Shallow Grave

by Alex van Tol

  News to me. I don’t read the paper or listen to the radio.

  “I haven’t heard anything about it,” I say. Even though I’m new to Wildwood, surely people are still talking about a missing person?

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t heard much, either, since school started up,” she says. “Maybe we talked it all out in June. And I guess life goes on. She was two grades ahead of me anyway.”

  “What do they think happened?”

  Shannon shrugs. “Some people said she ran away,” she says. “Too much pressure at home, too much pressure at school. She was the best at, like, everything. Good marks, lots of friends. She was expected to flatten everyone at the regional cheerleading championships, like she did the year before,” Shannon says. “But she never got the chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “She disappeared a week before the competition.” Shannon shrugs. “Maybe she just…took off. Maybe it was too hard to be such a perfect person.”

  Hear that. I could’ve had a whole big conversation with Jessica about it.

  “A lot of other people, though, they think her boyfriend killed her,” Shannon says.

  “This Troy guy?”

  She nods. “Troy Joliette, yeah. He didn’t even go to grad because that’s all anyone was talking about.”

  “They have anything on him?”

  “I didn’t follow it all that closely,” Shannon admits. “He went away to college this fall. I think he’s still a suspect though.”

  “Why do people think he did it?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think anyone thinks there’s any good reason, really. Troy and Jessica were totally in love.”

  I wouldn’t be so sure. I think about what my mom says. How you never know from the outside what people’s relationships are like on the inside. It explains a lot about her and my dad, she told me. How everyone thought they had it all together until one day they just…didn’t.

  “Maybe they weren’t as in love as everybody thought,” I say.

  Shannon looks doubtful. “Maybe not. But even if they weren’t that in love, I still can’t see it,” she says. “Troy was a really nice guy.”

  I think about how I felt about Shannon before I spent any time with her. The assumptions I made.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” I say.

  She nods. “For sure, they can.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “This Troy. He was the captain of the football team.”

  Shannon looks at me in shock. “How did you know?”

  “Captain of the football team dating the captain of the cheerleading team?” I laugh. “It’s the American Dream, baby.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “Yeah, but in the American Dream, your boyfriend’s not supposed to kill you.”

  That’s when the lightbulb above us shatters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I duck and cover. Shannon shrieks.

  What did we say that made the light explode? The American Dream thing? Or was it the thing about her boyfriend killing her?

  Listen.

  I’m all ears, I think.

  Now that there’s just the one lantern going in here, it feels downright scary. What if it goes out?

  I glance around for the other ones. Maybe I’ll light them back up.

  A noise from under a shelf makes my skin crawl. The Ouija board slides into view. It creeps toward us, scraping across the tiny grains of dirt strewn on the wooden floor. Ssshhkiff.

  My brain goes all swimmy for a few seconds.

  Shannon makes a tiny noise deep in her throat. She pulls her legs in tight to her chest.

  The board stops half a foot away from me.

  And how is it that the chalk hasn’t even started to fade?

  “I think she wants to talk,” I say.

  “I’m not so sure I want to talk,” Shannon says.

  When the lid rolls toward me—on its edge, like a hula hoop that a small child might roll down a country lane, the most normal thing in the world—Shannon takes a shaky breath.

  “I’m not so sure we have much choice,” I say.

  We watch as the lid settles itself on the board.

  HELLO.

  Adrenaline shoots into my lower gut. I think about the last time I touched that thing. The burning.

  Then I think about the door slamming on my fingers.

  And the pain in my head.

  Listen.

  We really have no choice.

  I reach out and pull the board toward me, ignoring the fear that flares in my belly.

  I put my fingers on the lid.

  Let’s get this show on the road.

  I look at Shannon. She’s biting her lip. Thinking.

  Then she puts her hands on. We lock eyes across the board, a couple of soldiers about to jump into combat without knowing whether our chutes will open.

  I’ll do the talking this time.

  The lone lantern flickers as I turn my attention to the board. “Are we speaking with Jessica?”

  A shiver arcs up my spine as the lid moves. Without hesitation it slides to YES.

  “How did you die, Jessica?”

  My scalp tightens as the letters are spelled out.

  R-O-P-E.

  My eyes skip away from the board, toward the coils of ropes hanging from large hooks on the wall.

  I look back at the board. “Were you strangled, Jessica?”

  YES.

  Shannon swallows and closes her eyes.

  “Did you die here, Jessica? In this boathouse?” We’ve already asked her whether she’s ever been in here, and she said no. But maybe she was wrong. Or lying. Because why else would she be here?

  NO.

  A ripple of relief floods me. Somehow it’s better to imagine that she didn’t actually die inside this place. But then, if not here…where?

  “Where did you die?”

  D-O-C-K.

  The same dock that’s just outside the door.

  Shannon makes a thin noise.

  “Where are you now, Jessica?” I ask. “Where is your body?”

  No answer.

  “Was she strangled and dumped?” Shannon asks. “What kind of boyfriend would do such a thing?”

  “If she was dumped,” I say, “then her body must still be in the lake.”

  “That’s, like, all around us,” Shannon whispers. “She could be anywhere. She could be right under us, Elliot.” She peeks down between her knees, like she can see into the water below.

  “Did Troy Joliette kill you?” I ask. Better get our facts straight.

  The lid flies to NO so fast, my fingers almost slide off.

  We exchange glances.

  “Not Troy?” Shannon says.

  Like a slapshot, the yearbook slides across the floor.

  Shannon screams. I can’t blame her. We should expect the unexpected by now, but I guess there’s still room for surprises.

  I jerk my leg away from where the book hits me. “Jesus.”

  We watch as the pages begin to turn, riffling forward, then backward. When they finally settle, we’re looking at a two-page photographic spread of the Wildwood Cheer Team.

  I sit back and take my hands off the board.

  Shannon’s attention pivots back to me. “Don’t take your hands off!”

  I shoot her a look of exasperation. “Or what? Or I’ll let the spirit out? Bit late for that.”

  She stares at me. Then, with an irritated little huff, she takes her hands off too. We look at the yearbook.

  “I don’t like this,” I say.

  She snorts. “Have you liked any of this?”

  I’m already edgy. I don’t want to be here any more than she does.

  And I didn’t even get us into this mess.

  I look straight at her. “It was going okay until you had your dumb idea to make a Ouija board.”

  She stares at me. “You’re blaming me for this?”

  I look around. “Uh, who else is there? It wasn’t my ide
a.”

  Shannon presses her lips together. When she speaks, her voice is tight. “Well, I’m not the genius who touched the Ouija board when he wasn’t supposed to,” she says.

  Something inside me snaps. “It wasn’t my fault, Shannon,” I roar.

  She recoils like I’ve slapped her.

  A cold wind pushes its way up through the cracks in the boathouse floor. The roof creaks. I look up to see dust spilling from a hole in the ceiling.

  Shannon looks up too. “Can’t this just be over?”

  Then she bursts into tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oh god. I feel awful. I shouted at her and made her cry.

  Like we don’t already have enough to deal with.

  I can’t stand the sight of Shannon with her hands over her face like this. I shuffle closer and put my arm over her shoulders.

  She lets herself lean against me. I pull her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her. She melts into my chest and tucks her head under my chin and cries and cries.

  Her hair smells like watermelons.

  After a while her sobs ebb into sniffles, but she’s shivering. We sit like that for I don’t know how long. Until she stops crying, I guess.

  Shannon wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands, leaving behind dark streaks from her makeup. She gives a quavery laugh.

  “That was weird,” she says. She’s still leaning against my chest.

  “What? That wind under the floor?”

  “No, the crying. Well, yeah, the wind too.” She takes a shuddery breath. “I haven’t bawled like that since I was maybe ten.”

  I give her a little squeeze. “Fear’ll do that to you.”

  She looks up at me. Her eyes are pretty in the lamplight. Her lashes are still wet.

  Cat’s eyes.

  “I guess,” she says. She gives me a little half smile.

  And before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m kissing her. I feel her gasp of surprise, but she’s right there to meet me, her hands twining up around and behind my neck. Her mouth feels like velvet.

  We pull away and look at each other, shocked. She stares at me, wide-eyed, her hand covering her mouth, like we’ve just done something outrageous.

  What am I doing?

  More.

  Shannon reaches for me, and I pull her close, sliding my hands into her hair. She presses herself against me. I feel the blood rushing into every part of my body. Hot. Dizzy. Her mouth opens under mine, and I imagine how the hard steel of her piercing will feel against my tongue. I taste her breath against my lip—

  My phone beeps.

  Shannon and I fly apart. We stare at each other, terror mixed in with something new.

  With shaking hands, I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the display. If it says anything crazy like Jessica, I know I’m headed for permanent residency in the insane asylum.

  Assuming I get out of here, that is.

  No ghost. It’s just some random telemarketer. They’re always calling around dinnertime.

  But sitting there, staring at the phone in my hand, I have an idea. How did I not think of it before?

  I look at Shannon, and right there, I see it in her eyes too. She nods, silent. Excited.

  I’m going to call someone and get us hauled out of here.

  I raise my thumb to key in my password. But then I stop.

  My mind flashes back to having my fingers slammed in the door.

  The burning.

  The hot pokers in my eye sockets.

  I take a long, slow breath in.

  The air in the boathouse has gone unnaturally still. It’s utterly, deafeningly silent.

  Everyone’s waiting.

  On me.

  I’m feeling torn. I want to call, but I’m terrified of what might happen. So really, there’s only one reasonable decision to make.

  Only one decision that guarantees no one gets hurt.

  I exhale slowly. I reach forward—slow-mo—and place my phone on the floor in front of me. Moving carefully, I push it away so it’s out of reach.

  I feel Shannon sag against my chest a bit when I put the phone down, but I think she understands. Disaster averted.

  The phone grazes the yearbook, which is still sitting open on the floor beside us. Still open to the page full of chirpy cheerleaders.

  I pull the lantern toward the pages and lean in for a closer look.

  “Which one is Jessica?” I run my finger along the list of names under the photo, looking for a J.

  Shannon points at a girl sitting in the center of the group. Front row, seated on a low bench. She balances a huge trophy on her lap. Big grin.

  Shannon was right. She’s a babe.

  “What’s the trophy for?” I ask.

  “The Laurel Cup,” she says. “It’s given to the top cheerleading squad. It went to Wildwood last year.”

  “And Jessica’s holding it because she’s the captain?”

  “Well, the team won because of her,” Shannon says.

  I look at the girls. Their happy, smiling faces. Eerie to think that one of them is now dead.

  My eyes skip down to Jessica again.

  Specifically, that one.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning closer. “Is that like the necklace you found in the bin?”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.” I point to a girl sitting beside Jessica in the photograph. Her hair is tied back, the end of her ponytail curled loosely beside her open collar. She isn’t laughing like the others. Instead, her smile looks tight.

  Shannon peers at the picture.

  “Yeah, it’s the same one. The BEST. Weird.” Her mouth drops open. “Oh my god,” she breathes.

  When her eyes meet mine, there’s a sudden understanding in them.

  “That’s Sam Stokes.”

  I’m drawing a blank.

  “Sam Stokes?” I ask. “Who’s she?”

  Shannon releases a long breath. “She’s Jessica’s best friend. Or she was. Or at least I thought she was.”

  I look back at the photograph. Slowly, things begin to slide into place.

  “So…” I say. “Sam’s got one half of the necklace. And…”

  “Jessica would have had the other half,” Shannon finishes.

  We both look to see whether the matching half is around Jessica’s neck. But you can’t see her neck because of the Laurel Cup.

  “The cup’s in the way,” I say. “So we have no way of knowing whether she had the other half or not.”

  Shannon looks at me. “Yes, we do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  We sit facing each other. Shannon pulls the board over and arranges it between us. The chalk looks just as clear as it did when Shannon printed all the letters out.

  That seems like a week ago.

  “Did you have the other half of that necklace, Jessica?” she asks.

  YES.

  My scalp crawls.

  I look up at Shannon. “Which bin did you find the necklace in?”

  She turns and points. “That one.” Then she shakes her head. “But it’s not there anymore,” she says.

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  “I dropped it, remember? When the door slammed that first time?”

  “Right.” I do remember. I scan the floor for the little silver chain. I hope it didn’t fall through the floorboards. Because the boathouse is right on the dock. And the dock is right over the water. I don’t see it.

  Damn.

  “Oh, but…oh my god,” Shannon says. Her eyes widen, and she scrambles to her feet. “In that bin. There was rope in that bin, Elliot. Lots of it. The thin kind.”

  “Rope?” I look at her. “Aren’t we looking for a necklace?”

  Suddenly I get it.

  Thin rope. The perfect kind of rope to wrap around someone’s neck.

  The necklace, found in a bin full of exactly that kind of rope.

  But how likely is it—how perfect—that the suspected killer would actually have her
necklace come undone at exactly the right moment, leaving it behind in a bin full of potential murder weapons?

  Unless…

  I grab Shannon’s hand and pull her back down to the floor with me.

  I put my fingers on the lid. “Did Sam strangle you with the rope that’s in the bin?”

  YES.

  Shannon shudders.

  “Did you fight her?”

  YES.

  I glance up at Shannon. She nods.

  “Why did Sam strangle you?”

  The lid moves like it’s going somewhere, but then it just sort of stops.

  Shannon takes her hands off and looks at me. “What kind of question is that?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s too open-ended,” she says. “Everything has to be spelled out. That could be, like, eight paragraphs.”

  “So? It’s not like we’re in any sort of hurry.”

  “But we don’t really need Jessica to explain it all. It’s already pretty obvious why Sam would want to see Jessica dead.”

  “What? Why?”

  Shannon rolls her eyes. “You are such a guy.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  She sighs. “I think Sam was completely jealous of Jessica,” she says. “She had the looks, the boyfriend, the marks, the talent.” Shannon glances down at the photo in the yearbook. “The cheerleading cup,” she adds.

  “But they were best friends,” I say. “I don’t get it.”

  “They probably were, for a while,” Shannon says. “Maybe even for a long time. Those necklaces? They probably had those since they were little. That’s the kind of thing young girls wear.”

  I nod toward the board. “Ask her.”

  “And over time,” Shannon says, finishing her thought, “as Jessica got more and more successful, I’ll bet Sam started to hate her guts.” She moves to put her hands on the board.

  The second she touches it, the lid flies to YES.