Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  “From the way Jake talked about you, he had suspected, but when he saw you today, he knew, right away, that you’re like us. I barely got out of the house once he realized I was the one you had become friends with, not Jake.” Cole shifts uncomfortably and I tense, expecting some dire revelation.

  “He wants to meet with you. Basically so he can figure out how to use you. It’s not an excuse, but that’s pretty much why I got so paranoid about our first kiss. It’s been a while since I didn’t have to question my motives for doing something unexpected. I should’ve known better with you,” he insists, his eyes bright with sincerity. “And now I’m warning you. Stay away from him. I don’t want you getting mixed up with my dad, or Jake. They’re dangerous.”

  He sighs and seems to deflate slightly, as though he has finally released a last gasp of toxic air. When he meets my eyes again, his own are diffident, as though awaiting a verdict he’s not sure will be in his favor.

  In answer I brush a silky strand of hair out of his eyes and lay a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Okay,” I reply, and his whole body relaxes. “You’re the only Wise…or Durant, I’ll deal with. Why isn’t your last name Wise? That’s bugged me for a while,” I ask, hoping I’m not being insensitive.

  “You’re kind of crazy, you know that?” Cole asks incredulously, his lips twitching with amusement. “I tell you that my father is a scheming, cold-blooded bastard who wants to co-opt you for his own nefarious purposes and you want to know about my last name?”

  I shrug, wondering what he expected me to say instead. He shakes his head and raises his hands palms out in defeat.

  “My mom hated my dad. She didn’t want me to have any part of him. So I took her name instead. Dad tried to make me change it when I moved in with him, but I held out. It’s all I have left of her. I won’t let it go.”

  “My dad’s last name is Romero. When I was old enough to realize he wasn’t coming back, I changed my name back to my mother’s,” I reveal. Cole squeezes my hand and we are quiet for a while, but there is solidarity to our silence, making it lighter, restful.

  I glance across the room and my gaze locks on the journal again, guilt pinching at the brief bubble of happiness I had with Cole. Sighing, I return to what matters, what has to be accomplished before I can allow myself any more blissful interludes like this again.

  “Cole, I need to tell you some things too. Please just…wait till I’m done to say anything. It’s going to sound pretty out there, but it’s all true.”

  He watches me carefully, his eyes veiled with concern. Gesturing for me to begin, he turns around so he is completely facing me, his knees brushing against mine, a reassuring contact.

  So I tell him everything. I tell him about my conversations with Nicole, her theories about Phillip. I tell him how my skin is permanently electrified when Phillip’s around, how I never hear his hidden truth, how I can never tell if he is lying. I tell him about reading Miranda’s journal for the first time. My voice becomes hard and brusque when I tell him about Shockey.

  And then, with his arms around me, keeping me warm, I tell him about Nicole’s phone call, how I ran out into the night so stupidly, how I let her die. I tell him about the car I saw and how I know in my bones that it was Phillip.

  My voice is nothing more than a whisper when I tell him about the burning knot in my chest, that I have to destroy Phillip and Shockey, I have to give some measure of peace to the memory of the lives they ruined so maliciously.

  When I am finished, the fire in my chest is hotter, uncomfortable. I let myself be distracted. Guilt scalds the back of my tongue.

  “God,” Cole finally says, his eyes soft and vulnerable. “I’m so sorry, Derry. I had no idea you were dealing with all that.” He tilts his head and sighs. “Poor Nicole. I should’ve checked on her, tried to find out how she was doing. I just got so wrapped up in how unfair my life was...maybe if I had been around…”

  “Don’t. It might have helped some, but trust me, Nicole was determined to confront Phillip one way or another. I should’ve realized it sooner, too. I just didn’t think…I guess I didn’t really think it was him. When I read what happened to Miranda in her journal, I thought Nicole was wrong. I thought Miranda did kill herself.” I rub my eyes, abruptly feeling so exhausted I can barely keep them open. “But I know better now. There is no doubt in my mind that he killed Nicole.”

  Cole sees how tired I am and eases himself off the bed, grabbing his jacket from where he dropped it on the floor. “Promise me you won’t make the same mistake. Promise me you won’t do this alone. Let me help,” he begs. Despite my weariness, I manage a smile.

  “I promise. I was going to ask for your help anyway.”

  Cole nods and holds his arms open. I jump off the bed and lean into him, listening to the slow, steady march of his heartbeat, my own pulse striving to match.

  “You have it. Get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promises. He pulls me closer and kisses me, stirring and soothing me at the same time. We say goodnight and I watch out my window as he walks down the driveway to his motorcycle. He climbs astride and pauses before putting on his helmet, looking up at the faint glow that spills across the yard from my light. Raising a hand, he smiles, knowing I see him.

  I stand watching out the window long after he leaves.

  Chapter 13

  I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck, fingers stretching out to run one long nail down the center, slitting the skin just enough to leave a thin trail of red. When he reaches my spine, I go rigid, paralyzed, knowing without a doubt he has cut the cord that allows me control over my own body. I shift my eyes to look at him and my mouth goes dry in horror as he attaches nearly transparent threads to my wrists, around my knees and ankles. His emerald eyes are vivid, harsh as a smile creases his plastic face, teeth so shiny they are reflective. Squinting, I can almost see something there, like images caught in a mirror, pounding at the glass to get out.

  He comes closer, holding a thick tree branch in his hand, and begins to sway it back and forth, easily and gracefully at first and then more sadistically, callously until I realize my limbs are swinging around grotesquely, no longer connected to my body. The grisly dance intensifies, reeling out of control and in a flash of light I can see them, the pale redheaded girl and the pinched, accusing face of the one I let down. They are clawing at the glass wall of his mouth, mutely screaming until they unravel and nothing is left but their eyes, staring ahead, begging.

  I come awake with a bolt, my heart pounding and my arms and legs aching. The covers are tangled around me, the bottom sheet pulled almost completely off the bed. For a moment I still cannot move, waiting for his direction, waiting for Phillip to lift his hand and cut the strings.

  Gradually the panic eases and I pull my knees up against my chest, hugging my legs close and leaning my head against them. When my breathing finally slows and I can think again, I realize this is the first nightmare I’ve had in weeks. Remembering the earlier ones featuring Cole before I really knew him, I wonder how my subconscious could ever have given him the role of the villain. Even now, I remember the unnaturally green eyes blazing down at me, so unlike Cole’s own profound blue. It was always Phillip who tormented me; I just couldn’t recognize it then.

  The clock tells me it’s just after nine a.m., but the light coming in through my blinds is dim and grey. Shedding the muddle of sheets and blanket, I lurch out of bed and look outside. Everything is gloomy and hushed, the sky the color of wet asphalt, menacing and heavy with the threat of rain. The phone rings and I pick it up absently, still looking out at the moody clouds.

  “I’m uncomfortable talking to you,” a familiar rumbling voice says in greeting.

  “Hello, Detective Radcliffe.” My own tone is less than enthusiastic.

  “Did you have plans to come down to the station sometime today?” he asks a little too politely.

  “Yes. I just woke up. Mom and I will be there in a bit.”

  “Well, come down
as soon as you can. Someone will be here to take your statement. Shouldn’t take too long,” he assures me and then says goodbye, keeping our conversation as succinct as possible. I have serious doubts he will be the one to debrief me.

  “Mom, can you take me down to the station?” I call down the stairs, hearing my mother puttering around in the kitchen.

  “I’m ready for things to go back to normal,” she answers.

  “Repeat, please!” I yell, finding my patience is already running thin this morning.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” she replies, a streak of annoyance in her tone. As long as she’s lived with me, put up with my little quirk, used it to her advantage, I know she still resents that she is not exempt. She almost always makes me ask her to repeat her first statement, though she knows better by now. Usually I just brush it off, but today, maybe because of my disturbed night, I am on edge.

  By the time we are in the car, I have a pounding headache, the kind you only get once or twice a year but can last for days. Even the overcast sky is too bright for me, like staring into a spotlight, and the classic rock station on the radio is close to making my ears bleed.

  “You look nice,” my mother says placatingly, giving me a warm smile. I glance down at my well-worn jeans and black turtleneck, wondering what she’s talking about. I barely looked at my closet when I got dressed.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, unconvinced despite my quiet skin. Mom tosses me an outrageously cheery smile and I frown, knowing something is up. “What’s going on? You seem really…pleased.”

  Her eyes flit over to me nervously before she shrugs nonchalantly and rolls her eyes. “Nothing. I’m just glad to see you getting out.”

  My skin twitches at the untruth. “Mom,” I say dryly, knowing she will cave.

  Her lips purse tightly in annoyance before she answers. “Well, if you must know, Geoffrey called last night and asked me to dinner.”

  I stop breathing for a moment, panic clutching my lungs. “Why?” I ask sharply, earning an offended look from Mom.

  “Shocking though it may be to you, Derry, I believe he finds me attractive. He said I needed cheering up. You won’t mind if I go out for an evening sometime this week?” she asks casually, her mind clearly not on me.

  A stab of hurt runs through me. For the past couple days she’s been unusually thoughtful, checking in to see how I’m feeling, making my favorite meals. Telling me she loves me.

  I can feel that sweetness melt away with her words, hot water dumped on an ice cube. I guess the guilt and worry she has been feeling since I got home from the hospital is past its sell-by date.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I mumble, noticing all too clearly how she barely registers what I say. Back to normal it is.

  She comes into the station with me, but sits out in the lobby while a patrolman takes my statement. I don’t change anything, leaving the accusations against Phillip standing, hoping that it will prevent them from just sweeping Nicole’s death under the rug the way they did with Miranda’s. I don’t see Radcliffe anywhere.

  Just as I am leaving, a flash of teeth catches the corner of my eye. With a sense of the inevitable, I turn around and see Phillip exiting an office at the left side of the long, open room that serves as the heart of the station. He is watching me, a disturbingly broad grin stretching his features. Even from a distance I can see that his eyes are cold, emotionless. He nods at me and his eyes sharpen into the nightmare version of Phillip from the night before, but the moment passes and he turns to shake hands with Detective Radcliffe as he comes out of the conference room. A man and a woman follow, obviously Phillip’s parents, their features oddly bland when compared with the crisp good looks of their son. The man glances my way and frowns, turning to Phillip to whisper something in his ear. Phillip looks at me again and nods once, the smile gone.

  Turning sharply, I head out to the lobby, wanting to be out of the building before Phillip and his parents catch up. That’s a conversation I don’t want to have right now.

  We return home and I spend a few hours trying to catch up on some of the homework I’ve missed. Amazing how thoughtful my teachers have been about providing me with lots of complicated assignments to distract me while I’m traumatized. I finish most of them by the time Mom yells up at me to put on something nice, it’s almost time to leave for the funeral. I sit staring at my laptop, wishing I was still sick enough to give me an excuse not to attend. The thought of seeing Nicole’s parents again, being forced to witness her body being finally interred makes it difficult to breathe.

  Putting off reality for as long as possible, I surf the Internet for a bit, not really looking at anything in particular, hardly registering the pages my cursor drifts over. Before I realize what I’ve done, I have opened up the Daily Holler’s website, which I haven’t done in weeks. Looking at the archive for the past week, I am uncomfortably aware of how many stories must have been written about me finding Nicole. I glance down at the links until I find Householder’s byline and open up the article.

  Pretty Sure Nicole Sharp Was Murdered

  I held my tongue when the other girl was found in the river, but two girls dying so similarly in such a short time can’t be a coincidence. I talked to my source at the coroner’s office, and he said that it was unlikely that Nicole’s neck would have broken in the way it did from a fall off the bridge. There were splinters of wood in the head wound, probably from a pine tree. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation and he’s suspicious too. He called in the state police to do forensics, and though he wouldn’t tell me much, it was clear that based on where Nicole’s body was found, the current would not have carried her from the bridge from which she was supposed to have fallen. Though he wouldn’t say more, I definitely got the impression that the police believe that her body was dumped where she was found and that she was attacked elsewhere. I keep trying to get in touch with Derry MacKenna, but her mom has been blocking me.

  I stare at the screen, stunned at the information. Suddenly Phillip’s presence at the police station and his parents’ hostile glares makes more sense. A punch of relief hits my chest. The task of bringing Phillip to justice seems a little less impossible now; instead of having to convince the police of the possibility of his guilt, I’ll at least have fertile grounds for any evidence I can find.

  Looking over the real article, I am not surprised that Householder didn’t mention his suspicions, although he did mention the inclusion of a state police forensics team. I think back to Phillip’s expression at the station, trying to remember if he had looked at all worried.

  I don’t think he did.

  Glancing at the clock, I shut down my computer and start getting dressed, all the while mulling over the possibilities the article has opened up for me. Making a mental note to pay Householder a visit to get more details, I pull on a 50’s era knee-length black silk dress. For the first time in a week, I actually take care with my hair, pulling it into a clean chignon, making sure that no stray hairs escape. The mirror presents me with a severe reflection, the image of someone harder, more resolute than I’m used to. Taking heart from the thought, I go downstairs and join my mother, gritting my teeth against the evening ahead.

  The funeral is brief and nondenominational. It is the first funeral I’ve ever been to.

  I always thought people had funerals in churches, but apparently Nicole and her parents weren’t religious. Instead we are packed into a slightly larger room than the viewing parlor in the same funeral home. Once again, I am stunned by the number of people who attend. Mom and I are squished against the wall, forced to stand since all the chairs were claimed by the time we made it to the room. Phillip is here, sitting near the back with his parents. He looked at me once when I first came in, giving me a polite nod before assiduously returning his attention to the funeral director’s welcoming statement.

  Ranger Shanholtz stands near the back, giving me an encouraging smile when he catches my eye.

  Cole and Jake ar
e sitting in the second row with their father, all very solemn looking in black suits and slicked back hair. The resemblance between them is unsettling.

  “And so we will miss our beloved Nicole, who was a friend to many in our community. It is always a tragic loss when someone so young passes, but those who remain should find comfort in our memories of this bright, smiling girl.”

  My skin has been buzzing through the entire ceremony, the funeral director’s well-intentioned but insincere remarks ringing hollow and over-rehearsed. I don’t understand why someone who knew Nicole wasn’t chosen to speak, someone that could have done her justice.

  Not me, not those who failed her.

  There is a short smattering of applause and the funeral director steps down to make room for Nicole’s father as he drags his steps up to the podium, his face drawn with exhaustion and deeply etched sorrow. I bite my lower lip to hold back the tears threatening to overtake me as I remember how Nicole once said that she would never kill herself. That it would destroy her parents.

  Mr. Sharp stands quietly, breathing deeply for a moment before he begins.

  “I don’t think I’ll survive this,” he whispers, though only I hear the heartbreaking truth in his words. He clears his throat before he continues, voice gaining firmness. “Her mother and I want to thank all of you for your continued support through this…difficult time. We know that Nicole,” he says, voice wavering uncertainly before he takes another deep breath. “Nicole would have been glad to know how much she will be missed.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I watch Phillip’s reaction to the father of the girl I know he murdered. Phillip’s face is a mask of sympathy; the slight frown, downturned lips, the sober bearing is all a perfect mimicry of a mourner. But under my vigilant gaze, the muscles of his face are shifting and stretching beneath the mask, as though it is only with great effort he can hold his pose.