Keep the Ghost

7. Truth

Holy shit. This can’t be happening—Kayla can’t be dead. 

I lean back, and put both hands to my forehead. The world spins, so I close my eyes. I take ten deep breaths, trying to hold back the tears and the panic.

 It doesn’t work. In this instant, my world is gone. 

I open my eyes to this fresh oblivion. Detective Alvarado leans back and watches me. The picture stays on the table, staring skyward with milky eyes. “Now, tell me what happened,” he says. 

I decide that I will. Somewhere, something has gone terribly wrong. Don’t need to keep my promise to a dead girl. 

“Kayla tried to fake her own death. She got the idea from someone she knows, a guy named Jack.”

“Jack who?” he asks. 

“Jack Vickery.” 

“Why would Kayla want to fake her death?”

“Lots of reasons. For one thing, the money. Jack has these fake ID’s, he says he’s made millions on life insurance policies, just scamming the system. Pretending he’s dead, then cashing in a policy on himself and starting over as someone new.”

The detective’s eyes narrow. “That sounds like horse shit. Is that the best you’ve got? Why would a nineteen year old girl with parents who provide for her want to go through all that trouble?”

I start to talk about shadows, but then decide not to. I sound crazy enough already. “Kayla made it sound very romantic. She asked me—who is a person, really? If you destroy your identity, if you cut all ties and fake your death, then what’s left? Something without labels, something with money and freedom. Plus—” I stop. This part is harder to say. 

“Yeah?” He’s clearly not buying this.

“She wanted everyone to miss her. She wanted to see her own funeral.” 

“This is the stupidest—someone cut her throat, then tried to sink the body. And right now, if someone asked me who did it, I’d point them at you. You want to talk about labels? How about ‘felon,’ how does that suit you? How about ‘death row inmate?’” 

My face heats up, molten material in my eyes. Words spill out: “She didn’t even want me to know about this. I found a bag of money under her bed, and I asked her about it. When she told me, it sounded made up—I didn’t think anything would happen. I figured she’d back out.” 

“Tell me everything,” he says. 

“I just did what she said. I drained the gas from the jet ski, so it would barely run. We timed the whole thing for when the tide went out. Kayla would drive it out into the bay, go in a few circles until it died. Then she’d swim to the beach on the opposite side—a long way, but she wore a life jacket, and she could do a back stroke. Apparently she left a car waiting—it’s gone now, I checked—so she could disappear with the money. I would call someone to help after she let me know she made it. Except, she didn’t call, so I got stuck there. I panicked and called her parents. So, what am I really guilty of? I lied about a life jacket, and waited a while to tell anyone she was missing. I figured she was okay.” 

“You’re lying again. You left out the drain plugs,” he says. 

“Will someone tell me what a goddamn drain plug is?” 

He snorts out half a laugh, dipping into the folder again. The detective glances down and then draws out a picture, flips it on the table. Dealing my hand. 

This time, it’s a close-up of the back of the jet ski. There are two black holes, the size of a silver dollar. 

“That’s where the drain plugs go. You take those out, then turn the jet ski off in some water? It’ll sink in a couple of minutes.” 

“I had no idea,” I tell him. “You have to believe me. I never took apart their jet ski, why would I? It’s not mine.”

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not lying! Find Jack Vickery,” I say. “He is the only other person who knew Kayla’s plan, as far as I know. He can tell you that I’m telling the truth.” 

“Jack Vickery. What does he look like?” 

I start to talk, then stumble over my words. “Bald, skinny, shorter than me. He has a tattoo, on the inside of his left arm—says ‘freedom from myself’ in old typewriter font. Look, if you put him in front of me, I can point him out.”

The detective shakes his head, seems exhausted with disbelief. “I’m going to go talk to your friend,” he says. “See if she says anything different. And if she does, guess what? That’s one more in a growing list of reasons I want to put you on trial.”

*

It’s been an hour since the detective left me to go speak with Morgan. Can’t stop thinking about her. What’s she saying? 

She could make me seem guilty. Just a little bit of suspicion, and it would be that much worse for me. Maybe she’ll throw me to the wolves, to save herself. 

Morgan did say she could help me. What does that mean?

We barely know each other. She’s vulnerable in there, too. All she needs to do is tell a little lie: say I’m in love with Kayla, or say she’s seen me act violent before. I’m teetering on the knife’s edge, here. A little push and I’ll be going to court for sure. 

I should have acted first, when I had his ear. Should have told him Morgan is involved, that she lived with Jack. Let her go down with me. 

I just want to get back to Ireland. I don’t trust these police, they aren’t like back home. And, I don’t think Morgan killed Kayla. She was so helpful, going to find the car. 

Still. Just want to come clean, be done with this whole mess. I didn’t kill anyone. They’ll see. They’ll use forensics, and they’ll see I didn’t do it. 

Detective Alvarado opens the door.

“Sean Reilly, stand up,” he says. 

I do so.

“You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. The Irish Consulate will be notified of your arrest.”

He drones on, but I can’t hear over the howling distortion in my head. The rush of emotion is deafening: terror, anger and anxiety override me.

Two more officers push into the tiny room. They’re huge, twice as much muscle as me. Someone grabs my arms, and handcuffs tighten around my wrists.

“We asked the McPherson’s permission to search your room. Guess what we found in your closet?” Something hard drops on the table, landing with a knock. In a clear, plastic evidence bag sit two black plugs, ringed stems protruding from both. They look like tiny hand grenades. “’What’s a drain plug,’ right?”