by Clara Kensie
Avoiding the flickering street lights by ducking into yards, I hustled to Main Street. Ryland was deathly quiet at midnight. Not even a car passed down the roads. I slipped behind the movie theater, toward the railroad tracks that would lead me to the bridge.
A shadow spoke, illuminated by a single orange ember. “There’s only one reason a pretty thing like you would be out here this late.”
There was only one person who hung out behind the movie theater: Vinnie Morrison.
There was only one reason he would be out here this late too.
Well, I might as well question him. I lifted my chin and prepared for my first conversation with Ryland’s infamous drug dealer. “What’s up, Vinnie?”
He held his cigarette between his lips and dug into the pockets of his camouflage jacket. “Siegel send you?”
“Mayor Siegel?”
He snickered. “His kid. Seth. The tall one with the chin. He usually comes himself, but I see you hanging out with him sometimes. Hard to forget that red hair of yours, princess.” His gaze traveled from my hair, down to my boobs, and stopped. Gross.
“Seth didn’t send me,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “No one sends me anywhere. I came on my own. I need to ask you some questions.”
He smirked, like I was amusing him. “Shoot.”
“What do you know about Neal Mallick?”
Vinnie took a drag of his cigarette. “This again? Fine. I’ll tell you what I know,” he said. “For a price.”
“I don’t have any money on me.” The truth. I would’ve thrown a few bucks at him for information, but I’d left my purse at home.
“Hurry up, Vinnie,” someone called in a tired, impatient voice from his olive Mazda. The voice belonged to a woman in the front passenger seat. I recognized her by her overprocessed jet black hair and the way she held a cigarette dangling from her lips. Lydia, maybe. That was right—Lydia Romanski. She was a senior when I was a freshman. She was a burnout back then, too. I didn’t know she and Vinnie were a couple now, though it didn’t surprise me. She held a squirming infant, one tiny, bare foot sticking out from a blue blanket. “He’s starting to cry,” she said. “I want to get him home.”
I’d cry too, if Vinnie Morrison and Lydia Romanski were my parents. Poor little thing.
Vinnie didn’t even glance at Lydia, or the baby. His gaze remained glued to my chest. He took a step closer, cornering me between the theater’s brick wall and the dumpster. “You don’t need money,” he said, reaching out his hand. On his wrist was a tattoo, so fresh it was still swollen and red around the edges. Three fancy letters in black ink: A S H. “I’ll take that diamond.”
“My pendant?” That’s what he wanted? I clutched it tightly in my palm. “No way.” My diamond was an inheritance from my great-grandmother, who’d worn it when she emigrated from Ireland. This diamond had traveled more than I had. More than I’d traveled in this lifetime, anyway.
A single, high-pitched whoop filled the air. A police siren.
Oh crap. No one would believe I wasn’t buying drugs from Vinnie Morrison. My parents would never let me go to CFGU now.
Pure panic had never killed me before, but there was a first time for everything.
From the car, Lydia cursed. Vinnie, not panicking at all, flicked his cigarette to the ground as the patrol car rolled into the back alley. Rick Paladino was behind the wheel.
“What are you doing, Morrison?” he asked.
“Absolutely nothing, Officer.” He saluted him. “Just on our way home.”
Paladino’s gaze landed on me. “Lily Summerhays. Why am I not completely surprised to see you here?”
Hey! Sure, sometimes I caused trouble, but not this kind of trouble. “I was cutting through on my way to Diana’s,” I said. “I forgot my physics book at school and she’s letting me use hers.”
“At midnight?”
Why was he questioning me when I was not the one with the criminal record here? “I forgot that I forgot it.”
“Whatcha got there?” he asked. “In your hand?”
My fingers were still clutched around my diamond. “Nothing. Just my necklace.”
He gestured toward Vinnie. “Anything happen that I need to know about?”
“Nope.” I just wanted to get out of here. I couldn’t risk a police report. I had the Diana-textbook excuse, but my parents would still flip that I’d snuck out of the house.
The baby cried from the front seat.
“Get out of here, Morrison,” Paladino growled. “Go home.”
Vinnie slid into his Mazda. “Absolutely, Officer. Have a pleasant evening.” He winked at me. “You too, Lily Summerhays.” He backed out in reverse, accidentally-on-purpose almost hitting the cruiser, then drove off.
“Come on, Lily,” Paladino said wearily. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No thanks. I’m fine. Nothing happened,” I said. “My parents—I don’t want them to find out I forgot my book. Please. They’ll be so pissed.”
He opened the back door for me anyway. “I’ll drive you to Diana’s house so you can get it, then.”
Out of options, I climbed into the back. “I hope you’re not arresting me,” I half-joked.
“No. I don’t want you running around town in the middle of the night.”
I scoffed as he pulled out onto the street. “Ryland’s one of the safest towns in Indiana.”
“Not with Vinnie Morrison here.” He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “He was going to take that necklace of yours.”
“I wasn’t going to let him.”
“Trust me, Lily. When that guy gets violent, no one can stop him.” He drove me to Diana’s house. Her light was still on in her bedroom, thank goodness. Hopefully, she’d play along.
He opened the back door for me. “Thanks,” I said, climbing out. “You don’t have to stay. Diana will drive me home. Go on. Keep the streets of Ryland safe. Serve and protect.”
As I passed him, he called out. “Hey. Lily.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay away from Vinnie Morrison. I mean it. You don’t want to get caught up with him.”
The streetlight illuminated his chocolate eyes. He was being sincere. “Okay. Thanks, Officer Paladino.” I walked up Diana’s driveway, hoping she would hear me knocking before I woke up her parents.
Oh, wait—Paladino drove away before I reached the door. Whew. That was close.
As soon as he was out of sight, I pivoted and ran. Officer Paladino had done me a favor and he didn’t even realize it. He’d driven me closer to Railroad Bridge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ever ~ Present Day
The Summerhays house is the biggest and grandest in Ryland. It comes nowhere close to the majestic mansions I’ve seen on television, but it has a wraparound porch, dormer windows, and an attached three-car garage. Freshly painted a cheery yellow, it presides over a professionally manicured lawn and a garden of blossoming daffodils. In comparison, my house is a battered, dusty shoe box. But I love my home just as much as Lily had loved hers, I’m sure.
Beside me, Joey holds a platter of cupcakes while I ring the doorbell. Earlier that morning I let him decorate the cupcakes with chocolate frosting, then I helped him pipe T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U with blue icing, one letter per cupcake.
This is Step One of the plan I made with Ash yesterday under the giant oak tree: talk to the Summerhayses and find out more about the night Lily was killed.
We do not have a Step Two yet.
Ash waits for me at the park across the street. He wants to question the Summerhayses too, but we both know they would never let him into their house. His job is to keep a lookout for Chief Paladino and text me if he sees him coming. As nervous as I am to talk to the Summerhayses—I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what to look for—I’m glad Ash can’t accompany me on this mission. If we get his father released from prison, the only advantage I’ll have over him to win the scholarship is the fact that I’m… nice.
&
nbsp; Shifting foot to foot with the occasional glance over my shoulder, I wait on the porch. Half-hoping no one’s home, I ring the bell again.
Finally, Mrs. Summerhays opens the door. “Oh! Ever Abrams, from the scholarship,” she says. “What can I do for you?” She tucks a loose strand of hair up into her French twist. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon, and she’s wearing a dress and heels. I hope I’m not making her late for a party.
“I wanted to thank you for considering me for the scholarship,” I say. “I’m sure it’s a lot of work raising the money each year.”
“You’re welcome, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to—”
“We made you cupcakes and I helped!” Joey shouts up at her. His Warriors baseball cap is too big on his head. “They’re really yummy, I promise!”
Eyes twinkling, Mrs. Summerhays bends down, hands to knees. “Well, now. Aren’t you the most adorable thing? We will have to eat these delicious cupcakes right now, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” Joey shouts, running inside.
She laughs with delight. “You’re not trying to bribe me, are you, Ever?” She smiles as she says it, but it still surprises me.
“Oh, no, of course not!” I didn’t think that my gesture would look like a bribe. “I just wanted to say thanks. Even if I don’t win.”
She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. Finally she speaks, slowly, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “While I was shocked and disappointed that Diana deceived us about Ash Morrison’s application, her impartiality with the candidates was one of the reasons I always trusted her with the scholarship vote. I know that her heart was in the right place. Diana was Lily’s best friend and I loved her like a daughter. I’m incredibly sad that she died so tragically herself. As far as the scholarship winner, we will have to wait and see how the committee votes.”
She releases an almost imperceptible sigh of relief, like she finished a rehearsed speech without mistake. “Go have a seat in the living room, Ever. I’ll get some plates. Where did that little boy run off to?”
Amusement returning to her voice, she calls for Joey and takes the cupcakes into the kitchen. Even though we’re both lifelong residents of Ryland, this is my first time speaking to Mrs. Summerhays except for at the scholarship interview. We’ve attended many of the same community events—the Memorial Day parades, the farmers markets, the Little Warriors Training Camps. But I’ve always avoided the Summerhayses. They were Lily’s parents, and therefore my parents when I was Lily. But I’m Ever Abrams now, and I have my own parents. The thought of approaching the Summerhayses as Ever Abrams always made me feel as if I were betraying my mom and dad somehow, and Lily as well. It feels like a betrayal now.
I find the living room to the left of the foyer. Heavy mahogany shelves line two walls all the way up to the crown molding on the high ceiling. Displayed on the shelves are fancy hardcover books that look frequently dusted but never read, and a lot of formal family portraits in frames. Faded photos of Lily, from baby to girl to teen. The most recent photograph is Lily holding back her hair as she blows out the candles on her birthday cake. Happy Eighteen, Lily! the cake reads in red icing. The window behind her shows snowflakes falling from a night sky.
I will be eighteen in less than two weeks. April 5th. My birthday is Lily’s death day.
I study each photo, trying to feel a connection with her, the girl who used to be me. We look nothing alike. The one physical similarity I thought we had—straight hair—isn’t real. She must have straightened it for the portrait the committee uses for the scholarship information. In these photos, her hair bounces in playful red coils. It’s beautiful. I wish my hair was curly like that. My dark blonde hair always falls straight and flat within an hour whenever I’ve attempted to curl it. In Lily’s photos, her blue eyes sparkle with merriment and fun. If anyone were to describe my eyes, they’d say they were brown and serious.
I walk around the room, searching for some kind of proof that Will Duston was in their house the night Lily was killed. It’s impossible, I know. If the cops didn’t find anything then, there’s no chance I’ll find something eighteen years later. There won’t be physical proof. But maybe, now that I’m in the room where she died, I’ll have a better death-memory.
Finally, when I step in front of the fireplace, a sudden deathpain hits me over my eyebrow. This is it. Right here. On the floor in front of the fireplace. I—Lily—was killed on this very spot. Through the pain, I try to open myself up to the memory and see something new.
But no. Nothing. Nothing. Just the same memory I have every time. The pink paperweight. The hatchet tattoo. The confusion. The helplessness. The terror. The “You left me no choice.”
I stumble to the sofa, biting my lips to keep from crying out. Please don’t let Mrs. Summerhays walk in and see me like this. Please.
I hold my skull so it won’t split open. Breathe.
One…
Two…
Three.
What was Lily doing the night she died, I wonder as the deathpain subsides. Why did Will Duston kill her? How did he frame Vinnie Morrison? How long had Diana Buckley known the truth? Being in this room, on the very spot where she died, isn’t giving me any answers.
Lily died in this room, this fancy, formal, adult space. It doesn’t feel like Lily in here. To connect with her, maybe I need to go to her bedroom.
Do I dare? Do I dare sneak up there?
That would be
1. Wrong.
2. Inappropriate.
3. Rude.
4. An invasion of privacy. Guests don’t go off uninvited to rifle through their hosts’ bedrooms.
But there’s a tiny part of me—okay, a huge part of me—that wants to see what I was like when I was Lily Summerhays. Who did I used to be, besides a girl with curly, copper hair? We share a soul; what else do we share?
I can hear Joey chatting away in the kitchen and Mrs. Summerhays’s delighted responses. This could be my only opportunity.
I creep to the stairs, my heart pounding a warning: don’t-do-this-don’t-do-this-don’t-do-this.
But I have to do it.
Go go go go go! I sprint up the stairs as fast as I can.
The door at the end of the hall is half-open, showcasing a white, four-poster bed and a fluffy pink comforter. Lily’s room.
This is so wrong. I can’t do this.
I push the door open wider and step inside.
Though dust-free, the room is cluttered. Messy and disorganized. Drawers half-open. Stacks of hastily-folded sweaters on the floor. Shoes and purses, their styles popular over fifteen years ago, spill from her closet. She doesn’t have curtains. Instead, international flags cover her windows. Posters—the Eiffel Tower, the Amazon rainforest, the city of Tokyo at night—cover almost every inch of her walls, as if she wanted to hide the pink paint.
Attached to bulletin boards with funky flower-shaped pins are lots of photographs. I recognize a teenage Miss Buckley in many of them, mugging for the camera with Lily or dressing up in costumes for Halloween and in elegant dresses for school dances. Miss Buckley wore her famous high heels even back then. Lily wore Converse sneakers or Doc Martens with her dresses.
Best friends, now both dead. Both murdered by the same man, eighteen years apart.
I swallow the lump in my throat and scan the photos for a younger Principal Duston. Easy to recognize by his white-blond hair and those toothpicks, he’s in several of Lily’s group photos at parties and school events, but they’re never alone or even standing close to each other. Lily’s in several photos goofing around with a dark-haired boy whose clothes are too big on him, and she’s in a couple of posed school dance photos with another boy who has a dimple on his chin—he must be a young Seth Siegel, who is now the owner of Siegel Freight and Transport and my dad’s boss. Lily doesn’t look like she was in love with him, though. She looks bored more than anything. But Miss Buckley is in several photos kissing—no way. Brandon Lennox? The baseball star?
It has to be. Miss Buckley was Brandon Lennox’s girlfriend in high school. Wow. No wonder she was able to get him to finance the scholarship.
I need to hurry. I have no idea how long I’ve been up here, but I haven’t found anything useful yet. I scan the room one last time.
A globe stands in the corner—a big, ornately-painted globe suspended in a big wooden stand, with little yellow stickers dotting many of the countries. Greece. Italy. Israel. Japan. Nigeria. Turkey. Czechoslovakia. Spain. France. China. India.
A sticker on each of the countries I died in. Countries we died in.
Oh my God. Lily remembered.
It had never occurred to me that Lily had death-memories too. But of course she did. We have the same soul.
Relief pours out of me with a laugh. It’s not just me. Well, it is just me, but knowing my previous incarnations had the same death-memories as me somehow makes me feel less alone.
The globe is hinged, I notice, and it opens at the equator. Knowing I shouldn’t, but too curious to stop myself, I pry the two halves apart. With an aching, screaming creak, it splits. The interior is lined with green velvet, and tossed inside are several items:
1. A catalog for a college named Carroll-Freywood Global University.
2. A crumpled envelope from the same school with a letter inside.
3. An old, dirty box of Hot Tamales, empty.
4. A small purple case, like a cosmetic bag, decorated with hand-drawn Asian symbols.
5. A faded maroon Ryland High baseball cap.
What an odd collection. What do they mean? Why did Lily hide them in this globe?
I reach for the envelope so I can read the letter inside.
“Ever? Are you up here, sweetheart?”
I drop the envelope, and in a panic I close the globe, cringing at the angry creaking noise it makes. I step away from it as Mrs. Summerhays appears in the doorway. Is she angry that I’m in Lily’s room?
She doesn’t appear angry. “It’s been almost eighteen years,” she says wistfully, “but I’ve never been able to pack up her things.” She sits on the bed and smooths the comforter. “I like to come in here sometimes. It feels like her in here.”