by C. C. Hunter
It’s going to require writing three more fake letters, and lying three more times. One of those lies will be to the police.
But that’s not the hardest part. More difficult than lying is getting the truth. The whole truth. I’m going to have to get Abby to talk to me. Give me the terrible details about what really happened. I’m going to need to include enough of those facts in my letter to make my lie believable.
Sitting there, staring at my bowl with dry cereal, I realize it’s been over five minutes and I don’t hear Dad showering. I shoot up from my chair.
This time I literally bang my fist on his door.
“Dad, you have to go to work!”
“I’m up,” he calls out, and I hear him moving around this time. I don’t leave the door until I hear the shower start.
Ten minutes later, when he steps out, his hair isn’t combed. His eyes look bloodshot. I feel like my ribs are closing in and strangling my heart.
“Dad? What’s going on?” Saying those words scratches my throat.
“Couldn’t sleep last night. I gotta run, Hon.” He squeezes my shoulder and heads for the door.
What the hell am I going to do?
When I hear the door shut behind him, anger boils inside me. I sling my spoon across the kitchen. It clatters against the cabinet. It clanks against the floor, probably chipping the tile. But I’m more worried about the chip in my heart. Worried what we’ll do if he loses this job. Worried about losing my dad.
I jump up and storm into his room. The bed isn’t neat like it was before. Blankets are scattered. His suit from yesterday is thrown on the floor. I do another search, and like before, I find nothing.
• • •
“You’re quiet today,” Jacob says as I watch him take the water hose off of a Chevy Cruze.
Kelsey said the same thing when I picked her up. I almost told her about Dad, but then I suddenly didn’t want to talk about it. Or honestly, I was afraid if I talked about it, I’d fall apart. The last thing I wanted to do was show up at school with a red nose to match the fading red ring around my right eye.
“Quiet’s good sometimes,” I answer.
“Not when you look sad, too.” He pulls away from the car.
I force a smile. It feels fake and my cheek muscles protest.
“Good try,” he says. “If you want to talk, I’m a good listener. And it’s Friday. So I’m open anytime this weekend.”
The offer is sweet and it makes my heart do a tiny tumble. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
He rolls the screwdriver in his hands. “I saw Jami talking to you this morning by your locker. What did she say?”
I shrug. “She just wanted to stop by and remind me I was a bitch.”
His shoulders drop. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”
“Please don’t. It’ll only make it worse.”
“You know it’s over between us.”
“Yeah. You told me.” And there’s a part of me that is excited about that. It’s not the part that seems to crave being with Hayden.
The bubble of silence around us grows awkward.
After a few seconds, he turns back to the car and starts working. His arms shift as he turns the screwdriver to loosen the hose. Unlike mine, the coveralls he’s wearing are short-sleeved and his bicep muscles roll under his skin. While he might not be making my heart sing extra loud, I’m not completely immune to the fact that he’s hot. Or that he’s being so nice.
“I missed you yesterday,” he says. “I had to work with Peter and I swear that guy wouldn’t know a sparkplug from a transmission.” He shoots me a smile over his shoulder.
I grin. “Sorry.” I roll up my coveralls sleeves. The coveralls are about two sizes too big. I move closer to the car. “Do you want me to finish that up?”
“Sure.” He lifts up, shifts away from the car, and hands me the screwdriver. His warm brown eyes meet mine for a heartbeat. The soft way he smiles is too much, too intimate, too close to meaning something that I’m drawn to, but somehow don’t really want.
I dip under the hood and reach in to finish loosening the hose. “I think you almost got it,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. With me leaning forward, I feel the loose coveralls pulling tighter over my backside. Then I feel him studying me. Checking me out. I look back and yup, his gaze is on my ass.
He glances up and catches me catching him. Blushing slightly, he turns away.
I put my nose back into the engine, leaning in as far as I can. There’s a small part of me that wants to let the cute-guy-likes-me feeling run its course and boost my self-esteem. But there’s the other part of me. The part that kind of belongs to a guy I danced with last night. The guy I need to push away.
The hose comes loose and I pull out. “Got it.”
He grins and takes two steps closer. “You also got grease, right here.”
His finger taps my nose. Our eyes meet and hold again. I’m aware of how close he is. Aware of how everyone else in the shop is on the other side. Aware that my next intake of air is filled with a spicy, earthy boy scent. I think it’s his at first, but then it’s too familiar. So is the weakness I feel when I smell it. So far, Jacob hasn’t made me melt like that. But Hayden . . . ?
I look over his shoulder and see Hayden mid-fade.
The only thing I can see before he completely vanishes is the pain in his expression. “No,” I mutter.
“No, what?” Jacob’s still smiling, still close, and I’m still so sure I’m making a mess of things.
“Nothing.” The next beat my heart takes, I feel a tiny crack, because I know I’ve hurt Hayden.
Chapter Seventeen
After dropping off Kelsey at her house, I head home to filter through my issues. I need to talk to Hayden, tell him I’m sorry. That it’s my fault that he’s hurt. My fault because I let myself like him. My fault I let myself get too close to him.
Right before I pull into the driveway, my concerns about Dad bubble up to the surface, and I change my mind and drive past our house. I go around the block and head down Locus Street toward Canton’s Funeral home. I pull into the parking lot. Dad parks in the gated area around the back, so I can’t tell yet if he’s even here.
I recall this morning. His bloodshot eyes and the mess in his room. What the hell am I going to do? Why did I even come here?
I don’t have an answer, but I still pull into a parking spot and cut off my engine. There are several cars parked in front. Not enough to indicate a funeral is in progress, but enough to know that if he’s here, he might be with someone.
It doesn’t matter.
I get out of the car and head inside. A bell dings, announcing my arrival. My skin immediately feels prickly, too sensitive. The cold air hurts.
The heavy door swishes closed behind me. I inhale and a sharp, almost medicinal, aroma fills my lungs. A character in a book I read once said that funeral homes smell of depression and grief. But for me, it’s the smell I’ve associated with my father all my life. A scent that means Daddy’s home.
I stop in the entrance. Murmured voices echo from somewhere in the back.
The walls are painted a pale gray and the floors are white marble. A large glass-top table is pushed against a wall. On it is fresh flowers and some brochures. I’ve been here a couple of times so I know where my dad’s office is. I also know where the dead are kept.
I start in the back as if I have a right to. And I do, don’t I? My father works here.
I get to the hall that leads to his office. I hesitate. What am I going to say to him? Is this it? Am I going to confront him about what I read in Mom’s diary? Tell him I’m scared he’s drinking? Tell him I love him? Beg him to stop before something bad happens?
“He’s with someone,” a deep, familiar voice says behind me.
Then bam, I feel washed in sadness. Hayden’s sadness. I turn around. He’s standing there. Guilt swirls around my chest because he saw Jacob flirting with me earlier. Guilt because I let him get
too close. I let myself get too close. None of this should have happened.
Then a question comes from the ache in my chest. “What are you doing here?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. But an ugly answer forms in my mind. He’s here. His body is here. He’s a new client. He’s tucked away inside a casket, in a room that smells of grief, or even worse, in a freezer.
I tell myself this shouldn’t hurt so much. I’ve known he’s dead all along. Logically this swell of grief I feel doesn’t make sense, but when do matters of the heart make sense?
I hear Dad’s voice. I turn toward the office. My dad and a man step out. “Don’t worry, Mr. Carter. I’ll take care of everything.” The two men shake hands.
“Thank you,” Mr. Carter says, sounding sincere. “You made this . . . easier than I ever thought it would be.” His voice shakes with pain.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Dad says in a calm, caring way. It warms me to know he’s still taking his job seriously. Mr. Carter starts down the hall, stopping abruptly when he sees me. His eyes are moist, and I sense he’s embarrassed.
Dad turns my way, sees me, and concern fills his green eyes.
“This is my daughter,” Dad says and moves in. “Riley, this is Mr. Carter.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Carter says, but the agony in his eyes tells me nothing is really nice for him right now. He’s grieving.
I nod. He walks past me. Dad touches my shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” No. I don’t know. Are you drinking, Dad? I think it, I don’t say it—not sure I can even talk. The lump of grief I feel for Hayden makes my chest tight. Another bell rings announcing someone’s entrance into the funeral home. Voices from the front carry back into the hall.
“Mr. Smith,” I hear someone say behind me. I look back. It’s a woman with dark hair and a heart-shaped face. She’s familiar. Then it hits me. She looks like Abby.
It’s Abby’s mother. I just know it. Tears run down the woman’s cheeks. I feel the pain in my lungs as I take my next breath. Pain for the woman, and for Abby.
Right then, the scent of jasmine fills my senses. Abby’s here.
“Ms. Howard,” Dad says, confirming what I already know.
Dad glances at me and gives me the look that asks for another minute.
Ms. Howard seems to take a painful swallow of air. “Something terrible has happened. My father just had a heart attack. Is there any way we can postpone the funeral for a few days?”
“Well, of course. I’m so sorry,” he says with empathy.
His concerned gaze moves to me briefly. I nod letting him know it’s okay.
“But what about people who show up this afternoon for the funeral?” Ms. Howard asks.
“I’ll open the room for a viewing and I’ll let everyone know who shows up that the funeral has been postponed. Why don’t we go into my office and talk?” he asks Ms. Howard. He glances back at me and mouths the words, one minute.
I watch them disappear into Dad’s office. My heart’s hurting, my head’s swimming, and my resolve is weakening. Now that I’ve seen him working and seeming so on top of things, I think perhaps my worries were unfounded.
“Riley,” another voice says behind me.
I look back and the voice belongs to Ms. Duarte, Dad’s assistant. Abby is standing beside her.
“Hi. I, uh, wanted to see my dad.”
“Why don’t you come into my office? I’m sure he’ll be done in a few minutes.”
I nod. I look at Abby but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the office door. I need to say something to her, but I can’t.
I stand there. My next intake of air brings the scent of jasmine, but along with it is Hayden’s scent. And Hayden’s sadness. Then Abby fades.
Inhaling again, I face Ms. Duarte. “Does Dad have another client?”
“Client?” she asks. Her voice is too mellow, almost like bells, and it seems to float in the funeral-home scented air. “Oh, you mean . . . Uh, yes, just this morning. Why?”
“A boy? Dark hair, tall?” A boy who can make you laugh, who can make the loneliness go away? The back of my eyelids sting.
“No.” She appears confused by my question. “It’s a man.”
I push back the hurt and take in the information. It’s not Hayden. Then what was he doing here? Had he followed me? Is he watching out for my dad? Knowing Hayden, he’d do that. He’d do it for me.
“He’s at least my age,” Ms. Duarte says.
Then, as if that’s all it takes, a spirit appears. A man. He’s wearing an orange prison uniform. He has red hair, and a tattoo of a spider and a web runs down his neck. His light green eyes are unnaturally bright and angry. He walks toward me, his hands fisted, as if he’s walking into a fight. As if he’s ready to kill. And I’m his target.
Fear races up my backbone. I take a step back. I’ve never seen a spirit this mad.
“Can you see me?” he yells. “Someone has to help me. Someone has to help me now!”
I look away from him. Pretend I’m not afraid. Pretend my step back wasn’t due to him. Pretend I didn’t see him. Please God, I can’t handle another one. Especially one that scares me.
“Tell Dad I’ll call him?” I run out. Tears fill my eyes as soon as the door swishes closed.
The weight I feel worrying about Hayden and Abby, and my fear of the convict’s spirit, have me angry with life. Why couldn’t I be a normal teen? One who has a mom at home. One who can worry about simple life issues, like getting pimples, scoring a date for prom, and making it into the right college.
Who the hell thought I could handle this?
• • •
I pull onto my driveway when my phone rings. I know it’s Dad.
“Hey,” I say.
“Why did you leave? I told you to wait.”
“You were busy,” I say.
“Hon’, I’m never too busy for you. I just needed three minutes to take care of Ms. Howard. What’s wrong?”
I swallow the need to cry. “I was worried.”
“About?”
“You.” My bottom lip trembles.
“What about me?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. “You acted like you didn’t feel well this morning.”
“Oh, that. No, I’m fine. I just had a restless night.”
I think I can hear his chair squeaking.
I think I hear his lie.
I think I hear my heart break.
“It feels like more,” I say.
“Don’t be silly. Stop worrying. Didn’t I seem fine when you were here?”
“Yes.”
“See,” he says. “Why don’t we order in when I get home?”
“Okay.” I brush a few tears from my cheeks. But dad-blast it, I’m pathetic.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, see you tonight.” I hang up.
I walk into the house. It’s silent. The bare walls mock me. The soft sound of Pumpkin’s purring whispers through the house. I continue down the hall. When I turn the corner, I see Hayden. Pumpkin is stretched out on the table, and Hayden is sitting there, stroking him from head to tail.
“Hey,” I say.
He gives me a smile, but it’s sad. I drop my backpack on the table and sit across from him. “What were you doing in the funeral home?”
“Hanging,” he says, looking at Pumpkin, not at me.
“What you saw today at school--”
“What I saw today doesn’t matter. You’ve been right all along.”
“About what?”
“About this . . .” He waves a hand between me and him. “We’re kind of incompatible.”
Tears fill my eyes. “And you have no idea how much I wish it wasn’t so. I wish we’d danced at the camp. I wish we’d known each other then.” I wish . . . I wish with all my heart that you were still alive.
“Me too.” He continues to pet Pumpkin. He still hasn’t looked at me.
The
lump of hurt sits on my chest. But I force myself to say it. “I think you’d be happier if you passed over.”
He still doesn’t look at me, but he smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. My breath catches.
“Still trying to get rid of me.” His words fill the desolate silence.
“Hayden, I just—”
“I know.” He looks up this time. “I think you’re right. First, I want to help you get justice for Abby. That guy has to be stopped.”
“That’s my job.”
“I know, but I kinda got pulled into it, too.”
My fault again. “I saw Abby at the funeral home, but she didn’t say anything. I need to talk to her before I can write the letters.”
“Okay, but I thought we could see if we can find out anything about Bill. His last name and stuff. I think there’s a park website that might list employees.”
I realize I should have already done that. The sooner I take care of Abby, the better I can deal with the other stuff.
I run upstairs and grab my laptop and we settle in at the dining room table. I’m very aware of how he’s not touching me. And I suddenly want him to touch me so bad it hurts.
Focusing on what I’m doing and not what I wish I was doing, I Google the park’s name. It pulls up a website and even a story about Abby Howard. I click on the website.
“Click on the link, ‘Who We Are,’” Hayden says, standing behind me, but not close.
I do and the screen fills with photographs and images. At the bottom is a picture of Evil Bill.
His name is William Griffin. His cold, blank stare in the picture gives me chills. I read his bio, which tells me that he’s originally from Tennessee and he worked at several state parks there before he made his way to Texas. I take a deep breath and then go back to Google to search his name.
A lot of links come up. Probably some for another William Griffin. It isn’t an uncommon name. Most of the links are over ten years old. I click on a few of the ones that sound like they could be connected to Evil Bill.