Breaking Beautiful Page 13

  The next voice is more muffled, Chief Milton saying something about calming down and trying to get to the bottom of things.

  Mr. Phillips yells back, “I know the district attorney and the attorney general. If you can’t make things move forward, I’ll find someone who can.”

  Dad discreetly raises his magazine. I don’t have anything to hide behind so I get the full brunt of Mr. Phillips’s glare. This time he doesn’t offer to have me over for dinner or pay for my college or reinstate my cell phone. I shrink into the fake leather chair as his eyes strip my fragile covering of secrets and find their way to my vulnerable core. Being seen with Blake must have officially pushed me across some invisible line from sympathy to suspicion.

  Mr. Phillips storms out and leaves a trail of smoldering brimstone. Chief Milton follows him to the door but doesn’t go after him.

  Detective Weeks shakes his head. “I guess that leaves me with you, Miss Davis.”

  My dad stands up and walks with me to Detective Weeks’s office. They shake hands, cordial, like the yelling in the hall never happened.

  They exchange pleasantries: “How is your business doing?” “What do you think of the Seahawks’ chances of getting into the play-offs?” “I hear we’re going to have an unusually wet winter.” That sort of thing.

  “This shouldn’t take too long,” Detective Weeks says.

  “That’s fine,” Dad replies. They shake hands again. “I’ll be waiting outside if you need anything.” Dad leaves me to the mercy of an overzealous detective and my own Swiss-cheese memory.

  Detective Weeks’s office reminds me of Ms. Vincent’s; an afterthought—some kind of storage area repurposed for my benefit. It has a desk with a laptop, a bookcase, a file cabinet, and a hard chair for me to sit on. The walls are bare and the bookcase holds a couple of boxes and no books. It doesn’t look like he’s planning to be in Pacific Cliffs very long.

  He sits and gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite him. I sit. He pulls a pile of papers from the file cabinet and shuffles through them. I wait. He sets the papers down, leans over the desk, and looks at me. I hold my breath.

  “I should have sent this directly to the judge, but I’m sure you just forgot. With everything going on, it must have slipped your mind. I’d hate to have to throw you in jail for something so trivial.”

  My heart races wildly as my scrambled brain grasps for some meaning in what he’s saying, but I come up with nothing. I stare at him blankly.

  He slides a copy of the ticket he gave me across the desk. “You were supposed to have this paid by the end of the month.”

  “My traffic ticket?” I pick it up with fingers that have gone numb.

  “Like I said, I could have turned that over to the judge and had a warrant for your arrest put out. But I know your memory isn’t the best.” He catches me in his blue eyes, and I read double meaning there.

  I want to ask him if that was supposed to be a threat, but I just say, “Thank you.”

  He stands up. “Grace can take care of you out front. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  I stand and wait for him to open the door, but he doesn’t.

  “So you just brought me in to remind me about the ticket?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have opened up a space for him to ask more questions.

  “For now, yes.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are hard and intense. “Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

  “Why are you here?” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. I’m not sure I want the answer to that question.

  “Why did I come to Pacific Cliffs?” He leans against the desk. “I’m really not at liberty to say.” He could stop there, but he doesn’t. “I don’t think there’s any way you could have missed what Mr. Phillips said on the way out. He’s right about having friends in high places. And I guess he has money to throw around.”

  “So you were hired by Mr. Phillips?”

  “No,” Detective Weeks says firmly. “He may have the influence to bring me here, but he doesn’t have any influence over my investigation.” He picks up a pen and starts tapping on the desk. “Mr. Phillips seems pretty upset. I guess, given the situation, that’s understandable.” He sets the pen down and his forehead wrinkles. “Have you ever seen him lose his temper like that before?”

  I slide my fingers along the edge of the stone in my pocket, but I answer truthfully. “Yes.”

  “With Trip?”

  I feel myself getting into dangerous territory. I grip the tigereye hard. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Trip’s mental state before the accident? Not just the night of the accident, but before. Was Trip depressed at all?”

  I swallow. Moody, violent, arrogant, but not depressed. “No.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes it’s hard to tell, even if you’re close to someone.”

  My head starts to hurt. I should have left when I had the chance. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he ever drink or do drugs?”

  It feels like a betrayal, but I answer, “He drank.”

  “A lot?”

  “No. Sometimes. About the same as everyone else.”

  “Were you guys drinking the night of the accident?”

  “I don’t drink.” That’s the truth. It was hard enough to defend myself against Trip when I was sober.

  “That’s not exactly what I asked. The toxicology report on you showed no alcohol in your blood, so I know you weren’t drinking. Was Trip?”

  My stomach clenches. “I don’t remember.”

  “Without a body, that’s not something we can determine, but if someone saw him consuming alcohol that night—”

  “I still don’t remember anything.” I try to sound sure, hoping that that will be the end of his interrogation.

  “That must be kind of unnerving, to have a block of time when you don’t know where you were or what you did.”

  My blood chills. I want to ask him what he means by that, if he’s accusing me of something. The truth is, it’s a thought that keeps haunting me, too. I don’t know what I did that night. I don’t know what really happened.

  “But I guess no one can blame you for not being able to remember. You took quite a blow to the head. You seem to be doing okay now, though.” He smiles. “You even have a new boyfriend.”

  My throat goes dry, like I swallowed a mouthful of sand. Now the real reason he brought me here comes out. Because I was seen with Blake. “Blake’s just a friend.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Just a friend? Are you sure he feels the same? He seemed pretty protective of you when I pulled him over.”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Are you sure you want to be friends with a guy like him? Blake has a bit of a record, doesn’t he? Some problem in Nevada?”

  I should tell him that’s none of his business. That it was a long time ago. I should defend Blake, but I don’t even know how to defend myself. I step toward the door. “If we’re done here, my dad’s waiting. He needs to get back to work.”

  Detective Weeks doesn’t move. “Your dad’s a mechanic, right? Owns that new shop in town?”

  “Yes.” I say it slowly, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

  “He ever teach you anything about cars?”

  “No.” I keep my voice even. “Dad just got out of the Army. Before that he was gone all the time.”

  “What about your friend Blake? Does he know cars? That thing he drives, that old El Camino, probably needs a lot of maintenance, right? Does your dad help him with that, or does he do it himself?”

  “I don’t know.” My head is spinning, and my scar tightens. I’m not sure where Detective Weeks is going with any of this, but it feels bad, bad for me and bad for Blake.

  “Funny thing about the accident report.” He riffles through some papers on the desk. I wonder if the accident report is sitting on the desk beside him.
I wonder what it says. “It didn’t say how fast Trip was going when he hit the corner. Usually they measure skid marks to figure that out.” I stand next to the door, frozen. “Do you know why they couldn’t figure out how fast the truck was going?” His eyes bore into my soul.

  I don’t answer.

  “Because there weren’t any skid marks.”

  Chapter

  23

  I have to stay away from Blake.

  The realization hits me like an icy wave as I walk down the lobby to the front of the police station. How could I have not seen it before? Hannah’s voice screams in my head. “You poison everyone and everything that gets near you.” She was right, but I was too stupid, too selfish, to see that I was poisoning Blake just by being near him. Now Detective Weeks thinks he’s mixed up in whatever happened the night of the accident. And I can’t even remember enough to keep him out of trouble. Not even enough to keep myself out of trouble. Guilt by association.

  “What did Detective Weeks want?” Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I forgot that he was waiting for me.

  I hold up the ticket meekly. “I forgot to pay this.”

  “Your ticket? That’s what he wanted?” Dad doesn’t look like he believes me. “You were in there a long time.”

  “He gave me a big lecture about what could have happened. He said he could have had me arrested.”

  “He’s right. You need to be more careful.” Dad takes the ticket from me. I wonder if “you need to be more careful” means something more. “Do you have any money to pay for this?”

  “A little.” I shake my head. “Not enough.”

  Dad pulls out his wallet and pays the ticket. He’s quiet all the way out to the car. Finally he says, “Did Detective Weeks ask you anything about the accident?”

  I open my mouth to lie. Then I see his face, the face of a man who ten months ago was interrogating insurgents in a war zone. Lying to him is impossible. “Yes.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Dad’s voice stays even.

  I trace the edge of the tigereye in my pocket. “That I don’t remember anything.”

  “Is that true?” his interrogator voice asks.

  I shake my head, no and yes, and say, “It’s all a jumble. Images that don’t make any sense. Dreams.”

  Dad touches my arm. “Maybe if you went back to that counselor. Maybe you have post-traumatic stress disorder or something like that. A lot of guys came back from the war with that stuff. Maybe if you had someone to talk—”

  “No!” I say it too quickly, and then back off. “All she did was tell me I was angry, that I should hit my pillow.”

  “Instead of Hannah.” Dad’s voice lightens a little. He squeezes my arm and then starts the car.

  I lean my head back.

  “Maybe you just need time.”

  I nod. My head hurts.

  “I just hope they’re willing to give you time.”

  My eyes flutter open. “Who?”

  Dad breathes in. “This town is too small. People talk too much.” He looks at me hard.

  “What have you heard?” Like I don’t know. Like I don’t know that they’re all talking about me, and about Blake, and why we’re together so much, so soon.

  “Some people are saying that the accident was suspicious and if they’re paying for a new detective, he should be doing some investigating.” He pulls out of the police station and heads for home.

  I think about what Detective Weeks said about there being no skid marks. Would Dad know why there wouldn’t be skid marks? Could I ask him? What would he think if I did?

  “You seem to be the missing piece in all of this.” He turns and looks at me. “Because you were the only witness, I worry that people might take some of their suspicions out on you. If they had a clearer picture of the night of the accident. If you could remember …”

  My head hurts. “You’re not helping. I said I couldn’t remember!”

  “Right.” He touches my leg. “Sorry.”

  He’s silent for the rest of the way home. He parks in the driveway and looks at me again. “Blake’s grandma came into the shop today. She’s having problems with that old Buick again. She mentioned that she had asked you to work for her.”

  “She did,” I answer. “But I wasn’t—”

  “I told her I thought it would be a good idea. It’ll give you a way to pay me back, and I do expect you to pay me back.” Dad raises his eyebrows. “It might be good for you to be out doing something.”

  “I don’t think I should.” For Blake’s sake.

  “Try it for a while. At least long enough to pay me back.” It kind of feels like Dad is ordering me to work for Grandma Joyce. “You’re eighteen. In less than a year you’ll be going away to college. It’s time you took some responsibility for your life.”

  I lie in bed that night, trying to figure out what Dad meant about taking responsibility for my life. Another veiled reference to trying to remember the accident, or something else? I’ve been living in survival mode for so long that anything in the future feels vague and far away. If I go away to college, will I be able to escape everything that happened here? Can I hold out that long?

  I think about the painting of me that Blake has in his attic. A dream. A dream I shattered for both of us a long time ago. I rub the tigereye across my lips and try to remember what it felt like to have his lips against mine. After all I’ve done, I don’t deserve him, but he’s willing to give me another chance.

  The rest of the town isn’t willing to give either of us a chance, but if the accident investigation were closed, if Detective Weeks went away, then would the town forget? Would I be able to be with Blake?

  Everything Detective Weeks said churns inside of me. Why were there no skid marks? Did he mean Trip went over the cliff on purpose? Was that where Detective Weeks was going with the whole “depression” thing?

  But Trip wasn’t depressed. Everybody loved him. He had everything. He was great at sports. He was gorgeous. He had plenty of money. He had me to control.

  Maybe he was just too drunk to make the corner.

  I close my eyes and press the tigereye against my scar. It would be easy. All I’d have to say was Trip was drinking that night. That he was drunk when he went around the corner. That I jumped to save myself. The case would be closed. People would stop looking at me like it was my fault. No one would question Blake. No one would care if we were together.

  I’d seen Trip drive drunk plenty of times before. The night before the accident, when I snuck out to rescue him, he was drunk. I tried to get him to let me drive him home.

  “You need to let me drive. Just give me the keys, okay?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t tell me what to do!”

  “Trip, please, you’re drunk. I don’t want you to—”

  He turns on me so fast I don’t have time to avoid his fist crashing into my shoulder. I fall backward, my back slamming against a jagged stump on the way down.

  James and Randall look the other way.

  The thought hits me almost as hard as Trip’s fist. I sit up in bed. James and Randall both saw Trip hit me the night before the accident. They both know.

  I lie in bed for hours thinking about it. When I finally fall asleep I dream that Trip hits me and that I fall backward and hit my head on something hard. The whole town is standing around, but no one acknowledges me. No one acknowledges what he did. No one helps. They just leave me there, lying in a puddle. I’m wearing the dress from cotillion. And the puddle is red.

  Chapter

  24

  “Excellent, Allie,” Grandma Joyce says as she leans over my shoulder. Three lessons into this and I’m getting better at keeping my hands from shaking, or at least hiding it from Grandma Joyce.

  “She just made a striped vanilla candle, perfect texture, without burning anything or ruining the pan.” She raises her eyebrows, like that should mean something to Blake. He grunts back.

  Grandma
Joyce shakes her head. “Blake isn’t really here right now.”

  I’ve already learned that when Blake is into his art, the whole world could explode and he wouldn’t notice. Right now he’s studying a black-and-white picture, a charcoal pencil in his hand and a big piece of paper on an easel in front of him. He has a smudge of charcoal on his cheek and his knuckles are smeared with black.

  I smile back, glowing from her praise. Being freaked out about making a mistake has actually been a good thing. I seem to be getting better at this.

  “What are you working on, B.?” Grandma Joyce crosses the room to Blake and studies the picture. “Ah, the mill.” She leans over and brushes the hair out of Blake’s eyes.

  This wakes him up from his trance. He pulls away from her. “Grandma.”

  “Scruffy again, Blake.” She shakes her head.

  “I like his hair long,” I say without thinking.

  Blake blushes, grins, and rubs his throat, leaving a streak of black there, too.

  “Thanks, Allie,” Grandma Joyce says. “Now I’ll never get him to cut it.” She leans closer to the picture beside Blake on the desk. “This was the mill during its heyday. Before it shut down, most of the town worked there. If it wasn’t for Mr. Phillips revamping the inn and bringing in tourists, Pacific Cliffs would have probably died out completely.”

  She flips through the book. “Allie, have you ever seen this picture of your mom?”

  I set the candle mold down and join her across the room. The page she’s looking at has rows of beautiful teenage girls in varied styles of formals and big updos.

  “Yeah. I’ve seen that picture before.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Mom’s official Beachcomber’s picture: her gold-blond hair piled on top of her head, a sequined blue gown draping over her hips, her smile perfect—as always.

  I remember how hard Mom tried to convince me to do Beachcomber’s, filled out the application for me and everything. Trip didn’t like the idea of my parading in front of a bunch of other guys. And how could I wear the fitness outfit, shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt, my bruises on display for everyone? Mom was more than disappointed. I think it was her dream for me to follow in her footsteps.