Kill Me Once, Kill Me Twice

by Clara Kensie

  From Keith, 1:15 p.m.: Why the hell aren’t you texting me back?

  From Courtney, 1:20 p.m.: Keith is really mad, Ev. Gotta say, I am too.

  From Courtney, 1:26 p.m.: Whatever Ash Morrison is telling you, it’s a lie. He’s tricking you so he can win that scholarship.

  From Courtney, 1:27 p.m.: You’re ruining everything.

  I need to call her. This is too important for a text. We’ve never argued before. Never even disagreed on anything before.

  She answers on the first ring but says nothing.

  “Hi, Court,” I say. “I’m so sorry for not texting you back today.”

  She still says nothing. Frenetic, heavy metal music comes through the phone, something she doesn’t usually listen to. The low, angry bass clashes with the high-pitched squeaks of Cheeks’s hamster wheel.

  What would Courtney say if I told her that I rode on Ash Morrison’s motorcycle and visited his father on death row, and that Keith told me he bought a plot of land for a house for us, but only if I stop hanging out with Ash?

  I don’t tell her the first part. But I’ve never fought with my best friend before, and I want to make things right. So I tell her the second part.

  It works, because for the first time in weeks, she’s not upset with me. “Oh my God! That’s basically a marriage proposal. You said yes, right?”

  I grin. Best friends once again. “We’re not even out of high school yet, Court,” I remind her. “It’ll be a few years before anything happens.” Then I add, “And a lot could change between now and then.”

  “You and Keith are the perfect couple. You’re made for each other.”

  I’m ready to stop talking about Keith. “How was your softball game?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. “Horrible. We lost five to one.”

  “Yikes, what happened?”

  “My pitches were off. I walked four players. The coach pulled me out in the fourth inning and benched me.”

  “You’re allowed to have one bad day,” I say.

  “I’m having a lot of bad days lately,” she whimpers, and she sounds like she’s about to cry.

  “Court, no! What’s wrong?”

  It takes her even longer to respond this time. “I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. End-of-senior-year stuff. Lots of tests coming up and I suck at tests. Softball. College. The Training Camp. I really want it to be special this year.”

  It’s a lot of work to plan the Little Warriors Training Camp, but it’s worth it because it’s such a fun event. This year, however, it seems so unimportant and frivolous. An innocent man is about to be executed. A killer is walking free. That killer could be any one of a hundred suspects.

  And all of those suspects used to be on the baseball team.

  My heart surges with adrenaline as I get an idea.

  “You know what we should do,” I say. “We should invite all of the former players to come to the Training Camp.” I’m amped up, pacing Joey’s room and sweeping errant LEGOs out of the way with my foot. “You know, the guys who used to be on the team. Especially the ones who played on the state championship teams. They can play an exhibition game. That would make this year really special.” Deathpain surges over my eye at the thought of being on a baseball field with one hundred men who have that hatchet tattoo, but it might be a good opportunity to identify Lily’s real killer.

  “That’s a good idea,” Courtney says, a little enthusiasm returning to her tone. “Lots of them still live around here, and I bet my dad keeps in touch with most of them. I can get their contact info from him.”

  “Forward their info over to me,” I say. “I’ll send them an e-vite.” One bird, two stones: I can help my overwhelmed friend, and Ash and I will be better able to investigate the players if we have a list of their names, email addresses, and other personal information.

  Another idea strikes me, one that makes me stop in my tracks. “Hey, how long has your dad been the coach? Twenty-five years, right?”

  “Twenty-six,” says Courtney.

  I’ve been to the Nolan house hundreds of times, slept overnight dozens of times. Eaten dinner at their kitchen table. I often feel that Coach Nolan is more of a father to me than my own dad. Yet I’ve never seen a tattoo on Coach’s wrist either. Maybe Vinnie was wrong about the tradition. Maybe he was just messing with me.

  “Your dad doesn’t have a tattoo, does he?” I ask. “Two crossed hatchets on his wrist? One with a red handle, one with a yellow handle?”

  “Are you talking about that old state championship thing?” Court asks. “That tattoo was something the players did. Not the coach.”

  I sit down hard on Joey’s bed, feeling both relieved and disappointed. Relieved that Coach is not the killer. Disappointment that Vinnie had not lied.

  “Why are you asking about that?” Courtney asks.

  I don’t want to completely lie to my best friend, so once again, I tell her only half the story. “I just heard about the tattoos for the first time today.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all you do is study and take care of Joey. You don’t do anything or go anywhere. The only places you go are your house, my house, The Batter’s Box, and school. You’ve never even been to the pool at the YMCA. You probably would have seen that tattoo on some of the dads there at least.”

  I’ve never gone swimming because I drowned in the early 1600s. If I’d at least gone to the pool, I probably would have seen that tattoo on some shirtless man’s wrist before. And not just at the pool—any man wearing a short-sleeved shirt anywhere around town. Why haven’t I ever noticed? Because I’m always looking down at my feet to make sure I don’t trip over anything, or looking at my food as I cut it into small bites so I don’t choke, or looking up at the ceiling to check for smoke alarms so I don’t burn in a fire. I never look at people.

  How much life have I missed because I’m too busy trying not to die?

  “I guess I’ve always been kind of out of it, haven’t I?” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I’m just glad you’re done with Ash Morrison. Now things can finally get back to normal. Hey, did you ever ask your dad if you can come with me to Chicago for my birthday?”

  “I’m not done with Ash,” I say.

  “Of course you are. Keith is building you a house.”

  “That doesn’t—Court, we’re still working on that project. I can’t be done with Ash just because Keith is building me a house.”

  “But that was the deal,” she says. “No more Ash.”

  “Keith had no right to give me that ultimatum,” I say. “I love him, but that was wrong. And besides, there’s only a couple weeks left in the project. Once it’s over, it’s over. Regardless of the outcome, Ash will be out of my life.” It does not hurt my heart to say that. It does not.

  “Ash the astronaut,” Joey murmurs from his place on the floor, flying one of his cars in the air like a rocket. “Three, two, one, liftoff!”

  “What is this project?” Courtney snaps into the phone. “You spend hours on it, but no one else at school is doing one and you can’t tell anyone what it is.”

  “It’s, um…”

  “Right. You don’t have to tell me. I know what this project is,” she says. “Ash convinced you that his father is innocent. But he’s lying. He’s just trying to get you to give up the scholarship.”

  “But what if his dad is innocent?”

  “Have you found any evidence of that?” She sounds like she’s trying very hard not to lose patience with me.

  “Nothing solid,” I admit. “But I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “The right thing to do, Ever, is to forget about Vinnie Morrison, forget about Ash, get your scholarship, and be with Keith and live the life you’ve worked so hard for. That’s the right thing.”

  “So we’re just supposed to let his father be executed for a crime he didn’t commit?”

  “He did do it, Ever,” she
huffs. “They have evidence. He confessed. My God. You worked so hard your entire life to get that scholarship. How can you do this to Keith? How can you do this to your mother? You promised her on her death bed that you’d go to college. What would she think if she knew you were giving up your chance at that scholarship just to hang out with Ash Morrison?”

  I blink away hot, sudden tears as grief grips my heart like a claw. My mother. I need my mother. She would know what to do.

  I clutch the daisy charm on my necklace and I must make a noise because Joey looks up at me, alarmed. I swipe the tears from my eyes and force a smile. Cheeks stops running on her wheel. “Why do you care so much?” I ask Courtney.

  “Because you’re my best friend and I love you, and I’m trying to stop you from messing up your entire life,” Court says. “Everything was perfect before you started hanging out with that guy. Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”

  One hundred hatchet tattoos. One hundred murder suspects. I need my mother, but Vinnie needs me. Ash needs me. Lily needs me.

  I know what my mother would want me to do.

  “I’m not going to stay away from him,” I tell Courtney.

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lily ~ Eighteen Years Ago

  The barn at Old Sutton Farm had been sitting there, crumbling and abandoned, for longer than I’d been alive. The grass surrounding it was higher than my waist. The paint had been rained off years ago, leaving the wood rotting and gray. As far as I knew, not even Vinnie Morrison and his buddies came here to do their drug deals, although it would have been the perfect spot. Ironically, the only people in Ryland who paid attention to Old Sutton Farm were my mother, who called it an eyesore, and my father, who wanted to buy the land one day to expand Agri-So.

  The car that hit Neal Mallick was in that barn. I just knew it.

  After my plane ride with Javier this afternoon, instead of going home, I came here, to Old Sutton Farm. I trampled through the weeds and grass toward the dilapidated barn. I was right—a car had been driven, or at least rolled, through this grass recently. The grass wasn’t flattened, but there was a definite trail of broken blades.

  I’d poked around this barn a few years ago when I was looking for a place to make a haunted house for Halloween, but I couldn’t get inside because the doors were boarded up with six two-by-fours. Those same rotting two-by-fours were still nailed to the door frame, but hey, would you look at that: the nail heads were shiny. Not rusty.

  Someone had been here recently. Someone had pried the two-by-fours off the barn doors, rolled the car in, then nailed the two-by-fours back on. With new nails.

  Ha. I had it.

  I started to pull on the boards.

  No. Stop. Think. If Neal’s killer came back, he’d see the boards had been pried off and know that someone had been here after he was. I had to find a different way in.

  The sun was setting. My parents would be expecting me home soon.

  Think.

  Could I get in through a window? No, the windows were boarded up with sheets of plywood. No luck there.

  A chirping bird flew by and landed on the roof.

  The roof.

  Ten minutes later, I crouched on a branch of the tall tree that was next to the barn. I’d died once while climbing the tallest tree in the Amazon rainforest. Climbing this dinky tree in Ryland was not a big deal at all. All I needed to do now was jump onto the roof. A micro-thought flitted through my brain that if I missed, I would fall to my death, just like in the Amazon. But this was one time when I couldn’t afford to think. I had to act.

  So I did.

  I pushed with my legs, propelling myself from the branch onto the angled roof. I

  slipped

  slid

  scrambled

  sliced

  my palms open on the ledge as I hauled myself up and over the edge. I lay flat on the roof, hiding myself, sucking in deep breaths.

  When I could breathe again, I wiped my bloody palms on my jeans—shoot, these were Diana’s, she’d kill me when she saw how I’d messed them up—carefully rolled onto my stomach and looked around. More wood, tar, and rotting shingles. In the corner, the roof looked soft, like it was caving in.

  All I needed was a little hole in the roof. Something I could peek through. The sun was setting fast, making my shadow long, and I needed to see in there before it got too dark.

  I should have brought a flashlight. But I hadn’t thought to bring one. God, why did I always rush into things? Impulsive, irresponsible Lily. If I’d planned for this, I would have—

  The roof gave way, and I fell.

  It wasn’t time to end my existence as Lily Summerhays yet because I landed in a pile of moldy grass and hay. I checked to make sure my diamond pendant survived the fall. It had. I was filthy, stinky, and a little sore, but alive. And best of all, I was inside the barn.

  And sitting right in front of me, out in the open, well, as open as you could get inside a dim abandoned barn, was a car.

  There was just enough light coming through the hole in the roof that I could see that the car was cobalt blue, with scraped paint and a broken headlight.

  And a dent in the front bumper.

  Oh, poor Neal. This was the car that hit him. I was right.

  I rushed over to it. Whose car was it? Blue, shiny, sleek, with no back seat. A Dodge Viper. I didn’t recognize it at all. As far as I knew, no one in Ryland drove a sports car like this. No license plates on it either.

  I walked around the Viper, slowly, carefully, deliberately, looking at every detail. The trunk was down, but it wasn’t latched shut. I lifted it open and looked inside. The tiny trunk was empty, just a box of emergency items and one of those metal things you use to unscrew the lug nuts on a tire when you had a flat.

  And there was something else. A single red pill. Only I knew it wasn’t a pill. It was a Hot Tamale.

  Neal had been in this trunk.

  Sudden hot tears burned my eyes as anger boiled up inside me. The driver had an emergency first aid kit in his trunk! He didn’t even try to help Neal. Poor Neal. Had he still been alive when the driver shoved him in the trunk, probably folding his broken body so it would fit?

  Damn him. Damn him! I was going to find out who did this if it was the last thing I did.

  I shook my head as I swiped the tears away. I had the murder weapon, but I didn’t know who owned it, and I couldn’t ask anyone without drawing suspicion.

  “Think, Lily.” I actually said the words out loud to myself. “Think.”

  There might be something inside the car that would identify the owner. He or she had taken off the license plates, but maybe there was a forgotten insurance card inside. Or a credit card receipt. Or a bill. Something with the owner’s name on it, or the spouse’s.

  Opening the car door made the overhead light turn on, and by now the barn was so dark that even that small bit of light illuminated the car and some of the barn around it. I slid into the driver’s seat. This car was new—perfectly clean inside, and the strong leathery, clean new-car-scent was unmistakable.

  I looked in the glove compartment. Nothing, except for the owner’s manual. No clutter or garbage.

  Except what was that under the driver’s seat, peeking out just the tiniest bit?

  Something dark red—no, more of a maroon.

  I pulled it out.

  A baseball hat. A Ryland Warriors baseball hat.

  What was a Warrior’s hat doing in the car that killed Neal?

  There was only one explanation: someone from the baseball team had been in that car.

  A sudden cracking sound coming from the door made me gasp. Someone was here! Prying off the two-by-fours from the barn door.

  My heart in my throat, I dashed to the back of the barn to hide, then dashed back to the car. I shut the trunk, then the car door, as quietly as I could. I couldn’t close them all the way without making noise, so I shut them just enough so the
doors looked shut. But I couldn’t click them into place. Please let it be good enough.

  The barn door creaked open. I ran to the back of the barn and dove into the pile of dead grass and hay that I’d fallen onto earlier. The hay stunk, stinging my eyes and burning my nostrils. I blinked my eyes to cool them and breathed through my mouth. Slow breaths. Don’t sneeze.

  The old me would have stayed to confront him and probably gotten myself into a load of trouble. The new me, the thoughtful, cautious me, knew enough to stay put. Gather my evidence. Then go to the authorities.

  Instead of confronting him, I peeked through the pile of hay to see who was entering the barn. The opened door let in some light from the outside, but it was almost dark now, and all I could see was a tall, featureless shadow. But he had a familiar gait as he strode into the barn with quick, purposeful steps. A strut.

  I recognized that gait. My mind scrambled to match the shadow and the gait to the boys on the baseball team. Will? No, of course not. Seth? No. Brandon? No. Javier? No, no, no. None of them had that strut, and this guy was wider through the chest than any of the boys on the team.

  A fumbling, then a beam of bright light. Unlike me, Mr. Killer had thought to bring a flashlight.

  The beam of light aimed directly at the blue Viper, and I could no longer see the shadow holding the flashlight.

  He opened the door, then stood up straight with a little intake of breath. The beam of light darted around the barn.

  Did he notice the door was already open a little?

  I held my breath. Didn’t dare move farther behind the pile of hay.

  The light swept past me, blinding me for a second. Then the light aimed at the ground around the car. Footprints! Had I left footprints in the dirt around the car? I was wearing my Doc Martens. I didn’t have tiny feet, but they were too small to be a man’s print. The killer would know, at least, that a woman had been here.

  I let out my breath in a silent exhale as the flashlight aimed again inside the Viper, and the killer ducked to look inside.