Jessica

It turns out criminal defense attorneys are available twenty-four hours a day. My parents found one online, and she’s sitting across from me, Ms. Jackson, wearing a pantsuit and looking alert, as if it’s not eight-thirty on a Sunday night.

She consults privately with us first. “We’re going to let Detective Underwood do the talking and show us what she has on you, Jessica. She didn’t arrest you, which means either she’s building a case or she believes you have information that could incriminate yourself or someone else. Without knowing her angle, we’re here primarily to listen. If I allow you to answer a question, say yes or no only. Don’t embellish or try to explain. If you’re confused or worried, tell the detective you’d like to consult with me. Understand?”

I wipe my hands on my leggings and nod.

My parents cling to each other as Ms. Jackson opens the interrogation room door and allows the detective inside. Her name is Detective Underwood, and the way her wiry muscles ripple beneath her suit jacket gives me the impression she plays some kind of sport and that she’s competitive, very competitive. A camera records the interview.

“Jessica, Jessica.” Underwood glances at a pile of notes stacked in front of her. “Your name has come up one too many times in our case against Jacob Healy. It’s always interesting when a suspect’s girlfriend gets so involved.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” I whisper, wondering what she’s talking about.

Ms. Jackson squeezes my arm and shakes her head, a reminder not to speak.

“Right,” says Underwood. “Ex-girlfriend. That’s even more interesting. You’ve worked harder than we have to solve this case.”

“I was trying to help Jake,” I say, then bite my lip. Do they know I called the tip line? It was supposed to be anonymous.

“Jessica,” Ms. Jackson hisses. Then to Underwood, “It’s late. Tell us why we’re here, Detective.”

Underwood purses her lips. “Let’s begin with the lie your client told Detective Green.”

My breath catches, and I’m glad my parents are sitting behind me so I can’t see their faces.

“On Monday afternoon at four-ten, you gave a statement to a Sonoma County detective in the woods behind Tegan’s home. You claimed you had just hit a deer on Blood Alley and were looking for the body.”

The word body floats in the room, almost visible, like a word from Sesame Street, and I wonder why she’s bringing this up.

“He didn’t believe you, Jessica. On a hunch, we questioned Alyssa Jung again about your drive home from the party. After informing her about the penalties for giving false information to the police, she changed her story. Alyssa stated you struck an unidentified creature with her dad’s BMW at approximately three-fifteen a.m. on Sunday, during the time frame when Tegan went missing. Then you cleaned the blood off the car. Did you have two accidents on that road, Jessica?”

My mind reels, and I feel terrible that Alyssa got dragged into this.

“Don’t answer that,” Jackson says to me. Then to Underwood, “I’d like a copy of that statement.”

Underwood nods. “Everything we discuss tonight will be made available to you. I’m not hiding anything.” She gives me a pointed look. “Alyssa’s father gave us permission to tow his BMW to a forensic lab, where it will be examined. I have a team at his house right now, picking it up.”

My shoulders go rigid. “Alyssa wasn’t allowed to drive it. That’s why I didn’t—”

“Jessica, stop,” warns Ms. Jackson, and then she turns to Underwood. “Are you alleging that Jessica struck Tegan on Blood Alley and left her there? Because the victim was not found on the road but in a storage bench at her home, right under your nose.”

Underwood rolls her shoulders. “I’m not alleging anything. I’m asking your client why she lied and why she scrubbed the blood off the front grille with bleach, potentially or willfully destroying the evidence.”

“Evidence of what? Roadkill?” Ms. Jackson snorts and shuffles her notes. “You are wasting our time, Detective.”

Underwood flares her nostrils and glances at her notes. “After Jessica struck the creature on the road, she dropped Chloe at her house and then drove Alyssa home at approximately three-fifty-three a.m. There, she scrubbed the car, and then jogged home. Tegan was discovered missing at nine-thirty a.m. Sunday, which means Jessica had five and a half hours to return to Blood Alley, retrieve Tegan’s injured body, and stuff it into that bench.”

“After she got home, she went straight to bed!” Mom blurts, and Ms. Jackson shushes her.

“Can you prove that?” Underwood asks. “Did you watch your daughter sleep?”

Jackson jumps in. “Jessica’s parents have not been cautioned, and they are not the subjects of this interview. Strike Mrs. Sanchez’s words from the recording.”

Underwood talks over my lawyer. “Jessica, did you put Tegan in the bench?”

“No!” I sputter.

Ms. Jackson raises her voice. “Stop trying to get a rise out of my client, Detective. Jessica’s seventeen years old and this isn’t a courtroom; let’s cut the theatrics.”

“Theatrics,” huffs Underwood. “From all accounts, Tegan has bullied and harassed Jessica online since she started dating Jake. Then Tegan slept with him in front of all their friends. That is theatrics. It’s enough to push a downtrodden girl toward revenge. It’s a compelling motive to make Tegan disappear.”

“No, no, no,” Mom whispers.

Ms. Jackson clicks her pen. “Your theory doesn’t explain the destruction in Tegan’s bedroom.”

Underwood smiles. “Why would a popular girl abandon her party and race down a dark road at night? Here’s a theory—she was terrified. In a moment of regret, Jake assaulted Tegan in that bedroom, but she escaped and fled, and your client struck her with the car. Jake and Jessica paired up after the accident to get rid of what they believed was a dead body.” Underwood considers me, one eyebrow lifted. “Am I warm?”

“That’s a wild story,” says Jackson. “I can think of a number of counter scenarios.”

The women square off, and I want to speak so badly that I have to clamp my mouth shut. Underwood recalibrates. “Alyssa Jung indicated you swerved toward the creature on the road, Jessica. Did you hit it on purpose?”

“Don’t answer that,” says Jackson.

“Were you drinking?” Underwood prods.

“Don’t answer that either.”

My blood seeps from my brain, and suddenly I have to pee.

Underwood appears satisfied with herself and places her hand on her laptop. “Last night, our tip line received this call at one-oh-two a.m. about a person of interest named Daniel Marcus Lancaster. The caller discovered him hiding in a sea cave.” Underwood plays the recording of my phone call. “Is that your voice, Jessica?”

Shock steals my breath. “They told me it was anonymous!”

Underwood’s face splits into a grin. “It is, well, it was. Thank you for confirming your identity as the caller.”

My father groans, and I feel my face flush.

“I need a word with my client,” says Jackson. She ushers me out of the room and leans over me, her perfume swirling around us. “Jessica, I’m going to hold your hand and I’m going to squeeze it every time you to start to open your mouth, to remind you to stay quiet. All right? You’re not helping.”

“I’m sorry.”

Back in the interrogation room, Underwood steeples her fingers. “It fascinates me that you were exploring caves after midnight by yourself, Jessica. One look at your parents’ faces right now indicates this is not normal behavior. Did someone tell you Marcus was hiding there?”

“No comment,” says Jackson.

“Okay, then what was your client doing in an ocean cave in the middle of the night?” Jackson squeezes my hand, and Underwood keeps pressing. “I’d like to suggest that she was destroying more evidence. I’ll go a step further and suggest that you’re the one pulling the strings, Jessica. You’re controlling Jake and seeking revenge against a girl you had a falling-out with in elementary school.”

I suck in my breath, and Jackson squeezes my hand so hard, it hurts. I shake my head.

Underwood consults a sheet of paper. “The texts to you that we pulled from Jake’s phone read like a bad soap opera: ‘Please call me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m yours, Jess. I don’t want to live without you. I told you the truth. I’m not into Tegan. I’m glad she’s gone. Jess, please, all I want is to make you happy. I’ll do anything. I’ll make sure they never hurt you again.’ What did you ask him to do for you, Jessica? Hide Tegan in the bench, beat up Brendon Reed, murder Shawna Moore?”

I’m frozen to my chair. I can’t think or breathe.

“That’s enough,” says Ms. Jackson. “You’re reaching and you know it. Do you have anything substantial, Detective? If not, we’re leaving.”

“I’m just getting warmed up.” Underwood removes her suit jacket, revealing a burgundy blouse and a gold chain with a shamrock on it. Two small sweat stains darken the armpits of her silk blouse. “Inside the cave, we found this.” She pulls from her briefcase a pink phone wrapped in a clear evidence bag, and I recoil from it as if it might explode.

“Marcus was gone when my officers arrived,” Underwood continues, “but the fingerprints found on discarded water bottles match his fingerprints on file. What doesn’t make sense is why he left behind Tegan’s phone when he fled, which links him to her disappearance. Feels sloppy.”

Jackson waves her hand. “Living in a cave is sloppy.”

Underwood concedes and turns to me. “We lifted two sets of fingerprints off the phone, but neither matches to Marcus. One belongs to Jake, and there’s an unidentified second print that I believe will match to you, Jessica.”

“If Marcus isn’t involved, then why is he hiding?” Jackson asks.

“He violated his probation in Nevada, he was dating Shawna Moore, an underage girl, selling drugs to minors at Tegan’s parties, and in the possession of firearms. He is involved,” counters Underwood, “but not in the way you think.”

“There’s enough speculation in this room already, Detective. Do not presume to know what I think.”

Underwood absorbs the scolding and hands my lawyer a signed document. “I have a warrant here to collect your client’s phone and fingerprints.”

Cold sweat rolls down my sides, and I glance at my parents, who are ashen and stiff, as if they died in their chairs.

“Based on what probable cause?” asks Ms. Jackson.

“Based on the suspicious timing of Jessica’s car accident and this,” says Underwood. She slides over a transcript. “We pulled these text messages between Jessica and Tegan from the cloud. They were exchanged this summer, and they speak to Jessica’s state of mind. They were deleted from Tegan’s device at twelve-forty-eight Saturday morning, just fourteen minutes before Jessica called the tip line, which implies Jessica was in the cave with the phone when these incriminating texts were deleted.”

“Bloody hell,” my dad mutters.

My stomach clenches. My pulse speeds.

“I want a copy of that recording, the fingerprint reports, and this text transcript,” says Jackson.

“You will have it all.” Underwood smiles at me. “Read the texts aloud for the camera, please, Jessica. They were exchanged between you and Tegan this summer on July fifth.”

“I’ll read them,” offers Jackson. “But you cannot prove Jessica sent these.” She clears her throat and reads them out loud:

Jessica: Are we still on?

Tegan: What are you talking about?

Jessica: The bet.

Tegan: We shook on it didn’t we? you want me to kiss jake. I’ll kiss jake. Done deal

Jessica: He has to kiss you back or it doesn’t count. It has to be real.

Tegan: just get your $$$ ready loser

Jessica: you’re the one who’s going to lose

When Ms. Jackson is finished, the room throbs from the sudden silence. I drop my head and fight back tears.

“Oh, Jessica,” says Mom.

Now they know the truth—that I made the bet with Tegan, that I’m responsible for everything that happened next.

Underwood releases me, indicating that she’ll be in touch after examining my cell and running my fingerprints against the unidentified print on Tegan’s phone, but they will match. I already know that.

I leave the station with my head down, my façade smashed. I can’t hide a moment longer from what I did.

I started this; I’m the one who must end it.