Truly, Madly, Deadly

by Hannah Jayne

  “Bye.” Sawyer’s screen went blank and she sighed, closing her laptop. “Bye, Mom, love you too.”

  ***

  Sawyer sunk chin deep in strawberry-kiwi-scented suds and blew bubbles, then rubbed her eyes. The house settled—even new houses did that, Sawyer assured herself—with a spine-tingling creak, then dropped into steady silence. Sawyer groaned, leaning her head against the cool marble slope of the tub.

  “Note to self,” she said out loud, her voice reverberating through the sterile, tiled room, “unpack stereo ASAP.”

  The bathroom was still, the tub water unmoving. Sawyer breathed in and out in long, supposedly calming breaths until there was a soft thump against the front door. Sawyer shifted in the tub, cocking her head to listen; when no sound responded, she cupped her hands and dug into the hot tub water, dripping it over her head.

  There was another thump.

  Sawyer stiffened, her heart and her mind racing. Probably just a branch, she told herself, or a bush. Sawyer was able to comfort herself with that thought for a breath before she realized that there were no branches or bushes outside—just a desolate wasteland of spray-painted outlines of someday-grass and orange-topped landscape flags.

  Despite the hot water, Sawyer felt a chill that covered her skin with gooseflesh. She stood up, snatched her robe from the hook by the door, and slipped into it. Her wet feet left damp imprints on the heavy pile carpet as she stepped out of the bathroom, tiptoeing to the landing, her breathing shallow and forced.

  “Hello?”

  There was no answer.

  Sawyer leaned over the staircase, her fingers wrapping tightly around the banister. She swallowed. “Dad? Tara?”

  The silence of the house pressed against Sawyer’s chest and her stomach played the accordion while her breath hitched in a throaty rasp. She silently prayed for the comforting noises of a populated neighborhood—car alarms, children shrieking, a thumping car stereo bass.

  But there was nothing but the silence.

  Had Sawyer been wearing pants she might have peed them when she heard the knock on the front door. It was determined, insistent, loud. The hollow sound bounced off the house’s high ceilings and half-furnished rooms. She ran downstairs and pressed her eye to the door’s peephole, her heart thundering against her chest the whole time. Finally she sighed—a great, bone-jellying sigh—when she saw the dirt-brown uniform of an annoyed UPS guy, his head enormous and distorted through Sawyer’s fish-eye peephole.

  “Yes?” she called through the still-closed door.

  She watched the UPS guy check his handheld device. “Tara Dodd?” he asked the door as he gestured to the package he held.

  Sawyer yanked the door open, tightening the belt on her robe as she did so.

  “Sure,” she said. “Sorry about that. It’s just—” She shrugged.

  The UPS man offered an easy smile. “I get it. Pretty freaky around here with all them empty houses.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Sawyer thought. Instead, she reflected the man’s smile and said, “Totally.”

  He looked over his shoulders. “You the only one who lives here?”

  Sawyer quirked an eyebrow, half nervous, half fearful. “Um, no. My dad. And brother. Big…brother. And we have a dog.” She vaguely considered appropriating a growl or yelling, “Stand down, Chomper!” over her shoulder into the empty house.

  “No, I meant up here.” He waved his one free arm. “It’s just, I’ve never delivered anything out here before.”

  “Oh.” Sawyer swallowed. “There’s people,” she said vaguely, pushing more of her body behind the door. “Tons of people. They probably, you know, use FedEx or something.” She held out a hand, her eyes gesturing toward the box. “Can I?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He gave her an embarrassed once over, took her signature, and pressed the package into her hands. Sawyer shut the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily until her heartbeat returned to a normal, nonlethal pace.

  Maybe a dog named Chomper wouldn’t be such a bad idea, she thought to herself.

  EIGHT

  Sawyer blinked in the early morning sunlight as the morning show DJs cackled on her nightstand. She slapped the alarm off and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and finally focusing on the spray of baby pink roses on her bureau. They were the same ones from the table downstairs, and Sawyer frowned as she passed them and stepped into the bathroom to get ready for school. When she headed downstairs, Tara was seated at the kitchen table, yesterday’s UPS box splayed open in front of her, packing peanuts surrounding her plate of half-nibbled dry toast.

  “Morning, Tara.”

  Tara pushed her plate aside, wiping toast crumbs from her swollen belly. “Good morning, Sawyer. Are you feeling any better? You were dead to the world by the time we got home last night.”

  Dead to the world?

  Sawyer grimaced but tried to hide it with a friendly smile. She nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling way better. How about you?”

  Tara groaned, resting her head in her hands. “Is it that obvious?”

  “A little. You don’t usually look so…green.” Sawyer felt bad immediately when she saw the blush wash over Tara’s cheeks. “Sorry. Is—is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Short of delivering this baby, I don’t think so.” She began the mammoth job of pushing herself up from her chair. “How about I get you some oatmeal, hon?”

  Sawyer felt herself bristle involuntarily. Only her parents—her real parents—called her hon.

  “No, thanks.”

  Tara’s face fell now that she was standing. “Nothing?”

  “I’m okay. You should sit down. Oh, and you didn’t need to bring the flowers to my room. They’re nice, but you should be the one to enjoy them.”

  Tara pulled a cup from the cupboard, poured herself a glass of water. “Why? They’re yours.”

  Sawyer blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “They came for you yesterday.”

  Sawyer’s stomach started to roil, and she swallowed hard. “For me? Was there a card?”

  Tara frowned. “I didn’t see one. But the delivery kid asked for you specifically. He said, ‘These are for Sawyer Dodd.’”

  “It was a kid? Like, my age?”

  Tara drained her water glass and shrugged. “Yeah, about your age, I guess. Why? Do you have a secret admirer?”

  Sawyer’s eyes went wide, and Tara held up her hands then clapped one on her mouth. “Oh, Sawyer, I didn’t mean—I mean, I know you and Kevin were together for a long time and—I was just being silly.”

  Sawyer took a step back, threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I need to get to school.”

  ***

  Chloe was sitting on the stone wall that surrounded the school when Sawyer spotted her.

  “Hey,” Chloe said, launching herself from the wall. “You didn’t call me last night.”

  “What? Oh, sorry.”

  “And I didn’t see you after school.”

  “I went home early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Chloe offered her a sympathetic look. “You know you can talk to me, Sawyer.”

  “My parents want me to talk to the shrink.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Still?”

  “Again.” Sawyer stopped walking and turned to face Chloe. “Hey, do you know anyone who would send me flowers?”

  Chloe folded a stick of gum into her mouth. “What kind of flowers?”

  “Roses.”

  “No, like, romantic flowers or sympathy flowers or, I don’t know, ‘sorry your dad and stepmom are breeding’ flowers.”

  Sawyer tried not to smile. “This is serious. And I don’t know what kind of flowers. Just…roses.”

  “Color?”

  “First red and then pink.”

  Chloe waggled her eye
brows. “Two bunches? Ooh la la. Red is the color of love. And pink is appreciation.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Chloe shook her cell phone. “Information superhighway. So you’re loved and appreciated. What did the card say?”

  Sawyer bit her lip and glanced at her friend. Normally, she would tell Chloe everything—every crush, every intimate detail of her dates with Kevin—but her admirer and the notes he left her felt bigger than all that. “No,” she lied. “No note.”

  Chloe blew a bubble and sucked it in. “What about that Cooper guy? You said he sent you a flower, right?”

  Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, but why would he send roses right after he sent me a flower?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to send you the flower. Maybe Meddling Maggie forced him into it. Face it: a buck is a small price to pay to get her to shut up.”

  Sawyer thought of Cooper, of his shy smile, of the way Sawyer knew next to nothing about him. “It’s a possibility, I guess. Oh. There’s the bell. See you in choir?”

  Chloe nodded and popped another bubble. “Sure.”

  Sawyer was digging in her backpack when she bumped into Logan.

  “Oh, hey, Logan. I’m really sorry. It seems like I keep doing that to you.”

  Logan’s smile—and his cheek-pinkening blush—went all the way up to his eyes. “That’s okay.” He didn’t move, and Sawyer stared at him for a beat.

  “Um”—she pointed over his shoulder—“you’re kind of blocking my locker.”

  “Oh.” Logan jumped out of the way. “I’m really sorry.”

  Sawyer spun her lock as students milled around her. She felt motion everywhere as she was jostled and bumped, but she also felt the stillness. Logan remained behind her, eyes boring into her back. She turned slowly, gripping her history book.

  “Can I help you with something, Logan?”

  “Um…” He twisted his hands in front of him, then jammed them into his jeans pockets. “Did you get the roses I sent?”

  Ice water shot through Sawyer’s veins. She had the overwhelming feeling of heat and cold all at once. “What did you say?”

  “The roses. I sent them. Did I get the right house?”

  Sawyer put her book down. “You sent me flowers.”

  “Roses. Pink roses. Just to say, you know”—Logan looked at his feet, kicked at the school-issue linoleum flooring—“thanks and all.”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  Logan shrugged, a small, shy smile on his lips. “You said it was the new housing development past the market. I knew it was called Blackwood and once you’re in there, it’s not that hard to find. Only full house in the place, right?”

  Sawyer nodded, hearing the roar of her blood as it pulsed. “You only sent the pink roses?”

  Logan stared blankly at her. “That’s all they were supposed to be. Why? Did they bring something else? I don’t have much money, so…”

  Sawyer held up a hand. “So all you sent was the pink roses?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought that would be good enough—”

  “No, no”—Sawyer’s heart caught on a giggle—“sorry, that’s really sweet. They were fine, really pretty. I just—am a little—thanks, Logan. That was nice. You really didn’t have to.”

  Sawyer switched her books and slammed her locker shut, shivering at the cold sweat that sprung up under her clothes.

  “And I was wondering if…”

  She turned to Logan once more. He was twisting his fingers again, the pink in his cheeks replaced by a flaming, all-out red. “Wondering if,” he started again, “you’d want to go out sometime?”

  “Oh. Oh.” Sawyer felt sorry for the kid but the idea of dating anyone—Cooper included—suddenly seemed frivolous, precarious, dangerous.

  And maybe deadly.

  “I really appreciate you asking, Logan, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to date again. And besides”—she took a step toward him, leaning in conspiratorially—“you really don’t want to be with me. I’m—I’m a little messed up.” She smiled apologetically. “Maybe, you know, when I’m up to it.”

  The smile didn’t fade from Logan’s face. He nodded at everything she said, and Sawyer recognized the look, the smile, as the pasted-on kind, the kind that a second-place winner keeps on her face until she can break down in private. Sawyer’s heart felt a pang of guilt, but when Logan shrugged and nodded, she felt better for keeping him safe.

  The school day continued and passed uneventfully but Sawyer was still on edge, scrutinizing everyone who chanced a glance at her and jumping at the slightest sound, cringing each time she rolled her combination lock, pulled open her locker. She was changing for a lone run on the track in the nearly empty girls’ locker room when she heard the heavy doors press open. Sawyer straightened, that same piercing finger of fear tracing her spine.

  “I can’t stand her,” she heard.

  “You know she didn’t really care about Kevin. He was her ticket to popularity. I mean look at her; she came right back to school afterward. I was practically shattered and we weren’t even dating anymore.” Maggie sniffled as she rounded the bank of lockers and came upon Sawyer. Maggie’s groupies hung close to her, arms crossed, throwing glaring, challenging looks at Sawyer.

  “Why do you care so much about what I do, Maggie?” Sawyer wanted to know.

  Maggie batted innocent lashes. “I don’t know what you mean. We were just having a private conversation amongst ourselves. Were you possibly eavesdropping, Sawyer?” She wrinkled her pixie nose. “Such a bad habit.”

  Sawyer pulled on her sneakers and slammed her locker. “Whatever.”

  “You know Kevin was never really that into her,” Maggie said, her voice low but just loud enough to stab at Sawyer.

  “Go to hell, Maggie. He left you for me. So, if he wasn’t all that into me, he must have been completely over you even when you were dating.” Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked her head, feigning sympathy. “Ooh, that must have hurt.”

  Maggie’s mouth fell open, as did the mouths of her cronies. “You are such a bitch!” Maggie yelled, nostrils flared, wide eyes moistening.

  Sawyer shrugged and walked out of the locker room, hearing the girls closing in on Maggie, patting her back and cooing, “She doesn’t know anything” and “She’s a totally jealous bitch, Maggs,” behind her.

  When Sawyer set foot on the track—leaned in and let herself run—she finally felt free, felt weightless, felt untouchable. The strain of Kevin’s death, of the note, of Maggie, and of Sawyer’s soon-to-be stepsister poured off of her as the sweat started to leave her pores. Suddenly, she didn’t feel needled or pinned down, and by the third lap she was shrugging off the note and the flowers—a coincidence, she told herself—an ill-timed coincidence. But no matter how fast or how far her legs pumped, Sawyer couldn’t outrun the tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head—but what about the peanut oil label? But what about the “you’re welcome” note?

  Sawyer clenched her fists and pumped her legs harder, punching at the air as she whizzed down the track. The heat that broke in her legs was punishing, but she relished the aching feeling. It made her feel alive.

  No one knew about my relationship with Kevin, she reminded herself. No one knew about what happened with Mr. Hanson.

  She was looping the track again, closing in on the bleachers, when she saw him up on one of the top benches, oversized coat on, hood pulled up. She slowed to a steady pace and studied Logan. He didn’t look up at her from his perch, just kept his head on the notebook he was scribbling on. He looked up once and caught Sawyer’s eye; she saw his eyes grow, his cheeks redden. He immediately dropped his head and his hand went back to his pencil, working on his notebook. Sawyer ran past him, but something weighed on her.

  Logan was there when she left Mr. Hanson’s room.


  But I didn’t say anything…but maybe he saw?

  Her throat went dry and she coughed, her diaphragm closing in on itself painfully. Her legs seemed to spin uncontrollably, and she found herself falling. Her arms went out instinctively and she was chest-flat on the red clay track, dust floating up in choking clouds. Sawyer rolled onto her back, sputtering, choking, coughing. Suddenly, someone blocked her light.

  “Are you okay, Sawyer?”

  Sawyer blinked, then squinted. “Logan?”

  He offered her a hand, and Sawyer looked at it for a beat before taking it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She was surprised at how strong he was. Sawyer brushed the red clay dust from her damaged knees and coughed again. “I’m okay.”

  “Let me get you something to drink.”

  Logan disappeared, returning immediately with an icy bottle of water. He popped the cap and gave it to Sawyer, studying her as she drank. She took a large sip and held it in her mouth before swallowing, the cold liquid soothing the ache in her diaphragm.

  “Thanks,” she said, breathing out icy breath. “That’s just what I needed.”

  “You’re fast,” Logan said, smiling.

  Sawyer nodded. “What are you doing out here?”

  Logan looked sheepish. “I missed the early bus again. But it’s not like I expect you to drive me home or anything. I didn’t know you’d be out here running. Sometimes I like to come out here and think or write or whatever.”

  Sawyer gestured to the red notebook tucked under Logan’s arm. “Is that what you were doing? Writing?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, I’m really glad you’re okay. That was kind of a big spill. Kind of a Logan-style spill.” Logan’s smile went from sheepish to goofy and lopsided, and Sawyer had to smile back.

  “Thanks, Logan,” she said, “I’m really fine though. I just got distracted. I tend to bail when distracted. You sure you don’t need a ride home?”

  Logan seemed to focus on something just over Sawyer’s shoulder. She watched his goofy smile falter, saw his face pale.