He walks beside me. “Allie, stop.”
I keep moving.
“Please stop.” He puts his arm over my shoulder.
I push him away.
“I’m so sorry, Allie, I know I was a jerk tonight. I just … The fire and my paintings and Mr. Phillips—”
I turn on him. “What do you want from me? Didn’t you hear James? I’m a murderer. Guys I love end up dead. You need to stay away from me.”
He stops, stunned, like I slapped him. I am a murderer. Now he believes it, too.
I start walking again, but in a few more steps he’s beside me again. He reaches for me, his eyes pleading. “Just stop, okay. Listen to me. There are some things I need to tell you about the night Trip died, please just—”
“No!” Dread floods my body like the icy waters of the Pacific filling our cave. I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say.
Lights flash behind him. Chief Milton gets out. He’s coming to arrest me. I’m sure of it. He shines his flashlight on me and then on Blake. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing.” Blake steps away from me and tries to shove his hands in his pockets, but his costume doesn’t have any pockets. “We just had a fight.”
Chief Milton puts the light on my face so it blinds me. “Did this boy do anything to you? Did he try to hurt you at all?”
The whole situation is bitterly ironic, Chief Milton coming to rescue me from Blake, now, after everything. “No.” I shake my head. “Like he said. We just had a fight.”
The flashlight goes back to Blake’s eyes. Chief Milton studies him for a long time while we stand shivering. “You’d better go. I’ll make sure Miss Davis makes it home okay.” I follow him back to the police car. He opens the passenger side door and lets me in. Before he shuts it behind me, I hear him say to Blake, “I’d advise you to stay away from her.”
Blake stands there alone, rain dripping off his bangs, like a wet dog. Watching us drive away.
Chapter
41
Blake sends me fifty texts on Sunday. I don’t read any of them.
Mom tries to talk to me, actually defends Blake. “I don’t know what you two fought about, but you might want to cut Blake a little slack. There were some complaints about his grandmother’s products at the inn, so Mr. Phillips had to cancel the contract he had with her. She can’t support both of them with that little shop. I heard they might lose their house.”
My fault, all my fault. If Mr. Phillips canceled Grandma Joyce’s contract, it was because of me.
Andrew can’t talk to me; he’s sick, coughing, probably got pneumonia when he and Caitlyn and Mel were driving around in the limo looking for me.
My fault. I ruined the dance for everyone.
On Monday, Mom takes the van to work so I can drive myself to school. I’m late so I skip going to my locker and go straight to first period. I look around for Hannah, wondering what she’ll say to me now that she knows my secret. She’s probably in Ms. Holt’s office now, blubbering to her everything I told her at the dance. Any minute I’ll be called out of class to explain myself. Maybe it will be a relief. Finally having to tell everything Trip did to me. Maybe it will help my case when I’m tried for murder.
But Hannah doesn’t show up for class. The bell rings and nobody calls me down to the office. I follow the sea of whispering students to my locker, like everything is normal.
“What is that smell?” Angie wrinkles her nose and looks at Blake, oblivious to the idea that she might be hurting his feelings. He doesn’t respond. He gives me a sad, silent look, then he turns away.
Hannah comes down the hall. She manages a cold glare for Blake and Randall, even Angie. Nothing for me. I’m standing right in front of her, but she stares through me like I’m not here. I guess if I don’t exist then what I said about Trip can’t be true.
Randall makes a face. “Did someone leave a tuna fish sandwich in their locker?” I smell it, too, something oceany, fishy, rotten. He starts sniffing the lockers like a bloodhound. He holds his nose. “Whew! I think it’s in here.” He points to my locker.
Everyone gathers around while I work the lock with numb fingers. I’m afraid of what I might find. The smell is so bad it almost gags me. I don’t want to see what’s inside, but I open the door. A cascade of faded notes, ruined pictures, and bits of cardboard and rotting seaweed cover me. Everything that was in the box I threw into the ocean is spread out across the floor for everyone to see.
I collapse to the ground, frantic, trying to gather the notes and pictures up before anyone sees what’s written on them. Blake is on the floor beside me. “No!” I push him away. “Don’t look at them!” He can’t see what’s written on the notes.
But it’s too late. Everyone has already seen. I can feel their eyes boring into the scar on the back of my head, condemning me. I melt onto the floor and a wave of black crashes over my head and sweeps me away.
Chapter
42
Dad’s sitting on my desk chair beside the bed. I can’t quite remember how I got in bed. I can’t even remember how I got home. The only thing clearly burned into my brain is the image of my whole relationship with Trip, spread out over the school hallway for everyone to see. “How do you feel?” His voice is gentle.
My head is pounding, I feel weak, and my mouth tastes like bile. I wonder if I threw up at school. Mom is here, too. She lays something cold and wet across my forehead. I curl up tighter in a ball, like I could shut everything out. Like I could be a little girl again, home with the flu, two concerned parents standing watch over me.
“Detective Weeks would like to—” Dad starts.
Mom shakes her head at him. She leans over the side of my bed. “The doctor prescribed these”—she holds out two little blue pills. “For anxiety, and to help you sleep.”
I take the pills from her and swallow them without answering.
She sits back and brushes my hair off my face. “These are just temporary fixes. I’ve spoken to Ms. Vincent. She thinks you should spend some time at a mental-health clinic for teens in Seattle.” She draws in a breath, probably at the thought of her perfect world interrupted by a daughter in a mental institution. “Grandma Joyce and Blake told me that these incidents of near-collapse have happened before—”
Traitors.
“We”—she looks at Dad, but he’s studying his hands—“we think it would be best if …”
I close my eyes against her words and let the blue pills carry me away to an ocean of red dresses, black pickups, and dead boyfriends.
.........
The clock says 1:20, but the sun is out so it must be afternoon.
I wrap my fingers around the stone and curl up in a fetal position. The days have started to run together, but I think it’s Wednesday. Four days since the dance. Two days since I found the mess in my locker. I haven’t been back to school. Blake comes by faithfully every day to check on me, but I pretend that I’m asleep so I don’t have to see him.
I can’t wait anymore so I drag myself to the bathroom so I can pee. It’s about the only thing that gets me out of bed. I don’t look myself in the eye when I bend over to wash my hands.
I turn off the water. Then I hear it. A whimper, like someone crying, but trying to hide it. I slide the door to Andrew’s room open slowly, but he must be at school. I shut the door and listen again. It’s Mom.
Why isn’t she at work? My chest fills with guilt. She must be worried about me, but I can’t make myself play “normal” anymore.
Dad is home, too. I can hear him moving around the kitchen. He starts down the hall. He’s almost past my door before I force myself to open it. “Dad.” My voice is croaky from lack of use. “Dad.”
He walks back to my room. “Hey, how are you feeling?” He says it softly, like he’s afraid I’ll lose it again.
“Better.” I grip the stone and try to sound better.
“Would you like something to eat?”
I take in a breath. “What’s wrong with Mom?�
��
“Oh.” He won’t look in my eyes. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
The tone of his voice makes my heart clench with fear. Like it’s about more than just me. “Tell me.”
He pushes past me and shuts the door behind him. He sits down on my bed and motions for me to do the same. “She lost her job.”
Your fault, your fault.
“There was some problem with the books at the resort. An outside accountant came in and did an audit. I don’t know what he found, but I guess there was a bunch of money missing. Mr. Phillips blamed your mom. He fired her yesterday.”
“Mom would never—” I cover my mouth. “Mr. Phillips knows that.” I stop. He does know that. If he fired Mom, it wasn’t because he thought she had stolen money from the resort. It was because of me. I’m suddenly mad. Furious. Mr. Phillips is a bully. He thinks he can intimidate me into—what? Breaking up with Blake? Leaving Pacific Cliffs?
A confession?
“Yeah, he does know that, but it doesn’t look good.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and his shoulders slump. “I have some loans coming due on the shop, and with Mom losing her job …” He stands up. “But you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll work it out, okay? I’m heading back to work. There’s food in the fridge. I made spaghetti last night.”
He starts for the door, but halfway there he stops, turns around, and comes back. He sits down on the edge of my bed. The corners of his mouth twitch and he keeps rubbing a grease stain on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally talks, his voice is quiet. “There are some things I wanted to clear up, just between the two of us.” He traces the lines in his fingers where the black grease stains never really wash out. “Detective Weeks asked me to come in and look at some of the things that were in your locker. Some of the notes that Trip had written to you.”
I try to swallow, but my throat has closed off.
“A lot of apologies. A lot of ‘It will never happen again.’” The sides of his jaws are working. “I’ve heard those kinds of excuses before.”
I close my eyes and will him to stop talking. Will the blackness to overtake me again.
“Allie, when I read those notes it made me wonder …” He breathes in. “Did Trip ever do anything … did he ever hurt you?”
I squeeze my eyes tighter to keep the tears from escaping. Crying right now would be a confession, but I don’t have any words to answer his question.
“For all those years I was gone … when I was doing what I thought I should be doing to keep you all safe, to protect my family.” His voice wavers. I can’t open my eyes now. I can’t face the pain I hear in his voice. “If somehow I missed something, if somehow I failed to protect you, I’m sorry.”
Part of me wants to let it all go—curl up against his chest and tell him everything. But I can’t let him bear the burden for something that was my fault. I can’t make him think he failed, or know that I did, that I wasn’t the tough soldier he raised me to be.
I don’t say anything.
The silence hangs between us—the weight of so many years of his being gone presses against me. He puts his arm around me and squeezes. I grit my teeth and retreat to a place inside where I don’t have to feel anything. Finally he pulls away.
“There’s one more thing.” His voice is grave. “The fire, and that boy at the dance, and the whole thing with your locker, has people talking. They’re demanding that Chief Milton reopen the investigation into Trip’s accident, none more loudly than Roger Phillips.” My eyes flutter open and I watch his hands clench and unclench. “I’ve heard Blake’s name thrown around a lot. I don’t want to see this turned into a witch hunt. If you remember anything, now’s the time.”
Chapter
43
After Dad leaves I lean back against the pillow and keep my eyes closed. I want to take the blue pills and curl up under the covers and shut everything out. But I can’t hide, not anymore. I have to fix the mess I’ve made. I have to face … whatever comes.
I get dressed carefully—brown dress pants and a blue button-down shirt, something Trip bought for me to wear to a business lunch his dad dragged us to. I don’t even try to cover the scar. Today I want everyone to see it. I want Mr. Phillips to see it, because somehow, I know Trip caused it.
I get in Mom’s car, take a deep breath, and head for the inn.
The smile on Mr. Phillips’s secretary’s face freezes when she sees me. “Mr. Phillips is in a meeting.”
“I can wait.” I plunk myself down on the leather couch across from her desk.
“It might be a—” she starts, but the door to the office opens.
The first man out I recognize as the city council guy from the dance. I’m guessing the next two out are also members of the city council. Marjorie Phillips comes out next, wrapped in dark brown fur. Her eyes are on the ground so she doesn’t see me.
Mr. Phillips doesn’t see me at first, either. He’s focused on the man he’s talking to. When he sees me his smile turns into a grimace. He wipes it away quick and comes across the room to me. “Allie, what a pleasant surprise.” He’s smiling but there’s nothing pleasant about the look in his eyes.
I don’t take his outstretched hand. The speech I had formulated on the way over disappears. I’m left with four words. “You fired my mom.”
Mr. Phillip’s face twists. “I don’t think—”
I plunge forward. “You canceled the contract that Blake’s grandma had with the inn. And I’m guessing”—I look around at the other people in the room, but none of them will meet my eye—“that this meeting is to discuss why displaying paintings that were done by an artist with a criminal record would be a stain on the town.” The look that passes between the city council members tells me I’m right.
Mrs. Phillips speaks up. “The historical committee doesn’t feel that the pictures portray the right—”
“Have you seen them?” I challenge her. She glances at her husband. Fear flashes in her eyes. “Have any of you seen the paintings that Blake did?”
Mr. Phillips reaches to put his hand on my shoulder, but this time I step away. He sighs. “Your friend Blake’s criminal record aside, the paintings are amatueristic and, unfortunately, destroyed. As for the other matters, my contract with Mrs. Evans is none of your business, and this is neither the time nor the place to discus your mother’s indiscretions.” He leans closer, so only I can hear him. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
I answer like everyone in the room heard his last statement. “No, Mr. Phillips, I know exactly who I’m dealing with. I went to seven different schools. I know a bully when I see one.”
I look around the room. “How much money did he offer to throw at some civic project if you didn’t display Blake’s paintings?” One man coughs and looks away. A woman pretends to check her watch, another brushes some lint off her sleeve. I make sure I make eye contact with every one of them before I turn and walk away.
I maintain my dignity until I get back in Mom’s car. Then I collapse onto the seat. I press the stone as alternating waves of triumph and dread pass over my body. Mostly, the triumph wins out.
.........
Mom is sitting at the table in her bathrobe, no makeup, hair straight and flat, stirring a cup of coffee when I get home. She barely answers my greeting. I could tell her everything that happened in Mr. Phillips’s office and it probably wouldn’t register. I could tell her everything that Trip did to me while we were dating and she wouldn’t even blink.
I go into the bathroom, wet down a washcloth, and press it over my freaky eye because my scar is threatening to explode.
Voices from Andrew’s room stop me. It sounds like arguing. Andrew is upset. I can hear him stammering. I lean my head against the door as a fit of coughing stops whatever he was trying to say.
Caitlyn is yelling at him through the computer, cussing him out. The urge to protect him races through my blood. I push the door open w
ith the idea that I’m going to stop her before she really hurts him.
“Caitlyn, what’s your problem?” I burst in. Andrew’s still coughing, doubled over in his chair.
“Allie, thank goodness,” Caitlyn says. “I need you to talk some sense into him. Doesn’t he sound terrible? I told him he needs to go to a doctor, I told him—”
“Baby me,” Andrew sputters. “Like Mom. I’m not a baby. I’m tougher—” He breathes in hard. “Tougher than you think. Any of you.”
“Talk to him.” Caitlyn sounds really worried. “His cough keeps getting worse.”
“Can take care of myself.” Andrew waves wildly with his good hand. “Mind your own business.”
“Andrew, I—”
He does the impossible, hangs up on Caitlyn. Then he turns his chair around to face me, fire blazing in his eyes. “No one tells me,” he breathes, “anything! Mom’s job! Dad’s shop! And you!” He starts coughing again. Caitlyn’s right. He does sound bad. He breathes in a wheeze. “You all think I’m helpless, you all think I can’t handle anything.”
I walk over and put my hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know a lot about anything, either.” Andrew coughs again. I bend over him—concern for my brother erases everything. “You sound bad.”
He leans forward in his chair. “Just”—he wheezes—“stress. Everyone. School, family, and Caitlyn on my back. I’m fine. A stupid cough. Mom has too much now. Don’t tell. I’m an adult. I can—” Breathes hard. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
“You’re right.” I kneel down so I’m next to him. “But we take care of each other, right? You’ve taken care of me plenty of times.”
He smiles a sad smile and reaches to touch my hair, gets his fingers caught in my curls, and pulls away. “Not now. Too much for Mom. If it gets too bad, I’ll see a doctor. Promise.”
“Okay, I’ll wait. But call Caitlyn back. She’s just worried because she loves you.”
His face lights up. “Do you think?”
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