Heartstopper

by Joy Fielding

  “Not unless Fiona Hamilton files a complaint.”

  “Can’t you get a search warrant or something?”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that he probably killed Liana Martin.”

  “‘Probably’ isn’t good enough, I’m afraid.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Kerri jumped to her feet and tottered toward the front door on three-inch platforms.

  “Pizza man,” John heard somebody say.

  “You’re late,” Rose yelled. “I’m starving.”

  “Mother, be nice,” Kerri said as Ian Crosbie entered the room, a large pizza box in his hands.

  “I hope you remembered the double cheese.”

  “Do I ever forget your double cheese?”

  Rose giggled like the proverbial schoolgirl. “You know the sheriff, don’t you, Ian?” she asked playfully, as John rose from his seat.

  “Of course.” Ian handed Kerri the box in order to shake John’s hand. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just dropped by to say hello.”

  “He gave Delilah a lift to the vigil,” Kerri offered as explanation.

  “Your kids go?” John asked the doctor.

  “As far as I know.”

  What kind of an answer was that? John wondered. As far as I know. Why don’t you know? You’re their father, for God’s sake. A father should know where his children are. Especially now, when there was a murderer walking around.

  “Thanks for stopping by, John,” Kerri told him as she walked him to the door.

  “Take care,” he told her. On his way home, he decided three things: one, that there’d be no more impromptu visits to Kerri Franklin; two, that he didn’t like Dr. Ian Crosbie; and three, that he was personally going to take a closer look at exactly what the good doctor had been up to since his arrival in Torrance.

  FIFTEEN

  So, what do you think Mom’s up to tonight?” Tim asked his sister as they hurried toward the park. She was walking quickly, and her ponytail swung back and forth like a pendulum.

  “What do you mean?” Megan asked impatiently. “You know what she’s doing. She went to Fort Lauderdale with Rita. Can’t you walk any faster than that?”

  “No, I can’t. My foot’s sore.”

  “Why’s it sore?”

  “I don’t know. It just is. Why are you in such a hurry?”

  Megan slowed her pace. What was the matter with her brother? It had taken him forever to get dressed. He’d eventually appeared in a pale blue, button-down shirt and fashionably ripped, stonewashed jeans, only to spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror in the hall on his hair—he kept glancing at her as if checking for her approval—only to have it end up looking exactly the same as before he’d started, the stubborn, dark blond curls refusing to unwind no matter how hard he tugged and pulled. At first she thought there might be someone at the vigil he was trying to impress—in truth, she was surprised at how quickly he’d agreed to come—but ever since they’d left the house he’d been dragging his feet, both literally and figuratively. Now they were almost twenty minutes late, although maybe that was okay. Better late than early. It wouldn’t do to look too eager. Treat ’em mean to keep ’em keen. Isn’t that what Liana once told her? (Had Liana been too mean? Had someone killed her because of it?) On the other hand, if she was too late, Greg might decide to leave, or worse, to hook up with another girl. It was a delicate balancing act, this man-woman thing, one she’d have to learn to master.

  One her mother had never mastered, she realized, gradually resuming her previous pace. Talk about your learning disabilities. And was such a deficiency hereditary? Did her mother’s incompetence in this area mean her social encounters with the opposite sex were doomed from the start? That she’d never be a success with boys? That any relationship she might have with a man was bound to fail? Was she destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps, tripping over her own feet at every turn? “Just be yourself,” her mother always counseled. But look where that advice had gotten her. No, if there was one thing Megan had learned, it was that “yourself” was never quite good enough. “Why do you think Mom’s up to something?”

  “Well, for starters, she was all dressed up.”

  Megan did a quick check of her own outfit—jeans by former Spice Girl Victoria Beckham, its blue crown insignia provocatively sewn into one of two back pockets, tight yellow jersey proclaiming the wearer a JUICY GIRL. “That horrible red-and-white silk thing? She’s had it forever.”

  “You told her she looked nice.”

  “What was I supposed to say? That she looked like a tablecloth?”

  “I thought she looked pretty.”

  Megan shrugged. To each his own, she thought. “Why else?”

  “She didn’t give us a very hard time about going out tonight.”

  “Are you kidding me? We have strict orders to stick together and be home by midnight.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Megan asked again. What was the matter with her brother? Did he really think that spending time with his sister and being home by midnight on a Saturday night was okay? Were the kids right about him? Was he gay? “What else?”

  “I don’t know. She just seemed a little nervous to me.”

  “So? She’s always nervous.”

  “Maybe. I just … Forget it.”

  “Just what?”

  “Do you think maybe she has a date?”

  “A date? You can’t be serious.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because she’s not divorced yet.”

  “Neither’s Dad,” Tim reminded his sister.

  “True. Can’t you hurry up?”

  “What’s the rush? Liana’s not exactly going anywhere.”

  Megan stopped abruptly in her tracks. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t believe you said that. You’re supposed to be so sensitive, for God’s sake. Mom’s always warning me to be careful what I say to you, ’cause you’re so damn sensitive.”

  “I’m not so sensitive.”

  “Obviously. Jeez. How could you say that?”

  “It was a joke.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t very funny.”

  Tim lifted his shoulders, then lowered them in an exaggerated shrug. If only he wouldn’t slouch, Megan thought. He always looked as if he were about to fall over.

  “Who would she have a date with?” she demanded as Pearson Park came into view. “She doesn’t know anyone in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Maybe Rita does.”

  Once again Megan stopped in her tracks. Was it possible? Could her mother really be out on a date? And if so, why was Tim the one to intuit it and not her? “No,” she decided out loud. “She would have told me.”

  “Did you tell her about Greg Watt?”

  “What?”

  “No, Watt. Funny name, I know, but—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you mean, Watt am I talking about?”

  “So, help me, God, Tim. This is so not funny.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “What about Greg Watt?”

  “Who? What? Watt?” Tim asked, then laughed out loud. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

  “Tim, I swear …”

  “No, don’t do that. Greg might not approve.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “Are you kidding? Where isn’t it coming from?”

  Megan felt her heart drop into her stomach. “It’s on the Web?”

  “Flashed on my computer screen as I was getting dressed. Couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  So that’s what had taken him so long to get dressed. That’s what had accounted for all those sidelong glances as he was fixing his hair.

  “Congratulations. You’re famous,” Tim continued. “Apparently you two put on quite a show at the audition. And I don’t mean on the stage.”

  “I d
on’t believe this.”

  “Then it’s true? You were really making out with that muscle-bound moron?”

  “No, of course it’s not true. And he’s not a moron.”

  “He’s the mother of all morons. He probably posted that story on the Web himself. You really let him suck your fingers?”

  “Oh, shit.” Megan began spinning around in circles, torn between continuing toward the park and running for home. “Don’t you dare say anything about this to Mom.”

  “What am I going to say to her? That you begged me to attend the vigil of some girl I couldn’t stand so that you could be with some jerk she can’t stand?”

  “I did not beg you, we weren’t making out, and what do you mean, you couldn’t stand Liana?” Megan asked, trying to keep up with the sudden shifts in the conversation. “Since when?”

  Again Tim shrugged. “Since always.”

  “Why didn’t you like Liana?”

  “Because she wasn’t a very nice person.”

  “She was nice to me.”

  “Yeah, well, you were in the minority, believe me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Megan insisted, pointing across the street at the large gathering of young people. “Everyone loved Liana. All these people are here to honor her memory.”

  “They’re here because it’s the only game in town. Where else are they gonna go? It’s a happening, Megan. We’re here to sing and dance and get high.”

  “That may be why you’re here,” Megan protested, having a hard time picturing Tim doing any of these things. But then, she was starting to think she didn’t know her younger brother very well at all. He’d changed in the months since their father had moved out. “But it’s not why I’m here.”

  “No, you’re here to meet Greg Watt.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  “Really? You better tell him that.”

  “What?” Megan spun around. Greg was crossing the street toward her, wearing an oversize, orange-and-black football jersey, his massive shoulders moving in rhythmic coordination with his slender hips. He had a self-satisfied grin on his face that bordered on idiocy. Why did she find him so damned attractive?

  “There’s my Kate,” he said, swooping her into his arms. “Hi, jerk-off,” he said to Tim before effortlessly scooping Megan into his arms and tossing her over his shoulder. “Bye, jerk-off.”

  Megan squealed, half in terror, half in delight, her hands slapping at Greg’s back, her ponytail reaching for the ground. “I’ll meet you back here at a quarter to twelve,” she called to Tim as Greg proceeded across the street and into the park. “Put me down, Greg,” she cried, but her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

  “Quiet, up there,” he said, then bellowed at the crowd, “Make way for Petruchio and his woman.”

  Megan allowed her body to go limp. It was useless to argue. Her protests only fueled Greg’s recently ignited dramatic fire. Besides, as much as she wanted to be upset with him—had he posted that story about them on the Web?—she found his antics charming, even thrilling. No one had ever picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder before. No one had ever called her his “woman” and paraded her around for all to see. Everyone was watching them. And while such behavior might not be considered strictly appropriate under the circumstances, no one seemed to mind. This was a vigil, after all, not a funeral. They were here to celebrate, not mourn. Still, should she really be enjoying herself quite this much?

  A girl was dead. A girl she’d liked and admired. Although it was becoming increasingly clear that not everybody felt the same way. Certainly her brother hadn’t. And how many others? she wondered. How many were here tonight just to sing and dance and get high? How many had come because it was “the only game in town”?

  Megan lifted her head to see some sixty or seventy kids arranged in a large, free-floating circle, some talking softly, others laughing loudly, some with cigarettes dangling from their lips, others with candles waiting to be lit, some swaying to the random strumming of a handful of guitars, others swaying in passionate embrace. From upside down, she saw ghoulish Victor Drummond puffing on a joint that was then pried from his lipsticked-red lips by his equally ghoulish friend Nancy, who took several long drags before passing it on to Tanya McGovern. Megan wondered if it was wise of them to be smoking weed so openly when she was pretty sure she’d spotted several police officers patrolling the outskirts of the park. But Victor was already rolling another joint and seemed blissfully unconcerned with the so-called long arm of the law. Greg spun around and suddenly Brian Hensen popped into view. He was sitting off by himself, staring at Delilah Franklin, who was about twenty feet away, trying to engage Ginger Perchak in conversation. Closer to the main path stood Peter Arlington. Peter was kicking at the grass and staring vaguely into space, as if afraid to make direct eye contact with anyone. He’d probably gotten wind of what people were saying behind his back, that illness could be faked and fathers persuaded to lie for their sons. Megan didn’t know Peter well, but she knew he’d been crazy about Liana, and she couldn’t imagine him doing anything to hurt her.

  She wondered what it felt like to have half your face blown away. She wondered if Liana’s killer would ever be caught.

  Megan sensed movement out of the corner of her eye. “Who’s that?” she said, lifting her chin to get a better view of a large pineapple palm in the distance off to her right. “Is that Mr. Peterson?” She wondered what her science teacher would be doing in the park, lurking in the shadows. Was he there to spy on them, to report any indiscretions to the principal? But her question was drowned out by the sound of the guitars.

  “You say something?” Greg asked.

  “I thought I saw Mr. Peterson.”

  “Peterson? Where?” He spun her around.

  “Wait. Put me down. You’re making me dizzy.”

  Greg gently lowered her to the ground as a tremulous male voice began singing “Tears in Heaven.” “I don’t see him.”

  It took Megan a few seconds to reorient herself and locate the large pineapple palm. “I thought I saw him over there.”

  “Don’t see anyone.”

  “Guess it wasn’t him,” Megan said as several boys emerged from behind the tree, pushing and shoving one another.

  “Hey, Petruchio,” Joey Balfour suddenly called from the middle of the crowd. “Saved you a seat over here, man.”

  “Catch you later,” Greg called back, taking Megan by the hand and leading her away from the gathering.

  “We won’t be able to hear the speeches from over here,” Megan protested weakly.

  “Think we’ll miss anything?” He led her toward a bench at the far end of the park, then pulled a joint out of the pocket of his jeans, prepared to light it.

  “You really think that’s a good idea? The area’s crawling with cops, and if that was Mr. Peterson—”

  “He’ll tell your mother?”

  “Or post it on the Web,” she said pointedly.

  Greg returned the joint to his pocket, leaned back against the green wooden slats. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Who did?”

  “Could have been anybody.”

  “Joey?”

  “Joey? Nah. My money’s on Ginger.”

  “Ginger? Why would she do something like that?”

  “I saw her watching us. And you got the part of Kate and she didn’t.”

  “You swear it wasn’t you?”

  Greg smiled. “I swear,” he said easily. “Gentlemen never kiss and tell.”

  “You’re not a gentleman,” she reminded him, although, strangely enough, she believed him. “And we didn’t kiss.”

  “Yeah. I was kinda hoping we could do something about that tonight.”

  He leaned forward. Megan found herself holding her breath as his face drew closer and his mouth touched down gently on hers. She felt her lips start to tingle, the sensation spreading quickly across her body, like a rash, and she drew back. “You really
think it was Ginger who posted the story?” she asked, turning away and looking at her feet, her voice barely audible.

  His hand moved to her chin, guided her face back to his.

  Megan closed her eyes and tilted her head, but instead of pushing his tongue down her throat, as she was half-expecting—he was a jock after all, and what did jocks know about finesse?—he planted a series of delicate kisses on her eyelids, sending her body into fresh spasms of shock and delight. If he doesn’t kiss me again, she was thinking—on the lips and right this minute—I’m going to explode. And then he was kissing her, full on the mouth, and still she felt she was about to burst wide-open. She fought the urge to throw her arms around him and wrestle him to the ground. Who would have thought he’d be such a good kisser? she wondered as she only reluctantly came up for air.

  “You want to lie down?” he asked.

  “What?” Watt? she heard her brother echo. Megan’s head shot from side to side.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My brother—I thought I heard his voice.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Megan jumped to her feet. “I should go look for him.”

  Greg stood up, pressed his torso into her back. “Your brother’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  “It’s just that I promised my mother we’d stick together.”

  “Are you always Mama’s good little girl?”

  Damn it. What was her mother doing here? Was she going to let her ruin everything? “Not always.” Megan turned around, her mouth reaching for his. His arms wrapped around her as he lowered her to the ground. She shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not now. They were moving way too fast. She’d get grass stains on her new Victoria Beckham jeans.

  It was the last thought that brought her to her senses and back to her feet. “Wait, stop.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not right. Not here. Not now.”

  “Where then?” he asked logically. “When?”

  “No, you don’t understand. We’re moving way too fast.” She decided to omit the part about getting grass stains on her Victoria Beckham jeans.