hey. Anna brought me home when she picked up Norah,” she says the second she answers her phone. “She said something went down at the high school today and she saw a cop take you into the library. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I hesitate with the rest of it, because even though she isn’t exactly a little kid, at thirteen, Penn and I still think of her as one. But if Anna Weston hasn’t already heard what happened in the girls’ locker room, she will soon, and even if she isn’t the one to tell our matched set of eighth-grade sisters, someone will. At least if Landry hears it from me, the information will be accurate and firsthand.

  “I . . . um . . . I found a baby in the locker room at school.”

  “What?” Penn’s exclamation drowns out our sister’s reaction.

  I hold up one “wait a minute” finger at him without turning from the window, where Landry’s still staring at me through both panes of glass and across the strip of side yard separating our property from the Westons’. “Someone left a dead baby in a duffel bag.”

  “Oh my god,” Landry breathes, and I can feel Penn’s stare like the focused burn of a laser beam on the side of my face.

  “Mom told me not to talk about i
t, because they’re investigating, but she’s pretty sure no one hurt the baby. That it just . . . ​ died.”

  Fact-Check Rating: Unproven. But no thirteen-year-old needs to hear that the baby I found in the locker room may have been killed and abandoned by its mother.

  “So, Mom got the case?” Landry says.

  Norah appears in the window next to her, pressing her white-blond head against my sister’s dark-haired one with the phone between them, trying to hear what she’s missing. Norah can’t stand being left out.

  “Yeah, and she’ll probably work late,” I say. Which would be true even without the new case.

  “Can I stay here, then? It’s the weekend, and Norah’s mom’s ordering pizza. She said I could stay the night.”

  “Sure.” I don’t really want her here when I confront Jake again anyway. “Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Weston.”

  “I won’t. ’Bye.”

  Landry hangs up, and she and Norah disappear from the window.

  “What the hell?” my brother says when I slide my phone into my pocket. “You found a dead baby?”

  “What part of ‘Mom asked me not to talk about it’ do you not understand?”

  Penn just waits. He knows I’ll spill, because Mom only meant that I shouldn’t gossip or, like, call up CNN in Jackson and give them an interview. I tell Penn just about everything, eventually, but I can’t tell him everything about this. Not yet, anyway.

  “There isn’t much more to tell.” I shrug as I brush past him to stare into the fridge, even though I know there are no sodas. “I found a baby in the girls’ locker room. It was tiny and red, and it wasn’t breathing. Mom’s investigating. End of story.”

  “End of—?”

  “Don’t you need to go run laps around yourself, or something?” I wave one hand at his workout clothes. Which are practically all he wears these days. “Isn’t your big test next week?”

  “It’s the Candidate Fitness Assessment.”

  I know. The CFA is all he talks about, other than to stress about his grades in calculus and physics. Which means it offers limitless potential as a change of subject.