Page 35 of The Game Is Afoot

I head over to his desk, holding out hope for a printed receipt from ChemicalsForYou.com. I sift through some invoices, a repair to the park bathrooms. Nothing useful. Underneath is a blue file folder, stuffed with more papers. The first is an official-looking form that reads:Appeal of the Beachwood City Council’s Decision.

The form is filled in with scratchy handwriting.Dominic Dwyeris listed afterComplainant, and underReasons for Appeal, he wrote:I believe that Cole Robinson (formerly Cole Dabrowski) of Coach Cole’s Soccer Stars has been dishonest with the council, and in light of this, Brady Park’s weekend schedule should be reviewed again. Please see attached documents.

Cole Dabrowski? I flip to the documents. There’s Coach Cole on the front page of West Virginia University’s student paper—much younger, but unmistakably him. He even has the same notches shaved into his eyebrows. Below his picture is an account of a physical fight he got into with the ref. The next page is another fight, this time with an opposing player, and after that, an article about how he lost his athletic scholarship.

Okay, so Cole had a temper, clearly. And he changed his name? What happens if I google “Cole Dabrowski” instead?

I quickly pull out my phone and…there we go. Here are all the hits I expected to find the first time I searched him up. Cole Dabrowskiwasa professional soccer—or football—player. But after he left West Virginia University, he seems to have played only one season on a team in Iceland before a knee injury took him out. So, not exactly the big-shot career I thought he had.

Suddenly, I’m aware of the sound of the mower buzzing. Was that always there? It’s kind of like white noise…but no. I know I didn’t hear it when I first walked in here. Still, it sounds pretty far away—I remember from Saturday, how loud it is when it’s close. So I think I have a couple more minutes to look through Dom’s file.

The next page makes me gasp.

It’s a mug shot. It’s definitely Coach Cole, much closer to his current age…or the age hewas. Except his eyes are bloodshot and he’s missing the charming smile he always had at the ready for the parents.

I frantically flip to the next page, and there’s a long rap sheet. Public intoxication, disturbing the peace. Many of these look like they line up with his college years, but there are some later, too, probably after he returned from Iceland. And next is what looks like a police report? How did Dom even get this?

Incident Type:Domestic Dispute

Address of Occurrence:9856 Sumac Ave., Riverside, CA 92202

So, he lived in Riverside. That’s not too far from here, depending on the traffic. The 22 to the 55 to the 91. I keep reading.

On April 17, 2018, officers arrived at the residence of Cole and Irene Dabrowski in response to a noise disturbance complaint. When police approached the house, Mrs. Dabrowski ran from the front door and shouted, “The only crime that happened here is that disgusting woman willingly sucking his crusty-ass toes. A crime against humanity!” Mr. Dabrowski emerged after her. We observed redness on the right side of his face under his eye, possibly from altercation.

And then, a little farther down…

After speaking with both parties and a cooling-off period, Mr. Dabrowski asked us to leave. He was counseled regarding his options but stated repeatedly that nothing occurred and he did not feel as if he was in danger. He also asked us to add to the record that his toes are not crusty.

Whoa. Coach Cole was kinda…a fuckup. Not that I’m trying to speak ill of the dead! But…is there another way to say it? Being a fuckup isn’t a reason to get killed, though. It seems like he really just messed up his own life. Well, except for his wife—who is probably hisex-wife at this point. I never saw him wearing a ring. But would she kill him over infidelity from that many years ago? She got violent, clearly, but still, that motive feels pretty weak. Dom’s motive does, too, honestly, especially after finding all this. Why would he poison Cole if he was appealing the city council’s decision and still had a chance for his capture the flag league? Was he just, like, hedging all his bets? It seems extreme.All of thisseems too extreme for my current list of suspects.

The buzz of the mower cuts through my thoughts. Yeah,that’s definitely getting louder. And closer. I need to get out of here before I’m caught.

I can’t just leave all this behind, though. I need to show Jack—I need to show the detectives! Do they know all of this about Cole’s background? Detective Berry would probably hang up on me before I got a word out, but I feel like Detective De La Rosa might be receptive, at least.

My hands shake as I fumble with the folder. I can’t just take it, because then Dom will know for sure someone has been here. And if he does have something to do with this, I don’t want him on guard. My heart pounds. The panic builds, tightening my chest. Damn, I made it, what—twenty-four hours? A normal heart rate was nice while it lasted.

I don’t—ugh—maybe I can stick it—No, Mavis, there is absolutely no reason for you to stick these papers in the back of your already stretched-out leggings. You have a camera, for god’s sake.

The blood rushing in my ears is thunderous as I take a few photos, but the hum of the mower is almost drowning it out. It must be right on the other side of the shed. I don’t have any more time.

I do my best to put the folder back where it was and then sprint out of the shed…right into a mob.

Ten

Instead of pitchforks, the mobis wielding water bottles in limited edition colors.

They’re all women, late twenties to middle age, with balayage hair in swinging ponytails and expensive sneakers. And they’re all wearing black athleisure. The expensive kind. Their clothes don’t have stretched-out, slightly sheer bottoms or advertisements for the local credit union.

And slowly, as I come down from the fear of being discovered by Dom, I realize I know some of them. There are a couple of moms I recognize from drop-off and PTA meetings at Knoll, plus Christine, the Clover Scouts troop leader and queen of passive-aggressive emails, and Claudia, whose badge-ironing job I stole. She’sstillscowling at me, so I guess she hasn’t let that total betrayal go yet. In sharp contrast, my neighbor Mackenzie Skinner is right next to her, waving and smiling. I almost don’t recognize her at first because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wearing anything other than spandex in various shades of neon.

“Mavis! Oh my god! Hi!”

I wave back. Hopefully Ms. Joyce isn’t hiding in the bushes,adding this to her long list of evidence that Mackenzie is my little friend.

Someone who was kneeling down, tying her shoe, suddenly jerks up. It’s Bethany. My stomach drops, and from the way her eyes narrow, it’s clear she’s not happy to see me either. But then her face quickly morphs into a practiced smile.

“Hey girl! What are you doing here?”

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