Guilty Read online

  GUILTY

  Norah

  McClintock

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Norah McClintock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McClintock, Norah

  Guilty [electronic resource] / Norah McClintock.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-992-6 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-55469-993-3 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8575.C62G83 2012 JC813’.54 C2011-907709-4

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943677

  Summary: After Finn’s stepmother is allegedly murdered by Lila’s father, the two teens must work together to see what is true. And who is guilty.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover image by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  CUSTER, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  One FINN

  Two LILA

  Three FINN

  Four LILA

  Five FINN

  Six LILA

  Seven FINN

  Eight LILA

  Nine FINN

  Ten LILA

  Eleven FINN

  Twelve LILA

  Thirteen FINN

  Fourteen LILA

  Fifteen FINN

  Sixteen LILA

  Seventeen FINN

  Eighteen LILA

  Nineteen FINN

  Twenty LILA

  Twenty-One FINN

  Twenty-Two LILA

  Twenty-Three FINN

  Twenty-Four LILA

  Twenty-Five FINN

  Twenty-Six FINN

  Twenty-Seven LILA

  Twenty-Eight FINN

  Twenty-Nine FINN

  Thirty LILA

  Thirty-One FINN

  Thirty-Two LILA

  Thirty-Three LILA

  One

  FINN

  I hear my dad bellow, “What do you think you’re doing?” But it’s Tracie’s voice, sharp and shrill, that pulls me away from my computer.

  “Robert,” she shrieks. “Do something!”

  Robert is my dad, but Tracie is the only one who ever calls him that. To everyone else, he’s just Rob.

  I go to the window, wondering for the zillionth time how he can stand her. She’s always telling him to do something or, better, buy her something, and she does it in a voice that’s like a dentist’s drill. It’s so annoying that you’d do anything to make it stop. I know. I’ve thought about plenty of ways to shut her up.

  I look out the window and see Tracie down in front of the garage. The security light makes ugly shadows on her face. She lies about her age to everyone, and that bright light and those shadows make her look even older than she really is.

  She’s with my dad, but they aren’t alone. There’s someone else down there. A man. His back is to me, so I have no idea who he is or what he’s doing there. The three of them are just standing in front of the garage—the man with his back to me; Tracie, in the light, her eyes on the man; and my dad, between Tracie and the man.

  My dad shouts. It sounds like, “Hey!” Suddenly both he and the man are in motion. My dad lunges at the man. He claws at him, as if he’s trying to wrestle something away from him. What’s going on? Are they serious, or are they clowning around? Is the man a friend of my dad’s? What’s he doing here so late?

  Tracie shrieks, “Be careful, Robert!” The panic in her voice puts me on full alert. My dad and the man aren’t just fooling around. At least, Tracie doesn’t seem to think they are. I’ve decided that maybe I should go down there when:

  Blam!

  Blam!

  I freeze. What the—?

  Down below me, Tracie crumples and falls to the ground. My dad turns to look at her. He bellows. He lunges at the man again.

  Blam!

  Blam!

  A second person falls to the ground.

  Only my dad is left standing.

  I run downstairs and fly out the back door. My dad hears me coming. He spins around. He yells at me, “Call nine-one-one. Call nine-one-one.”

  I swing back toward the house, duck inside and grab the cordless phone from the kitchen counter. I make the call. I give our address, our phone number, my name. I answer questions. I promise to stay put.

  But I don’t.

  When I finish the call, I run back outside.

  My dad is on his knees beside Tracie. His hand is pressed against the side of her neck.

  “Dad?”

  When he looks at me, I see astonishment in his eyes.

  “I—I think she’s dead. I—that man, he—” He can’t get the words out. He can’t finish his sentence.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I say. “I saw what happened.”

  My dad doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He must be in shock.

  “An ambulance is coming,” I say. “The police too.” I’m just guessing on that, but it’s a safe bet. I mean, I told the 9-1-1 operator that two people had been shot.

  “Dad, you should come inside and sit down.” I’m afraid if he doesn’t, he’ll collapse. I take his arm. That’s when I finally see the man’s face.

  “I know him,” I say.

  My dad’s head whips around.

  “I mean, I recognize him. He was here earlier tonight. He asked for you. He must have waited for you to come home. Who is he, Dad?”

  My dad doesn’t move for a whole minute. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.

  “He’s the man who murdered your mother.”

  I look down at Tracie. I’m as stunned as my dad about what has just happened. I feel bad for Tracie. I really do, even if I never could stand her. But she’s not my mother. She’s just some woman my dad married after my mother died.

  “I’m talking about Mom, Finn,” my dad says. “That man—he’s the one who murdered Mom. Your real mom.”

  I look down at the man who lies motionless on the asphalt. I spoke to him earlier when he came to the door asking to see my dad. Now I find out he’s the one who shot and killed my mother more than ten years ago?

  Two

  LILA

  I’m in one hell of a bad mood by the fifth or sixth time the doorbell rings. I knew something was up when he left the apartment after supper. He was acting strange, but when I called him on it, he lied to me. He told me to stop worrying so much, nothing was going to happen, he wasn’t going to do anything that would get him into trouble. He told me he had some business to take care of. That was hours ago. It’s four in the morning. If he’s drunk or, worse, if he’s on something, I swear that’s it. I’ll pack my bags and be out of here. All night I’ve had the feeling that Aunt Jenny was right. I never should have
come here.

  The doorbell rings again. I unlatch the door and almost rip it off the hinges when I open it. I’m ready to let him have it.

  But it isn’t him.

  It’s a man and a woman, both in suits, both grim-looking. The man shows me his id. He’s a cop. Terrific. Three days out—I’m betting that’s some kind of record.

  “Are you Lila Ouimette?” the woman cop asks.

  If she knows enough to ask the question, then she already knows the answer. But I nod anyway.

  “Does Louis Ouimette live here?” her partner asks. He says it Lou-is, like Louis Armstrong.

  “It’s Lou-ee,” I tell him. “And he’s not here. If you find him, do me a favor. Tell him I’ve gone back to Boston.” Back to Aunt Jenny, who warned me. I know he’s your father, Lila, but he’s been in prison for ten years. That does things to a man. And before that…

  “When was the last time you saw or spoke to your father?” the woman cop asks.

  “This morning.” I look at the two cops. “What did he do?”

  “Is there anyone else here with you, Ms. Ouimette?” the male cop says, his eyes searching through the open door behind me. I feel ashamed at what they’re seeing—the shabby ground-floor apartment in a tiny run-down house that is almost more than we can afford. It’s nothing like what I’m used to.

  “No. I’m here alone. Why?” Something in the way he asks makes me think of all the cop shows I’ve watched. My imagination kicks in. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but the words come out anyway. “Where’s my dad? Did something happen to him?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” the woman cop says. “But your father is dead.”

  My mind blanks out. I’m looking at the woman cop. She’s telling me something else. I see her lips move, but I can’t hear her. I can’t hear anything except the pounding of my heart. It fills my ears. My father is dead? That’s not possible.

  “There must be some mistake,” I say. Now I sound like someone straight out of one of those stupid tv shows.

  The two cops look steadily at me. There’s no mistake.

  “What happened?” I ask. “How did he—?”

  “He was shot.”

  Shot?

  “How? Who shot him?”

  “We’re still investigating,” the woman cop says. “We’re going to need you to identify your father, Lila, unless there’s some other family member who can do it.”

  “I’m it,” I say. “I’m his family.” Aunt Jenny is my mom’s sister. She doesn’t think much of my dad. She never did.

  “Is there anyone you’d like to call? Anyone you want to come with you?”

  I shake my head. “My father and I moved in here a couple of days ago. Before that, I was in Boston. I don’t know anyone here.”

  The woman cop nods. She asks if she and her partner can step inside while I get changed, which is when I remember that I’m wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty old T-shirt. I nod. They come in, and I go to my room to put on some jeans and a sweater. I run a brush through my hair, even though no one cares what I look like. Not under the circumstances.

  I lock the door behind me. I ride with the two cops to a morgue. I steel myself for the identification. I tell them, yes, that’s him. That’s my father. He looks like he’s sleeping.

  The two cops lead me away from the morgue. They offer me coffee and ask me questions. What has my father been doing since he got out of prison? Who did he associate with? Has he mentioned any names to me?

  “What kind of names?”

  “People he wanted to get in touch with. People he knew from before.”

  I shake my head. “He had a job. He worked as a janitor in a building downtown. They set it up for him. That organization that helps people adjust when they get out of prison. He said he wanted us to be a family. He said he wanted to do the right thing by me. How did you say he got shot?”

  “We’re still investigating,” the male cop says again.

  “You have no idea who did it? Did someone try to rob him? Because if they did, they picked the wrong guy.”

  The male cop perks up when I say that.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he’s broke. Everything he had went to first and last months’ rent on the apartment. Is that why he got shot—because he didn’t have any money to hand over?”

  The woman cop exchanges glances with her partner.

  “Did he ever mention the name Robert Newsome?” she asks.

  Robert Newsome? I get a bad feeling. My fingers and toes tingle.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who Robert Newsome is?” the male cop asks.

  Yeah, I know. Supposedly my father broke into Mr. Newsome’s house and robbed the place and killed Mrs. Newsome.

  I nod.

  “Your father didn’t mention that he wanted to see Mr. Newsome or talk to him?” the woman cop asks.

  “Why would he do that?” I say, as if I can’t possibly imagine. I don’t think they believe me. If they do, they’re lousy cops.

  “He wasn’t bitter about what happened?” the woman cop asks.

  “He told me he didn’t do it,” I say. “He told me he didn’t do any of it.”

  There they are exchanging glances again. The woman cop’s voice is gentle when she speaks again.

  “Lila, he took a plea,” she says.

  I glance at her partner. He’s staring stonily at me, and I know what he’s thinking: You need to wake up and smell the coffee, girl, because if you believe a man when he says he didn’t do a crime he pleaded guilty to, then you’re dreaming. And it’s true. My father did plead guilty. He did it in exchange for a reduced charge, manslaughter instead of second-degree murder, ten to life and a good shot at parole instead of fifteen to life with life being a real possibility. But he explained that to me too. He said he did it for me.

  “Your mother’s gone,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I got framed up good. I know I never killed that woman. But if I don’t tell them what they want to hear, if I go to trial, I’ll lose for sure. I’ll never get out. We’ll never be a family.”

  That’s what he said.

  I look at the male cop and think maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to wake up. Maybe he pleaded to a reduced charge because it was a good deal. Maybe he did it for himself, not for me. Maybe he spent his whole time in there thinking about what he would do when he got out. And maybe what he was thinking about wasn’t what he told me he was thinking about.

  Focus on the present, plan for the future. That’s what he told me every time I went to see him. For him, that meant staying clean and sober for one more day, keeping his head down for one more day, staying out of trouble for one more day, all so that he could get out when he was supposed to and be my father again. For me, it meant doing my schoolwork and pretending that I didn’t hear what other people, including Aunt Jenny, said about him. If I did hear, I pretended I didn’t care. Every single day. For ten years.

  The two cops tell me again that they’re sorry for my loss. They get a uniformed cop to drive me back to the apartment. I wait until the sun comes up before I call Aunt Jenny. It’s only when I tell her what happened that I begin to cry. Once I start, I can’t stop.

  Three

  FINN

  The night lights up. An ambulance arrives, then another. Cop cars arrive—first one, then two, until, in the end, there are half a dozen. The coroner makes an appearance to look at the two bodies. The neighbors all have their lights on. Some of them are out on the street. They cluster together in little groups and talk about what has happened.

  Detectives take my dad and me inside. One goes into the living room with my dad. The other one steers me into the kitchen. I try to make myself look as upset as I can so that the cop with me doesn’t think I’m some kind of heartless freak. I do it by imagining how I would feel if my dad had been shot instead of Tracie.

  The detective sits at the kitchen table. He makes sure that I take
a seat facing away from the window so that I can’t see what’s going on outside.

  “What can you tell me about this, Finn?” he says.

  “He was here earlier,” I say. “The man. He came here. He asked for my dad.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tonight. Late.” When I heard the doorbell, I thought maybe my dad had left his keys at the club, that’s how late it was. “After eleven. I told him my dad wasn’t here. He was at the club.”

  “The club he owns?”

  I nod.

  “Were you alone when he came to the door?”

  I nod again.

  “Tracie—she’s my stepmother—she was at the club with Dad.”

  “What did the man say when you told him your father wasn’t here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He didn’t leave a message or a name?”

  “No.”

  “Did he seem upset?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. He went away. At least, I think he did. I didn’t watch him or anything.” Why would I?

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened after the man left? Tell me everything you can remember, Finn.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. I finished my homework. I fooled around on my computer. I was playing a game on it when I heard my dad and Tracie.”

  “You heard them?”

  “My dad yelled something, and then she yelled something to him. It sounded like something was wrong, so I got up and went to the window to take a look.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’”

  “And her?”

  “She said, ‘Do something, Robert.’”

  “When you went to the window, what did you see?”

  I tell him everything I can remember.

  “You say your dad yelled ‘Hey!’ at the man,” the detective said. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “The man must have pulled out a gun.”

  “Must have? Did you see a gun?”

  “Well, no. I was up in my room. I couldn’t see everything. But the next thing that happened was I heard two shots and Tracie fell to the ground. Then my dad and the man were fighting, and there were two more shots. By the time I got downstairs, the man was on the ground too.”