by A. J. Lape
His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Aren’t you little Miss Nancy Drew?”
I rested my right hand on the handle of the door and turned for more information, fudging on the truth. “Let’s shoot straight here, Liam. I know you were out there. I saw you,” I lied. “Do you know anything that could possibly help Oscar? And before you answer no, why would you not want to help him?”
Liam didn’t act guilty; he didn’t act innocent. In fact, he was almost nothing at all, and that was even scarier. He quietly said, “Have you ever wanted something you couldn’t explain, Darcy, even if you knew it was wrong and probably impossible to want it? Possibly dangerous?”
The one thing I wanted more than anything wasn’t ever going to be possible, and if it was wrong to want it, then I’d already committed the unpardonable. That was life, though, wasn’t it? Wanting what you couldn’t have? But sometimes the reasons for that wanting took on a life and breath all its own. You couldn’t outrun what was in the room with you. So, yes, I understood the longing. One single incident left me with compulsion issues, for God’s sake.
Compulsions that I had to let take over, or I’d lose my mind.
Was that dangerous? It depended on whether you valued your sanity.
When I didn’t answer, all he gave me was some bone-chilling silence. Next thing I knew, we were in my driveway, and when I opened my door, he literally skidded off with me falling out into the bushes. Liam was guilty of something, of what I didn’t know, but I could smell it all over him like stinky cheese. I gave myself forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours to piece this together, and if I didn’t, I was contacting the authorities. I’d made that promise to myself before, but this time I had to heed to the deadline. I’m sure I’d obstructed justice ten ways from Sunday, but I’d take my punishment, whatever that would be.
It was a little past midnight when I walked through the door, cigar smoke nearly blasting my eyebrows away. Thankfully, Murphy was in a carcinogen-induced stupor and didn’t ask many questions. After he was convinced I was still in the good girl league—seriously, it was never in question—he snuffed out his cigar and stumbled up the stairs.
I nuked myself a cup of hot chocolate and grabbed a handful of Lucky Charms then went to my room. After I did my thing in the bathroom, I jumped into some leopard print pajamas and crawled under the covers. My heart was palpitating, the letter from Jaws practically burning a hole in my hand. I clicked on my iPhone flashlight and pulled out the folded white sheet of paper.
Drawing them both to my eyes, I nearly vomited on the spot, my mouth expelling language best kept private in your brain. It wasn’t a list of names; it was a threat.
29 GAME CHANGER
I MEAN, SERIOUSLY?
It was one of those things that left your jaw unhinged, dragging across your chest. Who could have written it, and what could I have missed? The obvious was Jinx since he skipped out on the fighting, but I literally didn’t know whether to call him on it or act as if I didn’t care.
I phoned Jaws too many times to count, texted him until my fingers went numb, and did everything but send up a gosh-danged smoke signal. If Jaws was still alive, it was safe to say he was ignoring me or the ensuing chaos.
It was Sunday night. The storm passed but didn’t break, and I’d just come home from Belinski’s Book Store. Dylan was sitting at the kitchen table, sneakers and discarded socks underneath him, a US history book open on the table. Dang, guess we had a test. In between reading paragraphs, he was eating pot roast, potatoes, and carrots, looking up with a roguish smile that would tempt a saint. Murphy never mentioned our dinner guest on the ride home; made me feel like I was ensnared in a trap.
We eat in silence. Well, Dylan eats in silence and doesn’t resist my barbs when I make veiled and not so veiled references to his whatever-it-was with Brynn Hathaway. He murmurs a soul searching, “We should talk.” I growl back a manic, “Later.” True to Dylan fashion, he doesn’t take no for an answer. He whispers even sweeter, “I can promise that whatever it is you think I’ve done exists in the throes of your imagination. I love you, Darcy, and I always will.”
A pure sweetness consumed his angular face which almost made me cry. Did that salve my wounded heart?
Make that a big, fat, freaking no.
I wasn’t feeling very conciliatory, and down deep I didn’t think he’d actually agree to the conversation amidst my barbs. Once he had, however, the last thing I wanted to hear was that he’d had a wonderful time and ditched me in the process. And that’s what he’d done, right? I mean, he never even asked why I was alone in a room with three other guys. Sure, there was a small nonverbal communiqué but not his usual hold-me-down-until-I-talk thing. Was he metaphorically waiting to gut me now? Or was he going to confess Brynn was the love of his life and our own love affair was over? Bottom line was, if Dylan wanted to play huggy-kissy with Brynn Hathaway, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. Besides, it was a question of pride. That small smidgeon I was trying to preserve. Where was the rest? It was pummeled somewhere in between Brynn and the countless others wanting to jump on his boom boom, hoo-hah, that’s where.
I stuffed the last morsel into my mouth, biting the side of my cheek to keep from sobbing.
Regardless of my state of mind, I had to give kudos to Murphy. I considered myself more of a sugar freak than someone that favored the savory, but Murphy’s pot roast made you want to shack up with a cow. Savoring the last bite, I washed it down with an ice-cold can of Coke, 37 degrees preferred. For some reason, my hand forgot how to work, and I spilled the last quarter of the can down my shirt, soaking me to the bone.
“Mother of pearl,” I mumbled. And the day kept getting brighter and brighter.
My eyes slid over to Dylan who was stuck somewhere in the middle of a laugh. I pointed a finger at his neck mouthing, “Colombian necktie. In your sleep.”
He threw his head back laughing, trying to pull me onto his lap, but I juked out of the way and angrily tromped up the stairs.
It was chilly in the house. We could probably use a night of heat since springtime temperatures were like a yo-yo, but as soon as the calendar said “spring,” that meant no more heat, by the Murphy Walker Rule, even if it dipped to freezing.
I was surrounded by control freaks, I groaned.
Grabbing a white turtleneck from my closet, I tugged it over my head, layering it with my favorite green t-shirt. A Christmas gift from Dylan, it said “Game Changer” on it.
Obviously, he thought higher of myself than I did.
Our house was transitional in style—or open, so to say—consequently, when you stood on the second floor balcony you could see in almost every room. When I hit the top of the stairs, I took an appraising look at my best friend. Voyeuristically speaking, he was splendidly masculine. I repeatedly poured over every rippled inch of his body, looking for evidence whether he was real or dropped onto Earth from a planet far, far away. Wearing a simple gray t-shirt and his favorite worn-out jeans, he’d just cleared away the table and was falling into the recliner. Effortless. Sensual. Freaking poetry in motion. Heck, I think I joined the club and developed my own personal crush.
Just thinking it gave me an eye twitch.
With one deep breath and involuntary body shake, I held my chin high and walked down the stairs, sitting on the end of the brown leather couch. I’d removed my contacts and was wearing my glasses, a spider web of bloodshot eyes the culprit.
Dylan must’ve noticed because first thing he did was lean over and caress my hand with his thumb. “Talk to me,” he murmured.
And that’s all she wrote.
I burst into tears, covering my face with my hands.
Dylan was my confidante, but I couldn’t tell him what I was up to...not all of it...not yet, at least, if ever. “Whoa,” he said taken aback. “Sweetheart, whatever’s going on between us, it’s out of hand. The last thing I ever want is to be the cause of your tears, but if you’d just let me talk to you, I think you’d be s
urprised and hopefully happy by what I’m going to say.”
Um, not as surprised as he was going to be.
I felt his gaze right above mine and didn’t know whether to open my eyes or blink him away. Peering between two fingers, I cracked open a lid and wasn’t sure who—or what—I was looking at. He was different; more dark and mysterious, his eyes hazed over to the point of looking sleepy. Normally, I could predict his moods and sentences before they left his mouth. Now, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Something dark and primitive bled like rivers into the whites of his eyes, and I didn’t know if that was fascinating or run-for-the-hills scary. Whatever Dylan feels, he feels it deeply, and it’s almost like he was willing me to feel it, too.
Dylan slowly pulled my hands from my face then leaned in even closer, his breath and lips lightly brushing against mine. “Darcy,” he spoke softly into them, “we need to talk.”
What I needed was a cold shower—that’s what I was thinking.
I backed away and out of his gaze...whenever he looked at me like that, I forgot how to spell my own name.
Here are my options: I could beg him to kiss me—like really, really kiss me—or I could concoct some sort of lie to get him off my back. Or, I could tell him the cold, hard facts and see how he wore the truth. Not many people could handle the truth when it was placed before them. I wasn’t sure where Dylan fell within that equation.
The mental tug of war was taking its toll. Trouble was, I wanted all three of those things to happen—especially the first—but I didn’t have the time to dissect what that meant or the possible ramifications.
I bit my bottom lip then put my pinky nail in my mouth, ripping off its tip.
When he pushed with another, “Darcy,” I finally blurted out, “It’s Oscar. I’m sort of in a mess, and when I say mess, I mean a big, freaking mess that might mean I’ll be headless by morning.”
Whoo, that felt better. Guess I was going with option three.
Dylan looked like someone just skinned him alive then force-fed him the scraps. Getting up from his chair, he squatted down in front of me then grabbed both my hands, rolling them over and over like he was trying to dissect my very soul. “Define trouble,” he murmured softly.
“Maybe something illegal,” I sniffed.
He cleared his throat. “How illegal?”
“Illegal enough.”
Nothing for a while. Just us staring at one another. Finally, he murmured, “Tell me everything, Darcy. Tell me, so I can help.”
Dylan stood up twice during the telling. Then he sat down, got back up, paced around some more, ran his hands through his hair, and ultimately did some deep-knee bends. I spared nothing. Not the threat from the bandana. My AVO suspicions. The dead squirrel. Not the questions of Annie Hughes, no-name man, or Adam Neeley. Not even Liam, Darth Vader, or the threats of Justin Starsong. The only thing I omitted was Jaws. I asked Jaws to keep Jester quiet, and I felt I needed to return the favor—especially since he’d removed his ankle bracelet, willingly placing himself in danger. Besides, I didn’t get a list of names, so it wasn’t like I was going to do something stupid like directly confront them.
My word, that’s the first thing I’d do if I had names, but right now that point was moot.
“Shiii—” was his final, profane assessment.
I sniffed again. “Don’t curse,” I told him. “I need Heaven to help me.”
He looked to the ceiling in agreement. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing around for me to hit. We need to tell Murphy, Darcy.”
“Not yet,” I gasped.
“Okay, tomorrow,” he frowned, “but let’s begin when all of this started. Ms. Dempsey and AP Unger.”
“You want to hit them?” I gasped again.
He let out a sound of exasperation. “No,” he said. “We should tell them everything you know.”
“They won’t get it.” I wasn’t sure I got it. Why ask sane people to? Murphy always said, Take care of your name, it arrives before you do. Maybe that’s what bothered me, I wasn’t sure I had a good name. My good reputation, if I ever had one, was pretty much shot.
I cried. And cried. Annnnnd cried.
When I removed my glasses, Dylan spied Murphy’s bottle of TUMS on the countertop and popped a handful of rainbow colored tablets in his mouth. He bent his back over and stretched it around then slid onto the couch next to me. Currently, I was hiding under a mass of sticky, blonde hair that had fallen in my face.
He tilted toward me, tenderly pushing it off my cheeks. “They think I’m a loser,” I whispered.
“They don’t think you’re a loser,” he murmured. “You’re arguably the smartest person that’s ever walked the halls. They just don’t know how to motivate you.”
That statement stung. “I’m motivated.”
He ran a hand through his hair again. “True, but not with the things—”
A crying jag struck again before he could finish the sentence. I wasn’t the type of student every educator dreamt of. I, honest to God, wasn’t the type anyone dreamt of. That hadn’t really bothered me; I’d been happily single. Sure, I thought about boys, but had it ever truly bothered me that I was alone? Probably not until this moment. And it sure as heck didn’t help that it was “my time” of the month. I took my hand and patted my chest, negotiating with my breathing.
“It’s just that I…” He narrowed his eyes, inching closer for what he innately knew was extremely confidential. “I just, um—oh shoot,” I sniffed frustrated. “D, it doesn’t help that I just started,” I shrugged, “my monthly—you know.” Dylan coughed so loud I feared his tongue fell off and was permanently detached. “I’m over sharing,” I cried even harder.
Dylan grabbed my hand and sheltered it between both of his. When I looked in his face, his amber eyes were wide and frightened with worry. I didn’t see that often. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw that until now.
“We’re on the same side, honey,” he finally murmured. He took a deep breath and carefully chose his words. “Darcy, you mentioned that another body was found. Another body that appeared to have been murdered in the same way as Alfonso Juarez and Annie Hughes. For the sake of argument, did you ever think it might be Frank? They’re twins. Could Frank have done the same thing?”
Murphy entered the kitchen before the conversation could take another direction. I was glad for the intrusion, but a part of me wanted to explore the idea of Frank and Oscar being co-murderers a little bit further. My mother was a twin, and I knew there were strange connections no one could ever explain, but to take it to the felony level? Was I willing to believe that or even think it? That would, however, be one explanation for the murders being similar. What if they had some twin pact of homicidal crime going on in their bloodline? What if they were copycat murderers, and I was defending the wrong guy? The other explanation, the one I was sure to be true, was that the killer or killers were still at large. I knew who was involved; I just didn’t know who pulled the trigger.
All the lights were off in my room, and I was settled under my comforter with the television set on mute. It was nine o’clock when Oscar called, and I’d just filled him in on what’d gone down since we’d last chatted—the only thing substantial was Justin basically admitting guilt. He’d yelled, I didn’t screw up...I had no control over the situation. Things didn’t happen the way…
You know, blah, blah, blah, and foot-in-your-mouth blah.
After Oscar celebrated for a while, he then dissolved back into the doldrums realizing—once again—the situation wasn’t spelled out enough for our liking. Ergo, charges weren’t exactly going to be dropped yet, but it was definitely enough to speak with the “powers that be.”
Trying to brainstorm, we went over the specific sites where the bodies were found and what the significance of those might be. Murphy was suspiciously walking back and forth in the hallway wearing bare a strip of carpet that was going to need replaced if he didn’t can the pacing. I gave him a big, innocent smile (
I tried, at least) and acted as if it were Dylan. We’d dropped him back at his home an hour ago, and it wasn’t unusual for us to find something else to talk about...although Murphy didn’t seem quite convinced.
“Any ideas?” I whispered.
“No,” Oscar said. “All I know is site five always has great stuff in its dumpster.”
I sucked down the last of a Coke, mentally crossing my fingers it would relax me as usual. I had a feeling I needed something 100-proof instead. “Okay,” I exhaled, “has anything strange gone on at those places, other than you seeing Annie at Tire Town?”
“No,” he said, growing agitated. “Nothing that—” He stopped, gasped like he was dying for air then started praying, “Oh, God,” over and over.
I sat up so fast I banged the back of my head on the headboard. “What?” I asked excitedly.
“Darcy,” he whispered, “I think I know who—”
I had only a second’s warning before a dial tone lambasted my ear. I closed my eyes and nearly cried again for the umpteenth time today.
My MoneyGram expired.
There’s that old Yiddish saying, Man plans, God laughs. I think God was having a rip-roaring time at the moment, possibly at my expense. I had these grandiose plans of solving everything and being the quiet victor from afar. That wasn’t going to happen, and I couldn’t shake the feeling He was waving his finger at me from Heaven saying, My world, not yours.
Oscar had figured out something substantial, possibly the person guilty, and I was left with a dead phone in my hand. Made me think solving this wasn’t meant to be.
Dylan and I’d just left Ms. Dempsey’s office. She took a copious amount of notes and pulled AP Unger in for the last fifteen minutes of my confessional or whatever it was you called the admission of all the crap I’d been doing. I gave them names, dates, and suspicions that were corroborated with cold, hard fact. The only thing I couldn’t guarantee was the get-out-of-jail-free-card for Oscar. I still didn’t have the shooter or the definitive names of all gang members because it was obvious there were more. They both...well, they both frankly looked afraid of me. I’d said everything with the conviction of a deathbed confession. There wasn’t a lot you could do with someone like that. You either jumped on their crazy train or figured out how to derail them.