Viv straightens her shoulders. She’s small and sharp-featured, wearing bright-red lipstick that goes surprisingly well with her hair. “Yes. That was me.”
“Was it? Oh, right. Such a happy day.” Katrin smiles distractedly, still focused on me. “But moving in middle school is one thing. Senior year is rough. Especially when everything is so…new. How do you like living with your grandmother?”
At least she didn’t ask, like the grocery store cashier yesterday, if I’d left a “Hollywood hottie” behind. The answer to that is no, by the way. I haven’t had a date in eight months. Not that I’m counting. “It’s all right,” I tell Katrin, sliding my eyes toward Brooke. Other than a muted hello when I sat down, she’s been totally silent. “A little quiet, though. What do you guys do around here for fun?”
I’m hoping to draw Brooke into the conversation, but it’s Katrin who answers. “Well, we’re cheerleaders,” she says, waving a hand between her and Brooke. “That takes up a lot of time in the fall. And our boyfriends play football.” Her eyes drift a few tables away, where a blond boy is setting down his tray. The entire table is a sea of purple-and-white athletic jackets. The boy catches her eye and winks, and Katrin blows him a kiss. “That’s my boyfriend, Theo. He and Brooke’s boyfriend, Kyle, are cocaptains of the team.”
Of course they are. She doesn’t mention a boyfriend for Viv. I feel a small surge of solidarity—single girls unite!—but when I flash a smile at Viv she meets it with a cool stare. I get the feeling, suddenly, that I’ve stumbled onto territory she’d rather not share. “That sounds fun,” I say limply. I’ve never been part of the football-and-cheerleading crowd, although I appreciate the athleticism of both.
Viv narrows her eyes. “Echo Ridge might not be Hollywood, but it’s not boring.”
I don’t bother correcting Viv that La Puente is twenty-five miles outside Hollywood. Everyone in Echo Ridge just assumes we lived in the middle of a movie set, and nothing I say will convince them otherwise. Besides, that’s not our main issue right now. “I didn’t say it was,” I protest. “I mean, I can tell already there’s a lot going on around here.”
Viv looks unconvinced, but it’s Brooke who finally speaks up. “None of it good,” she says flatly. Her eyes are shiny as she turns toward me, and she looks like she’s in desperate need of a full night’s sleep. “You—your grandmother found Mr. Bowman, didn’t she?” I nod, and tears begin to spill down her pale cheeks.
Katrin swallows a piece of orange and pats Brooke’s arm. “You have to stop talking about it, Brooke. You keep getting worked up.”
Viv heaves a dramatic sigh. “It’s been an awful week. First Mr. Bowman, then all that vandalism cropping up around town.” Her tone is concerned, but her eyes are almost eager as she adds, “It’s going to be our first feature of the year for the school paper. A summary of what’s been going on all week, juxtaposed with this year’s seniors talking about where they were five years ago. It’s the kind of story that might even get picked up by the local news.” She looks at me with slightly more warmth. “I should interview you. You found the graffiti at the cultural center, didn’t you? You and Malcolm.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was awful, but not nearly as awful as the cemetery.” That made me sick when I heard about it, especially when I tried to imagine how the Kilduffs must feel.
“The whole thing is horrible,” Viv agrees, turning toward Katrin and Brooke. “I hope nothing bad happens when you guys are announced next Thursday.”
“Announced?” I ask.
“They’re going to announce the homecoming court at assembly next Thursday morning,” Viv explains, gesturing toward the homecoming poster over Brooke’s shoulder. “Everyone’s voting between now and then. Did you download the Echo Ridge High app? Homecoming votes are on the main menu.”
I shake my head. “No, not yet.”
Viv makes a tsking noise. “Better hurry. Voting closes next Wednesday. Although most of the court is already a done deal. Katrin and Brooke are total shoo-ins.”
“You might get nominated too, Viv,” Katrin says graciously. Even though I just met her, I can tell she doesn’t actually believe there’s a chance in hell of that happening.
Viv shudders delicately. “No thank you. I don’t want to be on the radar of some murderous creep who’s decided to strike again.”
“Do you really think that’s what this is about?” I ask, curious. Viv nods, and I lean forward eagerly. I’ve been thinking about the vandalism almost nonstop for the past couple of days, and I’m dying to share theories. Even with Viv. “Interesting. Maybe. I mean, it’s definitely what the person who’s doing it wants us to think. And that’s disturbing on its own. But I keep wondering—even if you were brazen enough to get away with murder and then brag about doing it again five years later, the MO’s are completely different.”
Katrin’s face is a total blank. “MO?” she asks.
“Modus operandi,” I say, warming to the topic. It’s one where I’m perfectly confident. “You know, the method somebody uses to commit a crime? Lacey was strangled. That’s a very personal and violent way to kill someone, and not likely to be premeditated. But these threats are public, and they require planning. Plus they’re much less, well, direct. To me, it feels more like a copycat. Which isn’t to say that person isn’t dangerous. But maybe they’re dangerous in a different way.”
There’s a moment of silence at the table, until Katrin says, “Huh,” and bites into an orange slice. She chews carefully, her eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. There it is, I think. She just mentally dismissed me from the popular crowd. That didn’t take long.
If Ezra’s told me once, he’s told me a hundred times. Nobody wants to hear your murder theories, Ellery. Too bad he bailed on me for lunch.
Then a new expression crosses Katrin’s face, one that’s sort of irritated and indulgent at the same time. “You’re going to get kicked out of school one day for wearing that shirt,” she calls to someone.
I turn to see Malcolm Kelly in a faded gray T-shirt with “KCUF” written across the front in block letters. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he replies. In the bright fluorescent lights of the Echo Ridge High cafeteria, I get a much better look at him than I did at the cultural center. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap over unruly brown hair, framing an angular face and wide-set eyes. They meet mine and flicker with recognition. He waves, and the movement jars his tray enough that he almost drops the whole thing. It’s totally awkward and also, weirdly, kind of cute.
“I’m sorry,” Viv says as Malcolm turns away, in the least apologetic tone I’ve ever heard. “But I find it super sketch that the first person to see both threats is Declan Kelly’s weirdo brother.” She shakes her head emphatically. “Uh-uh. Something’s off there.”
“Oh, Viv,” Katrin sighs, like they’ve had some variation on this conversation at least a dozen times before. “Malcolm’s all right. Kind of nerdy, but all right.”
“I don’t think he’s a nerd.” Brooke’s been quiet for so long that her sudden pronouncement startles everyone. “Maybe he used to be, but he’s gotten cute lately. Not as cute as Declan, but still.” Then she drops her head again and starts playing listlessly with her spoon, as if contributing to the conversation sapped whatever small reserves of energy she had.
Katrin gives her a speculative look. “Didn’t realize you’d noticed, Brooke.”
My head swivels, looking for Malcolm, and I spot him sitting with that girl Mia from the hallway, and my brother. I’m not surprised; Ezra has a knack for inserting himself into whatever social group he’s decided to join. At least I’ll have another lunch option when I don’t get invited back to Katrin’s table.
Viv snorts. “Cute, my ass,” she says flatly. “Declan should be in jail.”
“You think he killed Lacey Kilduff?” I ask, and she nods.
Katr
in cocks her head, confused. “But weren’t you just saying that whoever killed Lacey is leaving those threats around town?” she asks. “Declan lives in another state.”
Viv leans an elbow on the table, staring at her friend, eyes wide. “You live with the Kellys and you seriously don’t know?”
Katrin frowns. “Know what?”
Viv waits a few beats for maximum impact, then smirks. “Declan Kelly is back in town.”
MALCOLM
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
Echo Ridge has one bar, which technically is only half in town because it sits right on the border of neighboring Solsbury. Unlike most Echo Ridge businesses, Bukowski’s Tavern has a reputation for leaving people alone. They won’t serve minors, but they don’t card at the door. So that’s where I meet Declan on Monday afternoon, after spending the first day back at school pretending that yeah, sure, I knew my brother was around.
Bukowski’s doesn’t look like it belongs in Echo Ridge. It’s small and dark, with a long bar at the front, a few scarred tables scattered around the room, and a dartboard and pool table in the back. The only thing on the walls is a neon Budweiser sign with a flickering w. There’s nothing cute or quaint about it.
“You couldn’t give me a heads-up you were in town?” I ask when I slide into a seat across from Declan. I mean to say it like a joke, but it doesn’t come out that way.
“Hello to you too, little brother,” Declan says. I saw him less than a week ago, but he looks bigger here than he did in Aunt Lynne’s basement apartment. Maybe because Declan was always larger than life in Echo Ridge. Not that the two of us ever hung out at Bukowski’s before. Or anywhere, really. Back in grade school, when my dad was trying to make me and football happen, Declan would occasionally deign to play with me. He’d get bored fast, though, and the more I missed, the harder he’d throw. After a while I’d give up trying to catch the ball and just put my hands up to protect my head. What’s your problem? he’d complain. I’m not trying to hit you. Trust me, would you?
He’d say that as if he’d ever done anything to earn it.
“You want something to drink?” Declan asks.
“Coke, I guess.”
Declan raises his hand to an elderly waitress in a faded red T-shirt cleaning beer taps behind the bar. “Two Cokes, please,” he says when she arrives at our table. She nods without much interest.
I wait until she leaves to ask, “What are you doing here?”
A muscle twitches in Declan’s jaw. “You say it like I’m violating some kind of restraining order. It’s a free country.”
“Yeah, but…” I trail off as the waitress returns, placing cocktail napkins and tall glasses of Coke with ice in front of us. My phone exploded during lunch once word got out that Declan was in Echo Ridge. And he knows that. He knows exactly the kind of reaction this would get.
Declan leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. They’re almost twice the size of mine. He works construction jobs when he’s not taking classes, and it keeps him in better shape than football did in high school. He lowers his voice, even though the only other people in Bukowski’s are two old guys wearing baseball caps at the end of the bar. “I’m sick of being treated like a criminal, Mal. I didn’t do anything. Remember?” He rubs a hand over his face. “Or do you not believe that anymore? Did you ever?”
“Of course I did. Do.” I stab at the ice in my drink with my straw. “But why now? First Daisy’s back and now you. What’s going on?”
The ghost of a frown flits across Declan’s face when I mention Daisy, so quick I almost miss it. “I’m not back, Mal. I still live in New Hampshire. I’m here to see someone, that’s all.”
“Who? Daisy?”
Declan heaves an exasperated sigh. “Why are you so hung up on Daisy? Do you still have a thing for her?”
“No. I’m just trying to figure this out. I saw you last week, and you never said you were coming.” Declan shrugs and takes a sip of Coke, avoiding my eyes. “And it’s kind of shitty timing, you know. With all the crap going on around town.”
“What does that have to do with me?” He breaks into a scowl when I don’t respond right away. “Wait. Are you kidding me? People think I had something to do with that? What’s next? Am I responsible for global warming now, too? Fucking hell, Mal.” One of the old guys at the bar looks over his shoulder, and Declan slumps back against the chair, glowering. “For the record. Just so we’re clear. I didn’t come here to write creepy-ass slogans on signs and walls or whatever.”
“Graves,” I correct.
“Whatever,” Declan grits out, low and dangerous.
I believe him. There’s no possible universe in which my hotheaded, testosterone-fueled brother dresses a trio of dolls up like homecoming queens and ties them to a mausoleum. It’s easier to imagine him placing his hands around Lacey’s throat and squeezing the life out of her.
Jesus. My hand shakes as I pick up my glass, rattling the ice in it. I can’t believe I just thought that. I take a sip and swallow hard. “Then why did you come? And how long are you staying?”
Declan drains his Coke and signals for the waitress. “Jack and Coke this time,” he says when she arrives.
Her lips thin as she glances between us. “ID first.”
Declan reaches for his wallet, then hesitates. “You know what? Forget it. Just another Coke.” She shrugs and walks away. Declan shakes his head like he’s disgusted with himself. “See what I did there? Decided not to get a drink, even though I wanted one, because I don’t feel like showing my name to some woman I don’t even know. That’s my fucking life.”
“Even in New Hampshire?” I ask. One of the old guys at the bar keeps glancing our way. I can’t tell whether it’s because I’m so obviously underage or…because.
“Everywhere,” Declan says. He goes silent again as the waitress brings a Coke, then raises the glass to me in a toast. “You know, you and Mom have a good thing going here, Mal. Peter likes to pretend I don’t exist, but he’s solid with you guys. You might even get college out of the deal.”
He’s right. I might. Which makes me feel guilty, so I say, “Peter says he’s talking to Mr. Coates about a job for you.” Since Ben Coates was the mayor of Echo Ridge when Lacey died, he got interviewed a few times about what he thought might have happened. A tragic, random act of violence, he always said. Some depraved individual passing through.
Declan laughs darkly. “I guarantee you that’s bullshit.”
“No, they got together Labor Day weekend, and—”
“I’m sure they did. And they might even have mentioned me. Probably along the lines of how it’d be career suicide to hire me. It is what it is, Mal, and I won’t be a pain in Peter’s ass about it. I’m not trying to drive a wedge between him and Mom. Or you. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“I don’t want you to stay out of my way. I just want to know why you’re here.”
Declan doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he sounds less angry and more tired. “You know what happened with me and Lacey, before she died? We outgrew each other. But we didn’t know that, because we were a couple of dumb kids who’d been together forever and thought we were supposed to stay that way. If we were regular people, we would’ve eventually figured out how to break up and that would have been that. We’d have moved on. Wound up with someone else.” His voice dips lower. “That’s how things should’ve ended.”
The guy at the bar who’s been staring at us gets up and starts moving our way. When he’s crossed half the room I realize he’s not as old as I thought he was: early fifties, maybe, with thick arms and a barrel chest. Declan doesn’t turn around, but gets up abruptly and pulls out his wallet. “I gotta go,” he says, dropping a ten on the table. “Don’t worry, all right? Everything’s fine.”
He brushes past the guy, who half turns to call after him, “Hey. You Decla
n Kelly?” Declan continues toward the door, and the guy raises his voice. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
Declan grasps the doorknob and leans against the door, shouldering it open. “I’m nobody,” he says, and disappears outside.
I’m not sure what the guy’s going to do—keep coming toward me, maybe, or follow Declan outside—but he just shrugs and heads for the bar, settling himself back onto his stool. His friend leans toward him, muttering something, and they both laugh.
It hits me, as I finish my Coke in silence, that Declan’s life is a lot shittier up close than it seems from a state away.
* * *
—
Half an hour later I’m dragging my ass home, because it didn’t occur to my brother before making his dramatic exit to ask if I might need a ride. I’m rounding the bend toward Lacey’s old house when I spot someone a few feet ahead of me on the road, wheeling an oversized suitcase behind her.
“Hey,” I call when I get close enough to tell who it is. “Leaving town already?”
Ellery Corcoran turns just as her suitcase wheels hit a rock on the ground, almost jerking the luggage out of her hand. She pauses and balances it carefully next to her. While she’s waiting for me to catch up, she pulls her hair back and knots it into some kind of twist, so quickly I barely see her hands move. It’s kind of mesmerizing. “The airline lost my luggage more than a week ago, and they just delivered it.” She rolls her eyes. “To our neighbors.”
“That sucks. At least it showed up, though.” I gesture to the suitcase. “You need help with that?”
“No thanks. It’s easy to roll. And my grandmother’s house is right there.”
A breeze stirs, sending stray tendrils of hair across Ellery’s face. She’s so pale, with sharp cheekbones and a stubborn chin, that she’d look severe if it weren’t for her eyes. They’re inky black, huge and a little bit tilted at the edges, with eyelashes so long they look fake. I don’t realize I’m staring until she says, “What?”
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