Kill Me Once, Kill Me Twice

by Clara Kensie

  “I won’t get rid of anything of my mom’s,” I say. “But my dad won’t even go in their bedroom. He sleeps on the couch.”

  “That’s too bad,” she says. “Of course, I’ve had a lot longer to get used to it than he has.”

  “I’m sorry I came up here. I—” I shut my mouth. I can’t think of an excuse.

  “It’s okay, dear. You’re curious. You probably more than most. Not only are you a finalist for the scholarship, but you were born on the day she died. I’m touched that you want to know her.”

  Unable to speak, I can only nod.

  “That’s one of the reasons I started the scholarship. So no one would forget her. So she would be remembered as more than a victim.” She twists her lips. “You know, I think I remember your mother. She had that cute little bookstore on Main Street, didn’t she? Sweet little thing. Her name was… something with a flower.”

  My hand flutters to my necklace. “Daisy,” I croak.

  She gazes at me for a long time, as if she’s searching for something inside me. Technically, we were mother and daughter once. Does she feel a connection? Do I?

  Maybe so.

  The fine, distinguished lines on her face deepen into trenches as she stands and brushes herself off. “We should get back downstairs and eat those cupcakes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lily ~ Eighteen Years Ago

  As soon as Officer Paladino’s headlights disappeared, I ran all the way from Diana’s house to Railroad Bridge before stopping to catch my breath. It was probably 1 a.m. by now. If I’d taken the time to plan instead of impulsively dashing out of my house, I would have thought to bring a flashlight. All I had now was the moonlight. I padded onto the bridge, my footsteps echoing eerily into the foggy night air. This was the last place Neal was alive.

  I made my way across the bridge, plank by plank. Usually I sprinted, sure-footed, but this time I forced myself to go slowly to look for clues. Clues of what—I didn’t know. But I examined each plank, hoping to see something unusual.

  I made it all the way across, all the way to where the bridge ended on the Dustons’ property, and found not a single clue on the planks or on the train tracks. But I was kidding myself anyway. If anything had been here, the first train to come by would have obliterated it.

  Still, the bridge ended on the Dustons’ farm. If Will had something to do with Neal’s death, then maybe there was something here. I carefully stepped off the bridge and examined the land near the tracks.

  The Dustons’ farmhouse and barn were far off across the empty soybean field, illuminated by the moon. But there was nothing else here. Nothing by the train tracks or the gravel and weeds surrounding them. I didn’t know what I was looking for, so anything unusual would have caught my eye. But there was nothing.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, Red?”

  The voice surprised me so much that I stumbled and almost tripped over one of the railroad ties. Will leaned against his towering oak tree. “Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “What are you doing out here?” I tried to keep my tone casual. I was in the dark, with a murder suspect, at the same location of said murder, and no one else knew I was here.

  “Does it matter? It’s my land.”

  I ignored his question. “It’s one in the morning. Don’t you farmers do that cock-a-doodle-doo, wake-when-the-rooster-crows, ass-crack-of-dawn thing?”

  “It’s 1:25 in the morning. And my farm doesn’t have roosters, just soybeans. What are you doing here, Lily.” It wasn’t a question so much as a demand.

  “I… wanted to see you.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I thought you were really good with those kids at the training camp last week. You should be a coach. Or a teacher.”

  “You came all the way out here in the middle of the night to tell me that?”

  “I told you. I couldn’t sleep.”

  One brow cocked, he chuckled. “Typical Lily. You could have called instead, you know.”

  “Would you have picked up if you saw it was me on the caller ID?”

  He snorted. “Probably not.”

  “Seriously, Will. What are you doing out here at 1 a.m.? 1:25 a.m.?”

  His gaze locked on the bridge, he mimicked my shrug.

  He was about to spill. I had to keep him talking. “Why do we hate each other so much, anyway?”

  “Your dad’s company is ruining my dad’s farm.”

  “Your dad’s lawsuits are ruining my dad’s company.”

  Even in the dark, I could see his face reddening. Time to switch tactics. “But I don't want to ruin your farm,” I said. “I don’t care about Agri-So. You and I have never done anything to each other. It’s just our dads.”

  “True.” He glanced sideways at me, his eyes glinting. “But you are a pain in the ass.”

  I play-punched him in the arm. “You’re a hick cowboy wannabe.”

  He blinked sadly at me. The jokes were over before they’d even started, which was a good thing, because for a moment there I forgot that he was a murder suspect. “Sorry. I’ll go now.”

  I felt him watching me as I walked away. “You know, Lily, I feel really sorry for you.”

  His words made me stop in my tracks and turn around. “Me? Why?”

  “Because your whole life, all you’ve talked about is getting out of this town. You grew up hating your home. That’s really sad.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “You keep saying how awful and boring Ryland is and how much you can’t wait to leave it. You have the biggest house in town and you don’t have to lift a finger to get what you want. Yet you’re miserable. I have to get up early and do chores for two hours before school. I will have to work hard every day of my life and I’ll never be rich. But you know what? I’m happier than you. I always have been, and I always will be.”

  His words shocked me for a moment. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a spoiled, entitled little rich girl?” Angry tears stung my eyes. “You have no idea what my life is like, and you have no idea how little I care about money. I don’t want to leave Ryland so I can live some pampered life in a city penthouse or a mansion in the suburbs somewhere. I want to travel around the world, Will. As in, hike around it. I want to explore rainforests and dig in caves and climb mountains in countries most people around here have probably never even heard of. I want to actually see the world, Will. I don’t want to fly around it in a private jet.”

  He eyed me for a moment in the moonlight. “I know you hate it here. But I love it. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. All that money your dad makes running his company… money’s not real. This.” He knelt and picked up a handful of dirt, then let it dribble through his fingers. “This is real.” He gestured to his farmhouse in the distance. “That is real. I love it. I love the smell of it. The fresh air, working hard, growing my own food. To me, this is true living.”

  I blinked at him. “But there’s so much out there,” I said, throwing my arms wide. “How can you stand the thought of not experiencing it all?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not saying I never want to leave Ryland. Visiting places would be nice. But you need a place to return to. You need a home. That’s Ryland for me.”

  “The world is my home.” He didn’t know how true that was.

  Will kicked at the ground. “My brother Tommy just re-enlisted in the army for the third time. And Craig was just promoted to sales director at his firm in Chicago. They have no interest in farming and they never have. But running Duston Farm, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to carry on the family business. My parents just need to keep this place going for a little bit longer, and then I’m going to take it over.” He rubbed a soybean plant between his finger and thumb. “I’m going to turn Duston Farm into an organic farm. No pesticides. No chemicals. The organic market is going to be huge one day.”

  “You know about marketing and stuff like that?”

  “I do for a
griculture.”

  I chewed my lip. “So I guess even if we stop hating each other, you’ll never be one of Agri-So’s customers. An organic farmer has no need for chemically enhanced soil.”

  He chuckled. “Guess not.”

  Though I had known Will my whole life, and I’d been spending lots of time with him lately, I looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time. Or maybe it was the first time I truly saw him.

  What I saw was peace. His wide eyes, his easy breath, the casual way he leaned against the tree, his quick laughter. His face, even in the moonlight, was flushed with the health only fresh air and sunshine can give. He wanted more for his farm, but he didn’t have a constant yearning for more out of life. He didn’t feel stifled. Ryland didn’t suffocate him. Ryland freed him.

  I was suddenly aware of how close we were standing. I had walked toward him and didn’t even realize it, and now we were just inches apart. He must have noticed it too, because he stepped away. “It’s late. I need to get some sleep. You know us farmers. Cock-a-doodle-doo, crow-of-the-rooster, ass-crack-of-dawn and all that.”

  “Oh.” Why was I disappointed? It was becoming harder and harder to believe it, but he was a killer. Probably. “I should get home too.”

  “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “No, that’s okay. The muffler in that old pickup of yours will wake up my parents.”

  He snorted. “Ol’ Blue is out of commission. I’ll take my parents’ car.”

  “Better not risk it. I’ll walk.”

  “Careful crossing that bridge,” he called.

  Was he warning me not to fall off the bridge, or was he warning me not to let him push me off? I rushed as fast as I dared to the other side of the creek. When I looked back, he was still under the tree, watching me. Then he turned and ambled through his field toward his house.

  Now that the clouds had cleared, the moon gave me a bit more light so it was easier to pick my way through the woods along the train tracks.

  That was why I saw it. At the end of the bridge. The moonlight reflected on something glossy lying in the dirt and weeds.

  A box of Hot Tamales. Neal Mallick’s favorite candy.

  I plucked it from the ground. Something was on it, something the dew had made sticky. Something rusty-red.

  It could only be blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ever ~ Present Day

  Sunday morning, I leave Joey with Dad—who’ll probably just send him next door to play with Hayden all day—and head down the street to meet Ash. My meeting with Mrs. Summerhays yesterday failed to help us prove Principal Duston killed Lily, but Ash said he has another idea.

  “Hey! Ever! Hold up!” To my surprise, Keith is rushing across the street to me. His maroon Warriors cap is too big and it bounces up and down over his sleepy eyes.

  I give him a kiss. “Why are you up so early? It’s only nine o’clock. You usually sleep until at least noon on Sundays.”

  “My parents are making me help out at The Batter’s Box more,” he says, giving me another kiss. “Come with me.”

  “Can’t,” I say. “I have plans.”

  “Again? You’ve had a lot of plans lately.” He pouts and nibbles on his fingernail. “I never see you anymore.”

  “I know.” I place my palm on his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  I think quickly. “A group project for school. One of my AP classes.” God, I hate lying to my boyfriend. The only thing I’ve ever had to lie about—to Keith, to Courtney, to everyone—are my death-memories. Meeting with Ash today is directly related to that.

  “Well, bring the group to the diner.” Keith grins and does a cute little wiggle. “I’ll get you all free waffles.”

  I shake my head. “You’re sweet, but I can’t. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Come over for dinner. We can study together after.” I give him another kiss and rush away before he can protest.

  I hustle to the corner of Jefferson and Van Buren, a quiet road that leads out of town. Ash is already there waiting for me, his motorcycle leaning against a tree. The day is warm enough for me to go out in just a sweater, but he’s still wearing his leather jacket. I’m kind of glad—I like the way he smells when he wears it. Leather and spice and strength.

  “We’re going to go talk to a friend of mine today,” he says, not even bothering to say hello or good morning. “He grew up with Will Duston and Miss Buckley and Lily Summerhays. He might be able to give us some history into their relationship.”

  “Sounds promising,” I say.

  Ash gestures to his bike. “Hop on.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face and my heart flutters with panic. “No way. Over five thousand people a year die in motorcycle accidents.”

  “I promise you won’t die today. Look, you can wear my helmet.”

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  He rakes his hand through his hair. “We could walk there, cut through some fields, I guess, but it’s pretty far. How much time do you have?”

  “I have all day.” I’d rather walk a hundred miles than get on that motorized bicycle of death.

  He grumbles, and together we trudge down the road. I have no idea where he’s taking me. Van Buren is poorly paved—dangerous for motorcycles, I note with satisfaction—and surrounded on both sides by cornfields and soy fields. It’s used mostly by farmers on their big John Deeres. The sun, feeling more May than March, beats down on us.

  “This would be so much faster if you had a car,” Ash says crossly as he takes off his leather jacket.

  “Yes it would,” I say. “But I don’t. And, I should point out, neither do you.”

  “Let me guess. Twenty thousand people die in car accidents each year.”

  “Actually, it’s thirty-three thousand in the United States, one-and-a-quarter-million worldwide. Young people more than anyone else.”

  “You let your boyfriend drive you around.”

  “Keith’s a very safe driver.”

  “So that’s why you like him.”

  “Yes.” Then I add, “Among other things.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “He’s dependable, loyal—”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes,” I say immediately. Then I stop walking. There was a ridiculous rumor last year about Keith and some Eastfield girl after a baseball tournament. I didn’t believe it. “Whatever you heard, it isn’t true.”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Ash says. He doesn’t stop walking, and I have to run a few steps to catch up to him.

  “Keith is dependable and loyal and sweet!” I almost shout it.

  Now Ash stops. “So he’s like a dog.” He pants and brings his hands up to his chest, bending them like paws. “Oh, Ever, please love me. Please spend every single second with me, Ever. I love you, Ever.”

  “Stop it. He’s not like that.”

  “He’s dumb as a dog too.”

  “Just because he’s not in our AP classes doesn’t mean he’s dumb,” I say, my blood boiling.

  “Admit it, Ever. Keith Stout has no brains and no ambition.”

  “Keith Stout is a good boyfriend,” I say. “He loves me and I love him.”

  At the rumble of a tractor behind us, Ash grabs me around the waist and yanks me to the side of the road. “If he’s that amazing,” he says into my ear, “why isn’t he here with us? Why haven’t you told him your theory that Duston killed Lily Summerhays and Miss Buckley?”

  “I… He…” My thoughts are all flustered, like my brain is being scrambled with a whisk. It’s the way his soft breath brushes my neck, the scent of leather from his jacket, his firm yet gentle grip around my waist, the way his hair falls over his eyes, the stubble on his jaw… together they sweep all ability to think from my head.

  I shake him off me. Any girl would be lucky to have Keith as a boyfriend. How dare Ash bring up untrue rumors that died a year ago? How dare Ash say anything ba
d about Keith? “At least Keith is nice. You are a jerk. ”

  One corner of Ash’s lip curls up into a smirk. “I’ve been called worse.”

  The tractor passes, and as we start down the road again, I make sure to leave lots of space between us. Van Buren ends, and instead of turning right toward the highway, Ash turns left onto a flat field. We don’t speak again, until a long, narrow paved road appears. In the distance is a yellow domed structure.

  I gasp. “You brought me to Soto Airfield?”

  “Statistically, flying is the safest mode of transportation,” Ash says. “It’s ten times safer than walking, which, I might point out, we’re doing right now. Only five hundred people a year die in plane crashes.” He’s grinning so hard and so triumphantly I think his cheeks are going to burst. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

  “I do know that, but I don’t care. No way am I getting in a plane, especially not one of those dilapidated single-engines. And stop using my death statistics against me.”

  He chuckles. “But you make it so easy. Don’t worry. We’re not flying today.”

  The runway is a half-mile long, and by the time we reach the yellow domed hangar, I’m exhausted, dirty, and thirsty. Ash walks right in and goes behind the front counter. He opens a little fridge, then tosses me a bottle of water from it.

  “You act like you own this place,” I say after I chug half the bottle.

  “I do janitorial stuff and maintenance on the planes in exchange for fly time. Miss Buckley arranged it for me.” He takes a long swig of his own bottle, almost emptying it.

  “You fly planes?”

  “Since I was fourteen,” he says. “And one day, I’ll fly a space shuttle.” He looks a little lost at those words. He clears his throat and heads deeper into the hangar, toward one of the planes.

  The single-engine is huge up close, and though I expected it to be constructed out of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue, it actually looks pretty sturdy. Standing high on wheeled scaffolding, a man in brown coveralls leans over the plane’s engine. Ash calls to him. “Hey! Javier!”