Shatter Read online

  The warmth of his fingers runs up my arm, slips against the silk of my blouse, and touches my lips. The wound on my cheek is bleeding still, but just barely. Hundreds of people are gathered around the courthouse’s landscape with their sobbing and their rebounding hugs, controlled by a biological search for comfort. I can’t see anything above their calves a stone’s throw away. Cordero and I are lying inside a nearly ground-length canopy of tree branches—a beautiful oasis backlit with sunshine, leaving us cut off from the world outside.

  “I knew you wouldn’t kill Rick,” I say. “I knew it.”

  My hair tangles with blades of grass. The third button of my blouse is open. I can’t move to fix it unless I slide my arm under Cordero’s, which I don’t. His hand has come to a rest against my side. Fire truck alarms wail a short distance away.

  “Rick pulled a knife on me. He thought I knew it was him already, because I’d been in his house, searching.” Cordero’s breathing is heavy, his eyes black and wide. He’s still in shock as if reeling from his decision to leave Rick alive.

  I’m still gasping for air. “I remembered. I figured it out. Dad was with me. And I think Carrie found out the exact time Dad was planning to hand over his bribe … Dad was running late since he ended up giving me a ride. She wanted to confront the guy taking bribes. But not alone. So she called Rick since he worked for the union. He’s a true union-believer. He must have been furious with Juan.”

  Cordero wipes his face, smearing a trail of black across his cheek, his eyes unfocused. “We were in the killer’s house. The whole time we cleaned up. Carrie—I wonder if she was in so much shock, she thought I knew he was the killer. Of all the people who would want her to clean up after burying Juan, of course it’d be the killer. Of course she’d be willing to go to his house.”

  I thread my fingers with his. “When she was ready to turn Rick in to the police, she didn’t want give the union bad publicity. She must have contacted Benicio for advice. Rick heard about the meeting. He said so in the hall.”

  My fists clench. Rick probably rushed to her house. Carrie managed to call police once he arrived, but he forced her to tag her car. Eventually he broke the gas line. He probably watched the news reports of the explosion and thought of how much the media loved it. When the peach strike went into effect and the growers still wouldn’t cave on a wage hike for the pickers, he set up one bomb and then another, both in front of cameras, both targeting marks that would put growers in suspicion.

  Hesitantly, I bring up my finger and touch the black of Cordero’s V tattoo, smooth and close—so close I can see the pores of his skin.

  “You didn’t kill Rick. You’re leaving the gang.”

  His face clouds. He leaves my side and stands.

  I rise to follow him. Bruising pounds every inch of my body. I make him face me.

  He looks at me through dark lashes with the hard reality of a truth I don’t want to understand.

  “You have to leave them,” I cry. “El Payaso said he’d kill you.”

  “You’re like Carrie, always against the gang. But you don’t know the drive-bys, the violence. When we bind together, we’re strong. I’ll convince Tito and El Payaso to go against Rick now that I know who he is. He’s not so tough.”

  “What? Rick’s going to jail.”

  Cordero shakes his head. “We have no evidence.”

  I step back from him, horrified. “We have your testimony and mine. And Juan’s car keys, which prove you were there the night he died—you’re not just making the whole thing up.”

  Following me, Cordero grips my upper arm. I feel a tremble in his fingers. “You can never tell anyone I was there. Or it will be prison for me, for Juan’s murder. They’ll think I set the explosion in the courthouse too. The knife inside has my fingerprints.” He nods toward the window we escaped from.

  “We have to. We have to go to the police.”

  “No police.”

  “A lenient judge,” I argue. “You’ll give him Juan’s car keys and tell your whole story. He’ll know you had no choice—”

  “I will never let the police find the keys.” Cordero’s scowl utterly rejects my proposal. He’s incapable of hoping for support from an authority figure.

  “What do we do then? Wait for Rick to kill us? How can you possibly think it’s wrong to leave a gang?”

  “I need the gang,” he insists. “We need it. With the gang, we’ll force Rick not to hurt me. Not to hurt you.” He doesn’t trust his own plan. He hasn’t had time to think it through. Tito and El Payaso won’t help an outsider like me.

  I position my face in front of his. “I’m going to the police with or without those keys you have. If you won’t testify with me, maybe Rick will get away with murder. Maybe he’ll figure out a way to kill me too. But I’ll tell you one thing—you and I will be enemies. Forever.”

  The truth of my words hits us both.

  Cordero’s fingers tense at my arm. Neither of us moves.

  His face is heartbreaking, pleading, sorrowful, frightened. His black eyes are close and fierce. “I want Rick to be caught. I do. But I can’t go to the police with those keys.”

  The noise of thousands of people outside the canopy seems close suddenly. Chants, sobs, police sirens.

  Cordero and I hesitate. Both of us need to control the other. Just like when we first met. Only it’s nothing like before. It’s agony.

  “You’re wrong that the gang is bad,” he says.

  “I’m right. I never trust anything I feel, and I still know I’m right.”

  I never trust anything I feel.

  It’s just what Carrie tried to tell me all those years ago, when she said someday I’d find out who I was. She said I’d become strong. I spent years doubting what I felt unless Carrie approved of it, but somehow she knew I’d learn to trust myself. All the things she tried to teach me, all the things she told me to do. I talk. I get out there more. And as for kissing a guy—

  Without permission, my gaze rises to Cordero as he stares through the branches of the trees, his lips pressed together in grim contemplation. A life on 147 Benjamin Road. Forever.

  I know why I was afraid to trust him at first—because I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust I could evaluate his morality when every glance, every tweak of his expression, made me emotional. Made me defenseless and filled me with longing.

  His fingers are barely touching the skin of my arm.

  I realize just how far our lifestyles are from each other. Just how different we really are.

  He looks down at me and I’m shocked at my own impulse, like Carrie’s right here, egging me on. You’re going to grab a guy and plant one on him?

  He frowns at my change in emotions, unable to probe them.

  Leaves on the edge of the canopy sway against my shoulder blades as I stare at the dark line of his lips, pausing because I know it’s now or never.

  Carrie wanted me to be confident. She wanted me to go after what I wanted.

  Heart pounding, I step to him and close my eyes, going by feel. My lips hit him on the crease between his chin and mouth.

  I drop down from the balls of my feet and turn toward curtains of tree limbs, my face blazing.

  His fingers close around my arm, spinning me to him.

  He’s so close and I’m shaking against the anchor of his hands on both sides of my jaw, his grip warm and light, his mouth the same. I clutch his wrist, and his lips pull away just as they meet mine, hovering. His whole body is tense because he doesn’t want to hesitate and my shallow breaths are on him and then we’re together, pressed tight, lips touching.

  I have no thought in my head. I have nothing but the feel of his hands on my skin, and the fire of his pulse under my fingertips, and disorienting pleasure so I don’t know how I’m standing. I have Cordero’s image from inside the courthouse. He’s looked down the blade of a knife from the side I never thought to contemplate. He made his decision. Just like I’m making mine. I’m what Carrie wanted me t
o be. I’m choosing what I want.

  Only …

  I drop from my toes.

  I can’t choose what he is or be with him, watching the compromises he’ll have to make, the ones he’s already made. I can’t choose that.

  He leans to follow my mouth with his. His thoughts are gone.

  “Good-bye,” I say.

  Breaking from his embrace is shocking. It’s jumping into ice water. It’s the scratch of twigs on my face as I sprint through branches of the willow tree. I need to find Dad and tell him everything before the police don’t just question him, but arrest him. Before Rick finds me.

  Before Cordero stops me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Abreeze stirs, laced with smoke and the first hint of autumn.

  I dash through trees away from Cordero on bare feet, my high heels in tow. I think of the people I know who were near the blast. AddyDay. Slate. Dad. I wonder for the first time who is hurt. Who is dead. How many more will die if I don’t hand Rick over to the police before his rage strikes again? I tell myself the police will force Cordero to turn over the keys, no matter how he protests. I’m only a little ashamed of my plan. He’ll become a witness against Rick. If his gang turns on him for working with the authorities, then he’ll have to leave them. It’s the choice he should be making.

  I push my legs to go faster.

  Breaking from the final canopy into sunlight, I land smack in the middle of a stream of adults and teens spilling from a courthouse side exit. President Benicio is there. A girl with a nose ring crawls on the grass, her face streaked with soot and tears. A boy stumbles next to me.

  I’m disoriented by the chaos. Nearby, a solid mass of rally-goers fills the wide lawn, held back from the courthouse by police tape. Helicopters buzz overhead. The loudest noise is coming from two audio speakers competing for attention next to the exit.

  “That’s why I am postponing the press conference to announce my bid for the U.S. senate seat,” one of the amplifiers booms in a familiar male voice. It’s Mayor Bill Knockwurst. “I am grateful my family and supporters are accounted for, but right now, all focus needs to be on saving those who are still missing.”

  I pause. Bill Knockwurst’s secret counterattack—he’s running for senator. AddyDay was right that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not only that, Bill said she’s safe.

  “… just getting word now of one confirmed fatality. Judge Steele has died after thirty-seven years on the bench,” the other speaker declares in the practiced voice of a newscaster.

  My body feels frozen. Carrie, Juan, and now the judge with the white hair.

  The announcer continues. "Senator Lethco clings to life, critically injured. She and Union President Benicio participated in a sit-in strike with a dozen teens from Verona High’s Students for Strike Club, tying themselves to pillars inside the courthouse. They nearly knotted themselves to their deaths. Police say all have escaped, lucky to be alive.”

  The girl with the nose ring leans forward in a coughing fit. She’s one of the students who were trapped and nearly killed.

  I react without thinking. I touch her arm and ask if she’s okay. She rises, using my arms as support. Green nylon rope bracelets her wrists.

  “We got out,” she sobs.

  Traces of heat and smoke come in waves from the direction of the courthouse. A fireman emerges from the trees Cordero and I had been under, escorting a guy who is doubled over. It’s Tito. I guess he escaped with the other protesters. He staggers, disoriented and crying. My insides swirl with sympathy—but he hurt Anna. How can there be forgiveness for that?

  Two paramedics with a stretcher appear next to me.

  “Sit down,” one yells at the girl with me. He directs her onto a stretcher. “Head forward.”

  The man puts an oxygen mask over her. He runs the stretcher away and another man turns to me.

  “You can walk?” he asks. “Are you bleeding anywhere besides your face?”

  “I have to report a crime.”

  “You’re in shock.” The paramedic forces me to sit on a second stretcher, attaching the same sort of face mask to me that he put on the girl. The oxygen smells bitter and comes out with a steady whistle.

  I tear off the mask, but the paramedic is already wheeling me away from the courthouse and toward the crowd. There are cops all over the place and a sea of rescue vehicles. Someone calls to me from behind the police tape.

  “Salem! Over here! Salem!”

  “Dad!” I answer, jumping from the gurney.

  “You’re not released yet!” the paramedic shouts after me.

  No one stops me from darting under the tape and running to Dad. I pass Mr. White. He waves at me and marks something down on a clipboard in relief, like he’s keeping track of which mock trial students are still missing.

  “Salem! Oh, your face. Oh, Salem.” Dad hugs me, shaking. Elena and AddyDay are there, smiling and crying.

  “Dad, listen, Dad—”

  “We know. We know.” Dad brings his hand from my waist. He’s carrying a phone—my phone. My phone that AddyDay grabbed when she was pinned on the floor. My email is still pictured on the screen. “You found an alibi for me.”

  “It’s just amazing,” Elena says, choked up.

  “What?” I cry.

  “I already showed it to police,” Dad says and then hesitates. He looks like his heart is broken. “Salem, honey, listen. I … they found out about Carrie. The pipes were smashed—”

  “I heard. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  He looks to make sure I really am and then hugs me. “We’ll get through this.”

  I hug him back fiercely. He needs me more than I need him for this. I already knew Carrie was killed. He’s getting hit with it for the first time.

  “Guys, guys!” AddyDay starts jumping up and down. “Mr. White just announced everyone from the mock trial is safe.”

  Students cheer and hug. AddyDay’s two friends, Marissa and Katelyn, are nearby, telling me how glad they are that I’m all right. I should be yelling about Rick’s guilt, but instead I search the crowd. Mr. White said everyone was here. That means Cordero’s been spotted. He came out from under the willow tree. I scan the area around me. I don’t see him.

  Slate and Officer Haynes walk to us.

  Officer Haynes addresses Dad, all trace of his former animosity gone. “I’ve got the email address I want you to forward your alibi picture to. We’ll have a press conference when you’re released as a formal suspect in Juan’s murder. We will start investigating Carrie’s case immediately.” He nods at me in respect.

  I lower my head as Dad squeezes my hand. The officer keeps talking to Dad. When Slate motions to me, I move away from them.

  “Salem.” His smile is more bittersweet than happy. “You were right. You never gave up. Carrie would be proud.”

  My chest feels tight, despite the ease of settling next to him. Elena and AddyDay hug each other, giving Slate and me some privacy.

  “All of this has got me thinking,” he says quietly. “I’m going to talk to my sister again about bringing charges against Tito.”

  “I hope … things get better for her.”

  “Friends?” Slate’s eyes are free from the intensity he reserved for Carrie and her memory, but they’re blue and clear and kind all the same. Quiet with the pleasure of hope.

  “Friends,” I answer. Part of the ache from today’s events lightens inside me.

  AddyDay interrupts us. “And Salem, guess what? My stepdad is running for senator—that was his secret. He’s talking to reporters and everything. He’s the one who said I should give your phone to your dad. I figured out right away that the photo on it was his alibi. I mean, there your dad was on Verona High campus with ice cream all over his face and the timestamp was 7:50 p.m. May 24.”

  “You should have seen it,” our teammate Philip brags. There’s a small crowd of mock trial members gathered around to listen. “Jeremy tried to stop AddyDay. He said he didn’t want her help
ing a murderer. So she got in his face and told him your dad wasn’t a murderer and she could prove it.”

  “In front of news cameras,” Marissa says.

  “In front of the whole class,” Katelyn adds.

  “You stood up to Jeremy?” I ask in shock.

  AddyDay frowns, confused. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”

  “AddyDay!” I cry. Everyone else laughs, even Dad and Elena, while AddyDay basks in the praise.

  All around me, people are smiling and grateful to be safe. Dad is sad about Carrie. But I’m the only one plotting and thinking, knowing a killer is possibly still on the loose. Where is Rick?

  “See? Jeremy’s super mad,” Philip says, gesturing.

  I turn. Behind me, news crews have gathered near the police tape. Jeremy sulks nearby. McCoy waves to the cameras, blocking my view of whatever is being filmed.

  Philip continues. “McCoy’s trying to get on TV with the guy who rescued all those students roped to the pillars.”

  McCoy moves, revealing Rick Thornton surrounded by microphones.

  My gut hits the grass under my bare feet.

  I stumble backward, expecting the murderer to come after me. But Rick isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at two Hispanic boys at his side.

  Tito and Cordero.

  Cordero stands in front of Rick, his palm extended for a handshake. The suit pants and button shirt Cordero wears are overshadowed by Cordero himself. Cordero, with his loops of gold necklaces, his V tattoo and the line of black facial hair at his jaw. Cordero is a banger, plain and simple. He’s offering to shake hands with the day’s hero while the nation watches.

  The mock trial members stop talking as they watch how Rick is unable to accept the offered hand. His eyes are glazed in shock and dread and fury, blond hair tumbling in the slight breeze. His switchblade is out of sight—perhaps tucked away on his person. It’s the weapon he scratched into my cheek, still bitten with pain. It’s the tool he probably used to save participants of the sit-in strike as they screamed for help. Because I believe it—that he was the one who rescued them. I believe it completely. When he’s in a rage, he kills. When he’s inspired by sympathy, he’s a hero. He’s as fickle as the knife he wields. Under different circumstances, he could just as easily have taken a bullet for Carrie as murder her.