“Not that great. But tonight I’m taking her to this thing at Samantha’s house—surprise birthday party. It’s going to suck, but at least it’ll get Mattie out of the house.”
Rollins makes a face. “At Samantha’s?”
“I know,” I say, grimacing. And then I’m overcome with this intense desire to hug Rollins again, the person who knows what happened to me sophomore year, the one who’s always been there. How silly I’d been to doubt him.
“I’m sorry for being a bitch to you,” I say.
He shrugs. “Tough time for everyone. I get it. Hey, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He passes the Sharpie from one hand to the other, anxiety radiating off him.
“Sure,” I say, and I pull him over to my bed and sit next to him. “What’s up?”
He taps the Sharpie on his thigh nervously. “The other night . . .” He pauses, starts over again. “The night that Amber died?”
“Yes?” I urge him to keep going.
“I saw her.” His eyes never leave the Sharpie. “I’d asked her for some pictures of Sophie for my zine. She said she’d give them to me, but she wanted me to meet her on the football field. She was acting pretty weird.”
I exhale, reassured that my hypothesis about their meeting that night was true. Unfortunately for Amber, she didn’t realize she was also providing pictures for her own memorial zine.
“Weird how?” I prompt.
“Well, she told me I should tell Mattie she was sorry and that everything was her fault. And she started crying and said everyone thought she was a whore and that her whole life was a joke. I tried to tell her that wasn’t true— but she got mad at me and told me to leave. I thought she was just being a drama queen, so I left her there. I never thought she’d . . .”
His hands are shaking now. “I know I should have called the cops when I heard she was dead, but I was just so scared. I thought they’d blame me or something.”
I grab one of his hands and try to keep them still. “Rollins. Trust me. It’s going to be okay. But you definitely need to tell the police what you know.”
“I know. You’re right. I have to tell them.” It’s like he’s trying to convince himself.
“Hey, I’ll come with you,” I say. “It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, because I’ve got to do this thing for my sister tonight.”
“Vee?” He traces a finger on the palm of my hand. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I whisper. We sit there for a long moment, electricity flowing from his fingers to mine and then back again.
A knock on my door startles us both, and then my dad calls out, his voice strange. “Vee? You’ve got another visitor.”
I pull my hands away and stand up. “Come in,” I reply. Zane enters the room, confusion clouding his eyes. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel like I have.
“Hey,” I say too loudly. “Um, Rollins, I don’t think you’ve officially met Zane. Zane, this is my best friend, Rollins.”
Rollins stands. The two eye each other suspiciously. Finally, Zane moves closer and holds out a hand, which Rollins takes grudgingly.
“Rollins was just going,” I say abruptly, realizing a second too late how rude it sounds. I want to take the words back, invite Rollins to stay, but he’s already moving toward the doorway. He pauses to stand before Zane.
“Be good to her,” he says, an undercurrent of threat beneath his words. Before Zane can respond, Rollins disappears out the door. A sadness takes root in my belly. I’m not sure things can ever be the same between Rollins and me—not when Zane’s around.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Zane, even though I’m not really sure what I’m apologizing for. I just know the scene probably looked pretty fishy to him, and I don’t want him to think I have romantic feelings for Rollins. He’s just a friend. My best friend in the whole world.
“Don’t worry about it,” Zane says, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling my hair. “He’s protective. I get it. I would be, too.”
His lips graze mine.
“Just a second,” I say, pulling away and holding up one finger. I push the door closed and then melt into his arms.
Tilting my head toward my alarm clock, I see that it’s nearly six. I groan, remembering that Samantha Phillips will be here to pick me up in an hour. It almost makes me laugh, to think of myself attending a cheerleader party after all this time.
Zane touches my lips. “What’s so funny?”
“Ugh. I have to go this party tonight. It’s for my sister. It’s her birthday.”
A shadow crosses his face. “I thought you said you were worried about Mattie. We were just going to stay home and watch movies.”
“I know,” I say. “But it’s really for the best. She needs to get out of the house. I’ll be with her. Nothing will happen. You can come, too, if you want.”
He pauses before speaking. “Sure. I’ll come. But first could you drop by my house? There’s something I want to show you.”
“You could show me right now,” I say teasingly, but his face remains serious. “Of course I’ll come over. I’ll have Samantha drop me off, okay? Then you can drive us to the party later.”
Zane’s face breaks into a smile. He leans over and presses his lips to mine. I sink back against my pillow, getting lost in the moment.
Just then, my door swings open. Startled, Zane and I pull apart. My dad stands in the doorway, looking partly embarrassed but mostly pissed. He clears his throat.
“Sylvia, I think it’s about time for your friend to go home.”
“God, Dad, how about knocking next time?” I tuck my hair behind my ear and give Zane an I’m sorry look.
“It’s cool,” Zane says, standing quickly, smoothing his clothes. “I should be going anyway.” He nods at my father, muttering something about it being nice to meet him, while edging his way out of the room. “See you tonight, Vee.”
My father gives me a stern look. “Five minutes. Downstairs.”
I groan.
As I stand, I notice a red stain on the carpet near my bed. I kneel down to examine the spot. Unable to rub it out, I realize it’s paint. Red paint.
Huh. That’s weird.
Before I go down to talk to my father, I get a wet wash-cloth and scrub at the paint. The stain refuses to come out. Vanessa’s going to have a shit fit.
Whenever we get in trouble, my father summons us to his office. Maybe he thinks this gives him a psychological advantage because it’s his turf or something.
I hover in the doorway while he finishes typing. He makes me wait a little bit before acknowledging my presence. Then he gestures for me to sit across from him.
“I guess I haven’t made a rule about boys in your bedroom,” he says after a long minute. “I haven’t really needed to before today.”
“You were fine with Rollins coming into my room,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, that’s Rollins. This boy, Zane—you’ve never even told me about him. Then he shows up one day out of the blue and I find you two on top of each other?”
Heat rushes into my cheeks. “It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is it like, Sylvia?”
I look away from him. Under his desk, the crumpled photograph of the white-haired woman still sits at the bottom of his trash can. I clench my fists.
“How dare you lecture me about not telling you every little detail in my life? Between you and me, I think you’re the one with the most secrets.”
His glare falters, just a little, but it’s enough for me to see the crack in his armor. I’ve found his Achilles’ heel, the thing he’s been keeping from us all along. Bending down, I retrieve the picture and smooth it out on his desk.
“Would you mind telling me who this is?”
His face grows paler by degrees. He stares at the picture beneath my hands like it’s something alive, something about to attack him, a wild animal.
“That’s—that’s all in the past,” he says fin
ally.
“What is all in the past?”
He squeezes his eyes closed, as if trying to block something out. “My affair.” His voice is so small, I have to strain to hear it.
“Your affair? Who’d you have an affair with? This lady?”
He sighs. “Yes. But, Vee, it ended long ago.”
I pick up the picture and stare at the white-haired lady in astonishment. This woman was my father’s lover?
“When exactly were you with her?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“When you were little,” he says softly, confirming what I’d dreaded.
“When Mom was still alive?”
He nods and reaches out, tries to take my hand, but all I see in my head is my mother at home, cancer silently eating her from inside, and him shacking up with the white-haired lady. I stand, still clutching the photograph in my hand. Scrutinizing the picture, I’m struck by the need to know the name of the woman.
“Who is she?”
“Does it matter? It’s over now.”
“If you’ve got her picture in your office, it’s not over. If she’s calling you, it’s not over.”
He looks baffled. “How did you know she called me?”
“Never mind,” I say stubbornly. “What. Is. Her. Name?”
We are in a staring contest. Finally, he looks away. “Evelyn. Evelyn Morrow.”
Morrow. I know that name. The name from the tomb-stone. The name of the little girl who died under my father’s knife. He slept with Allison’s mother? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he sleep with the mother of one of his patients? To ask him, though, I’d have to explain how I broke into his bottom drawer and looked through his personal papers.
Instead, I say, “Why?” I hate the way my voice sounds, like it’s breaking. I hate the weakness, the hurt that coats the simple question.
His face has drained of blood. He looks like I’ve slapped him.
He doesn’t speak.
I slam out of the room.
I stand in front of Mattie’s door, staring at the sparkly My Little Pony stickers she’d decorated it with when she was little. I hear Pearl Jam’s “Black” playing in the background again. I pound on the wood with the heel of my hand.
“What do you want?”
“It’s almost seven. Are you dressed?”
When Mattie doesn’t respond, I push into the room. She’s sitting on her bed in her underwear, looking out the window into the dark.
“Is that what you’re wearing to Samantha’s house?”
She says nothing.
I go to her closet and look over her inventory. She hasn’t done laundry in days, just tossed her dirty clothes on the floor. There are only a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and a skirt still on hangers. I pull out a pink long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and carry them to her bed. On the way, my knees go out and my muscles turn to jelly.
The next thing I know, I’m staring into my own face as my sister hunches over me. I’ve slid into my sister. I’m seeing everything from her perspective—including my own body. It’s completely surreal.
“Vee? Vee? Are you okay?” She shakes my shoulders, and my eyes roll back into my head.
“Oh god. Oh god. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll get dressed. I’ll go to the party. Just wake up.” Tears splash down her cheeks and onto my face. I can’t stand to see her like this. I decide to take over, just to calm her down.
Hijacking my sister’s body is about as easy as it gets. Maybe it has something to do with genes, but moving her limbs feels natural. I sit back and take a few breaths.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though I’m not sure she can hear me. I don’t feel her there at all anymore, like she’s gone to sleep or something. “It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to go to this party, and we’re going to have fun. Just chill.”
When my sister’s muscles have relaxed a bit, I let go of her, will myself to return. I can almost feel the energy channeling out of her and flowing back into my body, only inches away.
I open my eyes to see Mattie sitting calmly by my side. “I don’t know what happened,” she says, smiling. “But I feel so much better.”
Samantha pulls into our driveway around 7:05. Mattie jumps into the front seat, and I skulk into the back. Samantha flashes me a totally fake smile, like the past year hasn’t happened and we’re still besties.
“Can you drop me off at Zane’s? He’s going to drive me over.”
“Zane?” Samantha asks, eyeing me in the backseat. “Yeah. He lives on Arbor.” I pull the seat belt over my lap and click it in. I’ve seen enough of Samantha’s driving to know I’m not really ever safe when she’s behind the wheel, even if I’m only riding with her for a few blocks.
“I guess,” she says reluctantly, steering the car toward Arbor Lane.
“This is it,” I say, pointing.
She pulls into his driveway and barely even waits for me to climb out before she peels backward, into the street. Her car disappears around the corner, and I hear her engine revving as she picks up speed.
I knock on the door, and then stare at an ugly jack-o’-lantern carved to look like a demon. I wonder who carved it—Zane or his mother? Whoever it was has some skill with a knife.
Again, I knock, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I need to talk to someone about what happened with my father. I need to talk to Zane.
Still, no one answers the door.
He did ask me to come over. Surely it wouldn’t be that rude to just go in. Maybe the television is on really loud and he can’t hear me. Or maybe he’s upstairs.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
When no one comes to the door, I put my hand on the knob and give it a little pressure. It slides easily to the right, and the door opens just a crack. I peer in the front entryway, hoping to hear footsteps, someone coming to see who’s been knocking all this time.
But no one does.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I push the door open wider and see something strange. A tall table—the kind you might set your keys or gloves on—is tipped over, a smashed vase on the floor next to it. Shattered glass surrounds a withered rose.
“Hello?”
I step inside, eyeing the mess.
This doesn’t look good. I should leave. I know I should leave, but something keeps me glued to the floor. I have to find Zane, make sure he’s okay.
“Zane?”
I set the table upright and look around. A large open area off to the right seems to be the living room. I think I can make out the shape of a television in the dark. To my left is a staircase. The only light shines down a long hallway directly before me.
My feet carry me toward the light. I find myself in a small kitchen at the end of the hall. A small olive-colored refrigerator stands in the corner, covered with little cow magnets. But most of the room is taken up by a round wooden table.
Every inch of the table is covered in papers. Bills. Junk mail. I recognize a few of Zane’s papers from school. In the middle of everything is a small, generic desk calendar. Today’s date is circled in red marker.
October 27.
Mattie’s birthday.
Déjà vu slams into me. The white page I found on our door on the day Sophie died, on her birthday. The date was circled in red. It was that piece of paper I was holding when I slid into the killer.
My knees slam into the floor.
The paper came from this house.
The paper came from Zane.
Holy shit.
My mind reels as I search for an explanation. There must be some reason for this calendar. I mean, plenty of people must have them. Mr. Golden has one. It’s just an ordinary desk calendar.
But not everyone circles dates in red.
I review the past week.
Zane’s first day of school was the day Sophie died. Coincidence?
Under the bleachers, Zane rejected my theory that Sophie was murdered. Was he
afraid I’d find out the truth?
The red stain on my carpet. Had he been the one to vandalize Mattie’s locker? He’d had plenty of time to do it while I was in Mr. Golden’s room. The blood-red paint wasn’t a prank—it was a threat.
This whole time, I’ve been so desperate to believe a boy like Zane could ever be drawn to a girl like me. Let’s face it—he’s amazingly hot. He could have any girl he wanted. Yet he approached me. Was I too blind to see the real reason? All this time, was he using me to get close to Mattie?
It’s her birthday that’s circled in red. Just like Sophie’s.
Oh, shit.
My boyfriend has a bizarre fetish for killing cheerleaders, and he’s probably on his way to Samantha’s house right this minute. I have to get there first. I have to find Mattie. The only problem is that Sam’s house is on the other side of town. I’ll never get there in time.
I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and call the only person in this world I can really count on. Rollins picks up on the second ring.
“Vee? What’s up?”
“Rollins.” I have to fight to make my words understandable because my throat has started to close up. “Rollins, you’ve got to help me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you come get me? I’m at Zane’s house, on Arbor. Hurry, please. I think something terrible is going to happen.” I back out of the kitchen, feeling like I might puke if I look at that stupid calendar any longer.
“Are you okay? What’s the address? I’m coming.”
“Just hurry. Don’t worry about the address. I’ll be standing in front.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Over and over, I try to call Mattie, but no one picks up. I bounce up and down, waiting for Rollins to arrive, hoping that the music at the party is just too loud for Mattie to hear her phone ring. Because I can’t let myself think about the alternative.
Please. Please just let me get there in time.
“So what’s this all about?” Rollins asks, steering toward Samantha’s side of town.
I review the events of the last week, trying to think how to distill them into a sentence that will make sense to him. My brain is numb. It refuses to work properly. “I’m just worried about Mattie. I shouldn’t have let her go to the party alone.”
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