Secrets of Skin and Stone

by Wendy Laine

  “Sort of. Piper, I think somebody is trying to harm you. Besides yourself.”

  What did he mean besides myself? “Just ‘cause they’re trying to give me nightmares?”

  “They do more than that. These pouches are like curses for drawing bad spirits to you.”

  Bad spirits? He had to be kidding, or think I was ridiculously gullible. I waited, staring. He didn’t smile at all. Sincerity was etched into his gaze and the lines bracketing his flat mouth. Okay. Spirits. Maybe he would know about such things due to his job.

  “So, this is what you do?” I asked. “Catch bad spirits? Or get rid of them?”

  Gris had to be the most secretive person alive.

  He shrugged and walked over to the window. He was leaving?

  “Wait. You can’t—”

  He dropped the pouches outside, then returned to sit on my bed. Oh. His scrutiny when he sat there was enough to make me wish he’d left. I kept the flashlight trained on him, and the shadows on his skin gave him a sinister look.

  “It feels like we should be telling scary stories.” Gris reached out to tap the flashlight. A scowl deepened the shadows beside his mouth. “Actually, tonight was the scariest thing I’d ever seen.” Leaning in farther, he touched my shoulder, right on the latest cut. “Piper, tell me why you cut yourself.”

  I opened my mouth to deny it, and he must’ve expected it, ‘cause his eyebrows raised in a dare. Fine. I knew nothing—nothing about him, and he knew one of my deepest secrets. This was so uneven and so unfair.

  “I’m crazy,” I snapped. “Isn‘t it obvious?”

  Reaching out, Gris removed the flashlight from my hand and propped it up on a pillow so the beam pointed toward his face. “You’re not crazy. You can’t sell me on that—so don‘t even bother.” Reaching out, he said, “Your hands are freezing,” as he wrapped both his hands around mine. His hands were so warm—mine felt bony and cold in comparison. Lifting my hands to his mouth, he blew his breath on my skin. Warm steam slid into my entire body.

  This was nice. I’d still like an explanation, but I’d never had a boy be like this around me. “The doctor said OCD,” I said softly, watching my hands in his.

  He nodded.

  I narrowed my eyes. “But it’s not the normal kind. My mama has that and mine is…darker. Like it’s deeper. I’m not clean like her. I’m not like her in a lot of ways. Half the time I’m not convinced I have it, not her kind anyway.” My thoughts were worse and worse every day. Feeling the spiral and knowing I couldn’t control it was hell. It was swallowing me up.

  “I think you still have it, Piper. It just looks different. I, uhh, researched it a bit after I saw you earlier.”

  I yanked my hands from his. No, he didn’t get it. Nobody knew how deep the darkness ran inside of me. It was soul deep. It was too deep to cut out. “You’re not an expert after reading a few websites, Gris. You don’t know me.” I got up to pace. “It’s not something nice that fits in a box and can be defined. You have no idea what I’m capable of. If I run mad, watch out.”

  He stood in front of me, right in my path. “You’re not dark or going mad, Piper.”

  “I think of awful things.” I closed my eyes. “I think of them all the time. At night. In school. When I’m alone, they’re so loud and clear and…” My arms shook as I wrapped them around my waist. Why was I saying this out loud? He couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be evil inside. It was a rage, a temper in my soul—sometimes I heard it scream. I didn’t tell people this. I never told anybody this. My parents only knew a little from before I started hiding things.

  His arms went around me—loose at first. Then he hugged me, and my cheek rested against his bare chest. My arms were trapped between us, so I let them drop to my side. I tapped my fingers together. The rhythm soothed me as much as his arms.

  Gris’s skin felt so warm, and he smelled salty and earthy at the same time. I’d always figured sweat was vile and disgusting, but the warm, musky scent of Gris spoke of activity and heat. It wasn’t disgusting, not by a long shot.

  “I’m gonna leave you alone to get some sleep, Piper. I wanna see you and talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m gonna sit outside your window and keep the shadows away tonight, so you can sleep. If you need me, you can lean outside, and I’ll be there.”

  “And these bad spirits…they’re real? The ones that those pouches are luring in? They exist? You’re not just messin’ with me?” I’d never even considered the possibility that other people might see the things that moved in on me from the shadows.

  “They’re real. You’re more haunted than most right now.”

  Oh. Right. That’s why he was here. He took care of ghosts, and I was haunted. My room felt bare other than him. It never felt empty like this at night, not anymore. It never felt warm, either. Though the fact that he was still holding me probably contributed to that.

  “What are these things in my room? How did you get rid of them? I don’t understand any of this, and you never answered my questions—not really.”

  “Can’t we put this off for another day? I’m fairly exhausted.”

  Hmm, or he didn’t wanna answer my questions. On the other hand, my room felt empty, and it hadn’t for a year—I owed him for that. Gris, with his secrets, was good at whatever he did.

  “You can stay inside my room. It’s cold outside.” As an afterthought, I added, “And there are bugs.”

  His amused chuckle shook his chest. “Will you be able to sleep if I hang out on your floor?”

  “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep anyway.” I leaned back. “You have secrets, too, don’t you?”

  He was staring at the window and grimaced before looking down. “I do.”

  “Will you tell me about them?”

  His frown spoke loud and clear. He had some dark secrets. If he understood mine, even a bit, but didn’t want to share to his own, what did that mean?

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Will you tell me about the ghosts you hunt? Whatever these bad spirits are?”

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Brown eyes searched mine. Did he want me to be afraid?

  “Not really. I can think of a hundred things more terrible than spirits.”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow during the day. They aren’t around as much during the day.”

  I was pressed up against his chest, and he still had his arms around me. I stepped back, wrapping my arms around myself and looking at the shadowed carpet at my feet.

  “Fine then, so…you’ll get back into bed, and I’ll sit over in that corner.” His discomfort was palpable, and it made mine bearable. We were just two human beings partially-clothed in a room at night that had a bed in it. It was fine.

  As he was walking toward the corner, he stopped by my desk, frowned, and picked up the clipboard on it. “You made a list.”

  “It’s a list of suspects. I told you I was gonna figure out who killed Jester.”

  “My name is on it.” He pointed.

  “Yes, but I crossed it out.” I went to his side and traced the line through his name.

  “Because you trust me.”

  I shook my head. “No, ‘cause you told me you didn’t do it, and you weren’t lying when you said that.”

  “Gee thanks.” His tone was bone dry.

  “My name is on there, too.”

  He picked up the pen and struck a line through my name with an exasperated look at me. He flipped through the pages behind. “I didn’t take this many notes for my schoolwork.”

  “This is a little more important than school, and the proper way to run an investigation is with thorough research.”

  “I’ve done research, too, but I’ve been focusing on the grave robbery today.” And on OCD, apparently. He went to my timeline on the fourth page. “You’ve got the grave robbing on here.”

  “I can’t rule out that it’s connected. If I didn’t have a Human Biology test tomo
rrow, I might’ve borrowed my daddy’s laptop to see what’s online.” I tapped the circled numbers. “I’ve rated the events by how they might relate to Jester’s murder. One is probably not related and ten is almost certainly related.” The only thing with a ten beside it was Jester’s murder ‘cause that was the only absolute certainty.

  “You didn’t rate Trina’s disappearance.”

  “I didn’t know how to. If we’re saying something sinister happened to her, then that changes the probability. What are the odds that we have multiple people willing to harm a dog and Trina?”

  “Hopefully low, but Hidden Creek is full of surprises.” He returned to the list on the first page. “My cousin and his dad made your list. Danny’s dad might’ve killed Jester?”

  “It’s my suspect list and this is all about my dog. You can create your own. I went for the most plausible suspects. Your cousin doesn’t much care for me—plus, there’s proximity for him and his daddy.”

  “I can’t imagine his dad not liking you.”

  I wrinkled up my nose. “Mr. Porter is close by and Jester would go to him. Also, he’s strong and quiet. There’s something…unsettling about him, if you’ll pardon my saying so.” His intensity spoke to a potential for heavy feelings, possibly for violence. I avoided him as much as I could. It was hard to judge somebody who rarely talked. I tried to believe that Jester had better instincts on Mr. Porter than I did, but I couldn’t dismiss him as somebody I never wanted to be alone with. Ever. “Proximity and strength are significant factors I can’t dismiss.”

  “Hank made your list—along with his father. Call me a liar, but I’m guessing he’d be more into kicking dogs than making friends with Jester.”

  “Well, if you gave Jester food, he’d be excited about that and fairly forgiving. If the food was poisoned… Do you see what I mean? I can’t rule out Hank Jr. ‘cause Jester might’ve been nice if food was involved. His bark might’ve been his ‘happy to have a midnight snack’ bark.” It seemed like a betrayal to admit that, but it had to be how Jester was lured in. “And Hank Sr. is everything his son is. Besides, he didn’t much care for his daughter. He thought Trina was a shame to their name.”

  “This Jared must be Hank’s friend.”

  Nodding, I tapped his name. “He’s a follower and anything Hank told him to do, he’d do. Also, I’ve heard of him drowning barn cats. It might just be a rumor, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Some folks have this nasty, mean look in their eyes from the time they can walk—that’s Jared. You know, he once ate a live fish on a dare?”

  Gris shook his head. “Phil is on here.”

  I bit my lip. I’d hated to put his name on there, but it made sense. “Well, I need to confirm that he’s still in a mental hospital to do my due diligence. I can do that tomorrow.”

  It took him a minute, but then he nodded. “Coach Laramie? I‘m assuming a relative of Phil’s since they share a name.”

  “Okay, you might laugh, but Coach Laramie came to town ‘cause his daddy, that’s Phil, wasn’t doing so well. But the coach hates this town. He’s hoping that with his record as a coach and, well, Hank’s athletic record that he’ll be able to move. If Phil stays in an institution, the coach gets control of his daddy’s money which I’ve heard is no small amount, and he doesn’t have to stay in Hidden Creek. So, I can see him convincing Phil to do something crazy.”

  “But Jester was killed later.”

  “Yes, but the coach really doesn’t care for me. I swear he’s tried to kill me by making me run. It’s a less obvious method for murder, but effective.”

  Gris grinned.

  “I’m serious.”

  “No, that’s both brilliant and sort of sweet.”

  I shoved his shoulder.

  “But your last three…”

  I rolled my eyes. I knew he’d have to comment. “I know they’re vague.”

  “So, you have ‘unknown enemy,’ ‘a creature,’ and then just ‘a woman.’”

  I went to take the paper from him but he jerked it out of reach. “It’s my list. I can put whatever I want on there. Besides, in an investigation it’s important to account for two variables: the unknown and the unlikely. Too often folks jump to conclusions with limited facts when you discount those things. Like I said with Mr. Porter, you don’t always know who hates you, and I knew even before you told me that there are dangerous things out there.”

  “But ‘a woman’ fits under unknown enemy.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. A woman isn’t necessarily an enemy.”

  “So, you have no female enemies?”

  “I didn’t say that, but if I did, they’d fit under the other category. Women have strange motives at times. Mattie once dumped an entire Coke on Felicity at lunch ‘cause she had the same shirt at home and Felicity looked better in it. And they used to share deodorant in gym…so they’re close…and also that’s vile.”

  He blinked. “Men can have strange motives.”

  “But they typically don’t. If I’m going to consider a woman, I’d have to think more outside the box for why she might kill Jester. Women are complicated. If a woman hated me, I’d assume she’d come after me, not my dog, but if she is my enemy, she’s covered under the other designation.” My logic was fairly sound.

  “But an ‘unknown enemy’ opens up the field to everybody in Hidden Creek.” He was determined to see this conversation to the bitter end.

  “Of course it doesn’t. Dick didn’t kill Jester for example.”

  “But my name is on there.”

  “It’s my list,” I reminded him. “And it’s been crossed off.”

  “Did you make the list before or after we went to lunch on Sunday?”

  “I don’t see how that’s at all relevant.” After. But sometimes it was good to show on a list things that had been eliminated. It was motivating, and it showed the process. It was like showing your work in math.

  “Critch isn’t on this list,” Gris said.

  “Nope.”

  His expression said it should be.

  “My list of my suspects,” I reminded him.

  “Okay, so I’ll take my relatives on your list to question. You can find out more about Phil and this coach. I’ll take Hank Jr. and Jared. I’ll ask Danny about them. Both are violently stupid. I can research Hank’s possible motives by finding out more about his sister’s disappearance while you’re in school.”

  “And you’ll be sure to take notes? Though I think I should transcribe them.” I should be more polite, but his handwriting was horrifying—there was no getting around that.

  “Or I could just tell you.”

  “Methodical, Gris. We have to be methodical about this. It’s the only way.” It was the proper way to do an investigation. I should really be in charge.

  “It’s cute that you think so.” He eyeballed my desk, and his hand went to one of the drawers.

  “What are you doing?” I slapped his hand.

  “Copying your list. Do you have another piece of paper and a pen?”

  “Would you put your name on the copied list?”

  “‘Course not.”

  “Then it’s not a copy,” I pointed out. “Also, then you’d have eleven names. What kind of list has eleven names? Ideal lists have ten names, but I couldn’t rule out two names when I made this list.”

  He stopped searching to stare at me. “I’d take your name off, too, so there’d be ten.”

  That’d be better. But still. “Whenever you’re investigating something, you need to see the progress and the eliminations you’ve made. It‘s more sensible, Gris.” I grabbed his phone from his hand, switched to camera mode, and took a picture. “There. Now you have an exact copy. See. Done. Also, it’s legible.” The value of legibility couldn’t be discounted.

  He was trying not to smile. I could tell. His lips twitched. “Thanks.” Clearing his throat, he added, “You should probably go to bed before your mom comes to see who you’re talking to.”

  Nodding, I c
limbed back into bed, setting the flashlight, still lit, on my bedside table so it illuminated the ceiling. I could see his shadow over in the corner. He texted another message as he dropped onto the beanbag. The screen illuminated his face. “I wonder if killing Jester is related to the curse sacks, which were part of a plan to drive you insane through nightmares..” He threw out these words like it didn’t matter…like we weren’t talking about my sanity or my dog.

  “Was that what might’ve happened? Me going mad?” That nightmare had been one of the worst I’d ever experienced. I still felt shaky.

  “Yes.”

  I waited for him to explain. He didn’t. He just kept typing on his phone.

  “Don‘t you need sleep?” I asked.

  “I usually sleep during the day.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if nothing was unusual about him being in my room half dressed.

  It was unusual though. Very.

  I tucked my quilt around me, covering as much of myself as I could. Awkward. “Sometimes I talk in my sleep.”

  “Count.”

  “You want me to count?”

  “No, you count in your sleep. Well, you throw out even numbers. You also say a few other things, but mostly you count.”

  I ducked farther under the blanket. I’d counted to get to sleep since I’d learned the difference between even and odd numbers and figured out on my own that even numbers were better. And sometimes I counted when I was awake. Even numbers were better all day, too. The counting ran deep—through my dreams, through the nightmares.

  He might very well be the first boy my age I’d met who didn’t try to score with me—probably ‘cause he knew too much. Could he still be interested in a girl after he found out she cut herself on purpose, counted in her sleep, and did patterns for no reason at all? He knew all my secrets and I still knew nothing about him. In fact, I felt like I knew even less the longer I knew him, but now we were partners in finding the truth.

  He’d acted concerned, but he likely saw me as a kid sister or something. Just what I’d always wanted. I flipped to my other side. Staring at the wall was a better idea. I’d forget he was here. I could do that. Easy as pie. I’d concentrate real hard on forgetting.