It’s gone.
“How…” I kneel, pushing aside the leaves and trash in desperation.
“Cass, what are you doing?” I stand to face Gideon, who delicately presses his fingers to my cheek. A hint of sweat mixes with the pine scent of the air. “You shouldn’t be up here. You’re not well.”
I pull back, torn between laughing and crying. Maybe I am unwell. Was the necklace an unfortunate effect of my concussion? Another hallucination? Maybe Gideon was right all along, and this was a massive prank.
Or he came back. Brandon could’ve ducked back into the moss-covered ruins and taken it. He could’ve cleaned up the evidence.
Gideon tugs out his phone, scrolling through before handing it to me. It’s Melody’s Instagram account. There’s a photo of a deflated tire with a caption: Sooo frustrating when you get a flat and miss your shift . I swipe to a second photo of Melody wearing her Gina’s Diner uniform and a big frown. “I checked her social media accounts while I was waiting for the ice.”
I reread the words, hearing Melody’s loud, whiny voice through the post, clear as day. “She’s really fine,” I say, barely believing the words.
“She’s really fine,” he echoes, like a parent trying to convince his toddler there’s no monster in the closet. “What were you doing up here?”
My head sags. “I’m sorry I ditched you.”
“But what made you—”
My phone rings in my hand, and I jump. It’s the sheriff’s station. I want to ignore it, but I have to deal with this. “Hi, ma’am, I was mistaken. Everyone’s fine.”
“What?”
“So sorry to bother you.”
“Okay, then,” the secretary, Pam, says slowly, like I’m another stupid kid wasting the sheriff’s valuable time. Which is exactly what I am. And Gideon knew it.
Stupid. The raspberry wine cooler was so specific. Too specific. Brandon decided to mess with me because he’s exactly the kind of guy I always suspected. First, he pulled my darkest secrets out of me like a magician with those never-ending handkerchiefs, then dragged me around all day like a fool.
And now, for the first time, Gideon’s watching me in that guarded way people do.
People who know I have secrets.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking one last look at the ruins before heading to my bike.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I stumble into my house and Gideon helps me to the sofa. “Don’t say anything about Melody to Asher,” I whisper. I can’t deal with my big brother worrying about me right now.
“Fine.” He heads to the kitchen for more ice. My mom is in there, prepping for dinner. She rushes out to the living room, carrying the pungent smell of freshly cut onions with her.
“Cassidy, you fell off your bike?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I mumble as Gideon stoops beside me, pressing ice to my head.
Asher hears the commotion and wanders in. My mom takes over ice duty, lowering onto the sofa. Her figure blocks Gideon’s as he and my brother exchange hushed words I can’t make out.
“Do you need something for the pain?” Mom asks.
I nod, which only magnifies the ache. She stands up, lips pinched as she studies me. “Any nausea? What did you have for breakfast?”
“No, and burnt toast with grape jelly,” I answer. Satisfied, she hurries off down the hall.
Asher nears the sofa, smiling gently. “Sounds like you’ve had quite a day.”
My face falls. I can’t help it.
He sits down on the edge of the sofa, but Gideon hovers at the edge of the living room. “I’m going,” he says, his gaze veering to the rug; he can’t even look at me.
“You sure?” Asher asks. “My mom always makes enough dinner for you. I thought we were going to sit around and watch movies tonight.”
“I’m supposed to go to that party,” Gideon says, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll text you later, Cass.” Then he and his comforting scent walk through the foyer and out the front door.
Asher scoots closer. “What’s up with him?”
I fight the aching, stinging sensation in my eyes. “He’s mad at me.”
“For not going to the party? You’re injured.”
“No, it’s not—it’s fine. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
Concern floods Asher’s face, but he shrugs.
“Asher, do not talk to him about me.”
He peers at me for another moment. “Okay.” Then he bends closer, gingerly lifting the ice from my head and squinting at my wound. “You’ve looked better, Cass.”
I smile, but it’s false and makes my head sting.
Later in the evening, I learn Brandon can’t make movie night. Which figures. He’s had quite the day, after all. Hasn’t he? He’s probably afraid I’ll call him out in front of Asher for messing with me. But the last thing I want is for my brother to know about today.
Even without Brandon, it swiftly becomes the worst movie night ever. When Gideon’s over, we usually watch classic horror. Really, we’re all big scaredy-cats. We scream, laugh until we cry, and then find the most inappropriate times to quote ridiculous lines. Since Gideon’s not here, we’re watching some old, boring movie Asher says is important because it’s on the American Film Institute’s top 100 list. But my attention drifts. I check my phone every two minutes for a text from Gideon that never comes. I think about that muffled voice in the woods. My notebook, the page smeared with drops of strawberry milkshake. The look on Gideon’s face at the sawmill. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen that look in my life. But it was the first time I’ve seen it from him.
Growing up as the girl who survived the fire has merited that look from family, friends, and strangers alike. Mostly because another little girl, a neighbor, wasn’t so lucky.
Also, because I started the fire.
5
When I arrive at school the next day, Gideon’s not in Hathaway Hall, by the lockers where we always meet. The warning bell sounds. Still no sign of him. I sit down in English, finally spotting him in his usual place at the front, where teachers put the ones they need to keep an eye on. His jaw is scruffy and his hair is rumpled. He barely greets my nervous smile.
After class, I try to catch him, but I’m swarmed by Laura Gellman and a few other girls.
“So, did you and Gideon accidentally bump heads while you were making out?” asks Emily Greer, indicating the bandage on my forehead. She leans in with a mischievous grin, her red corkscrew curls bouncing. Emily Greer is the polar opposite of her skulking, raven-haired brother, Seth. Smiley-faced, bouncy-haired Emily probably should’ve demanded to see a DNA test before sharing a roof with that guy. She’s the kind of sweet that still passes out Valentine cards with little chocolate hearts taped inside to every kid in our grade. But at our tiny school, she gets teased almost as much as I do, just for being related to him. I feel bad for her.
I roll my eyes. Time to go bury my head in a locker.
Laura Gellman glides into the huddle now, smelling like she doused herself in a bucket of floral perfume. “Oh, she had a small encounter with a volleyball yesterday. Right, Cass?” She winks in an exaggerated way, then glances at her phone. “So annoying. Melody isn’t answering my texts. I swear, if she doesn’t respond in, like, five minutes, she’s dead to me.”
The word dead rolls at me like a slow-moving, noxious gas.
I back up, ready to lock myself in a bathroom stall. But Peter McCallum spots me from the lockers and flags me down. “Hey, Cass,” he says, tucking a notebook under his arm. “Have you seen Gideon? I need to reschedule tomorrow’s session.” His green eyes narrow pensively. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say, managing a smile. “Sorry, haven’t seen him. But I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
If he ever speaks to me again.
At morning break, Brandon’s sturdy figure trudges through the hall. He high-fives a teammate before guzzling a bright blue Gatorade. How can he prance around this place after what he did? At the very least, he put me through hell. At the very worst… I swallow back the sick feeling, watching from behind my locker door as he spins his combination.
I’m done staring at Brandon’s back. I need to look him in the eye.
When he finally zips up his backpack, I slam my locker door. “Hey, Brandon!” I call out, hurrying over with two books tucked under my arm.
He looks up with a confused grin. “M’lady,” he says, tipping a hand to me. That ridiculous dimple looks like an asteroid crashed into his face. “Cass, what happened to your head?”
His fingers dart toward my bandage, and I jerk back, out of his reach. “Nothing, just fell off my bike.” I chew the inside of my mouth. “Hey, do you think Gideon’s going to be in trouble for missing practice yesterday? He says he doesn’t care, but it was my fault he missed, and I feel bad, is all.” I’m rambling, but it doesn’t matter as long as he gives something away. Anything.
Brandon reddens. “Sorry, Cass, couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t there either.”
Shocker. “I hope everything’s okay.”
He shrugs. “Just personal stuff.” His brown eyes dart in the direction of his open locker door.
Anger needles into my veins. I tuck my hair behind an ear. “Personal, huh?”
Brandon nods, pressing his lips together tightly. Watching me. He leans in closer and the adrenaline I felt with him at the diner surges in my chest. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about Hollander. Not even Coach can get mad at that dreamy face.” He backs up, laughing, and I suppress the urge to claw at him.
“Besides, Coach has been distracted lately. Marital problems or something. He probably didn’t even notice who was there.” He shrugs on his backpack and shuts the locker door.
What do you have in there? Did he have the nerve to stash the notebook in there? Or worse—is Melody’s necklace stuffed inside? My fists twitch.
Brandon stares expectantly at me. “Well, I hope—”
“Hey, Alvarez!” Dave Halper’s booming voice cuts me off. Something nails Brandon in the head and he blinks, stunned. “Where were you yesterday? Coach is pissed!”
Brandon glances down where a foam football bounces and rolls at our feet. He slings me a guilty look and bends to retrieve the ball. “Okay, so it’s possible Coach noticed. But your sweet-talking boyfriend will be fine.” He stands, right elbow poised to launch the ball.
“He’s not my—” I mumble as Brandon hurtles through the crowd after Dave. But I don’t finish the thought.
Because Brandon’s left hand is still clutching his lock.
He and Dave disappear around a corner down the hall, and I set my books down on the floor, eyes combing the hall as I stand. Then I take a breath and fling open Brandon’s locker door. Inside is an overwhelming mess of crap, the boy-sized version of a junkyard. Several food wrappers—probably from the past few weeks—litter the space. I shove one aside, smearing my hand with what I hope is melted chocolate. There are class notes from possibly years back. Folded papers and even more crumpled ones. A couple flat sheets protrude from a pile of textbooks.
My pulse pounds in my ears, but I’m already inside. No backing out now.
I look around again. No one’s watching. I flip through his stack of books, searching for the small, spiral-bound notebook trimmed in silver. When I don’t find it, I stare down at the notes, hoping he tore out the pages and hid them in here. I unfold them, one by one, so rapidly I end up with two paper cuts within seconds. It’s all class stuff. Even a couple of tests, all with exemplary marks. But nothing mentions Melody.
Someone as smart as Brandon wouldn’t stick the evidence in his locker. I reach back, dragging my fingertips behind the stack of books, and let out a growl. I’m almost finished pushing everything back, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.
I jump, my hand knocking two crumpled pages and a loose pen to the tile floor. I’m caught.
But I swing around to find Gideon, eyebrows skewed. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I scan the hall for Brandon before grabbing the fallen items. I cram them back inside, shut his locker door, and stoop to pick up my books. “Can we talk over there?” I ask, pointing toward the less-crowded, outdoor courtyard.
Gideon walks, keeping his narrowed eyes fastened on me. “Does Brandon know you’re in his locker?”
“Yeah, he said I could borrow his notes for Mr. Samuels’s class,” I lie calmly. “Did you go to Dave’s thing last night?”
He shrugs. “Mm-hmm.”
“How’s your head?” He reaches out, like Brandon did. Only this time I don’t flinch. I allow his fingers to brush my hair back as he inspects the bandage. It seems like my entire embarrassing display yesterday is fading to the back of his mind.
But Emily Greer rushes over, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “Did you guys hear?” She’s out of breath, stray ringlets springing loose from her ponytail. “Melody Davenport never came home last night. She’s missing.”
“She’s—” My stomach somersaults. I look at Gideon, whose dark brown eyes widen as the color drains from his face.
Emily darts off to inform the rest of the masses, and I’m left with Gideon gaping at me like he did yesterday.
The intercom crackles, startling us. “Cassidy Pratt and Gideon Hollander, please come to the principal’s office, immediately. Cassidy Pratt and Gideon Hollander.”
We turn down the passage to the office in silence, neither of us particularly familiar with the place. Brandon was right on one account: teachers take one look at Gideon’s charming smile and magically forget his crimes. Inside, the secretary glances up from her computer and points to the principal’s door.
I follow Gideon, finding the leather rolling chair behind Principal Diggs’s wooden desk empty. Instead, a large man with a beer gut is seated off to the side of the room. His brown hair is gelled back, his chin is stubbly, and he’s dressed in a beige law enforcement uniform with a name tag that reads SHERIFF HENDERSON.
“Hi, kids. Take a seat.” He motions to the two chairs in front of the desk, which are rotated to face his own.
I move to a chair, my limbs rigid. Before I sit, my phone dings in my back pocket. I fish it out to turn it off, mumbling an apology to the sheriff. But I catch a glimpse of the text message from an unknown number and open it, my head lowered over the screen.
An icicle of fear pierces my chest, and my fingers shake around the phone.
It’s a photo of a small, lined sheet of notebook paper, pink droplets smeared over the surface. It’s covered in perfectly legible handwriting; I already know the words.
I wrote them.
To Brandon Alvarez.
Cold sweat breaks out over my forehead. I zero in on the photo and the caption beneath it. Just one line that makes my skin prickle and my heart lunge.
I’m so glad we’re in this together.
The phone slips from my fingers, bouncing in my lap. I catch it, wrapping my fingers tightly around the screen, and look up, blinking to find Sheriff Henderson’s bulbous gray eyes on me, the color of an oncoming storm.
6
“Everything okay?” Sheriff Henderson asks, a timbre of insincerity to his deep voice.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, sorry. Just my mom.” But my vision is tunneling.
“Good. I’ve called you in to help with an investigation. Melody Davenport’s family reported her missing this morning. Apparently, she never came home last night, which is unusual for her.”
“Oh.” The gash on my head starts pulsing again.
“Gracie Davenport said the two of you came around asking about her sister yesterday. And then my secretary received a call that we traced to your nu
mber, Cassidy. She said you sounded pretty upset, but then you changed your mind.” His eyes never veer from mine.
“That’s right,” I say, my voice cracking. The text message spirals through my head. Brandon sent it to silence me. If I mention him or any of the details of the plan, he’s going to hand that notebook over to the sheriff. “Gideon and I were in the woods yesterday, and we heard something—well, we heard Melody. And then we heard—no, I heard, because Gideon had to send a text—we didn’t have a signal.” I shake my aching head and start over. “It sounded like she was being hurt.”
“How so?”
“She was with someone. At first it sounded like they were kissing. But then it sounded more like arguing, and Melody screamed.”
“What time was this?”
“Maybe one or so.”
Sheriff Henderson’s head flinches backs, and he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Our records indicate you didn’t call the station until two.” His gray eyes narrow. “What took you so long?”
Your low-budget, sorry-excuse-for-a-station, that’s what. I bite down growing irritation. “We tried calling right away, but no one answered.”
The sheriff’s face softens. “Sorry about that. We’ve been having trouble with the phone line. I’ve got someone working on it. You didn’t think to stop by in person?”
Gideon looks to me, worry lines etched in his forehead. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He turns back to Sheriff Henderson. “That was my fault, sir. I thought maybe Cass was confused. I should’ve listened to her sooner.” An unspoken implication shadows his words: I would’ve listened if you’d been honest with me. “We went to Melody’s house to check on her first. She wasn’t home, and then Cass fell off her bike.” He motions to the bandage on my head. “And then Cass—”
“Noticed Melody had posted on Instagram,” I cut in before Gideon can mention the sawmill. The sheriff will want to know why I went up there, and I can’t explain it without mentioning Brandon or the notebook. “So I figured I’d misheard. Gideon got me home to treat my head.”
Little Creeping Things Page 4