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  © 2017 Nikki Trionfo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2772-6

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on File

  Cover design by Priscilla Chaves

  Cover design © 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by Hali Bird, Casey Nealon, and Jessica Romrell

  Dedicated to Mike, Janice, and the not-so-little ones.

  “Straddling the line between a coming of age heartbreak and a thriller murder mystery—Trionfo crafts a stunning debut that’ll keep you turning pages ’til the end.”

  —Jolene Perry, author of All the Forever Things, AW Teen

  “Is her sister’s violent death an accident or murder? Salem’s hunt for the killer thrusts her into a community endangered by gangs, a high school tainted by betrayals, and finally to a mock trial and the bittersweet truth. Trionfo dazzles the reader with pitch-perfect characterization and a gripping portrayal of impending doom.”

  —Kathleen Dougherty, author of Moth to the Flame, Penguin Books.

  “Shatter is a riveting debut novel that takes the reader on a roller coaster ride of danger and intrigue as a young woman tries to learn who killed her sister. An absolutely terrific read.”

  —Kathi Oram Peterson, author of Breach of Trust, Covenant Books.

  “A tense, multi-layered mystery that kept me reading late into the night.”

  —E. B. Wheeler, award-winning author of The Haunting of Springett Hall and Born to Treason

  CHAPTER ONE

  DAY ONE. A DAY LIKE NO OTHER. EVER.

  Kiss a guy?

  I’d had sushi once, which felt like eating a pair of lips. I assumed kissing would be similar, only without the ginger and wasabi sauce.

  Did I want to kiss a guy? Ginger and wasabi sauce were the only good parts of sushi.

  Still, I didn’t interrupt my sister when she told me I needed to talk to more guys so I could eventually kiss one of them. Instead, I pressed the cell phone to my ear so I could hear better. Nearby, teammates jogged the final yards of the four-mile cross-country summer conditioning my coach insisted on, despite the rumbles of a rare thunderstorm.

  “Salem, you cannot get rid of those virgin lips if you never talk,” she continued, probably alone in the kitchen, winding her hair on her finger. Dad had decided we were old enough at sixteen and seventeen to stay home while he drove to Reno for business.

  “Yes, I can,” I said.

  I was joking. When Carrie told me how to live my life, I listened, even though she was only a year older than me. Mom left when I was nine and Carrie became my advisor. She got me entrance to fundraisers sponsored by rock stars, preached against the villainy of littering, and convinced me with a triple dare to run around the barn in just our bras because it never occurred to us that there could be people in the orchard.

  Dangerous people.

  “That will be amusing,” she said drily. “You’re going to grab a guy and plant one on him? Have you picked your f—?”

  Those were the last words I ever heard my sister say.

  PRESENT DAY

  “Conspiracy theories!” Mr. White announces after the opening bell rings on the first day of my junior year of high school. “Much as we might mock them, psychologically, we need them.”

  I don’t look up from the XII tagged onto the corner of my desk as my Verona High political science teacher speaks. The lettering is carved into the fake wood veneer, probably with a knife. Black ink has been driven deep into the cutting, making the Roman numeral twelve look like a scar. I’ve seen graffiti like this a thousand times and somehow I’ve never really registered it before.

  Not like now.

  My gaze jumps away from it and back. What is a gang symbol exactly? A warning? A calling card announcing brutality already committed? I hate how I’m afraid of it now. A two-inch symbol etched with a knife, and I’m afraid of it.

  It’s safe to say that none of the Advanced Placement students here defaced the desk. Not these juniors and seniors gearing up for what Carrie called the hardest AP class at Verona High. Every year, it includes a mock trial competition that makes up half the grade.

  “The idea that Kennedy, JFK, President of the United States, could be killed on his own soil seemed preposterous. It had to be … a con-spir-acy.” Mr. White has a high-pitched voice.

  I keep my head down, paying more attention to my thoughts than my environment. It’s my twelfth day without Carrie. I have one goal—to not cry in public. I dodged Carrie’s two best friends when they tried to hug me a few minutes ago. Now they’re sitting in the front row and sending me questioning glances. My own closest friends are on the cross-country team, and none of them are in this class of mostly seniors. With one of the highest grades last year, Carrie and her partner were supposed to be the teacher’s assistants this year.

  I can’t help but glance at one of the chairs facing the class next to the teacher’s desk. Empty.

  Moisture invades my nasal passages and eyes. I run my finger along the black lines on the desk. I push harder and harder until my skin is red and sore. The graffiti seems so anonymous and detached, like it etched itself. Power. Violence. Death. These gangs leave their mark like it’s no more than a brand logo on Abercrombie and Fitch jeans.

  “Nothing,” Mr. White says. “Nothing is more impossible to accept than random events with large consequences. So, people talk. Witnesses come forward. And soon … John F. Kennedy wasn’t shot by a lone gunman. No! The mobs are involved, the USSR deeply implicated, a conspiracy is born and that—” Mr. White slaps something against the chalkboard, probably a ruler. I can’t tell without looking up, which I don’t. I wipe my nose with the base of my thumb. I keep my eyes wide, so the tears won’t pool.

  “That is what we are putting on trial. A notion. Yes, a conspiracy. Is it true, beyond a reasonable doubt? Or will it be found guilty, false, and fallacious?”

  A fly lands on my elbow. A fat, lazy summer fly escaping the oppressive California heat outside. I watch it crawl, partially blocking my view of the lower half of the graffiti. The letters are harsh and thin. Nothing like the sprawling XII Carrie found all over her car that morning. Black spray paint, soft rounded edges over buckled metal. A tire iron had been involved, the police decided.

  Do some things just happen? Or is there always a reason?

  “That will be amusing.” Carrie’s voice from twelve days ago plays in my head. Carrie did not say things. She announced them. After the police had come and gone, she called me to rehash the details of her ca
r vandalism. “You’re going to grab a guy and plant one on him? So have you picked your f—?”

  Was she about to say fellow? Fall guy? First victim? I stay awake for hours at night wondering.

  One tear falls.

  Mr. White’s oration continues to intrude on my thoughts.

  “This year’s trial is scheduled at the state courthouse in Sacramento,” he announces. “You must dress like you’re a lawyer or a witness from 1963. No exceptions. That means tweed jackets or beehive hair or whatever you come up with in your research, or you won’t participate. And mark your calendars. The mock trial is in three weeks.”

  A girl next to me gasps. I sniff and try to focus on her. She’s a senior and has lived only half a mile from me for the past few years ever since her mom married the mayor, who owns half of the growing acreage in Verona.

  “But last year’s team got four weeks,” she says.

  Mr. White zeroes in on her, approaching through the desks. “Name?”

  “AddyDay Knockwurst.”

  His face breaks into a smile. “I know your stepfather. But I suppose most of us know Verona’s mayor. We have less time to prepare this year because scheduling is tight at the courthouse. Addy, nice to meet you.”

  “It’s not Addy. It’s all one word. AddyDay.”

  Someone snickers. AddyDay doesn’t seem to notice. She just smiles away, mounds of brown hair swaying around her face.

  I hardly know AddyDay. I would venture that she doesn’t think I’m part of her crowd. Carrie’s Students for Strike club was good enough for her, however—she’s a member. Over a hundred students are. Ever since Carrie was a kid, she had supported a string of causes. For six months in middle school, she ate only whole, raw foods. She learned to grind make-up out of pure minerals. But when she supported the Farm Workers Union’s idea to go on strike, Dad got pissed. That was the ignition she needed to go all out.

  Fundraisers, a Verona High rally emceed by the mayor of San Francisco, dozens of trips to crop fields to photograph violations of the Migrant and Seasonal Agricultural Worker Protection Act. The union wanted higher wages for the field workers, many of whom earned less than McDonald’s employees. Their employers—people like Dad, who owns an orchard—said the market couldn’t pay more or the fruit would be grown overseas. As the tensions increased between pickers and growers, so did the tension between Carrie and Dad. It had been getting out of hand. She and Dad would argue for hours about the amount of money he paid his peach pickers.

  The more deeply Carrie got involved, the more extreme her views became. Slapping the hand that kept us down protected the weakest members of society, she’d say. She said the growers were getting violent and hiring thugs. She was a true believer.

  I watched mostly from the sidelines, rooting for Carrie but always worried that her passion to fight back could get her in over her head.

  AddyDay is still talking to Mr. White. “I’m cold. Will you always have the air conditioning on so high?”

  “Yes, bring a sweater.”

  She pretends to shiver. “But I’m f-f-freezing,” she complains.

  F-f-freezing. The letter f. A voiceless consonant produced by blowing air past a constricted bottom lip.

  Carrie’s last sound.

  I heard the house explode around her. Right before the line went dead, I heard it.

  My memories of the past twelve days are like photographs—some sharply focused, some not. I remember coming home from cross-country conditioning and seeing the whirling lights of emergency vehicles in front of the soggy, burnt remains of the house and Carrie’s car. It had been re-parked in the garage to protect it from further vandalism. I remember the police showing Dad and me pictures of Primeros gang members—men trapped in the bodies of teenagers dressed in blue—pictures of their green-clad enemies, the Últimos. Dad was as confused as me. Carrie hadn’t been involved with any of them, we kept telling the police. Those guys in ropes of gold, in muscle shirts, in tattooed skin. Their faces didn’t matter. I knew she hadn’t been involved with any of them.

  I really thought I knew it.

  When Mr. White starts handing out a packet of information to each desk, my attention refocuses on the class.

  “You’ll work in partners, which I’ve assigned to you. All the partnerships are listed in this packet.” As he goes around the room, the door slams shut like someone is arriving. Several students in the room turn to look at the new arrival and stay looking. Must be someone interesting. No one says hello, however. Strange.

  When I get my packet, I scan for my name. An uneven number of people are in the class. I’m in a group of three. I don’t recognize either of my partners’ names.

  “Let’s get right to it,” Mr. White says when he finishes. “Break into partnerships and start your first assignment.”

  A voice near the door calls out to the teacher, halting the sounds of shuffling class members.

  “My name is not on that page. What should I do for a partner?” It must be the new arrival talking. He has a subtle, attractive accent.

  Mr. White glances up and steps back slightly. “You’re in the wrong class.”

  “I’m Cordero. I requested this class last year. They didn’t give it to me. I spoke to the office. Now I am on the roll.”

  The class is dead silent. Mr. White’s lips tighten. He swallows. There’s something dangerous about the new guy. The teacher leans over AddyDay’s desk and spins her packet so he can read the list of partnerships. “Fine. We’ll break up the threesome. You’ll pair with … Salem Jefferson.”

  At the sound of my name, I turn to look at my new partner.

  The guy near the door is tall. He has the kind of incredibly good looks that invite stares, but that’s not the only reason he’s getting them now. The cursive lettering of a tattoo rises from the opening of the guy’s worn flannel shirt. Two gold chains hang from his brown neck. A guy accessorized in gang paraphernalia, not caked with it. His only completely visible marking is an upside down V inked onto his right cheekbone, black and distinct. The tattoo calls my attention for some reason, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen a symbol like that before. An upside down V… it seems so familiar.

  His expressionless, dark eyes dart to meet my gaze from under a stiff, backward-facing ball cap. My classmates watch him stare at me.

  “Salem Jefferson,” he says slowly, putting a slight emphasis on my last name. He waits for my response.

  I realize he knows exactly who Salem Jefferson is. Exactly who I am. I’m Carrie’s sister.

  Terrified, I whirl back around to face forward. Gang members targeted Carrie, made her frightened. Was he one of them? The skin between my shoulder blades tightens. Why were gang guys after Carrie? Does he really know Carrie, or am I crazy? How can I possibly think someone like him is hot? What is wrong with me?

  The thought of Carrie is so vivid, I wish I could tell her to shut up. “… get out there more. Talk. Kiss a guy,” she had said.

  Stop thinking.

  Mr. White leans closer to the packet on AddyDay’s desk to re-read it. “Salem Jefferson?” Intrigued, he looks up, scanning the room.

  Students whisper. I duck my head. Strands of blond hair hide me, but it doesn’t help. I’m not Carrie—I’m not assertive. I wish I could be.

  “You don’t know who Salem is?” AddyDay asks Mr. White.

  “She’s Carrie’s sister,” another girl says.

  Jeremy Novo is seated to my left. He rolls his eyes. He’s been a jerk since first grade. “So what about Carrie? Hello, people. Cops unearthed a freaking corpse on Salem’s property yesterday.”

  Mr. White smiles at me sympathetically. “Yes, Carrie’s sister and Brian’s daughter,” he says, reminding me what a small town Verona really is. “Mm, tough stuff your family is dealing with. Well. Carrie was one of my favorite students. What a legacy to live up to, huh?”

  Whispered conversations burst around me like scattered drops of rain.

  “Legacy?” Jeremy No
vo asks in a stage whisper. “You think he wants another murdered guy to show up in her orchard?”

  “Shut up, Jeremy,” AddyDay tells him.

  The new guy strides confidently to the seat behind me.

  Mr. White nods to him. “Well, Cordero, you and Salem get to work. Got to score well on these first assignments. Got to show you want to be here.”

  Mr. White probably only said that because Cordero has gang accessories that make him look different than the other AP students. Everyone in Verona acts tough about gangs, but most of us are afraid of them. I’m terrified. My memories swirl.

  YESTERDAY

  I was jogging far out in my family’s orchard in the dead heat of the afternoon because physical punishment left no room for emotion.

  “Stop! Miss, stop! This is a crime scene!” an officer called to me. Dad was with him. A Hispanic woman was at his side.

  I slowed from my conditioning pace. The rows of trees around me had ended abruptly, opening to a wide vista. The bare field was full of trucks, workers, and piles of nitrogen fertilizer like it had been when I left to go on a run. Dad was in the process of planting new trees. With the peach strike going on, no farm laborers would have come to pick peaches for us, but the workers who planted trees were part of a whole different industry.

  Unlike when I left to go on a run, the field now was also full of cameras and cop cars, as if something were terribly wrong. Like Carrie was going to die all over again.

  “Dad?” I looked to him, his light hair and round glasses.

  He turned from the officer he’d been speaking with and pulled me into a hug. “It’s okay, Salem.”

  “What happened? Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “It’s okay,” Dad repeated. He was an inventor. Not the crackpot kind; the double PhD kind who also owned an orchard and worked at a university. All the growers had day-jobs. Growers on a small-time orchard can’t support themselves on ranching alone.

  “The workers found a body on our property,” he explained. He ended our hug. Ever since Carrie died, he’d been more aloof than usual. “It’s no one we know.”