The Girl In White

by Shannon Reber

  I was going to need some caffeinated assistance to make it through the rest of my day. I was actually really good at running on no sleep. I’d be a zombie by that evening. With enough caffeine, I’d make it through the day.

  It surprised me as I walked into the kitchen, to find Dad starting a pot of coffee. I hadn’t expected to see him for a while. He had gone to bed only a few hours before. Looked like he could run on as little sleep as I could.

  “Morning,” I said quietly, motioning to his fridge. “Do you have any pop?” I asked, starting to feel a little desperate for some form of caffeine.

  Dad didn’t answer. He walked over to the fridge and opened it, taking out a bottle of pop. He didn’t hand it to me. Instead, he took out a cup and poured some before handing it over. “You should sleep, Madison. You’ll think a lot more clearly if you’re rested.”

  I shrugged and took a drink, letting out a relieved sigh. “I’m too wired to sleep. This is when I do my best work,” I said, eager to get moving. “Would you mind taking me to my house? Ian is sleeping, so you’d have to take him to his car when he wakes up.”

  A slight groan sounded from behind me and Ian stepped into the kitchen. “I’m awake,” he said groggily, his eyes fixed longingly on the coffee. “Do you mind, Professor? Coffee keeps me sane . . . ish.”

  Dad took out a mug and filled it, his eyes fixed on Ian. “Do I need to worry about becoming a Grandpa or were you two being safe last night?”

  I choked on my drink of pop, my eyes watering as I coughed. “Dad,” I croaked, my cheeks red with a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

  Ian’s spoke up, his face as red as mine was. “You don’t have to worry. We didn’t . . . do anything and I won’t. I swear,” he said, suddenly no longer looking like he needed coffee to wake himself up.

  I took another swig of pop to wash down what had been choked on and glowered at my dad. “Would you please drive me home now that you’ve implied I’m the kind of skank who would doink a guy with her dad in the next room?”

  Dad didn’t look bothered at all by my anger with him. “You two seem to be moving in the direction of—”

  “Dad, please stop,” I snapped and turned toward the door. “Don’t worry about driving me. I’ll walk.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dad said and set his coffee down. “I’ll take you home. What I was telling you stands. You two need to be careful. I’ve seen too many kids going down the wrong road all because of raging hormones and the kind of freedom they aren’t used to having. I don’t want that for you. There is a lot going on around you guys right now. Stress can make bad decisions seem like good ones if you’re not careful.”

  I kept walking. He wanted to play the Dad, he was too late. I was eighteen years old.

  The part of his little speech that was amusing, was the fact he obviously didn’t know Ian’s parents. The idea of the good boy who always did what he was told, following the orders of his hormones was beyond laughable. His dad had drilled into his skull from an early age what was appropriate behavior for him. Ian was not the type to disobey.

  I could hear Dad and Ian’s voices but ignored them. I had a job to do. It had nothing to do with my dad’s opinion on my . . . virtue.

  What was important was figuring out what had happened with Emma, Manuel, and CJ. Had the same person killed them? Why would anyone have hurt any of them?

  From what Dad had said, Manuel was a womanizer. Guys like that made me feel queasy. Was that enough for someone to go through the trouble of stringing him up? It would take a LOT of upper-body strength to hoist a body into a tree . . . or into the rafters of their garage.

  I shuddered at that thought. My mind instantly went to that night. It was so clear in my head, every detail.

  I stopped and stared up at the sky that had begun to lighten with the coming of the dawn. Had I seen anything which could help me figure out what had really happened to Emma?

  I had walked up to the Gregory’s front door and knocked, having expected Emma to be waiting for me. When no one answered, I had gone to the garage door. I knew where they kept the spare key, so had taken it out of the lawn ornament. When I had opened the garage door, it had been with hope in my heart and a smile on my face.

  Hope had left me at the sight of her. Everything had been set to make it look like a suicide. Wait a second. That wasn’t true at all.

  There had been something. I had been so in shock and horrified by the scene it had never really registered in my mind. I HAD seen something though. What had it been?

  “Maddie?”

  I didn’t look at Ian, my eyes still fixed on the lightening sky above me. “I’ve got to get to my house. I have a few felonies to commit,” I said, my mind sorting through every detail.

  My dad cleared his throat. “Please don’t say that so loud. My neighbors could hear and think you mean something other than hacking into places that aren’t supposed to be hacked,” he said in a quiet tone, motioning to his car. “Please do keep me in the loop, Madison. I’d like to know what you find out.”

  I nodded, my mind still showing me the image of Emma. What had I missed? Why hadn’t I even recalled whatever it was until right then?

  I couldn’t focus on anything other than finding out what I had noticed without taking it in. It was like an itch in the very center of my brain. I had to scratch it. There was no way to get to it.

  Dad cleared his throat when he pulled into my driveway, his eyes fixed on the side of my head. “If you need any help, financially or otherwise, I want you to call me. I’m sorry it took me this long to wise up.”

  I glanced at him, something inside me sighing in relief. “I love you, Dad,” I stated and before he could falter out a response, got out of his car.

  Ian followed me, nodding to my dad in farewell.

  When Dad reversed out of the driveway, Ian shuffled his feet. “Do you mind if I stick around?” he asked, looking as nervous as a little boy.

  I waved him toward the house, that itch in my brain growing more and more uncomfortable. The good thing about being home was the fact my laptop was there. It wouldn’t take me much time at all to get into the file the police would have made on Emma’s death.

  Having a plan always made me feel better. All I needed to do was put that plan into play.

  A sigh of pure peacefulness escaped me as I unlocked the back door of the house. The smell of Darlene’s morning tea mixed with the yeasty smell of the biscuits she had just pulled from the oven. That place wasn’t a simple boarding house. It was my home.

  When Darlene looked up, guilt began to rise inside me. Her eyes were shadowed by exhaustion, her usually steady hands more than a little shaky. She had probably watched the news, so would know that something happened . . . and I hadn’t bothered to call her.

  Tears filled Darlene’s eyes as she opened her arms in invitation. I walked over and like with my dad the night before, the moment her arms were around me half my anxieties faded away. I wasn’t alone. Thank God. I had people to rely on.

  After one of the most suffocating hugs of my entire life, Darlene pulled me back and motioned me toward the table. “Imogen and Serena told me what happened, or as much as they knew. I’ve been watching the news but none of them have anything new to say. They keep repeating the same story without giving any real information,” she said with a sniff and scooped several biscuits onto a plate before she motioned for both of us to sit. “Do you drink tea, young man?” she asked Ian as she gave him one of her sweetest smiles.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Ian said politely, his eyes flicking toward the table.

  Darlene took out butter and jelly, setting them next to the plate before she poured her tea. “Madison, you know how I feel about my biscuits. If they go cold, the butter won’t melt properly and I’ll spend my whole day worried that you didn’t eat a proper breakfast. Please sit down and eat these before I take it upon myself to start shoveling them down your throat.”

  Ian laughed, his smile extending fr
om ear to ear. “I’m game. They smell amazing.”

  Darlene nodded and began the process of buttering the biscuits.

  I nudged him toward the table and rushed out of the kitchen, heading up to my bedroom to get my laptop. My mind was so focused on Emma, it was hard to think about anything else. I had to figure out whatever it was that had been out of place . . . or more out of place than the fact my best friend had been hung in her garage.

  I faltered as I got down the steps, my mouth hanging open. The garage door had been locked. I’d unlocked it to get in. Whoever had done that to Emma had gone to the trouble of relocking the door and putting the spare key back in its place. Or could it be that they had a key?

  My stomach clenched into the kind of knot that made me want to throw up. Ian. His mom. His dad. Could one of them have . . . no. No way. It wasn’t possible.

  Why had Ian brought me out into the woods at all the night before? He could have sent me the text with the pictures of Emma when we were still dancing. Why had he wanted to get me alone?

  “Madison?” Darlene asked as she saw me standing at the bottom of the steps with my mouth agape.

  I blinked and turned my eyes to meet Ian’s. Ian Gregory was a good boy. He didn’t break the rules. When he did something wrong, he punished himself as much as his parents had done. Could he have been so mad at Emma that he had killed her?

  It didn’t seem likely. I had seen the flash of his own temper when Dylan had been such a jerk at the party the week before. He wasn’t as straight-laced as he’d always been as a kid.

  A shiver worked its way up my spine. Could it be true? Could Ian have actually gone to pick Emma up when she’d texted him and then murdered his own sister?

  Maybe that was why Emma had begun showing herself to me. Maybe she was trying to warn me that Ian was not the guy I’d always believed him to be.

  He raised his brows as he saw me looking at him, his eyes narrowed in question. “What’s wrong, Maddie?” He stood up fast like he thought there was a monster behind me or something.

  Or was it possible the monster was in front of me? Could Ian have fooled everyone all his life? Could there be that kind of evil inside him?

  I didn’t know, though couldn’t take that kind of chance. Darlene, Imogen, and Serena would not be put at risk by having him around. “Come on. I’ll take you to your car,” I said in as normal a voice as I could muster up.

  He ran his hand through his hair, his eyes still narrowed on me. “I thought we were investigating today.” His eyes were so earnest, he looked like a little kid trying to convince his mom he hadn’t broken something.

  “I’m tired,” I snapped and moved toward the door.

  Ian moved to follow me but stopped next to Darlene. “It was nice to meet you and thanks for taking care of Maddie.” He poured it on so thick, it made me feel sick.

  She took a paper towel from the roll and placed two of her glorious biscuits on it. “It was nice to meet you too, Ian. You come by anytime you’re around,” she said and handed him that little package of hers with a warm and motherly smile.

  I didn’t speak. It was horrible to realize that Ian knew so much about my life. Darlene would most definitely let him in if he came over. What if it really was him? What if someone else I loved was hurt?

  FOURTEEN

  After dropping Ian at his car, I stopped at the store to grab a package of energy drinks. I needed as much caffeine as I could take in to make it through the rest of the day. It was not going to be an easy one. There was no doubt in my mind about that.

  My mouth fell open when I got to the house, to find a guy sitting on the front steps. I hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Could that guy have been at my party the night before and had come to plead with Serena for a date? If that was true, he was on the wrong path.

  That was when his face registered in my mind. Keats. The reporter guy. With only my first name he had figured out where I lived? He was a better investigator than I had expected him to be.

  I frowned as I stepped up to stand in front of him. “What are you doing here?” I demanded, not in the mood to deal with him.

  “I’m not here to screw up your life so don’t threaten to screw up mine, Madison,” he said, scooting over so he was on the far end of the step. “There have been two deaths this week and from the research I did after we met the other day, they are eerily similar to the death of Emma Gregory.”

  My heart began to pound. It was something I had come up with on my own. To hear a stranger say it made it even more real. Emma had been murdered like Manuel and CJ.

  I eased myself down on the far end of the step and took out one of the energy drinks. I glugged most of it down, my eyes fixed on the street in front of us. “What do you want, Keats?” I asked, desperate to get inside and begin that research.

  “For starters, I’d like one of those drinks. After that, I’d like to talk to you.”

  I glanced unwillingly at him, not at all interested in talking to the guy. “The article you wrote about my dad, what was the point? You snuck it past your editor without even doing the proper amount of fact-checking.” I asked and handed over one of the bottles.

  He opened it and took a long drink of his own before he spoke, his eyes fixed on the bottle. “I’ve wanted to be a reporter all my life. I had a fact-book I carried around with me as a kid, writing down everything I saw. Then I’d go home and write the story. Tended to make people hate me because I was telling their secrets to whoever would read what I wrote.” He clenched his hand around the bottle before he went on. “There was this guy when I was a kid, a drunk who liked to smack his wife around when he got loaded. I saw him one time, saw him hurting her. I wrote it down in my book and went on about my business.” And his expression changed his face from a good-looking guy my age to a jaded old man. “A few hours later, the cops were outside. The guy had killed his wife. My brother had called the cops like I should have done. It’s possible that if I had called them, she would still be alive. That is why I write. I write so the world knows the truth I was too stupid to tell as a kid.”

  A mix of sympathy and anger rose inside me as I looked at him. Something about that story made me wonder. For a little boy to see that kind of thing was hard enough. For him to still carry around the guilt of not calling the police was even worse.

  It almost made me trust him. Not quite. I didn’t know how much of what he had said was truth and how much was exaggerated to make his point.

  I looked at the road again. “How old were you?” I asked, feeling the energy drink begin to work its magic on me.

  I wanted to get up and run around the block, or climb a tree, or investigate the crap out of something. Oh, I would find answers. I was ready.

  Keats cleared his throat and stood up, his eyes fixed on the road as well. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact I saw your dad bringing a woman who looked like she’d been gone over with a tire iron, into the emergency room a few months ago. I asked questions and he told me to mind my own business. I wrote what I saw. It’s what I do. I don’t sugar coat things all because a professor is the Einstein of his generation. I don’t care.”

  I stood up as well and stepped in front of him. “Why are you here, Keats?” I asked, my head starting to ache from the mix of stress and anxiety.

  He pulled out his phone and turned it to show me a picture on its screen. It was of me and Ian standing with wide, horrified eyes in front of the body of CJ. Emma’s translucent figure was just visible in front of us. She looked even more hair-raising in the picture than she had when she was directly in front of us.

  It was like a fist to the gut. Emma. Her eyes were fixed on us. Both of us. There was hatred written all over her face. Was that for her brother? Were my horrible suspicions correct?

  I took the phone from him and quickly sent the picture to myself, erasing my contact information from his phone. I kind of wanted to delete the picture, though chose not to. He probably had other copies and if I made him mad b
y deleting that one, he might get vengeful and start writing stories about me.

  Keats took the phone, his eyes fixed on mine. “I did my research. That girl is Emma Gregory. Age Sixteen. Died twenty months ago. It was ruled a suicide.”

  I turned away from him, my body so cold it was like it had been sheathed in ice. “I know that. I was there. I saw it all. It doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m here because I want to know the truth. I think you do too.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I whispered, tears rising in my eyes. “What makes you think anybody will believe us, though? That picture you’ve got, it could very easily have been photo-shopped. I’m guessing one of the girls who were so hot for Ian followed us out into the woods. I’d guess they took a lot of pictures. If the cops see that, they’ll—”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “You’re right. The cops will never believe this. Even if it’s right in front of their faces, they’ll need something they can explain. Whoever killed CJ Tucker and Manuel Brumoso knows that.”

  “Why are you so willing to accept all this?” I motioned to his phone, where the picture of Emma’s ghost sat like an accusation that murder had been committed and no one had noticed.

  Keats smirked at me. “I like the idea that there’s more to the world than people think. I now have proof there’s at least one ghost and I’d bet there’s a lot more than that out there. I can’t wait to see what the world is really like when you open your eyes.”

  “Whoever killed Emma, Manuel, and CJ had to have been human.”

  “Not really. We don’t know what happened.”

  I glowered at him. “This isn’t a game. My best friend is dead. Two guys have died in the same way in the last week. Whatever is happening, it’s real. People are dying.”

  “That’s what makes this so amazing,” he enthused, reaching out to grip my shoulders. “This is real.”

  I smacked his hands off me and jabbed my finger into his chest. “Listen to me, Keats. You cannot tell these stories. If you do, they’ll lock you up in a padded cell. No one will believe you.” I raised my hands as he began to speak. “Stop it. Whatever this is, this story is off the record for you. Now, go home and don’t come back here either, Keats.” I turned and walked up to the front door, eager to get away from him.