Shatter Read online

  I look up in confusion. The air smells nauseatingly sweet. In the open window behind AddyDay, row after row of peach trees rush by, heavy with overripe crop. Carrie would be so proud.

  AddyDay is staring at me. “Salem?”

  “Um, yeah, I am,” I say, not sure what I’ve just agreed to.

  “Me too. So excited.” She talks to Elena in the front seat. “That much FBI information, and I think we’ll be able to prove Oswald didn’t have time to meet with conspirators before he killed President Kennedy.”

  Once I’m sure they’re talking about the mock trial, I lean back, still picturing Cordero’s dark gaze. Could he really want out of the gang? Three attempted robberies on the Thornton house and I’m secretly planning to welcome inside the Primero who is likely responsible. Granted, only if I don’t find the item first.

  When I think about it, I know that searching without him is doing to him exactly what I think he’ll do to me—I’m making a deal to get what I want and planning to go back on my word if I can get away with it.

  My phone vibrates.

  Slate: How was the festival? Envy and Kimi are here at my house with mock trial questions.

  Me: Good. Cordero was there. I think he wants to meet to work on the trial, like maybe at Elena Thornton’s. Just the two of us.

  Slate: lol. I’m going to get you back for that.

  Perfect. He thinks I’m joking. If something terrible happens at Elena’s, though, he’ll have a hint of what happened.

  Cordero’s words are still running in my head. They’ll hit you with a stick. They’ll shoot you. They’re not complicated.

  One of the gang members is complicated. Cordero is impossible to figure out. I can’t let myself trust him. I wonder, though, if I’m kidding myself—if I already do trust him.

  My phone screen shuts off automatically and I drop it to my lap.

  The possibility frightens me.

  ...

  After dinner, AddyDay and I see Dad and Elena off.

  Elena’s house is huge and falling-apart old. The ironic part is that it’s smack in the middle of peach orchards. I’m told the property ends at the edge of their small lawn, but every harvest they get to see pickers laboring in the heat as Rick and the union fight for higher wages for them. Still, there’s fresh paint on the walls and very little clutter. Some of the walls are adorned with decades-old cut-glass mirrors, truly stunning antiques. The only thing out of place is a stack of packing boxes with labels like “Rick—HS years” in the entryway. Looks like he’s still in the process of moving things from Elena’s house.

  “Listen, you two, be on your best behavior,” Dad tells AddyDay and me.

  “We will,” I answer.

  Elena grabs a set of keys from a hook. “I won’t set the alarm—it’s pretty sensitive. Ready?”

  Dad leads her out the door. It’s still light outside. The movie will last two hours, but I might have even more time than that if they stop somewhere for dessert.

  Once they’re gone, my anxiety elevates a notch because I don’t know when Cordero is coming. I want time to search for what he’s looking for without him.

  AddyDay claps her hands together. “Well?”

  “First we’re going to check the entrances. And the windows. I want to make sure everything is locked.” I turn the old-fashioned deadbolt on the front door, and head for the back rooms.

  She jogs to keep up with me. “Wow, does your dad do yoga? My stepdad isn’t flexible enough to come through a window, even to spy on me.”

  “Not Dad, Cordero. He could break in, knowing the adults are gone. You heard Elena, the alarm isn’t set.”

  “Well. You and I just disagree about Cordero, don’t we?”

  I pause before going inside the first room, a master bedroom decorated in cans of drywall plaster and paint. It feels intrusive, invading Elena’s personal space. This is the place where Rick used to live. Does Dad want to occupy this room someday? Why can’t I relax about him dating her?

  AddyDay and I check every possible entry point one by one. The house seems secure.

  Back in the main room, we pause.

  Now what? Is he even coming? How long can I search on my own?

  “Let’s go upstairs,” AddyDay says.

  She climbs up the wide stairwell, which twists back on itself at a landing halfway up in order to meet a balcony hallway. Once upstairs, we can look over the railing on either side and see the main floor below us, the front room on one side and the entryway on the other. Natural sunlight fills all but the farthest reaches of the hallway, which extends in both directions. We try the left side.

  “What do you think he’d be looking for?” AddyDay asks, opening the first door. It creaks, revealing a bathroom with a pink stand-alone sink and a hole where the toilet is supposed to be. “What if he’s looking for a secret message? Like written in code?”

  “I think that only happens in Nancy Drew books.”

  The second door is a mini-gym.

  “Let’s try the other side,” I say, retracing my steps.

  On the other side of the balcony hallway, we each take a door. I find a bedroom without furnishings. I run my hands along the empty shelves. Only minutes have passed, but still I want to race downstairs to check the entrances again. That would just waste time. What if Cordero is trying to get inside, though? Will he call me? My number is listed on the team info sheet. I check my phone, but there are no notifications.

  AddyDay calls from the room she’s in. “Wait, Salem, come here.”

  I race to her, entering a room with two dressers and a twin bed. AddyDay points at a poster that reads Hip-Hop in gangster-style print.

  Heart pounding, I pull open the top drawer of the first dresser. Empty. I open the rest, making a racket. All empty.

  “There’s nothing in the other one, I already checked,” AddyDay says.

  “No, there has to be something here.”

  We check a dusty hamper, the desk and some shelving. I look inside the garbage can and move white curtains to see the warbled wood of the window ledge.

  Kneeling on the hardwood floor, AddyDay looks under the bed. “If gang guys stayed at this house, they stayed here. But there’s nothing in here.”

  I check all the drawers again. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Anyway, Elena could have moved something.

  Wait, what if she moved a lot of somethings? Like a bunch of belongings in four boxes stacked by the front door?

  “I’m such an idiot,” I say as AddyDay leans past me over the bed.

  She reaches for a red LED light glowing from a switch on the headboard. It’s labeled, Panic. “What’s this?”

  “Don’t!”

  She pulls her hand back just in time. “Whoa. Do you think the police would come if I hit that?”

  “I guess,” I answer. “If the alarm company can’t get in touch with Elena. I bet there’s one of those buttons in every room.”

  There have been three burglary attempts on the Thornton home recently. I don’t know what Dad would do in the face of three burglary attempts, but I’m pretty sure panic buttons would be involved. I’m less sure what his reaction would be to AddyDay and me hitting one accidentally while at his new girlfriend’s house.

  “Come on,” I say.

  Once we’re downstairs, I heft the first box off the top stack and set it on the floor. The one under it is labeled, Rick: football.

  “Look,” I say.

  AddyDay’s face lights with a smile. “Of course. If any gang members left something here, Elena would give it to Rick.” She takes that box and sets it on the tile.

  We line the items along the entryway so we’ll be able to repack everything correctly. I empty out a late-model printer, a photo of Rick in a Verona High football uniform—he signed it #5—and a bunch of newsletters from the Peach Growers Association. I repack it.

  “Would Cordero want Rick’s old wallet?” She brings the wallet to her face, laughing. “Oh my gosh, is that a perm? He�
�s sixteen in this driver’s license picture!”

  “There’s got to be something in one of the others,” I answer, switching my box for the next one.

  I pull out a plaque I recognize. It reads, Rick Thornton: World’s Best Union Club Advisor and is signed by Carrie, Envy, Kimi, and me. I didn’t want to have any attention on me, so I didn’t stand with the other girls last year when they presented it to him at a Students for Strike meeting. I feel a grin compete with a wave of sorrow. Carrie wanted this year’s plaque to read Rick Thornton: World’s Only Union Club Advisor, but she’ll never order another plaque. I miss her. I’m not on the verge of sobbing, and that’s a relief I wasn’t expecting. But I miss her.

  I continue emptying the box, which is full of union stuff, most of it from the Students for Strike club. I move a stack of Verona Bulletin newspapers, stopping when I notice the top one.

  “Wait, that’s Carrie,” I say, staring at the picture on the front page.

  Mayor Bill Knockwurst is smiling at the camera, shaking Carrie’s hand. I remember the photo. Carrie looks terrible in it. She’s not ready for the snap of the camera, looking off to the side with a flat, almost worried expression. She got on the front page alongside the mayor for winning a teen community service award. She joked that God had humbled her by allowing that picture to go to print.

  AddyDay stops laughing and comes over to look. “Oh, I remember that. That’s my stepdad.”

  “I didn’t remember the article being so close to when Juan died,” I say. The newspaper is dated May 22. “Why does Rick even have these newspapers?”

  “Well, Elena does work for the Verona Bulletin.”

  I check to see if Elena wrote the article. She didn’t. I take the first page of the newspaper, and tuck it into my back pocket.

  “You’re paranoid,” AddyDay says.

  “We need to hurry.” I dig into the box again.

  It’s mostly cassette tapes. Pearl Jam, Nirvana—each with handwritten labels. An old-fashioned tape recorder sits under them. The tape inside has “PGA Mar/Apr” written in permanent marker on it.

  PGA—the Peach Growers Association. The missing recording of the grower’s meeting.

  I stare at it, mouth open.

  AddyDay laughs. “What is it this time?”

  “Dad’s alibi,” I say.

  “What? My stepdad is your dad’s alibi—Bill. Bill and Mr. White.”

  “And this might be the recording that proves it.” I push play. Amazingly, nothing seems to be broken. The batteries even work.

  “…the union is asking for increased wages,” an authoritative voice says. “Or in ten days they’ll vote to strike.”

  AddyDay tucks hair behind her ears. “That’s Bill.”

  I nod, talking over the tape. “If the union is going to vote that soon, then this is the May grower’s meeting. This is the night Juan died.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “But we take all the risk!” a speaker on the tape interrupts the meeting’s formality. A speaker with a high-pitched voice.

  “Mr. White,” we both say.

  “We buy the land and the trees,” Mr. White continues. “If the crop fails, we get nothing. Does the picker work and get nothing? Don’t be absurd!”

  “You don’t live at the poverty level. Pickers do,” Rick Thornton’s voice answers, loud and quick. As the official union representative, I doubt it’s wise for him to get that angry at a group of growers.

  “Only because I work another job—one I’m allowed to make money at!” There’s a thud as Mr. White slaps the table, one of the varnished ones they have at Mountain Mike’s Pizza. How many times have I been in that room?

  A familiar voice interrupts calmly. “Rick, you and the union want this discussion to be about the plight of the worker. So let’s talk about these workers. How will they earn money when peaches are grown, canned, and shipped in from overseas?”

  “That’s my Dad,” I whisper to AddyDay.

  She nods, equally entranced.

  “Let the illegals follow the crop to China. Solves two problems,” someone answers rudely.

  “It’s people like you that make your whole organization rotten!” Rick Thornton shouts.

  A flurry of angry voices creates a dull hum in the background. I picture the XII and upside down V carved into the bottom of Juan’s shoe. I picture the men and the handful of women that I’ve seen at the banquet hall, the way they’re usually bored and wishing the meeting were over. No one is bored now. They’re angry and emotional. Enough to kill?

  I speak over the voices on the tape. “Dad needs to listen to this.”

  Dad is going to freak when he finds out I’ve gone through Rick’s things, but I don’t care. The tape might identify someone with a serious grudge. It might even prove that Rick was hiding the recording on purpose, though I suspect it proves the opposite. If Rick wanted to frame Dad by getting rid of the cassette, he wouldn’t leave it lying around in his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s house, certainly not now that Dad is dating her.

  “Wait, did you hear that?” AddyDay nudges me.

  “What?”

  She rewinds the recorder and hits play. Mr. White is speaking, his voice warbled as the tape restarts.

  “Some party is scheduled tonight. Now we can’t stay for dinner after the meeting.”

  AddyDay gives me a significant look. “He’s announcing that they have to leave when the meeting’s over.”

  “That can’t be right,” I say. “The growers stayed for dinner—that’s Dad’s alibi. Anyone who left before eight has no alibi for when Juan was killed.”

  “Do you think … I mean, could the growers have remembered wrong?”

  Doubt lurks in the corners of my mind. A professor, a teacher, and a mayor—Dad and those growers didn’t get together and guess whether or not they’d met in May. They understood the importance of an alibi. They either pinpointed something that made the date certain or—

  Or they lied.

  Before I can answer, my phone vibrates with a call from Dad. Also, a second person has just sent a text.

  Unknown: You want to know about Carrie? Let me in the house.

  Cordero is here.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  What’s wrong? Is Cordero coming?” AddyDay asks, leaning to see my phone. She looks as spooked as me. Dad’s call goes to voicemail while the two of us stare at Cordero’s message.

  “You have to go home,” I tell her. Meeting with Cordero is one thing. Dragging AddyDay into it is another.

  “So you can be totally freaked out and alone?” she asks. “In movies, that’s a really bad plan.”

  I don’t answer, tucking my phone away to dig through Rick’s last box instead. Trophies, camping equipment. Nothing.

  What does Cordero want? The cassette? Impossible. If Rick doesn’t know where the tape is, the odds that Cordero somehow does are astronomical. I stop the tape recorder and shove it into AddyDay’s hands.

  “I—you need to keep this,” I tell her.

  “Salem,” she warns. “You can’t expect Cordero to open up to you when you’re hiding—”

  “Cordero probably doesn’t even know about this tape and if he does—if he’s coming here to destroy it—AddyDay, this could be the only evidence of who’s missing at that meeting. Whoever killed Juan could get off if we let Cordero take this.”

  “Well …”

  “Take it home. I’ll stay here to see if he’s looking for something else.”

  She nods. “All right. I’ll record it on my computer.”

  “No way. You could mess up the tape before the police see it.”

  “But we’ll never know what it says if we hand it straight over to the police.”

  I hesitate.

  “Fine. Hide the recorder in your laptop bag,” I say, shoving it into her hands. “Send me a text when you’re home.”

  Cheeks flushed, AddyDay pats her zipped bag. “I’m ready.”

  I unlock the front door and follow her
into warm twilight. Long, thin peach leaves droop in the orchard, more gray than green in this light. Cordero is out there, waiting to make a deal with me—a trade. Information in exchange for access to something unknown. I’m getting the better end of the bargain, I tell myself.

  AddyDay dashes into the orchard. A minute later I get the text that she’s home.

  That’s when I see him, stepping from the shadow of the third row of trees. Dark and tall.

  I run inside and press my back against the closed door. I think of getting a weapon, a knife from the kitchen, but I can’t use a knife on someone. He’ll take it from me and become armed himself. If he’s not already.

  Thoughts like that are crazy—Cordero helped me get away from Tito today. I trust him. I do.

  If only I were certain.

  My phone rings. It’s Dad.

  I stare at the screen. I hit the ignore button and pull up the voicemail he just left.

  “Salem Jefferson, stay away from Cordero,” his message says. “We ran into Mr. White at the movie theater. Why didn’t you tell me he’s a Primero? Salem, stay away from him. Stay away from Cordero.”

  Three knocks vibrate the door behind me. Cordero.

  I nearly drop my phone.

  This is my chance. My only opportunity to make a deal with him.

  Steeling my emotions, I crack the door open with my foot wedged against the inside.

  He stands on the porch, cap gone, tattoo still hidden under bandages. His backpack hangs from one shoulder. He should look like any other student, but he doesn’t. His face is cautious and calculating. And confident. I’ll never be able to mimic such a face.

  “Before I let you in, why did Carrie hire you?” I say, bluffing confidence.

  His gaze flits to the entryway behind me and then back, silent. I get nothing until he’s inside.

  I swallow. “I want to know why your friend Tito fought with Slate at Mission Plaza too. I—you won’t get in otherwise.”

  He says something about Slate in rapid Spanish. While I try to translate in my head, he uses my distraction to shove the door open and slip inside.

  I back away from him, a safe distance. I don’t know the word he used in talking about Slate, quita. “You mean I should stop hanging out with Slate?” I ask. “You think he’s dangerous?”