Page 23 of The Fall of Iris Henley
Holden doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of me.
“It’s about the death of Richard Koenig and Lynette Zeiger,” he says.
By the time I get to his car I’m shaking so hard I can barely buckle in. Rocky and Lynette’s names sit like weights in my chest.
I guess the rumors have finally reached the sheriff.
CHAPTER 15
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10, 10:43PM
VARDA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE
I sit in the back seat of the cop car, watching the world go by. Every familiar landmark, everything I’ve grown up with, rolls past and away into the distance. There’s the water tower, spray-painted with a green mushroom cloud by some teenager before I was even born. There’s the turnoff to the town cemetery. There’s the rusted iron bridge over its long-dry gully; there’s the elementary school, where Lynette and I used to dare each other to do the dead man’s drop off the monkey bars, spinning around like firecrackers. Usually we landed on our feet. Sometimes we didn’t.
Deputy Mays doesn’t say much as we drive but I feel his eyes on me, like he’s taking notes that he’ll jot down on a form later.Subject wearing crop top and short pants. Subject hunched over and hugging her midsection, body language nervous. Subject’s mascara smeared—she looks crazy, she looks weird, she looks like a killer.
I remember when he was a senior, the way he stood next to the coach at football practice. Hands in pockets, shouldersslumped. The rumor was that he’d tried and failed for three years to land a varsity spot. Instead of being stuck on JV again as a senior, he’d taken the equipment manager position. As a freshman the story had only registered as a kind of distant secondhand embarrassment, the kind of thing that would never happen to me or my friends. We were different; we were special. We had what it took.
The hills even out around us, and we glide into town. Past the library, the antique shop, the mill-and-feed where Rocky used to work. The sheriff’s station, a small beige box. Mays comes around and opens my door. For a moment he looms over it, his frame filling the space. He’s always been muscular—I remember seeing him lifting with the team, back when the other freshman girls and I would peek in the weight room. His biceps still strain against the blue polyester of his uniform. After a moment, he steps to one side, but when I get out I have to brush against him.
I catch a little glimpse of a smirk before he turns away to lead me inside.
Sheriff Ramos is in his office. He’s a short, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, known for a collection of cowboy hats that he wears according to different public appearances. White when he’s announcing a case has been closed. Deep brown leather for campaign season. Green with gold trim for high school football games. Behind his desk is an autographed picture of the Lone Ranger from the old black-and-white TV show.
The sheriff used to be good friends with the Koenigs. I’d see him and his wife at the ranch for card nights, swimming parties, the Fourth of July barbecue. I don’t know if he’s stayed in touch with them, or if, like everyone else, he’s cut them off.
“Hi there, Iris,” he says. I can’t read a thing in his voice, which is quiet but not quite gentle. I nod at him and take the redplastic chair he gestures to across from his desk. Behind me I can still feel Mays in the doorway, shifting his weight. It’s a relief when Ramos dismisses him with a curt nod. “Thanks, Deputy, that’ll be all,” he says.
I don’t let myself look around to make sure he’s gone. I wait for the door to click. I prop my backpack against my shins, the weight of it grounding.
When he’s gone, Ramos looks down at his desk, shifts a few pieces of paper around. Then he leans back in his chair. He’s got a small round gut that would look almost cheerful on a different person, in a different place.
“Do you know why you’re here, Iris?” He clasps his hands on the desk and looks directly at me.
“No, sir, I don’t,” I say. Even as I say it I feel the vibration of my phone in my backpack. More posts on Sekrit? More messages from people that think I’m a killer?
“No?” He shakes his head. “You know, you kids, you put everything online and don’t even stop to think who might see it. I don’t get it. It was much harder to bust you before y’all had your phones out all the time.”
I’m not quite sure what he expects to hear, so I just ask, “Sir?”
His expression shifts out of neutral into a kind of oh-please look, head tilted to one side. “Come on, Iris. We know what’s going on.”
So either Sheriff Ramos has access to Sekrit—which means he’s been spying on us all this time—or someone from school told him about the post. I force the breath through my chest. I haven’t done anything wrong, I remind myself; none of the posts are true. I shouldn’t have to be on the defensive.
“Okay,” I say carefully. He waits for me to elaborate, but I just sit there trying to look as blank as possible. The one thing I know about dealing with cops is you don’t want to give themany information they don’t already have. Learned that from Lynette, ironically enough. She’d learned it from her own raucous outlaw family.
He leans forward, forearms flat against the desk. “Why are people saying you were involved in Richard and Lynette’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking down at my lap. “I don’t know who would say something like that.”
“Hmm.” He goes still and silent again, trying to wait me out.
It’s not easy to let an awkward silence stretch out, not easy to keep from filling it with small talk or even just a joke. Especially when you’re a cheerleader and you’ve been conditioned to keep things light and pleasant. But at the back of my mind I keep hearing Lynette laughing at my naivete any time law enforcement came up in conversation. “You don’t say shit about shit” is how she put it, her redneck ancestors possessing her tongue for that one sentence so she sounded more country than ever.
When he speaks again, though, he blindsides me.
“Didn’t you and Lynette used to be friends?” he asks.
