“I’ll give it three more months,” she said. “But I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
Right then I knew I couldn’t tell my mom about the guy in the ski mask. She’d quit work tomorrow. She’d get a local job, and there’d be absolutely no choice but to sell the farmhouse.
“Let’s talk about something brighter,” Mom said, pushing her mouth into a smile. “How was dinner?”
“Fine,” I said morosely.
“And Vee? How’s she recovering?”
“She can go back to school tomorrow.”
Mom smiled wryly. “It’s a good thing she broke her left arm. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to take notes in class, and I can only imagine how disappointing that would have been for her.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.” I stood and pointed over my shoulder into the kitchen. “Want some?”
“That actually sounds perfect. I’ll start the fire.”
After a quick trip to the kitchen to round up mugs, sugar, and the cocoa canister, I came back to find that Mom had a kettle of water on the wood-burning stove. I perched myself on the arm of the sofa and handed her a mug.
“How did you know you were in love with Dad?” I asked, striving to sound casual. There was always the chance that discussing Dad would bring on a tearfest, something I hoped to avoid.
Mom settled into the sofa and propped her feet up on the coffee table. “I didn’t. Not until we’d been married about a year.”
It wasn’t the answered I’d expected. “Then . . . why did you marry him?”
“Because I thought I was in love. And when you think you’re in love, you’re willing to stick it out and make it work until it is love.”
“Were you scared?”
“To marry him?” She laughed. “That was the exciting part. Shopping for a gown, reserving the chapel, wearing my diamond solitaire.”
I pictured Patch’s mischievous smile. “Were you ever scared of Dad?”
“Whenever the New England Patriots lost.”
Whenever the Patriots lost, my dad went to the garage and revved up his chainsaw. Two autumns ago he hauled the chain-saw to the woods behind our property, felled ten trees, and diced them into firewood. We still have more than half the pile to burn through.
Mom patted the sofa beside her, and I curled up against her, resting my head on her shoulder. “I miss him,” I said.
“Me too.”
“I’m afraid I’ll forget what he looked like. Not in pictures, but hanging around on a Saturday morning in sweats, making scrambled eggs.”
Mom laced her fingers through mine. “You’ve always been so much like him, right from the start.”
“Really?” I sat up. “In what way?”
“He was a good student, very clever. He wasn’t flashy or out-spoken, but people respected him.”
“Was Dad ever . . . mysterious?”
Mom seemed to turn this over in her mind. “Mysterious people have a lot of secrets. Your father was very open.”
“Was he ever rebellious?”
She gave a short, startled laugh. “Did you see him that way? Harrison Grey, the world’s most ethical accountant . . . rebellious?” She gave a theatrical gasp. “Heaven forbid! He did wear his hair long for a while. It was wavy and blond—like a surfer’s. Of course, his horn-rimmed glasses killed the look. So . . . do I dare ask what got us on this subject?”
I had no idea how to explain my conflicting feelings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to explain Patch, period. My mom was probably expecting a description that included his parents’ names, his GPA, the varsity sports he played, and which colleges he planned on applying to. I didn’t want to alarm her by saying I was willing to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap sheet. “There’s this guy,” I said, unable to hold back a smile at the thought of Patch. “We’ve been hanging out lately. Mostly school stuff.”
“Ooh, a boy,” she said mysteriously. “Well? Is he in the Chess Club? Student Council? The tennis team?”
“He likes pool,” I offered optimistically.
“A swimmer! Is he as cute as Michael Phelps? Of course, I always leaned toward Ryan Lochte when it came to appearances.”
I thought about correcting my mom. On second thought, it was probably best not to clarify. Pool, swimming . . . close enough, right?
The phone rang and Mom stretched across the sofa to answer it. Ten seconds into the call she flopped back against the sofa and slapped a hand to her forehead. “No, it’s not a problem. I’ll run over, pick it up, and bring it by first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Hugo?” I asked after she hung up. Hugo was my mom’s boss, and to say he called all the time was putting it mildly. Once, he’d called her into work on a Sunday because he couldn’t figure out how to operate the copy machine.
“He left some unfinished paperwork in the office and needs me to run over. I have to make copies, but I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour. Have you finished your homework?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’ll tell myself we couldn’t have spent time together even if I was here.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “See you in an hour?”
“Tell Hugo he should pay you more.”
She laughed. “A lot more.”
As soon as I had the house to myself, I cleared the breakfast dishes off the kitchen table and made room for my textbooks. English, world history, biology. Arming myself with a brand-new number two pencil, I flipped open the top book and went to work.
Fifteen minutes later my mind rebelled, refusing to digest another paragraph on European feudal systems. I wondered what Patch was doing after he got off work. Homework? Hard to believe. Eating pizza and watching basketball on TV? Maybe, but it didn’t feel right. Placing bets and playing pool at Bo’s Arcade? It seemed like a good guess.
I had the unexplainable desire to drive to Bo’s and defend my earlier behavior, but the thought was quickly put into perspective by the simple fact that I didn’t have time. My mom would be home in less time than it took to make the half-hour drive there. Not to mention, Patch wasn’t the kind of guy I could just go hunt down. In the past, our meetings had operated on his schedule, not mine. Always.
I climbed the stairs to change into something comfy. I pushed on my bedroom door and took three steps inside before stopping short. My dresser drawers were yanked out, clothes strewn across the floor. The bed was ripped apart. The closet doors were open, hanging askew by their hinges. Books and picture frames littered the floor.
I saw the reflection of movement in the window across the room and swung around. He stood against the wall behind me, dressed head to toe in black and wearing the ski mask. My brain was in a swirling fog, just beginning to transmit run! to my legs, when he lunged for the window, threw it open, and ducked lithely out.
I took the stairs down three at a time. I flung myself around the banister, flew down the hall to the kitchen, and dialed 911.
Fifteen minutes later a patrol car bumped into the driveway. Shaking, I unbolted the door and let the two officers in. The first officer to step inside was short and thick-waisted with salt-and-pepper hair. The other was tall and lean with hair almost as dark as Patch’s, but cropped above his ears. In a strange way, he vaguely resembled Patch. Mediterranean complexion, symmetrical face, eyes with an edge.
They introduced themselves; the dark-haired officer was Detective Basso. His partner was Detective Holstijic.
“Are you Nora Grey?” Detective Holstijic asked.
I nodded.
“Your parents home?”
“My mom left a few minutes before I called 911.”
“So you’re home alone?”
Another nod.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” he asked, crossing his arms and planting his feet wide, while Detective Basso walked a few paces inside the house and took a look around.
“I came home at eight and did some homework,” I said. “When I went up to my bedroom, I
saw him. Everything was a mess. He tore my room apart.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“He was wearing a ski mask. And the lights were off.”
“Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos?”
“No.”
“Height? Weight?”
I delved reluctantly into my short-term memory. I didn’t want to relive the moment, but it was important that I recall any clues. “Average weight, but a little on the tall side. About the same size as Detective Basso.”
“Did he say anything?”
I shook my head.
Detective Basso reappeared and said, “All clear,” to his partner. Then he climbed to the second floor. The floorboards creaked overhead as he moved down the hall, opening and shutting doors.
Detective Holstijic cracked the front door and squatted to examine the deadbolt. “Was the door unlocked or damaged when you came home?”
“No. I used my key to get in. My mom was asleep in the living room.”
Detective Basso appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Can you show us what’s damaged?” he asked me.
Detective Holstijic and I climbed the stairs together, and I led the way down the hall to where Detective Basso stood just inside my bedroom door with his hands on his hips, surveying my room.
I held perfectly still, a tingle of fear creeping through me. My bed was made. My pajamas were in a heap on my pillow, just the way I’d left them this morning. My dresser drawers were shut, picture frames arranged neatly on top. The trunk at the foot of the bed was closed. The floors were clean. The window drapes hung in long, smooth panels, one on either side of the closed window.
“You said you saw the intruder,” said Detective Basso. He was staring down at me with hard eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Eyes that were expert at filtering lies.
I stepped inside the room, but it lacked the familiar touch of comfort and safety. There was an underlying note of violation and menace. I pointed across the room at the window, trying to hold my hand steady. “When I walked in, he jumped out the window.”
Detective Basso glanced out the window. “Long way to the ground,” he observed. He attempted to open the window. “Did you lock it after he left?”
“No. I ran downstairs and called 911.”
“Somebody locked it.” Detective Basso was still eyeing me with razor eyes, his mouth pressed in a tight line.
“Not sure anybody’d be able to get away after a jump like that,” Detective Holstijic said, joining his partner at the window. “They’d be lucky to get off with a broken leg.”
“Maybe he didn’t jump, maybe he climbed down the tree,” I said.
Detective Basso whipped his head around. “Well? Which is it? Did he climb or jump? He could have pushed past you and gone out the front door. That would be the logical option. That’s what I’d have done. I’m going to ask once more. Think real careful. Did you really see someone in your room tonight?”
He didn’t believe me. He thought I’d invented it. For a moment I was tempted to think similarly. What was wrong with me? Why was my reality convoluted? Why did the truth never match up? For the sake of my sanity, I told myself it wasn’t me. It was him. The guy in the ski mask. He was doing this. I didn’t know how, but he was to blame.
Detective Holstijic broke the tense silence by saying, “When will your parents be home?”
“I live with my mom. She had to make a quick trip to the office.”
“We need to ask you both a few questions,” he continued. He pointed for me to take a seat on my bed, but I shook my head numbly. “Have you recently broken up with a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“How about drugs? Have you had a problem, now or in the past?”
“No.”
“You mentioned that you live with your mom. How about Dad? Where’s he?”
“This was a mistake,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”
The two officers exchanged looks. Detective Holstijic shut his eyes and massaged the inner corners. Detective Basso looked like he’d wasted enough time and was ready to blow it off.
“We’ve got things to do,” he said. “Are you going to be all right here alone until your mom gets back?”
I hardly heard him; I couldn’t pull my eyes off the window. How was he doing it? Fifteen minutes. He had fifteen minutes to find a way back inside and put the room in order before the police arrived. And with me downstairs the whole time. At the realization that we’d been alone in the house together, I shuddered.
Detective Holstijic extended his business card. “Could you have your mom call us when she gets in?”
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Detective Basso said. He was already halfway down the hall.
CHAPTER
15
YOU THINK ELLIOT MURDERED SOMEONE?”
“Shh!” I hissed at Vee, glancing across the rows of lab tables to make sure no one had overheard.
“No offense, babe, but this is starting to get ridiculous. First he attacked me. Now he’s a killer. I’m sorry, but Elliot? A murderer? He’s, like, the nicest guy I’ve ever met. When was the last time he forgot to hold open a door for you? Oh, yeah, that’s right . . . never.”
Vee and I were in biology, and Vee was lying faceup on a table. We were running a lab on blood pressure, and Vee was supposed to be resting silently for five minutes. Normally I would have worked with Patch, but Coach had given us a free day, which meant we were free to choose our own partners. Vee and I were at the back of the room; Patch was working with a jock named Thomas Rookery at the front of the room.
“He was questioned as a suspect in a murder investigation,” I whispered, feeling Coach’s eyes gravitate toward us. I scribbled a few notes on my lab sheet. Subject is calm and relaxed. Subject has refrained from speaking for three and a half minutes. “The police obviously thought he had motive and means.”
“Are you sure it’s the same Elliot?”
“How many Elliot Saunderses do you think there were at Kinghorn in February?”
Vee strummed her fingers on her stomach. “It just seems really, really hard to believe. And anyway, so what if he was questioned? The important thing is, he was released. They didn’t find him guilty.”
“Because police found a suicide note written by Halverson.”
“Who’s Halverson again?”
“Kjirsten Halverson,” I said impatiently. “The girl who supposedly hanged herself.”
“Maybe she did hang herself. I mean, what if one day she said, ‘Hey, life sucks,’ and strung herself to a tree? It has happened.”
“You don’t find it a little too coincidental that her apartment showed evidence of a break-in when they discovered the suicide note?”
“She lived in Portland. Break-ins happen.”
“I think someone placed the note. Someone who wanted Elliot off the hook.”
“Who would want Elliot off the hook?” Vee asked.
I gave her my best duh look.
Vee propped herself up with her good elbow. “So you’re saying Elliot hauled Kjirsten up a tree, tied a rope around her neck, pushed her off the limb, then did a breaking-and-entering job on her apartment and planted evidence pointing to a suicide.”
“Why not?”
Vee returned the duh look. “Because the cops already analyzed everything. If they’re ruling it a suicide, so am I.”
“How about this,” I said. “Just weeks after Elliot was released from questioning, he transferred schools. Why would someone leave Kinghorn Prep to come to CHS?”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“I think he’s trying to escape his past. I think it became too uncomfortable attending school on the same campus where he killed Kjirsten. He has a guilty conscience.” I tapped my pencil against my lip. “I need to drive out to Kinghorn and ask questions. She just died two months ago; everyone will still be buzzing about it.”
“I don’t know, Nora. I’m getting bad vibes about init
iating a spy operation at Kinghorn. I mean, are you going to ask about Elliot specifically? What if he finds out? What’s he going to think?”
I looked down at her. “He only has something to worry about if he’s guilty.”
“And then he’ll kill you to silence you.” Vee grinned like the Cheshire cat. I didn’t. “I want to find out who attacked me just as much as you do,” she continued on a more serious note, “but I swear on my life it wasn’t Elliot. I’ve replayed the memory, like, a hundred times. It’s not a match. Not even close. Trust me.”
“Okay, maybe Elliot didn’t attack you,” I said, trying to appease Vee but not about to clear Elliot’s name. “He still has a lot going against him. He was involved in a murder investigation, for one. And he’s almost too nice, for two. It’s creepy. And he’s friends with Jules, for three.”
Vee frowned. “Jules? What’s wrong with Jules?”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that every time we’re with them, Jules bails?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The night we went to Delphic, Jules left almost immediately to use the bathroom. Did he ever come back? After I left to buy cotton candy, did Elliot find him?”
“No, but I chalked it up to internal plumbing issues.”
“Then, last night, he mysteriously called in sick.” I scrubbed my pencil’s eraser down the length of my nose, thinking. “He seems to get sick a lot.”
“I think you’re overanalyzing this. Maybe . . . maybe he has IBS.”
“IBS?”
“Irritable bowel syndrome.”
I discarded Vee’s suggestion in favor of mentally stretching for an idea that floated just out of reach. Kinghorn Prep was easily an hour away by car. If the school was as academically rigorous as Elliot claimed, how did Jules continually have time to make the drive to Coldwater to visit? I saw him nearly every morning on my way to school at Enzo’s Bistro with Elliot. Plus, he gave Elliot a ride home after school. It was almost like Elliot had Jules in the palm of his hand.
The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 14