If I Live Page 2

  The cashier doesn’t even look at me. She hands me the key and I hurry to the ladies’ room. I take a mental inventory of what they’ll know from security video in the restaurant. My purse, for sure. It’s big and black and nondescript, but I unload everything into the sink, turn it inside out so that the plaid lining is on the outside, and put everything back. I look down at my shoes. They’re gray sneakers. Surely those won’t stand out any more than my jeans will.

  I realize only then that the bandage on my shoulder is visible without the shirt I was wearing over my tank top. And I don’t have a different shirt to put on.

  Someone knocks on the door, and I yell out, “Almost finished!”

  I look in the mirror again and sigh, then pull out the shirt I took off earlier and sling it over my wounded shoulder like a towel.

  I hear more sirens, see blue lights flashing on the glass in the window above my head. Are they still looking for me?

  I’m sweating as I open the door and step out. The woman waiting snatches the key out of my hand and shoots inside.

  The cashiers are still distracted with the police cars driving by and the news of drama in the area. I see a rack of T-shirts, so I grab one and a pack of peanut-butter crackers, step up to the counter, and clear my throat. One of the cashiers glances at the stuff instead of at me. “This all?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She rings me up, gives me a receipt. I throw the T-shirt over my shoulder too and go outside. Around the corner of the building, I pull the T-shirt on over my tank and throw my blouse and the long brown wig into a trash can. I stuff a bag I find in there down on top of my things to cover them.

  At least now if they search me, there won’t be immediate evidence that I’m the one who was seen in the restaurant.

  I go back through the woods, hoping I can get to my car. The police cars should be gone from the shopping center for now. Have they quit looking for me?

  Spent, I walk down the hill and around the stores to the front parking lot and, without hesitating, head purposefully to my car. I get in and don’t even look around before I pull out of my space.

  I see one police car across the parking lot, but his lights are off. I don’t see the driver anywhere outside. I pull out of the lot into traffic and drive away.

  When I’m far enough away, I let myself breathe.

  2

  DYLAN

  My car is still sitting in Dallas, right where Casey left it before she was shot by a child molester who dealt drugs. Dex drops me off at it and I glance around for some sign of Keegan and Rollins, the detectives determined to kill Casey before she exposes them, but I don’t see them. The car is parked on the street behind the house where Casey got shot. From where we sit, I can see between two houses to the molester’s yard and driveway. There are no police cars there. In fact, it looks as if no one is home. The truck in the backyard that would have proven some of his crimes has been moved. I hope the police towed it to their lab.

  “You need to replace that phone, Pretty Boy,” Dex says just before he drives away. “You need to have the same number Keegan will use to reach you.”

  “They’ll figure out it’s a different phone when they can’t track me anymore.”

  “But they won’t know what you did with it. You can claim it got broken or lost.”

  I appreciate that Dex is worried about it, since I duct taped the phone to the bottom of an eighteen-wheeler to throw Keegan and Rollins off my trail. If I hadn’t done that, both Casey and I would be dead by now.

  “I guess I can replace it and use the same number.”

  “Go to the cell phone store. They can transfer the number in minutes. If Keegan doesn’t have the serial number or whatever it is he needs to track the new phone, you’ll buy yourself some time.”

  Dex leaves, and I head to the cell phone store and do what he suggests. Keegan is probably ballistic that I led him on a wild-goose chase. I would love to have seen the look on his face when he realized he’d been duped.

  Once I have the phone, I fight the urge to call Casey on her burner phone or send her an e-mail on our secret account. I need to keep my contact with her as infrequent as possible to give her a chance to get farther away. I can’t give Keegan any opportunity to get close to Casey again.

  Instead I do what Keegan might expect and give him a call. He picks up on the first ring. “Where are you, Dylan?” His voice is sharp, angry.

  “I’m in Dallas,” I say. “My phone broke, and I was so busy going after Casey that I didn’t have a chance to replace it until now.”

  “I noticed that,” he says. “You missed all the fun.”

  “I was there before you were,” I say, because I know that he knows it already. “I showed up right after the gunshot and I took off after her. When I didn’t find her, I went to the hospitals, checked every one, showing her picture around, seeing if she had checked in for that gunshot wound.”

  He hesitates a moment. “We know she went to a convenience store bathroom,” he says. “She was gone before we got there, but the blood trail ended. She must have patched it up or had somebody come and pick her up.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “She seems like a loner. I doubt she has friends who would break the law to rescue her.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past her,” he says. “I wouldn’t put anything past you. Maybe you’re the one who helped her.”

  The muscles in my neck tense, and I feel a headache coming up the back of my head. “I didn’t let her escape,” I say. “I told you I was looking for her.”

  “So why did they think you were me? Those people that shot her.”

  “I didn’t tell them I was you,” I say. “I just showed up and they acted like they’d been expecting me. So what’s the deal with those people?”

  “They were arrested by Dallas police,” Keegan says. “Can you believe that? Somebody finally helps us get close to her, and now Dallas is hampering our investigation by arresting them for some kind of child abuse.”

  “Some kind of child abuse?” I ask. “You mean the molestation of a seven-year-old girl? Trading her for drugs?”

  “Okay, they had it coming. But it sure threw a wrench in our case. Automatically they’re sunk as witnesses. But I’ve got lots more. People she worked with, people who knew she was involved with that guy Cole Whittington who ran off a cliff, people who rented a room to her.”

  I don’t bother telling him that Casey had nothing to do with Whittington’s death. Casey was trying to keep the man alive. “So the Trendalls are in jail? And their dealer? All of them?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Child’s in foster care?”

  “My understanding. So are you heading back home?”

  My acting skills aren’t what they should be if I’m going to keep lying to him, so I’d better get off the phone. I quickly tell him a few more things I plan to do to find Casey in Dallas, and he accepts that. He sounds eager to get off the phone too. He doesn’t really want or need my help. He wants to have no one else but Rollins there when he finds her, so they can do whatever they want to her. Then he can claim that she was armed and fired on them, and they had to shoot her.

  When I get off the phone, I ask myself: What would I be doing if I were honestly chasing her? I would probably pay a visit to the Dallas police detective again, as though I don’t yet know about the Trendalls’ arrest, or where little Ava is. If nothing else, I can at least put Casey’s fears about the little girl to rest.

  3

  CASEY

  I don’t even know what town I’m in, but I check in to an off-brand motel and change my bandage. The TV plays while I try to nap, the news channel cycling the latest alerts every fifteen minutes or so. It gets old.

  I doze until a new breaking alert pulls me awake.

  “. . . possible indictment for Casey Cox. Let’s listen in to the district attorney of Caddo Parish in Shreveport.”

  I sit up and squint at the screen, then grab the remote a
nd turn it up. The camera locks onto the man standing at the bank of microphones. I’ve seen him before, in some election or on the news talking about me. I’m not sure where. I’ve already missed his opening sentences.

  “We have just completed a grand jury investigation into Casey Cox’s part in the murder of Brent Pace in May. Our grand jury has returned an indictment against Ms. Cox, who went missing just after the murder.”

  I let out a rush of air as though someone had punched me in the gut. I knew this would happen, but now I’ve gone from fleeing arrest to fleeing a felony indictment.

  “We believe Miss Cox went to visit Mr. Pace during her lunch break on that day, and that, when he answered the door, she stabbed him multiple times.”

  I’m not shocked that they believe this. I saw the brutality of his murder, after all. It just sickens me that so many believe I could do such a heinous thing to my closest friend.

  “She went into the house as he lay bleeding, and she left footprints, fingerprints, and other physical DNA. She then took the knife back to her car, where it was later found, along with Mr. Pace’s blood, which was apparently on her hands as she started her ignition and opened and closed her door. The blood trail continued at her apartment, as she tracked it up the stairs to her place of residence. She changed clothes and fled in a taxi to the bus station, where she took a bus to Durant, Oklahoma, with some stops in between, and later to Atlanta, Georgia, then to Shady Grove where she lived for some time.”

  It’s chilling to hear him tracing my steps like this. I go to the window and look out, expecting the parking lot to be swarming with cops. But it’s not.

  “Many of you are aware of Miss Cox’s actions in Shady Grove, but I would caution you to consider the brutality of the murder she committed before she went there. After the events in Shady Grove, which are not relevant to the Pace murder, she fled again to Dallas, Texas. Most recently, she was sighted in Dallas, but she evaded capture once again. We believe that Casey Cox is armed and dangerous, and that she is particularly good at disguising her appearance. Her eyes are particularly notable, however, so we advise citizens to go by the almond shape of her eyes and not the hair or makeup she might be wearing. She is five feet five inches tall, about 120 pounds, and we believe she is recovering from a gunshot wound to her right shoulder.”

  I touch my shoulder and look in the mirror.

  “We advise citizens who see Miss Cox to contact the police at once and not try to capture or follow her on their own. Again, she may be armed and dangerous.”

  I sigh. I don’t own a gun or a knife. I don’t even have a pair of nail clippers. “Finally, Miss Cox, if you’re listening, we advise you to turn yourself in to the police department closest to wherever you are, because continuing to evade the law will make it worse for you. We will find you, and when we do, we will see that justice is done.”

  Make it worse for me? How much worse can it be than being killed before I can tell the truth? I shiver at the way he’s addressing me, and I fight the urge to turn off the news. He cannot see me, I tell myself. He can’t trace my television signal. He’s just trying to get into my head.

  I back against the wall across from the TV and stand there as the reporters question the man.

  “Was Casey Cox involved in the death of Cole Whittington in Dallas, Texas?”

  “That death is under investigation. I can’t comment on that case at this time.”

  I groan. They know the Trendalls did that. The truck is ample evidence. “Are there investigations into other deaths in places where Casey Cox has been?”

  “Again, I’m only here to comment on the Brent Pace case.”

  “That would be no,” I bite out.

  “Have you been able to isolate a motive in the death of Brent Pace? Witnesses say they were close friends, and we know he did call her that morning. Do you know whether he invited her to come over on her lunch break? Do you know yet if they’d had a fight or anything that might have prompted such violence?”

  “We haven’t yet found the exact motive.”

  “What about the timeline?” Macy Weatherow, one of the local Shreveport anchors, asks. “The ME said Pace was killed at least a couple of hours earlier than Cox’s lunch hour.”

  “That was an approximation.”

  “But is it possible that someone else killed him, since we know Cox had been at work all morning?”

  I catch my breath, relieved that at least one person is questioning my guilt.

  “Cox fled. The murder weapon was in her car.” He turns to the next reporter’s question, as if that settled that.

  The murder weapon was planted in my car. To this day, I have never seen it.

  Macy’s voice rises above the questions shouted by others. “Friends describe Miss Cox as a kind and stable person. Some of her actions in Shady Grove and also in Dallas seem to bear that out. She rescued a kidnapped girl and her child, she allegedly talked a man down from committing suicide . . . How certain are you— ?”

  “As I said, her DNA is at the crime scene, the knife was found in her car, Mr. Pace’s blood was on her car and in her apartment.”

  “But some are saying that she may have just found the body, that if she’d murdered him she would have at least tried to cover it up.”

  “If she wasn’t the one who did it, why wouldn’t she have called 911 to report finding his body? Instead, she fled and has evaded capture ever since. That’s all for now,” he says, backing away from the microphone.

  But another reporter draws him back. “How does the indictment change things? It doesn’t put you any closer to finding her.”

  “Until now she was a person of interest in a murder. Now she’s the main suspect, and the indictment charges her with a Class A felony and a Class E felony. Thank you, everyone.”

  The DA leaves the podium and walks away as people shout more questions at him.

  I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Dylan. Of course. Who else could it be? No one else has this number.

  It occurs to me that he’s in trouble too, now that I’m indicted. His helping a person under indictment automatically moves him into another category of crime. I don’t want him to get in trouble too.

  I let the phone ring to voice mail. He doesn’t leave a message, but sends a text instead. You’ve been indicted. Have you seen the news?

  I don’t answer.

  Are you ok?

  I turn the phone off and take the battery out. I have to sever the link between us before it gets him killed or imprisoned. Too many people with ties to me have had catastrophic consequences already. I have to end this.

  It would be so easy just to turn myself in. I could walk into the TV station here . . . or the police station. I could let them arrest me.

  But then Keegan and Rollins would show up to take custody of me, and I would probably wind up dead.

  It’s insane, how trapped I am. Until I was twelve, I always believed anything bad that happened could be solved. Life had a way of working out. Justice prevailed. There were people like my dad who made sure of that.

  But when I found my dad dead, lies blended into truth. What was up turned down, what was in went out, what made no sense was suddenly assumed. Evil people were believed over a stupid twelve-year-old girl, traumatized by her father’s alleged selfishness.

  I kept all of that inside me for ten years until I shared it all with Brent. He went after it like a hound with a ham, and it cost him his life.

  A while later, I check my secret e-mail account. Dylan has left me e-mails.

  I don’t know if you’re okay. I need to talk to you. I figure you’ve heard about the indictment. Call me back, anytime, day or night. If you don’t, I’m probably going to go ahead and turn everything we’ve got over to the DA. At least it’ll be a way to stop where all this is heading.

  We need to strategize. I’ve learned some new things about our nemesis. Please call me. I can’t sl
eep.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and let the tears drip mascara down my face. I hate the heavy makeup that runs when I cry. I hate the wig that bobs when I walk. I hate that I’ve lost so much weight that my jeans are too big, but I can’t go shopping to buy more. I hate the homemade stitches and the unceasing pain in my shoulder.

  I almost don’t care what happens to me. But I do want to see Keegan and Rollins pay for their sins. They have to. Otherwise all of this—my father’s death, my friend’s death, and the last few months of living like a frightened criminal—is a waste. None of it will mean anything.

  I drop my battery and phone into my purse. When I stand, my image in the mirror startles me, as if someone I don’t know is in the room with me.

  I pull off the wig—sick of it—and climb into bed, pull the threadbare blankets up over my head. I don’t want to turn myself in, and I don’t want to kill myself.

  But I do wish I would just die in my sleep.

  4

  DYLAN

  Dude, I can help you if you show me what you got.” Dex is sitting on my couch, studying the evidence I’ve pulled up on my computer. “Any way we can spread all this out, look at it all together?”

  I can’t even sit, I’m so agitated. “When I was in CID, we used to have these big whiteboards with all the evidence on every case, all the connecting dots, every significant item we logged. You could easily see what you had with a glance. Sometimes we’d just stare at them, and something would click.”

  Dex reaches down to scratch his prosthetic leg, a gesture I find interesting. He talks of phantom pain in the amputated limb, so I guess he also has phantom itches. “Hey, you remember that case you were working on, that sergeant who was poisoned?”