I swipe to the right and press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"I wa-wasn't sure if you'd answer." His voice is hoarse. Gosh, I hope Linzy didn't actually damage him.
"I didn't think you'd call me."
"Yeah, well I have questions."
I let out a breath. "Me too."
We don't say anything for a minute, then he clears his throat. "Well, I'm not coming to your crazy house. Can you meet me?"
I bite my lower lip. "Where? My father won't let me leave. I'd have to sneak out, and if he finds me gone…"
"There's a small park near your house. It's the next block over. Take a left out of your house, a right at the corner, and then another right. It's about halfway down the street."
I didn't see that when I followed Linzy, but I wasn't exactly looking for landmarks either. "Okay, I'll try. How long will it take you to get here?"
"I'm already there. Meet me at the gazebo."
I jump up and grab my night shirt. "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can, and if I can't get out, I'll call you back."
He doesn't say good-bye, just hangs up.
I pull off my T-shirt and put on a black tank because it will be less conspicuous under my jammies, then struggle into the nightshirt. I look in the mirror, hoping my shorts don't make me look more bulky than usual. I slip my phone into my pocket and stuff Mr. Floppy and some clothes under my covers. Much more believable than pillows. I grab my flip-flops, turn off the light, and go downstairs.
I set the sandals on the bottom step and knock on Dad's door.
"Come in."
I put a smile on my face and slide the door open. "I'm going to bed."
A quick glance to the windows shows me his air is running. Good. He won't hear every little sound I make.
He glances at his watch. "It's kinda early, no?"
"Yeah, well I'm bored, and Kinley can't hang until morning. I really need a social life, Dad. This is pathetic." A twinge of guilt creeps up my back, but if I don't act normal, he might suspect.
One corner of his mouth lifts. "My poor deprived daughter. You should write to your state senator."
"You're hilarious." I walk around his desk and kiss his cheek while stealing a glance at what he's working on. There's a page of chicken-scrawl writing and a copy of Cameron's Google calendar. August 15, last year is marked at top. That's the day Cameron died.
It's all I can make out without obviously hovering. I stand upright and hope Dad doesn't want a hug. He'll feel my clothes for sure.
"Nice try, missy," he says.
I widen my eyes. My heart gallops against my chest. "What?"
He quirks a brow, but the half-smile is still there. "Don't 'what' me. I know you were trying to look at my work."
I let out a shaky breath and grin. "Fine, I'll just go to bed. One day you'll share with me though, and then you'll realize all the insight I have."
"Yes, I will, in about twenty years."
I walk to the door before he reaches out for me. "Funny. You're a comical man. You should do stand-up. 'Night."
He giggles. "'Night, sweetie."
I hurry to the other side of the door.
"Hey," he calls out.
I stop cold and glance over my shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Are you okay? No nightmares about Linzy or anything?"
I shake my head. "Nope. All good."
I shut the door and squeeze my eyes shut. With all the lies I tell it should get easier. I walk half-way upstairs then tip-toe back down. I grab the sandals and go to the back door. I shut and lock it behind me and slip the key back into my pocket. The same key that fits the front door works on the back too. Totally convenient. The only problem I'll have is if Dad decides to attach the chain. But I can't think of that. Hopefully I'll be back before he decides to get his night snack.
I pull off my nightshirt, fold it tiny, and place it on my chair from earlier. Then I hurry around the side of the house, between ours and Mrs. Jackson's. How am I supposed to get down the street with the media still out there?
When I hit the front of my house, there aren't as many reporters as earlier. Only one van and one car are parked on the street. Both on my side. Of course. Now, how to get by them without being seen?
I crouch down along the bushes that separate our property from Mrs. Jackson's. I can't see much in the van. It looks like no one is in the front seats. There are two heads in the car. Well, I'm sure they have bodies too. I just can't see them from my position. They're talking to one another. The motor runs, the windows are up. The A/C must be on.
One step after another at a snail's pace, sweat dots my forehead. Why couldn't they park someplace else? I make it to the edge and cross my fingers. All I have to do is make it into Mrs. Jackson's yard, and I should blend in with the shadows.
I press into the bush, making the leaves rustle. I'm so glad their windows are shut. I turn the corner, practically walking on my knees and, once I'm around, collapse onto my side, on the thin strip of lawn beside Mrs. Jackson's driveway. I inhale a lungful of air and a couple blades of grass. I cough them out then crawl several inches along the concrete before getting to my feet. Staying in the shadows, away from the street is my plan. Once I get past her house, I should be clear to use the sidewalks.
I pass her driveway and hit the walkway leading to her front steps, when growling sounds from my side. I turn as a small, white dog charges toward me. It takes a flying leap straight for my throat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The mutt isn't as athletic as he thinks, so his pounce lands him dangling off the hem of my tank by his teeth. I grab his squat body, partly so he doesn't put vampire holes in my shirt and partly because he's a heavy little guy.
"Get off," I mutter under my breath and glance at the reporters.
No one's exited their vehicles, so I guess they don't see us.
A screen door squeaks open, and Mrs. Jackson shuffles onto her porch. She points a flashlight directly in my face. "Who's there?"
I give her an apologetic smile, while squinting and trying not to go blind. "It's your neighbor. I crossed your yard and…is this your dog?" I keep my voice low, and she probably can't hear me.
She lowers the light to my belly though, illuminating the furball's sharp incisors and liquid, black eyes. Mrs. Jackson bangs something on the porch. "Cujo, get down."
Now that's an appropriate name.
He unclenches his teeth and drops to the ground. But he doesn't scamper away. Instead he stands there and growls at me, guarding his territory.
Mrs. Jackson grabs the railing and walks onto the top step. The object in her hand is a cane. She bangs the porch again. "Come here, Cujo. I got him since this messy murder business. They said he's a great guard dog."
I smile, unconvinced he'd stop a killer. I wave and take a step back. This isn't the time for introductions and a chat. Hopefully she won't call after me. I hurry to the sidewalk and still hear Cujo's growl. I make it to the corner without another incident, and as I turn I'm reminded of the night I followed Linzy.
What if I hadn't? What if I'd kept my nosy butt on my steps and just hung with Kinley? I never would've seen the car or Linzy arguing. After she died, would her ghost have found someone else to latch onto? Is this happening because I spied on her? That seems illogical but when did logic last visit me?
I turn the next corner and walk down the dark street. This is the block Linzy walked down when she followed the car. Did she stop at the park, meet someone else?
The sound of a snapping twig echoes up ahead. There are just as many streetlamps on this street as mine, but I can't make much out. The houses are all dark. Every single one. As if no one lives here. How can the entire block be out or asleep at nine at night? It's eerie, and the image of Linzy's bloated, river face springs to mind.
A chill snakes around my waist and curls its way to the base of my neck. What if Linzy doesn't know her killer personally? I assume it's the person in the car or someone else she's been her charming s
elf to, but what if it's a stranger? A person waiting in a bush, a madman looking for a fat girl to create a skin suit.
A garbage can lid rolls down a driveway, a few feet ahead. I gasp and freeze mid-step. This is why Dad keeps me locked up in the house. He's not being a sadist. He simply wants me to live to my sweet sixteen.
I jump off the curb and break out into a run. I don't care how hot it is, how sweaty I'll be around Eli, or if I look like a doofus. I won't be Hollow Ridge's third murder victim in a year.
But when I spot the gazebo, I stop short. From this angle, the park looks like an empty lot between two houses. I debate if I should go forward or turn around and run home. What if Eli isn't really there? Maybe he was messing with me because he thinks I tried to smother him. Maybe Cujo slowed me down for too long, and he's already left.
The street lamp shines just enough for me to make out that hat. Once I'm standing in the park, I realize it's much bigger than I thought. The width spans the length of two and a half houses and the length goes farther than I can see. Several yards in, there's a swing set, slide, monkey bars, and a teeter-totter. This place must be packed with kids. Funny how I don't hear their loud, shrill voices from my house.
"How'd you get here?" I ask Eli when I join him under the gazebo.
He juts his chin toward a beat-up, maroon-colored car sitting by the curb. "My mom's."
Was this the car Linzy chased after?
I continue to survey the area and notice the double-wide bird house stuck in the front yard of the house across the street. Someone loves avian life. It's too dark to make out details, but there's something familiar about where it sits in the lot, like maybe I've seen a picture of this house before. The white, glow-in-the-dark numbers on the mailbox are one-six-five. I know them too.
"What street is this?" I ask. I'd been so busy freaking myself out, I hadn't paid attention to the signs. We live at one-six-seven Birch Street.
"Um, Poplar."
"Ohmigod, that's where Cameron McDougal was murdered."
Eli looks at where I'm pointing, but he doesn't seem nearly as impressed as I am. "Yeah."
"I didn't realize he lived so close to me. If I cut through his yard and the next, I bet I'd be at my house." Dad has to know this. He always Google Maps an area before we move there. But he didn't mention it. Sneaky clown-footed man.
"Probably. I'm not familiar with this area. So, about Linzy…"
Right. Time is ticking away. "Shayla told Troy that Linzy was into you. Were the two of you dating?"
I want to say sorry about earlier again, but I can't explain what happened, and I don't want him to think I tried to kill him, so I keep quiet and hope he doesn't bring it up.
"No. She was into me, but I wasn't into her."
"Why not?"
"She's a brat."
He got that right, but I hope Linzy isn't around, if she can reach this far. Brat or not, no one should know someone they like doesn't like them back. My thoughts run to Troy, but I push them away. There's time to worry about how he feels another time.
"Then why was she so mad at you?"
He narrows his gaze. "How do you know that?"
"How do you think?" The art of evading questions is a prerequisite for detective work.
He looks off. "Troy's got a big mouth."
Better to blame him than my ghost.
"She got all crazy thinking she saw me kiss another girl," Eli finally says.
That'll do it. "Did you?"
"Yeah, but so what? Linzy and I were never a thing, not even friends with benefits. She can't dictate who I see. I don't know what her deal was."
This seems reasonable. "Why were you angry with her?"
He gives me a sideways glance, or maybe it's a glare. I only catch it in my peripheral vision. I'm still staring at Cameron's house. It looks like mine, like all the others in the area, but this is where he died. This is the reason Dad and I are here. If it wasn't for Cameron's death, I never would've spied on Linzy or found her body. And I wouldn't be haunted by her ghost—although haunt is a strong word. More like annoyed. Sometimes things are so surreal.
"She pissed me off."
His eye-roll-worthy answer makes me turn to him. "Yeah, I got that. Why?"
"She got all up in my face, yelling about how I betrayed her, and she was gonna make me pay."
"Did you?"
"Make her pay? No." His answer is full of attitude, but I can't tell if it's sincere or not. "How does this help you?" he asks. "I thought she overdosed and accidentally drowned."
"Why would you say that?"
"That's what everyone in town is saying. Linzy must've been a party girl hanging with celebrities, like Lindsay Lohan."
She never mentioned this. Not that she volunteers much information. But it could change everything. What if this was just an accidental drowning? Then there's no reason for her to hang around. Nothing to avenge. But when I asked, she said she knew who killed her, that she was taken to the river. Or was she lying?
"Then what?" I ask.
He screws up his face. "Huh?"
"When she invaded your space, what happened next?"
"I shoved her." He takes off his hat and runs his palm along his hair.
I suck in a breath. Maybe he was the one in the car.
"Yeah, so I shouldn't put my hands on girls," he says.
"Or anyone." I instinctively take a step back.
"I get it. But she was in my face, so I didn't have a choice."
I narrow my gaze. "You always have a choice."
We fall into a silence. I look at my phone. I've been gone twenty minutes. "I need to get back. Is there anything else?"
On the phone he said he had questions, but now he shakes his head.
"Okay, thanks." I step off the gazebo.
He joins me. "Do you want a ride?"
"No." I walk to the sidewalk.
"You shouldn't walk alone."
I scoff. "You didn't have a problem with that when you told me to meet you here."
He doesn't respond and stops by his car.
Instead of going back the way I came, and chance running into Cujo again, I go the other way. I want to run over to Cameron's house and peek inside, but I know it's empty. It's been almost a year. What happens to your stuff when you die?
Eli follows me, in his Mom's car, to the corner and up the side street (Magnolia Boulevard, I checked) to my block.
When I reach the corner house, I hold up a hand, hoping he'll take the hint and not follow. I thought he was a jerk before. Now, he's an ass.
As I get to Bridget's house, the front door flings open, and she staggers out, coughing. A billow of smoke follows her.
"Are you okay?" I call out and rush to her side. I reach for my phone. "Should I call 911?"
She gives another cough and shakes her head. "No, I'm fine. I burned my dinner. A ten dollar steak turned into ash."
"That sucks." What do you say to someone grieving over dead cow?
She holds up her hand. Her left index finger is bandaged in a thick wad of gauze. "I almost sliced my finger off last night. Clearly I'm a hazard in the kitchen. I need to hire a chef."
"You could order out every night," I say with a chuckle.
She frowns. "Oh, God, no. I'd be fat."
I lift an eyebrow. "Yeah, heaven forbid you don't fit into a size two."
"Zero, dear."
I turn away and roll my eyes. "Whatever. Hope your house doesn't burn down."
"Thank you. Tell your dad I said hi."
I don't respond and head home. The reporters are gone, so I run the rest of the way and reach my backyard out of breath. I need a shower before bed, but Dad will wonder why I'm taking one after I laid down. I grab my nightshirt, slip it on, and unlock the back door. The chain isn't on, which means Dad's still in his office.
I step inside and lock up.
The overhead light goes on. "What are you doing?" he asks.
I freeze.
Crap.
> CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next morning, I shower, dress, and head downstairs still groggy. After dad caught me sneaking in, I told him I came down for a snack and heard a weird noise outside. He went out with a flashlight, and I had enough time to run upstairs and slip out of my outside clothes before he came up to lecture me about being out after dark, even if only in the backyard. If he only knew. By the time he finished, I was too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep. Not that it was peaceful. I can't shake the car dream.
When I hit the bottom step, I hear Dad talking in the kitchen. I tip-toe forward, press myself against the wall, and impersonate paint. Luckily the morning sun shines in from the back of the house, leaving the hall in shadows.
Dad's seated at the table, across from Bridget. Crap. What is she doing here? Did he call her about the house's mechanical issues, a.k.a. Linzy? Or did she stop by to discuss her culinary failures? She's going to mention seeing me, and my life is over. If she hasn't said anything yet, maybe I can stop her.
"How did the autopsy get done so quickly? It's been two days," Dad says.
Oh my God, they're talking about Linzy's death.
Bridget sips from one of our sunflower mugs. I hate those things. They're so ugly, but it's the only matching set we own, so Dad breaks them out for company.
"From what I hear, the Quinns burned through a lot of favors to make it happen. It's just as well though. Who wants to live in that kind of turmoil?"
Dad nods. "I doubt it gets easier once you know how your daughter died, especially if it's murder."
I cover my mouth with my hand, holding back my gasp. So Linzy was murdered. This is what I wanted, right? A murder case of my own. Something Dad can't tell me to stay out of. Well, he can tell me, but with Linzy's ghost hanging out in my room, it's unlikely I'll listen. Then why am I not more excited? "How was she killed?" Dad asks.
I lean toward them, not wanting to miss a syllable.
"They say she was suffocated."
I Spy Dead People Page 11