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I throw the door open only to find a short, fragile-looking woman standing in front of me, head
to toe in a black DKNY-ish suit, snug cream blouse underneath, and shiny black ankle boots with
a square toe.
"Hi," she says, in a voice as petite as she is. 'Are you Stacey Brown?"
I nod.
She introduces herself as Officer Tate, though it might as well be Tart because that's exactly
what she looks like--
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twenty-something, shoulder-length, artfully highlighted ginger-brown hair, with a chunk of
platinum that dangles over one eye. "I have a few questions to ask you about last night," she
says, flashing me her badge. "Can I come in?"
I nod and step aside, allowing tart-woman to find her place in the center of the room. She pulls a
thin spiral notebook from a square, shiny black purse and flips to a fresh page. But, since we're
hardly talking manicures here, before she can even try to take control of the situation, I grab a
firm hold of the reins. "I have a few questions too." I toss the door closed. "My roommate is
missing and I want to know what you're going to do about it."
She studies my expression from behind two bright, aqua- colored contacts, waiting for my stare
to break, for me to look away. When I don't, she pulls the pencil from behind a double-pierced
ear and places it against the clean, white notebook page.
"How long has she been missing?"
"Since last night. She was dropped off here, in front of the dorm, but then never made it back to
her room."
"Might there be a chance she's staying in someone else's room? Have you two been fighting?"
"No. I mean yes. I mean, yes, we did get into a fight. But no, she wouldn't have stayed in
someone else's room." "How do you know?"
"Look, I don't have time to argue. I just know."
"You're not helping me here, Stacey"
"Didn't you hear me?" I ask. "Drea's in trouble."
"I need you to calm down." She motions to the bed for me to sit. But how can I? How am I
supposed to relax when Drea is missing and I'm the only one who seems to care? I
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grab the protection bottle from the night table and hold it into my chest.
"Look, Stacey, we can talk in circles and get nothing accomplished, or you can let me help you.
But the only way I can do that is if you talk to me. Start from the beginning and tell me what
happened."
"Fine," I say, even though this whole scenario of having to start from the beginning with little
Miss Clairol, who doesn't seem to be the least bit interested in Drea, is so completely un-fine.
-Good." She hands me the glass of water by the bed. "Have you talked to your parents about this
yet?"
I shake my head.
"Well, I need you to talk to them before I question you." "Why? My mother won't care."
"It's just procedure. You need to tell her the situation and that you're going to talk to me. I can't
question you unless you do." She pulls out a cell phone. -What's your mother's number?"
I roll my eyes and rattle off the number, thinking how completely senseless this formality is.
How completely senseless that my teenie-bop-wannabe mom has been granted the title of adult,
while I am still considered a child.
"Hello? Mrs. Brown? This is Officer Jan Tate of the Hanover Police Department. Your daughter,
Stacey, would like to speak to you." Officer Tate extends the phone to me. I take and place it up
to my ear.
"Stacey" my mother says, "what's going on?"
"Mom, something bad happened. A girl on campus was murdered last night and I. . . found the
body"
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"What?"
"I know. I'm going to talk to the police about it. I just needed to tell you first."
"Stacey, wait. Why are they questioning you? Why didn't you call me about this last night?
You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?"
"I don't know," I say.
"Is Drea being questioned, too?"
"No, Drea is missing."
"Missing? What do you mean, missing?" she asks.
"I mean I can't find her and I don't know where she is." "Oh my god, Stacey. Do you need me to
come up?"
I spend the next several seconds trying to convince my
mother that I can handle the situation on my own, but she makes me promise to call her back
after talking to the tart-
lady anyway.
I hang up and look over at Officer Tate, busy eyeing the chunky crystal rock and assortment of
candles on my night table. "Okay" I say, breaking her glance. 'All set."
Since I can't bear sticking my feet into the muddied-up shoes from last night, still completely
soaked from our jaunt across the wet soccer field, and since I can't locate two matching shoes
amidst all the clothing debris in our room, I have no choice but to pull out the yellow tennis
sneakers from my closet, the ones with the thick wooden beads on the laces. The ones from my
nightmare.
I stuff the protection bottle into my coat pocket and follow her out the lobby door, keeping pace
at least three steps
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behind. Luckily, she parked the cruiser in the side lot where there isn't a lot of people-traffic. I
ride in the back seat, even though she grants me the privilege of sitting in the front, and keep my
head low so no one will see me.
When we get there, Officer Tate leads me into the station--a bit different than what it looks like
in the movies. Instead of desks lined up in neat school-rows, ink blotters littered with glazed
doughnuts and Styrofoam cups, and phones ringing off the hook, it's pin-drop quiet. A dark piece
of glass separates the reception room from the offices. Officer Tate nods to the guy behind the
window and he buzzes us through.
I follow her down a short corridor, taking the opportunity to peek into the offices that branch off
on both sides, at the officers working on computers and rummaging through files. She points to
the room on the right. "Have a seat in there and I'll be right with you."
Here's where it looks like TV Stark white walls, dusty linoleum floor, laminated-wood table, and
metal folding chairs. I pluck the protection bottle from my pocket and grip it in my palm for
strength.
Officer Tate comes in shortly after. She closes the door behind her and places a tape recorder on
the table between us. We sit down; she smiles at me, pushes record, and we just start talking. We
talk about Veronica and the details of the night before. She makes me go over every detail, from
the moment we broke into Veronica's room to when I found her body in the classroom. I quickly
realize that Miss Clairol is a lot smarter than her hairdo might profess. She twists and turns her
questions to try and trip me up, get me
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to say something different. But I know all the answers; I'm confident about them. And I don't
have anything to hide. Almost.
"Did you happen to see who sent the e-mail?" She studies my face for an answer.
I look down toward the protection bottle in my lap, wondering what I'm doing, why I'm trying to
protect him.
"It was from Chad," I say finally, feeling selfish for not saying so in the first place.
She nods as though she already knows. "In your opinion, Stacey, were Chad and Veronica very
good friends?"
I shake my head, knowing exactly where this line of questioning is headed.
"So, why do you think he would be so concerned about her cheating?"
I shrug.
-Do you think there's a chance he just wanted to be alone with her?"
"No." I mask my hand up over my eyes at the thought of Chad asking her there and then showing
up only a little while after. "Why would he?"
"Do you need a minute?"
I shake my head and take a deep breath. "I don't know why he would do that."
When Officer Tate appears satisfied enough with my answers, she ends up humoring me for
several more minutes while I unload about my nightmares and the card reading. The phone calls,
notes, missing laundry, the lilies and what they mean--the way I was able to sense the smell of
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