Limerence: Chapter 5

“Is this Detective Mills?” My voice – and the hand clasped around the phone – are both shaking.

“Yes, and this is?”

“It’s Poppy. Poppy Davis.”

I wonder if she can hear the lump lodged in my throat.

There’s some rustling on the other end of the line before a familiar muffled voice responds, “Yes, Ms. Davis. I remember you. Is there a reason you’re calling me at 10 o’clock at night?”

I fidget with her business card, the one she dropped in my hand as I left the police interrogation room. The one I didn’t think I’d have any need for.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” I tell her. “And I really don’t want to waste your time or anything, and this might be nothing, but you said to call if I remembered something else. It’s not about Mickey specifically, and it might not be relevant to the case but –”

“Why don’t you come into the office before your classes tomorrow?” She interrupts me, sounding a lot less exasperated than she did moments ago. “We can talk about whatever it is in person.”

I flop onto my comforter, relieved that I don’t have to try to put this into words over the phone. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”

And that’s how I find myself sitting across from Detective Mills the next morning, jittery and sleep-deprived. We’re in the interrogation room again, which feels less intimidating in the daylight.

“Here,” she says, sliding a coffee cup across the table. “You look like you need this.”

This time, I take it without hesitation and gulp down the coffee. “Thanks.”

Detective Mills hardly looks more well-rested than I do, her chestnut hair slicked back into the same tight bun from a few nights ago. I’m half-tempted to ask if she served in the military.

“Well, Ms. Davis,” she says and clicks her pen. “Tell me what you know.”

And I do.

I tell her about seeing Adrian Ellis in the dorm room. How he lied about being in the library. Our conversation the night of the vigil. The story feels less incriminating the longer I talk. If anything, I probably sound like the crazy one – listening in on Adrian’s conversations and confronting him at a vigil he paid for.

As it stands, he’s done more for Mickey dead than I ever did for him alive.

But Detective Mills doesn’t interrupt me. She writes it all down in her little yellow notepad and when I finally take a breath, she asks, “Is that everything?”

I nod, fidgeting with the sleeve of the coffee cup. “You can tell me if I’m being ridiculous. I know how it must sound. Adrian Ellis has never been anything but nice to everyone at school, and even if he’s lying, it’s probably nothing. Or at least nothing to do with Mickey.”

“Lying about your whereabouts on the night of someone’s death is not nothing.”

“But it was a suicide, right? It’s not like he needs an alibi.”

“Yes, the forensic pathologist believes it was a suicide,” she mutters.

”And you do too?”

The detective pauses mid-stroke and clears her throat. “Well, the most likely cause of Mickey’s death is suicide, but there are a few details that don’t fit with a standard open-and-shut suicide.”

My body stills completely. “Details?”

There are several long moments where Detective Mills doesn’t say anything at all, her pen poised over the notepad, and I sip in my coffee in silence.

But then she looks up, shrewd brown eyes boring into mine. “You’re not like your classmates, are you, Ms. Davis?”

I just blink at her. “Uh…I’m not sure what you’re implying, Detective.”

“You didn’t grow up with money, did you?”

I’m not sure what’s prompted the unexpected topic change, but I answer honestly anyway. “No, ma’am. Quite the opposite.”

I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell her about the trailer park or the car or the public housing I spent my childhood ping-ponging between, but she gives me a long look and nods like she’s read it all on my face, anyway. “Me too.”

Curiosity sparks as she leans back with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “At first glance, Mickey’s death looks like a typical suicide. Overworked kid stuck in a hyper-competitive environment with too much academic pressure. Except that Mickey was doing just fine at Lionswood. He was a smart kid. That’s how he got there in the first place. And he had friends. He wasn’t socially isolated.”

I swallow. “But depression –”

“Which he has no history of,” she cuts in, “In fact, no concerning psychiatric history at all. No suicide note. No big life changes, no catalyst as far as we can find that’d push him to do something so rash. And the fall itself…most suicide victims who end their life by jumping have a neat, straight fall, and Mickey’s was anything but. He landed on his back, which means he fell backward, with more velocity and far more bodily trauma than we’d expect from an intentional suicide.”

I sag in my chair, my head reeling.

If she’s saying what I think she’s saying…

“You think Mickey might’ve been murdered? That Adrian was involved?” My heart pounds.

I’d expected to be laughed out of this room the moment I uttered Adrian’s name. I hadn’t expected this.

The detective gives me a sharp look. “Nobody is saying any of that. The case requires further investigation. I’ll draw my own conclusions, and you won’t speak a word of this to anyone. The words ‘murder’ and ‘Adrian Ellis’ better not leave your mouth at the same time. Is that clear, Ms. Davis?”

I nod shakily. “Crystal.”

Her sharp look dulls, and she adds, “But what you’ve told me this morning? This could be the lead that provides us with the answers we need to find the truth of what happened to Mickey, whatever that may be.”

“But if Adrian is involved, I can’t imagine it’ll go smoothly for anyone. He’s an Ellis. That name might as well be royalty in this country.”

Her mouth quirks into the closest thing of a smile I’ve seen from her. “Well, I’m from Canada.”

She leads me to the door, notepad in hand, and pauses. There’s another long look. “You know, it doesn’t matter how good your life gets. How far removed you think you are from the past,” she tells me quietly, “When you grow up like we do, there are some things that just stick with you. You learn to see through the bullshit earlier on than you probably needed to. And you see people. Especially the ones who are never as nice as they seem.” A hand comes to rest on the shoulder of my school blazer. “Those are valuable instincts, Ms. Davis. Don’t doubt them.”

***

I’m not sure what I’m expecting to come from my meeting with Detective Mills, but I get my answer the following Monday in the middle of College Preparations. It’s the only mandatory time-slot that all 112 senior students share.

And, since this is Lionswood, largely unnecessary. Half these kids have been curating their college applications since the age of twelve, and the other half will probably take a trust-funded gap year, knowing the Ivy of their choice will still be there.

As for me, there’s only one college I plan on attending next year, so I’m past the point of needing Professor Kane, the graying, pot-bellied teacher on the verge of retirement, to explain MLA format.

I usually snag a seat in the back of the large lecture hall so that I can spend class time studying for subjects that won’t give me an A for just showing up.

Today, I am particularly aware of the exact distance that separates me from Adrian Ellis. Three rows, fifteen seats. A one-sided awareness, seeing as he hasn’t so much as glanced my way since our conversation at the vigil.

I’m as invisible as ever.

“Now, if we look at the way the works have been cited in this example paper –”

A sharp knock on the door cuts through Professor Kane’s droning, and a second later, Dean Robins steps through. His grave expression has me straightening in my seat.

“Dean Robins,” greets Professor Kane. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I apologize for the interruption,” the Dean says, “But I need to borrow one of your students.” He searches the sea of faces. “Adrian Ellis. Can you come with me, son?”

Curious murmurs break out across the lecture hall, and though it’s not my name he calls, my stomach drops all the same.

Adrian looks the least worried of anyone as he stands up, smiling lazily. “Of course, sir. I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

This is the moment that Detective Mills chooses to stroll through the doors, arms crossed and looking as severe as I’ve ever seen her. Her badge glints under the lights and the holster on her hip has a gun in it today.

“I have a few questions for you, Mr. Ellis,” she says sharply. “Make sure you bring your bag.”

I swear I see his easy smile drop – just for a second – but it’s back in place so quickly I can’t be sure I didn’t just imagine it.

“Of course. Whatever you need, Detective. You won’t need to call my parents, will you?” The question’s clearly meant to be playful and prompts a few giggles from the crowd.

Detective Mills doesn’t look amused. “You’re eighteen, Mr. Ellis, so no. That won’t be necessary. You can come with me.” She jerks her head toward the exit, and Adrian bounds down the steps, his leather messenger bag slung over his shoulders.

She leads him out of the room, but given the way his size dwarfs her, it’s almost comical.

Whispers roll through the crowd as soon as the door shuts, and Professor Kane, probably just as surprised as we are, struggles to regain control of the class. “Alright, alright. That’s enough hoopla, isn’t it? Let’s get back to MLA format.”

I slump in my seat, anxiety creeping up my spine.

The fact that Detective Mills is taking me seriously enough to question Adrian does make me feel better.

The fact that she’s come down to the school and made a scene in front of the entire senior class to do so? That doesn’t.

After what I said to him at the vigil, Adrian is going to know I ratted him out to the cops. That I’m the reason he got led away like a suspect in front of everyone.

I can only hope whatever answers come from this are worth it because I’m pretty sure I’ve just made an enemy out of the most influential student in school.

***

I don’t see Adrian for the rest of the day, but gossip travels like wildfire, especially when Sophie Adams is the one dishing it out. By our final classes, she’s transformed into Adrian’s makeshift PR agent, making sure anyone with a pulse knows that he isn’t some common criminal.

No, he’s not in any trouble with the cops.

In fact, he’s helping them close the investigation of Mickey’s death so the Mabels can finally get some closure. You know Adrian. His heart’s too big. He never knows when to say no to people.

It’s a believable story, and if I didn’t know better, I’d buy it too.

Instead, I spend the next week in a near-constant state of paranoia.

I’m looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment Adrian will confront me about the cops, but it never comes.

Granted, opportunity’s slim, considering we only share College Preparations and a lunch period, but I have a feeling he’d hunt me down if he wanted to.

Adrian doesn’t look at me, doesn’t talk to me.

Whatever story he’s telling people about his interrogation with Detective Mills, he leaves my name out of it.

And life settles back to normal.

Mickey’s death returns to stale gossip. Nobody pulls Adrian out of his classes anymore, and I’m as invisible as ever – though the paranoia still lingers like a phantom spider crawling over my skin.

I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all just beginning.