Fatality Read Online Free PDF Page B

back in seventh. Rose doubted if she had mentioned Ming in the diary. The same was true of Emma and Caitlin.
    She’d written a bit about Jill, a good friend in seventh. But in eighth, where the curriculum was American history, Rose had become fascinated by war. She could not stop reading about battles: half-known Indian conflicts like King Philip’s, major battles like Gettysburg. When Jill saw her reading a book about the Civil War, Jill said, “We finished that, you turkey,” and when Rose said, “I know, but I’m still excited about it,” Jill wandered off, never to return.
    Rose imagined the police gathered around a table at this very moment, reading her diary out loud to each other. Were the police laughing at her? Pitying her? Or were they simply bored?
    Because how exciting was the life of a seventh grader, after all?
    Not very.
    Rose flushed with the knowledge that her diary was packed with references to “A.” She had spent seventh grade having a crush on Alan Finney, the youngest member of Tabor’s band.
    Most of Tabor’s friends had graduated from high school last year along with Tabor, but Alan Finney was a senior this year. Alan had quite literally never looked at Rose, but Rose had spent a large portion of her life looking at Alan. He was always there to look at, too, being a star in as many sports as Tabor had been.
    She imagined the police talking to Alan Finney. Did you know Rose Lymond worships the ground you walk on?
    Alan would have to stop and think. “Rose?” he would say, puzzled. “You mean Tabor’s sister? Come on, gimme a break.”
    Luckily, the police were investigating a murder, not a seventh-grade crush. They had no way to know that Rose continued to carry the crush around with her.
    “Wait up!” shrieked Melinda and Halsey, charging forward to join Ming and Caitlin and Emma and Rose and Richard and Alex and Keith.
    Melinda and Halsey had turned sixteen. Halsey had her own car and loved to give rides to people.
    I’ll probably never have a car and be able to give rides to people, thought Rose. I just stole a car. Mom and Dad are not going to rush me to the Motor Vehicle Bureau for my first license. I might not be driving at sixteen. I might be waiting till I’m twenty-one and in another state.
    “I thought we’d never get here,” said Halsey. “There was so much traffic this morning.”
    Traffic.
    Rose fell back four years.
    Hadn’t the police asked about traffic? The roads had been very crowded that weekend. Mr. Lofft exited from the turnpike to go to Frannie Bailey’s, whose house was remarkably remote for a place technically just north of the city. He took turn after confusing turn, the house finally revealed between a ravine and a protected marsh.
    By the time he and Frannie Bailey finished their shouting match and Mr. Lofft had stomped back to the car, it was five-thirty, and there were still sixty miles to drive. They were in the thick of Friday evening weekend travel and the city streets were maddeningly slow. Mr. Lofft yelled at Anjelica for chomping so loudly on the blue corn chips. Yelled again when Anjelica rolled the crinkly foil up to close the bag.
    Biting down on his half-smoked cigar, Mr. Lofft surged forward a few feet as if to drive through the car ahead of him. He swore at people who didn’t jump lights and swore at people who did. He yelled at the local government for not planning intersections better and yelled at the world for not giving him his own lane.
    They moved ahead two car lengths and the light went red again. He threw the cigar out the window in disgust.
    Anjelica whispered, “Don’t worry. He’s always this upset after he fights with Frannie.”
    At last, the turnpike entrance lay visible in the distance. Mr. Lofft gunned the engine and they sped under the overhanging branches of big trees, driving half on the grass to pass cars waiting to make left turns, bumping over curbs and gutters, the bulky vehicle feeling as if it might tip; but