“He is,” I said, pulling my hair back into a low ponytail. “I think he is. I shouldn’t assume.”
An engine idled outside, and a car door closed. I peeked out of the dining room window, smiling as Elliott jogged to the front porch. He stopped just short of knocking on the door.
“Tell Mama I said bye,” I said, waving to Althea.
She seemed tired and uncharacteristically morose. “I will, baby. Have a good day at school.”
Elliott didn’t smile when he saw me. Instead, he gestured to the police cruiser parked down the street.
“Who’s that?” I asked, walking to the edge of the porch.
“There’s one outside Aunt Leigh’s, too.”
“They’re . . . watching us? Why?”
“Uncle John says we must be suspects.”
I glanced back at the house and then followed Elliott to his car. The heater had made it toasty inside the Chrysler, but I was still shivering. “Did they see you leave my house this morning?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I made sure they didn’t.”
“I don’t understand,” I said as Elliott pulled his Chrysler away from the Juniper. “Why are they watching us instead of looking for who took Presley?”
“I think they think that’s what they’re doing. Mrs. Brubaker called my aunt last night, begging. She said if I knew anything about Presley to please say something.”
“But you don’t know anything.”
Elliott shook his head. His hair was pulled up into a bun, giving a rare look at his full face. His defined jawline had a dusting of stubble, his eyes still tired from a long night.
I stared out the window at the fog settling just above the dead wheat and soybean fields, wondering where Presley was, if she’d run away or if she’d been taken. The rumor was that there was no sign of a struggle, but that didn’t stop the police from investigating Elliott and me.
“What if they say it’s you?” I asked. “What if they charge you?”
“They can’t. I didn’t do it.”
“Innocent people are charged with crimes every day.”
Elliott parked the Chrysler in its usual spot and turned off the engine, but he didn’t move. His shoulders were sagging, the most deflated I’d seen him since we became friends again.
“When you were being questioned at the station, did you tell them you spent the night?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want them to say anything to your mom.”
I nodded. That would definitely put a halt to my restful nights.
“What time did you leave?” I asked.
He squirmed in his seat. “I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until sunrise. I climbed down just after dawn.”
“You should tell them.”
“No.”
“Damn it, Elliott!”
He looked down, chuckling. “I’m not going to get arrested.”
We walked into the school together under the glares of other students. Elliott stood at my locker while I dropped off my backpack and gathered my supplies for first hour.
Madison and Sam stopped by, their matching hair part of a wall between me and the rest of the students.
“Hey,” Sam said, “did you get cuffed and everything?”
Madison elbowed him. “Sam! God!”
“What?” he asked, rubbing his ribs.
“Are you guys okay?” Madison asked, hugging me.
Elliott nodded. “We’re fine. The cops will find her, and they’ll find out what happened soon enough.”
“You hope,” Sam said.
Madison rolled her eyes. “They will.” She looked at me. “Don’t put up with anyone’s shit today. I will cut a bitch.”
One side of my mouth curled up, and Sam pulled Madison away to their next class.
Elliott walked me down the hall and then kissed my cheek outside my Spanish II class. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nodded. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Just have a weird feeling.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He kissed my cheek again quickly before jogging down the hall and disappearing around the corner, hurrying to get to his class on the other side of the building.
I held my textbook close to my chest as I walked to my seat, my every step watched by the other students. Even Señora Tipton warily watched me take a seat. She patted her short, salt-and-pepper perm with her hand, welcomed the class in Spanish, and then asked us to turn our workbooks to page 374.
Just after Señora announced the assignment and the room grew quiet as everyone focused on their work, my stomach began to cramp. I pressed my fingertips against the pain. It was low, just inside my hip bones. Great. My period was the last thing I needed.
Hesitant to draw attention to myself, I quietly walked to Señora’s desk and leaned down. “I need to go to my locker.”
“Why?” she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I cringed. “It’s personal.”
Recognition lit her eyes, and she waved me away. I took the orange laminated rectangle that read HALL PASS in block letters. When I rounded the corner, I saw Anna Sue and Tatum standing at my locker, working feverishly.
A scratching sound—metal on metal—cut through the air. Anna Sue stopped moving, and Tatum turned around.
“Where is she?” Anna Sue asked, rage in her eyes. She took a step toward me, holding the paring knife. “I know you know!”
I took a step back, glancing over Anna Sue’s artwork, a word cut into the paint of my locker from the top corner to the bottom.
CONFESS
Tatum took the knife from her, holding it up to my face, backing me against the line of lockers.
“Is she alive?” Tatum whispered. “Did that savage tell you where he put her, or did he just kill her? Is she buried somewhere? Tell us!”
The fluorescent lights above glinted off the tip of the knife, just inches from my eye.
“I don’t know where she is,” I breathed. “Elliott doesn’t know where she is. He was at my house all night. It couldn’t have been him.”
Anna Sue yelled in my face. “Everyone knows it was him! We just want her back! We just want her safe! Tell us where she is!”
“I’m warning you. Get away from me,” I seethed.
“Is that a threat?” Tatum asked, touching the tip of the sharp metal to my cheek.
I closed my eyes and screamed, lashing out with my fists. Tatum fell back, the knife clanging to the ground. I kicked it away and pushed Tatum against one of the large windows across from my locker, feeling my knuckles make contact with the bones in her face but feeling no pain. I could have kept swinging for the rest of the day.
Anna Sue grabbed my hair and pulled me backward. We both lost our balance and tumbled to the tile floor. I climbed on top of her, landing punches against her forearms that were covering her face.
“I said,” I yelled, tightening my fist, “leave me alone! I’ve never done anything to you! You’ve bullied me almost my entire life! No more! Do you understand me? No! More!” I hit Anna Sue after every other word, my anger seeping from every pore.
She tried to throw a punch of her own, but I used that opportunity to shove my fist into her unprotected face.
“Stop! Stop this now!”
By the time someone pulled me away, my chest was heaving, my muscles shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion. I kicked and thrashed to get at Anna Sue again. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Tatum flattened against the wall, terrified.
“I said stop!” Mr. Mason yelled. He maintained his grip around my middle.
My arms fell to my sides, my knees gave out, and a sob I’d been waiting to cry since I was seven bubbled up and overflowed.
Mrs. Mason turned the corner, surprised to see her husband holding me and Anna Sue on the ground with a bloody lip.
“What the hell happened?” She saw the markings on my
locker and then her eyes zeroed in on the knife lying on the floor. She scrambled to pick it up. “Whose is this? Anna Sue, did you use this to write on Catherine’s locker?”
Anna Sue sat up with a frown, wiping her bloody lip with the back of her hand.
“Answer me!” Mrs. Mason yelled. When Anna Sue refused to comply, the counselor looked to Tatum. “Tell me. What happened?”
“We know they’re being investigated! We want to know what they did with Presley!” Tatum cried.
Mr. Mason let me go, peering over his glasses at me. “You attacked these girls for scratching up your locker? Catherine, that’s not like you. What happened?”
Anna Sue and Tatum glowered at me. I looked down for a moment, noticing my bloody knuckles. They looked just like Elliott’s the first time we met. My gaze met Mrs. Mason’s.
“Anna Sue used the knife to scratch the letters into my locker, and I caught them. They asked me where Presley was, then Tatum took the knife and held it to my face. She backed me against the lockers.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mason looked at Tatum, their mouths open.
“Tatum, did you threaten Catherine with this knife?” Mrs. Mason asked.
Tatum’s eyes danced between the Masons, and then she settled on Anna Sue, seeming to refocus. “We’ll do whatever we have to do to get our friend back.”
Mrs. Mason looked to me, fear in her eyes. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Mason, please take Anna Sue and Tatum to Dr. Augustine. And call the police. Catherine Calhoun was just threatened with a dangerous weapon on school property.”
Mr. Mason grabbed Tatum’s arm and then Anna Sue’s, pulling her to stand.
“Wait,” Tatum said, struggling. “She attacked us! She attacked us!”
“After you threatened her with a knife,” Mr. Mason said, his deep voice echoing down the hallway. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
I turned the dial of my locker, yanked, and for the first time, the latch released on the first try. I pulled out a thin pad and a tampon, slipping them both into the inside pocket of my coat.
“Oh. That’s why you came to your locker in the middle of class,” Mrs. Mason said. She cupped my cheeks in her hands, then brushed my hair. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, still feeling tears cooling on my cheeks.
She hugged me to her, holding me tight. I realized I was still shaking, my cheek against her chest. “You’re not safe out here anymore.”
“I didn’t do anything to Presley. Neither did Elliott. I swear to you we didn’t.”
“I know. Come on,” she said, pulling me by the hand.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Mrs. Mason sighed. “You’re going to receive and complete your work in my office until this settles down.”
Chapter Thirty
Catherine
Rain pelted the Chrysler’s windshield and dripped down without interference from the wipers. Elliott had been quiet all evening, after school, at the grocery store, and sitting in his idling car in front of the Juniper.
“Can I come in?” he asked finally, water still dripping from his nose. He stared at his steering wheel, waiting for my answer.
I touched his cheek. “Yeah. We need to get you dried off.”
“I’ll carry the bags to the porch, then I’ll meet you upstairs.”
I nodded.
When I carried the last bag to the kitchen, I stopped, noticing Mama was sitting on the couch, watching a dark television screen.
“I picked up groceries,” I said, peeling off my coat and hanging it with the others. “Want to help me put them away?” She didn’t answer. “How was your day?”
One item after another, I filled the pantry and then the refrigerator. My wet clothes were stuck to my skin, and my teeth began to chatter as I put the empty plastic bags in the recycling bin. I removed my boots, dropping them off in the foyer before walking into the living room.
“Mama?”
She didn’t move.
I walked around, seeing her pale face and red-rimmed eyes focused on the floor. “What are you doing?” I asked, kneeling in front of her. I combed her tangled hair from her face with my fingers, a sick feeling stirring in my stomach. She’d been that low once or twice before, but her behavior was becoming increasingly unsettling.
“Everyone dies,” she whispered, her eyes glossing over.
“Are you missing Dad?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked up to glare at me, and then she turned away, a tear falling down her cheek.
“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” I stood, helping her up with a grunt. I took her upstairs, down the hall, and then up the short, second set of stairs to her master suite. She sat on the bed, the same sad expression on her face. I unbuttoned her blouse, removed her bra, and found her favorite nightgown, tugging it over her head.
“Here,” I said, pulling back the covers. When she lay back, I helped her out of her shoes and jeans, covering her with the sheet and blanket as she turned her back to me.
Her skin felt cold and clammy when I pressed my lips to her cheek, but she remained still. I patted her hands, noticing dirt packed under her fingernails.
“Mama, what have you been doing?”
She pulled her hand away.
“Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. I love you.”
I closed her door and tried to keep my footsteps light as I descended the stairs and walked down the hall to my bedroom. I passed my door and turned the dial on the thermostat, sighing when the vents kicked on. Mama hadn’t even asked why I was wet and shivering.
“It’s me,” I whispered as I slipped in through the small opening the dresser behind my door allowed. I expected to see Elliott in my bedroom, but he wasn’t there. Instead, he was standing in my bathroom, dripping wet and shivering. He only wore his wet jeans, with one of my towels wrapped around his bare shoulders.
“What are you doing?” I asked, joining him in the bathroom.
His lips were a bluish tint, his teeth chattering. “Can’t get warm,” he said.
The shower curtain rings scraped against the pole, and I twisted the knob. I peeled off my coat and stepped into the tub, pulling Elliott with me.
We stood together under the warm stream, the uncontrollable trembling of our bodies slowing to a tolerable level. I reached for the knob again and again, adjusting the temperature, warming the water as it did the same for us.
Elliott looked down at me, finally able to notice something other than the cold. Water dripped from the tip of his nose and chin as he stared, seeing that my sweater and jeans were drenched. He reached down to the bottom hem of my top and tugged up, leaving me in a thin, pink tank top. He leaned down, cupping my cheeks before touching his lips to mine.
I reached down to unbutton my jeans, but they didn’t slide off as normal, sticking to my skin every inch of the way. I kicked them to the back of the tub. Elliott’s fingers felt different on my skin, his fingertips sank in deeper, his breath faster, his mouth hungrier. He wrapped his arms around my middle and pulled me closer, and just as his mouth left mine to taste my neck, his kisses slowed, his touch returning to normal.
He reached back to turn off the shower and then for two towels, handing one to me and then drying his face with the other.
“What?” I asked.
“You should probably . . .” He gestured to my bedroom, seeming embarrassed.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said quickly, desperate to save me from the same humiliation he felt. “I’m not . . . prepared.”
“Oh.” I blinked, waiting for the realization to hit. When it did, my eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t realize that was an option.”
I tried not to smile but failed. I couldn’t blame him. I hadn’t given him any clues that it was. “I’ll just . . .” I pointed to my dresser, closing the bathroom door behind me. I covered my mouth, stifling a giggle before opening a drawer.
I slipped one leg and then the other into a d
ry pair of panties and then pulled the first nightgown I touched out of the drawer and over my head.
Elliott tapped on the door. “Can you grab my shirt and shorts from my bag?”
“Yes,” I said, turning toward his duffel bag in the corner. A black T-shirt and a pair of gray cotton shorts were folded on top. I snatched them, rushing over to the bathroom door. It cracked open, and Elliott’s hand appeared, palm up.
Once the clothes were in his hand, the door closed again.
I sat on the bed, brushing my hair to the sweet chime of my music box, waiting for Elliott to appear. Finally, he stepped out, still sheepish.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “I’m not.”
“It’s just that . . . Aunt Leigh brought this up after the first night I stayed here. I assured her that wasn’t a possibility anytime soon. Now I wish I had listened to her.”
“Now that’s embarrassing.”
Elliott chuckled, sitting next to me and trying his best to pull the hair tie from his wet bun.
“Here, let me help,” I said, smiling as he relaxed back against me. It took me a solid minute, but I finally worked all his hair from the black band and started to unravel it. I began at the ends, holding them as I gently brushed through his hair. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the sound of the dark strands passing through the teeth of my brush became a steady rhythm.
“No one’s brushed my hair since I was little,” he said.
“It’s relaxing. You should let me do it more often.”
“You can do it as much as you’d like.”
When I could start at the roots and pull the brush through to the ends, Elliott took the hair band from me and pulled it up again.
“You’re like that guy in the Bible,” I said. “The strong one with the strong hair.”
Elliott lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve read the Bible? I thought you said you didn’t believe in God.”
“I use to.”
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
“Do you? Believe in God?”
“I believe in a connection, to the earth, the stars, to every living thing, my family, my ancestors.”
“Me?”
He seemed surprised. “You’re family.”
I leaned down, barely touching my lips to a dark red split in his lip. He winced.
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