I follow him anyway because I’m not sure what else to do. Traffic is already starting to build on Main Street, sleek European cars purring to a stop at the row of traffic lights. Spencer leads us across the street, to the part of Fairview I never visit.
Proud stone and brick houses perch in well-spaced rows, with green lawns stretching out before them like velvet skirts. The trees are bare, but hardly any lawns sport more than a couple of dead leaves. It’s as if the whole autumn shed never happened at all.
Spencer seems unaffected, but I’m gawking as we walk. The houses grow larger and more imposing with every block. He turns left on a wide, divided road, with a narrow strip of shade trees and lush grass between the lanes.
Everything smells crisp and clean, and I’m painfully aware of my dirty jeans and bright shoes. The house to the left sits like the homecoming queen of the block: eight tall paned windows across the front and an honest-to-God turret on the left side. A winding brick walkway leads to a porch with potted mums and artful arrangements of gourds in large wicker baskets. Stone benches nestle in the flower beds, beneath carefully trimmed evergreens. It’s like the cover of a magazine.
I’m still gaping at it when Spencer turns in, not sparing a glance for the magnificence. It takes a second for my brain to wrap around what he’s doing and what it means as he bounds up the steps to the front door. He lives here. The boy that spent the night with me on the floor of the library bathroom lives in this house.
I hang back, feeling out of place on the sidewalk—in this neighborhood altogether. He motions me forward, pulling out a key that he fits in the ornate brass door handle.
“Aren’t they still here?” I ask.
“Doubt it,” he says. “And it wouldn’t matter. I have friends over all the time.”
I hesitate, feathering my hands over my hair again. Then scoffing at myself for the effort.
Sure, Mallory. Smooth down the flyaways and you’ll blend right in.
“Are you coming?”
I force myself to march my feet across the pristine bricks and up the steps. The door is enormous. Three times as wide as the one that opens into my apartment, this one has glass inserts and an elaborate brass knocker.
Spencer is already inside, shuffling through some mail he finds on a table inside the foyer. Foyer isn’t a word I’d normally use, but there is nothing else you could call this room. It’s sure as heck not a plain old entry, not with the giant chandelier hanging above us and gleaming wood tables flanking the door.
A staircase leads up the center, splitting left and right to separate sections of the upstairs. To my left I can see a room with an expansive fireplace and plush leather furniture.
I shift my bag. My shoulders are tense, and sweat trickles from my armpits. Spencer toes off his shoes so I follow suit, but I pick mine up, feeling painfully conscious of every move. Like even my socks will mar the stone tile beneath us.
Spencer separates the mail that isn’t his on the table and flips through a magazine with hockey players on the cover. I follow him through a living room that could seat twenty, a widescreen TV above the fireplace and built-in bookshelves nestled between the windows. Everything is coordinated; the lacquered pots with houseplants and the sleek wood frames around the monochromatic art.
I’ve never been in a house like this. I’ve never even seen one from a distance. It doesn’t feel like a place someone actually lives. There’s no afghan flung over the sofa or forgotten water glass on the end table. Even the wastebaskets I pass are entirely empty, clean, plastic liners glaring up at me.
“There might be some leftover pizza,” Spencer says, his voice echoing from a place deeper in the house.
I follow the sound into a sprawling kitchen with marbled countertops and dark cabinets. There are two sets of sinks. I stare at this, dumbfounded. Why would you need two—well, technically four—sinks in a kitchen? Spencer’s rummaging around in drawers, and then pulling open a cabinet under the counter. Except it’s not a cabinet. It’s a dishwasher in disguise.
The entire house is insane. Beautiful, yes, but in a way that borders on uncomfortable. I knew he was wealthy, but something tells me this house is over the top, even for here.
Spencer’s oblivious though. He slides two plates across the long, counter-height bar and heats pizza in a toaster oven. I watch him mutely, nodding when he offers water and then fills our glasses from a fridge twice the size of mine.
When the pizza’s done, Spencer takes a seat across from me and starts devouring. I ease myself onto the edge of a stool across from him, setting my shoes carefully on my lap. My stomach is so tense, I can’t imagine eating, so I pick at the cheese and glance around. More house unfolds to the right, an open dining room with a fluted glass bowl in the center. Beyond that, a second living room holds couches and chairs in earth tones and a vase of fresh cut flowers.
Spencer is picking up his second piece when he stops, eyes wide. “Wait, do you have an allergy or something?”
“To pizza?”
“I don’t know. Dairy or gluten or whatever. I didn’t ask.”
“No.” I force myself to take a bite, but now he’s watching, and as much as I try to school my face to nonchalance, I think he’s figured it out. I swallow the chunk of pizza, but I didn’t chew it enough, and it hurts going down. I take a drink of water to help, and Spencer’s still watching me when I put the glass down carefully.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—” I gesture around, a little lost for words.
He glances around himself, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Yeah, I know. Mom’s a real estate agent. She lives to stage houses.”
I don’t really know what that means, but I nod and take another bite. Spencer rolls his eyes in the general direction of the living room.
“I swear to God, I could build a second Everest with the number of throw pillows that come through this door. You should see her bed.”
I laugh, my shoulders easing down from my ears. I manage a full piece of pizza and half of another before I push my plate away, thanking him.
“You mind?” he asks, then finishes my piece before taking both dishes and our napkins. I shift on the stool, careful not to touch the shiny counter, my shoes still propped in my lap.
“Come on. I’ll show you the pool house.”
“I’m not staying. Remember?”
“The library is either occupied or possessed. Remember?”
Unease prickles under the skin at my nape. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“What?”
“That it’s haunted.”
“Logically? No.” But then he sighs. “But I can’t figure out who would have been in there. The police already searched the building. And I watched everyone leave last night.”
“Maybe they were quiet,” I say.
“So they could run around sobbing later?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my stomach rolling uneasily. “They’re going to find that message. Do you think they’ll close the library again?”
“Probably not. Why? You eager to get back?”
“The library open and full of people seems less scary. I still have tests to finish.”
“Do you mind if I take a quick shower? I can drop you off there when I’m done.”
“Okay,” I say, not moving from the stool.
He comes around the island to face me, his gaze dropping to the shoes in my lap. An expression like pain flashes over his features, and I flinch.
“Mallory, you don’t have to hold your shoes. And you can take off your backpack.”
“It’s fine,” I say, hating the way my voice squeaks. I swallow against the lump rising in my throat.
He reaches for the shoes, and emotion snaps, electric hot in my chest. “I said it’s fine.”
He watches me for a moment and then leads me out on the patio withou
t a word. It’s not ridiculously big like the kitchen, but it’s beautiful here by the pool too, bird feeders and a round table with eight chairs grouped under a large umbrella.
The pool is covered with a clean, white tarp, but he leads me toward it, curving left at a stack of poolside loungers, to enter a small brick building with paned windows—a perfect match to the house.
“It’s not much,” he says with an absent wave at the barely worn plush couch. A small fireplace sits in the south wall, and two windows overlook the pool. There are no windows facing the house. Logically, I know this is a plus. I also know he’s giving me this tour trying to convince me to stay. And I feel irrationally angry about it.
I swallow down the emotion and nod as he points out the floor to ceiling cabinets where they keep beach towels and the small, but nicely appointed bathroom with a shower. Soap and shampoo wait in large pump bottles on the floor, and I practically salivate at the memory of warm water sluicing through my hair.
I should say something. I really should. But what?
“I really can’t stay,” I say softly.
“You can,” he says. “And you can put down your shoes. And you can take off that bag. Please, Mallory. I want you to stay.”
“I told you that I can’t.”
“What if you stayed for the morning? You could work here while I run to hockey, and then I can take you back to the library. Will you at least take off your backpack?”
“I don’t want to take off my backpack!” My shout is a shock to us both, but it’s too late to take it back.
I’m suddenly breathing harder. Faster. Why am I doing this? Why am I angry with this guy who’s been nothing but nice to me?
“What’s going on?” he asks softly.
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do, and I don’t need you to save me, okay?”
“Carrying your bag means I’m saving you?”
“No, this. All of this.”
I walk outside quickly, past the pool and up the patio stairs. I’m being a jerk, but I don’t know how to talk to him about this. Spencer’s family doesn’t want guests to see they own a dishwasher, and I’m going to explain why I need to stand back up on my own when the world knocks me down? The world doesn’t knock people like him down. It pushes them higher.
Spencer catches my elbow gently, and I turn, shamed by the tears I feel gathering.
“It’s just a pool house,” he says. “I know it doesn’t solve anything.”
“Do you?” My voice cracks. I gesture up at the house behind me. “Look at where you’re from!”
I shake my head, angrier with myself by the moment. I have no reason to take this out on him. He got dealt a better hand at birth, but that’s not his fault. None of this is his fault, and I want to stop being this way. I do. But all this pain is gushing out. Terrible words are coming out of me no matter how hard I try to hold them in.
“I know you mean well, Spencer, but you don’t have a clue of what I’m going through or how to help me.”
“I agree,” he says softly, and then his hands are on my face, his index fingers tracing the swell of my cheeks, his thumbs resting under my chin. It diffuses me, turning my anger to anguish in the span of a breath.
I don’t know his touch to crave it, but it feels like craving when he traces my jaw, lifting my face until our eyes meet. My vision is blurred with tears, but I can still see the shift of his irises, blue, then green, then a shade too pale to name.
I swallow hard. “I don’t want to be your hero project. The sad girl you helped that one November.”
He laughs. “Mallory, in the last six weeks, I’ve served twenty-six minutes in a penalty box, three separate sessions in morning detention, and I’ve been arrested.”
“I don’t follow.”
He plucks at one of the straps of my backpack, and I move my shoulders, letting him sling it off me.
“I’m not really the hero type.”
The patio door opens and I jump back so fast, it’s a miracle I don’t fall down the stairs. My heart is pounding, and it’s all I can do not to sprint from the scene like a thief.
“Isn’t it a little cool for patio entertaining?”
The sun is behind the house, so it’s hard to make out who’s at the door. I cup my hand over my eyes. I catch a glimpse of cashmere sweater and long, blond hair, and I instantly remember the photo albums. It’s his sister.
Spencer
Sunday, November 19, 9:05 a.m.
Mallory jumps like Allison showed up with a badge and a gun.
“Hey. I thought you and Mom were at that museum opening,” I say.
“We are. Well, we were at the pre-tour breakfast. I forgot my wallet.”
“I thought it was an all-inclusive thing since Mom’s on the board.”
“I need my wallet for the fund-raiser after,” she says, and then I see her face shift when she looks at Mallory. The vague new-friend interest in her eyes sharpens, and my stomach clenches because I know why.
It’s barely 9:00 a.m., and I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes and standing next to an equally rumpled girl. If I know my sister—and I do—it will take about three seconds before she makes the mental leap from our appearance to the fact that I wasn’t home last night.
She thinks I spent the night with her, and she’s not wrong. But she’s not right either.
I’m about to say something when Allison smiles and extends her freshly manicured hand to Mallory. “I’m so rude! I’m Allison, this charming guy’s older sister.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Mallory says politely. She shakes her hand, but doesn’t offer her name, which doesn’t go unnoticed.
Allison is quiet for a few long seconds, but instead of the suspicious questions I expect, her eyes are all mischief when she asks, “So what are you two up to?”
I glare, and she takes the hint with a cough that covers her laugh.
“I should get back before Mom flays me. It was really nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Mallory says, still not offering her name.
“See you later, Spencer.”
It’s an awkward departure. Allison walks slowly, and I half expect her to march back and start drilling me. Only that’s not her style. She’ll ask me later.
I wonder what Mallory sees when she looks at my sister. Her fresh-from-Italy sunglasses and boutique dress? A pampered Fairview princess?
Her words from before come back to me like a slap. Look at where you’re from.
For all I know it’s what Mallory sees when she looks at me too. Spoiled rich kid. Mommy on the board and a pool in the back. It’s funny because it’s not even an exaggeration. But one roll of the dice, and this all could have been different.
I feel myself on top of the library again, gazing down at a world that has always been mine and has never felt less like me.
“I’m going to go,” Mallory says, jarring me out of my head.
“You don’t have to leave.”
“Thank you for the pizza,” she says, taking her bag back and hitching it on her shoulder. Her eyes drift downward. “I’m sorry. I was awful, and you’ve been so kind. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, stay. This isn’t about charity. You’re better than this, Mallory. You’re the kind of person who should have all the opportunities. You know what you’re doing. You probably have a ten-year plan.”
“Ten-year plan?” She laughs, and it sounds sad. “I don’t even know what I’m doing next week, but that’s my problem. I’ll sort it out.”
I feel like a bowling ball has been dropped into my chest. Mallory has a choice between bad and awful, and she’s settled. I have all the options—a golden ticket to make any choice I please, and instead of using it, I’m choking on it.
Even though I don’t say a word, Mallory reads my eyes. Her chin comes up. No smil
e. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re obsessed with helping me because it’s easier.”
“Easier than what?”
“Then figuring out what you need.”
“With my kingdom of throw pillows? What else could I need?”
She doesn’t bite the joker’s hook I toss. Her eyes turn sad. “Maybe something that makes you happy,” she says. “Because clearly none of this does.”
• • •
I arrive at the library at 3:00. I’m sore from a bad check in the 11:30 hockey practice and startled by the detective in the circulation office. For one ridiculous minute, I consider bolting, and then I realize I’m probably not going to prison for staying overnight in the library. If I’m caught, I’m caught.
Though if I am caught, I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining that yes, I was in the library all night with a runaway girl from Whitestone, but no, we did not write the creepy message on the stairwell wall. That was another library trespasser who disappeared in the middle of the night while we were cuddling on a bathroom floor.
Gretchen pops her head out, no trademark smile in sight. “Spencer? We had another incident. Would you mind trying to help us fill in any pieces you might have?”
I’d rather eat my own jock strap, but I follow her into the office. Besides the detective I saw through the open door, Ruby, and Mr. Brooks are there. I step in, my knees loose and weak.
“Good morning, Mr. Keller,” Mr. Brooks says, lifting his coffee cup off the clipboard in his lap. “You helped with the messages on the bulletin board, right?”
“Yes, with Gretchen. Were there more?” I’m not sure if a lie can be posed in the form of a question, but I feel guilty all the same.
“Did you see the stairwell?” Mr. Brooks asks.
My heart trips itself, but I shake my head. If they’ve got me, this is going to backfire badly. But if not, I can’t say anything that would indicate I was here last night. Because all roads involving last night lead to Mallory, and she can’t be anywhere near this.
“There was a message on the stairwell,” Mr. Brooks says.
“Like the last ones?”
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