“Appreciate it, Wendell,” Sleek Suit replied. His grin was one of those fake plastic smiles with teeth bleached too white.

  “You’ve done so much for me and Amita. I—” The lieutenant’s gaze fell to me. “Ah, my next appointment is here.”

  Sleek Suit turned around, his grin widening. I didn’t think that was possible. “Oh, you’re the Kelleys’ kid?”

  I couldn’t help but frown. “Yes? Sorry, are you here for our meeting with the lieutenant?” I looked back to Reya, who looked just as confused.

  “No, no apologies needed. Wendell here mentioned you were coming in. I’ve met your parents a few times at the courthouse. It’s admirable what they do, and I see you’re following in their footsteps, making sure you give your statement for that horrific accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I replied a little too quickly, my voice sharper than intended.

  But what I said was true.

  His mouth twitched into an amused smile. “I see.” Reaching into his pocket, he handed me his business card, navy blue with a matte finish, white and gold lettering. “I’m Alderman Jay Corben, city councilman over in Lakeview. Mr. Medina was a good man, and he did a lot for the community through his work at the academy.” He eyed the scarf at my neck as I crossed my arms to cover the North Shore crest. “My condolences. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate.” With that, he nodded to Reya and turned to leave, his heavy footsteps muted by the gray carpet tile.

  Awkward silence followed before Lieutenant Charles remembered we were waiting on him.

  “Are you ready for us?” I asked, looking between the now-empty hallway where the alderman had disappeared and back to the lieutenant’s empty office.

  “Yes!” He motioned toward his open door. “Yes, come on in.”

  Guided by his sweeping gesture, Reya walked over to the worn leather chairs that sat opposite his ornate cherrywood desk. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  I slipped into the seat next to her, tucking my hands under my legs to keep myself from squirming. The lieutenant’s office was surprisingly clean. Very few files were visible, and most of the space was filled with family photos—a few recent ones from last year’s CPD holiday party, showing his right hand in a cast, and tons of candid shots of his son playing Little League and holding up a second-place ribbon at an eighth-grade science fair.

  “He’s at Morgan Park now, top of his class.” Lieutenant Charles nodded to the photo. “With any luck, you’ll see him next year at North Shore. My apologies for my behavior on the platform Monday. If I had known you had a personal connection to the victim, I wouldn’t have brushed off your request to make a statement before. I thought I was saving you from getting involved in a police investigation, especially at such a young age.” His eyes became unfocused. “Such an unfortunate accident,” he muttered.

  Clearing his throat, life came back into his gaze, and he pulled out a notepad and pen. “Now, tell me what you remember.”

  As I spoke, the fountain ink scratched across the paper in elaborate flourishes, loops that seemed to travel to the ends of the earth, the pen’s sound and movement holding my attention. There was a lot of nodding and mm-hmms—his reactions exaggerated, overdone. He stopped writing as soon as the last word left my lips.

  “That was brave of you to come in and share, Miss Kelley.”

  I tried to look at his notes, but I was too far away.

  Did he get it all down that fast?

  “Does that match what the conductor saw?” I asked.

  He knitted his brows together, tilting his head to the side. “Who?”

  “I couldn’t be the only one who saw what happened. Mr. Medina’s body would’ve crossed right into the conductor’s line of sight. And the train camera—it should’ve caught it all.”

  Confusion still covered the lieutenant’s face.

  “The person driving the train,” I continued.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “We’re giving everything the proper attention on this case, don’t you worry. I appreciate you coming in.” He stood a bit too fast, his chair tilting back as it caught on a few loose carpet threads.

  No follow-up questions?

  I sucked in a breath and counted to five. “Thank you for listening.” I shook his hand, and he barely matched my grip. I stole a quick glance at his notepad.

  My heart sank.

  “And you too, Ms. Morales.” He turned to shake her hand.

  Reya smiled and snuck me a look. We were ushered back out into the hallway without any other acknowledgment and waited until the elevator doors closed behind us before speaking.

  “That was—”

  “Patronizing,” Reya finished for me. “I know this case isn’t his area of expertise. He’s not a beat cop anymore and far from a detective, but that felt off. I thought his head would fall off his neck from all the nodding.”

  “He didn’t write it down.”

  She spun to face me. “What?”

  “The notepad. His movements were too exaggerated, and his pen stopped with my last word. He can’t write that fast. There was a picture of him with his dominant hand in a cast not too long ago, and he struggled to hold the pen firmly. Same with his handshake. It was weak.”

  Reya smiled to herself. “Well, I agree with your parents on one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You might be dreaming too small with this private investigator thing. You should set your eyes on Quantico. Introduce me to that cutie from Chicago who’s on that crime show you’re always watching.”

  I shrugged, trying not to smile. My breakdown did sound impressive. “I snuck a look at the pad, too. It was a bunch of scribbles.”

  She grinned. “Never tell ’em your secrets.”

  The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out into the hustle and bustle of the lobby, uniformed officers passing us by. Outside, it was overcast, leaving no sun to filter in through the windows. The gloom matched my mood. Everything with the lieutenant was nothing but a show.

  Reya slipped on her coat, and I could feel her eyes on me. “Hey.” She gave me a light nudge. “He’s working in the administrative department and had no plans of catching a case. I’m sure he just wants to close it out. I looked him up before we got here. He’s aiming for a promotion soon. He might believe wrapping this up quickly will help with that.”

  My heart crashed against my chest. The lack of files, all the photos highlighting achievements. Protect and serve was obviously not his immediate focus. “Are you saying we should move on?” I stopped walking.

  “Never.” She tipped up my chin so I would look her in the eye. “They have the cameras and the conductor, like you said. Whatever happened will come to light.”

  I nodded. We stepped outside, the wind making the scarf at my neck dance in the ice-chilled breeze. I don’t know why I grabbed his scarf to wear, but I was glad I did. I needed Mr. Medina’s presence today.

  Reya fished her car keys out of her oversized purse. “Should we stop somewhere for breakfast before I drop you back at home? I could go for some pancakes.”

  I stared up the street toward the train station. I had to trust that Lieutenant Charles was going to do as he said: give everything the proper attention. But how could he do that if he faked taking my statement?

  “Can we check the platform? I want to see something.”

  “Of course. Let me grab my flats from the car, and we can walk over.”

  Walking into the train station at Thirty-Fifth and Bronzeville, everything was as it was before, and at the same time, it wasn’t. Something dark stained the concrete platform near the incident, and a lone saint’s candle burned at its edge. The frankincense aroma blended with the crisp smell of the winter and a hint of bleach. A train idled on the southbound tracks, allowing passengers to board. Memories began to flood my mind, and I rushed to push them back down.

  “Jo?” Reya’s voice snapped me back.

  I shook it off. “You stand here.” I moved her to stand under the camera that would’ve seen everything. Running over to the column where the figure arguing with Mr. Medina stood days before, I looked over to her, unable to see much more than the sleeve of her coat.

  “Can you see me?” I called out.

  “Not really. Maybe if you stepped out a bit. The way the columns divide the platform, I would need to peek around.”

  My shoulders dropped. These cameras were stationary. There was no peeking around. “The cameras have blind spots.”

  Reya nodded. “It’s been a problem in a few cases for the police. There’s a contract out to get all the stations upgraded surveillance.”

  The wind blew again, and the cold prickled against my skin, turning it to gooseflesh. The train left the station, revealing the trash-covered southbound tracks full of the usual food wrappers and someone’s lost Ventra transit card that had slipped from their grip.

  Reya joined me at the platform edge.

  “Everything okay?”

  My eyes watered from the cold, pushing tears to fall, but the wind dried them as quickly as they formed.

  The cameras might be a bust. But there’s still the conductor’s statement.

  Just give it time, I told myself. My truth will matter.

  I hooked my arm through Reya’s. “I got what I needed for now. Let’s go.”

  Friday, February 25, 8:42 a.m.

  STANDING IN FRONT of Mr. Medina’s office the next morning was a surreal experience. Flowers and well-wishes blocked his door, along with stuffed animals and heart balloons. Pools of hardened wax dotted the floor where I assumed someone had tried to burn candles only to have them replaced with fake flickering tea lights.

  I gripped the straps of my backpack, staring at it all, trying not to show emotion in a hallway full of faces I barely knew. They walked by in their cliques: jocks, theater kids, society’s elites, and those already high out of their minds before first bell. I didn’t have anyone at this school without Mr. Medina. Coming into this building only cemented that truth.

  A student stepped into my periphery. Khaki slacks fell over his brown loafers. He wore a pressed white button-up under his midnight-blue sweater with the orange-and-white school crest at his heart. Julius James: the same boy whose file I saw on the ground at the train platform Monday morning. He gave a quick nod in my direction and added a saint’s candle to the growing mass, lighting it with a quick prayer before leaving. The comforting scent of frankincense wafted through the hall—the same candle from the train platform.

  “Who keeps—” The dean of students, Mrs. Lawson, walked by, snatching up the candle. “Please stop leaving lit candles in the hallway!” she bellowed. “We have announced this many times!” Her face grew red, though her overprocessed blond hair didn’t shift an inch, that French twist of hers held in place by what smelled like an excessive amount of hair spray—a likely fire hazard.

  “I’ll take that, Mrs. Lawson,” a voice from behind offered.

  We both turned, surprised to find Mrs. Medina, formerly Ms. Salvatore, perfectly prim in her dark tweed skirt and black kitten heels. New wrinkles crinkled at the corners of her eyes, though her concealer hid the shallow bags underneath. I don’t know what it says about me that I didn’t think of Mr. Medina’s widow until now. Didn’t think that there was someone grieving more than I could ever understand.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Lawson nodded and continued down the hall. She stopped short at the end. “Are you still sure you don’t want a few more days at home? If you need more time—”

  “I’ll be taking the afternoon and next week. I like it here, though. The kids keep my mind busy,” Mrs. Medina replied.

  Mrs. Lawson nodded again and turned the corner as Mrs. Medina stepped in place next to me, her dark waves falling over her face, a sad smile peeking through. “She’s tough on you students, but she sat with me that day when the officers came to deliver the news. We had been in meetings all morning, prepping for the next alumni fundraiser, and then the police arrived … She held my hand and prayed the rosary with me even though that isn’t her faith.” She blew out the candle.

  I motioned to it. “Saint Daniele?” I asked.

  “Patron saint for strength and courage. Missionaries, too. Manuel never missed Sunday Mass, something my Sicilian parents would’ve appreciated.” She traced the saint’s painted features on the candle’s glass casing. “Your parents said you were having a rough time. That you were there?”

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Was he meeting with you?”

  “No, I—I don’t know why he was there.” It was a question I’d asked myself over and over, as if answering it would solve everything.

  Her shoulders fell, and her eyes glazed with tears she didn’t try to hide. I hadn’t given her the closure she needed. Why her husband was so far from where he was supposed to be—at school with her.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you in class today,” she said, kneeling to pick up a few of the cards and one of the large teddy bears dressed up like a classic Sherlock Holmes. “I’ve decided to spread his ashes privately with his mother at her home in Spain. But there will be a small memorial service at our loft tomorrow instead of a formal funeral. You’re welcome to stop by. And your other friends from the club at Kershaw Elementary. Frankie and Sabrina, right?”

  “Wait, his ashes?” They’re releasing the body? “The investigation isn’t over, is it?”

  “I believe it is? I’m supposed to pick up his remains later today. It was recommended to cremate …” She sniffled as she looked up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you with those details.”

  “It’s okay.” I placed a hand over hers. “Who—”

  “Nic?”

  At the end of the hall stood the same man from Lieutenant Charles’s office—Alderman Corben—with the same suit and same towering hair.

  “The memorial is at one o’clock tomorrow. I would love to see you there,” Mrs. Medina whispered before joining the alderman. He placed his hand at the small of her back, leading her around the corner to her office in admissions.

  I stood there with no words, dumbfounded. The late bell rang, and I was left in an empty hallway, save the mementos at my feet, antique glass cases full of academic achievements, and marble busts of dead headmasters.

  The case can’t be over. My statement and the conductor’s—they had to be enough to bring up new questions, new theories.

  And the alderman. How does he know Mrs. Medina?

  “What the actual hell?” I muttered.

  “The officer really just scribbled nothing?” Sabrina pulled at my hair, dragging her comb along my scalp to add another part. “Hey! Head straight!”

  “Ow! Gentle, gentle,” I squealed, trying to get comfortable between the squeeze of her short winter-white legs. I still wore my school uniform, a high-waisted box-pleat skirt and long-sleeve sweater, both in the North Shore midnight blue, but I’d peeled off the two layers of dark knit tights. My mom had the heat on high, and it was too hot for that compared to the freezing hell outside.

  Frankie sat at my desk, his feet up and hanging off the corner edge so as not to dirty the papers scattered across it. His tall, scrawny self was almost lost in the folds of his oversized hoodie, his hickory-brown fingers peeking out his sleeves as he tossed back my stash of almond M&M’s. It was Friday night, which meant the three of us would be up late going over our latest case. Sabrina lived too far to walk home alone at night, so she always stayed over.

  “You asked for individuals,” Sabrina argued.

  “I asked for some braids. You wanted to get fancy.” I readjusted myself between her legs.

  “All right.” Frankie swung his feet down from my desk, rubbing his hands over his short buzz cut. “Back on topic. Your texts yesterday were vague. Did you literally mean he wrote nothing?”

  I started to nod my head but already felt Sabrina ready to tug my head back into place. “He wrote nothing. And Reya and I went back to the platform. The cameras wouldn’t have caught anything. There was a blind spot.”

  “Well, that was convenient,” Sabrina muttered.

  “So, what next?” Frankie asked.

  Sabrina tapped my shoulder, letting me know she’d finished the last plait.

  I turned around to face her in her unicorn pajamas while she went to twisting her own mousy-brown hair into two high buns. “I’m thinking the conductor had to see something. What do you think?”

  She chewed on her cheek while squinting her eyes. Her tell for when she was thinking hard on something.

  “And the alderman, you sure that was him at your school?” Frankie questioned.

  “Yes.”

  “Also, convenient,” Sabrina noted.

  “I think you mean a coincidence. It’s not really convenient— Oomph! Really?” I cried out as I received a pillow to the face.

  “You know what I meant.” She and Frankie locked eyes, sharing a look. The look they always share whenever they thought I was overanalyzing.

  I waved my hand between the two to break their stare. “Look, Mr. Medina was pushed. I know what I saw.”

  Frankie held up his hands. “We aren’t arguing.”

  “And this one person was at police headquarters with the lead officer on the case and at my school, meeting with Mr. Medina’s wife.”

  Silence fell, no one wanting to debate me. I didn’t blame them.

  I was fixated, yes. But with reason.

  “I think it’s weird his wife got him cremated. I didn’t think Catholics did that.” Sabrina glanced over to me for confirmation.

  “My dad only drags us to Mass on Easter and Christmas, so I’m not sure. But I was thinking it could be a way to get rid of evidence? She said someone encouraged her to do it.” I looked back and forth between them.

  “There are other reasons.” Frankie squirmed in his seat.

  “Like what?”

  “Jo … he was hit by a train. He could’ve been …”

  I cringed, not wanting him to finish that sentence.

  “Well, you know my grams used to work for the Chicago Transit Authority,” Sabrina started. “She was on the CTA janitorial crew that cleaned the tracks every Sunday night, but she had a lot of friends who were conductors. A few are still there, and they gossip like crazy. Maybe I can poke around.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21