Over the rumbling thunder, we heard another noise. My eyes spotted the source. Looked like Wilder was having more trouble with his bike.
Ronnie watched him a moment. “You gonna be alright?” he asked me.
“‘Course,” I said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “No reason,” he said. “Take care, Delilah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You too,” I said.
Ronnie waited till I reached my car then honked once. I waved, watching his taillights get swallowed up by the night. As lightning lit the sky, Wilder and I were suddenly the last two people in the lot.
Pulling a yellow flier off my windshield, I quickly hopped inside, scanning the message. It was an advertisement for Mercy Hope, recruiting new members. On the front, in no-nonsense black font, it said, “Come pray with us at Mercy Hope and discover the path to righteousness. When in doubt, ask yourself…” There was a large cross and just beneath that, the letters WWJD? followed by Reverend Jim Wilder’s signature and the church’s address.
As if you’d need it. Astronauts could probably see the church steeple from space.
Starting my car, I tossed the slip onto my passenger seat, readjusted my rearview mirror.
Wilder was still struggling.
Serves him right, I thought as I flipped on my lights. No one could be that much of a hypocrite without some consequences. It was only fair.
I watched as he dismounted, stood, began pushing his bike toward the road. Guess he’d be walking home. Well, a nice moonlit stroll never hurt anyone.
Shifting into reverse, I backed out of my space.
There was a shock of lightning, a roar of thunder, and a second later, the sky opened up, sheets of rain pelting down hard, so much that I could barely see past my windshield. Checking my mirror once again, I noticed that Wilder was already soaked, chin tucked tight to his chest. I wondered where he lived, how far he’d have to tote that heavy motorcycle in this weather. He’d probably catch cold, maybe even pneumonia. That is if he wasn’t sideswiped by a reckless driver first—or abducted by a creepy trucker with a preference for young boys wearing leather.
“Shoot,” I muttered.
In the end, it was that flier—that stupid too-bright flier—that made the decision for me. The letters WWJD? gnawed at me, seeming to jump up from the page, the question continuously running through my head: What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do? And then the J became Jeanine, my mom, and it was over. The guilt was too much. I couldn’t be responsible for Wilder’s abduction. Mom would kill me when she found out.
Driving up next to him, I threw open the passenger door.
It was as much of an invitation as he was going to get. If he didn’t take it, that was his problem.
He looked in at me for a moment, eyes guarded, water pouring down his face, his clothes wet through. Pushing his bike to the nearest parking space, enabling the kickstand, he slid silently into the car and closed the door behind him.
“Thanks,” he said.
I nodded, unable to speak. Part of me had thought he would keep walking. Now I was stuck, alone in a car with Ethan Wilder, possible murder suspect, rumored car thief, practicing Don Juan, the guy who’d basically agreed that my family and I were heathens only hours ago. The guy who’d saved my life. Those were the facts. They couldn’t be erased or changed, no matter how mixed up they made me feel.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “So, where are we going?”
“Take a left at the light. I live down by the old Winn Dixie on Arrowhead.”
A good distance away, I thought as my wipers worked to combat the rain. It was really coming down. Whoever the J in WWJD? was, I at least hoped I was getting brownie points for this.
Reaching around, Wilder slipped his seatbelt into place as I put the car in gear. I pondered whether to take that as an insult, decided not to. His movements were so mechanical; it was clear this was just habit, not a comment on my driving. Interesting, considering his reputation as a bad ass.
An awkward silence fell, and I became so aware of Wilder that I nearly jumped when his hand moved to the stereo.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“Do I...what? No!”
But it was too late.
He’d pressed the button, and that song, the one I’d rocked out to this morning but was mortified to hear in the presence of current company, came blaring to life. The Violent Femmes played on oblivious to my plight. That line about stained sheets went by, and I closed my eyes, opening them just as quick, worried I’d drive us into a ditch. Leaning over, slowly, I turned the volume down before switching it all the way off.
“Sorry,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road, more to avoid his eyes than anything. “George likes to break into my car and mess with the radio.”
“Oh really?” Wilder sounded interested. “What’s she use, pick, wedge, door shank?”
“Um, key.” I glanced at him sideways. “She’s got a spare key to my car. I’ve got one to hers. It’s supposed to be in case we ever get locked out.”
Another beat of silence.
Before I could stop, I heard myself say, “So, did you really steal cars for the mob?”
From the corner of my eye I saw him turn, prop his back up against the door to face me. “Yeah, I did. Did you really sleep with the entire varsity football team?”
Touché, I thought.
“Just the defensive line,” I said, smiling.
Silently, he shook his head.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t have to lie.”
“How do you know I’m lying?”
“I just do.”
The rain was still going hard, but I heard him fine.
“What if I said that you’re wrong?”
Wilder had so much as told me he didn’t think I was a slut. The news should’ve made me happy. I should’ve been elated, all things considered, but his strong belief that I’d lied rankled.
“I’m not wrong,” Wilder said. “I’ve known a few girls who were like that, and you’re nothing like them.”
I bit my tongue on that one.
“Why’d you ask about the cars?” I could hear the grin in his tone.
I shrugged. “Just something I heard.”
“And you believed that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Taking a chance, I voiced my suspicions. “You did those things to McCreary’s and Rapier’s cars, right?”
I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They deserved it.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but... “If you’re not into auto theft, how’d you learn so much about stealing engines?”
“Uncle on my dad’s side,” Wilder said. “Taught me everything I know about cars. I lived and worked in his garage up in Buffalo. You’d be surprised how much you can learn in four years. Plus, Uncle Carl was a master when it came to cars.”
“So much cooler than being some uptight preacher,” I teased.
“Got that right,” Wilder agreed.
“You know”—heat flooded my cheeks—”I didn’t actually sleep with anyone on the defensive line. Or the offensive line for that matter.”
I didn’t look, but I felt him smile.
“About those cars,” I said in a lame attempt to change the subject. “So, you’re telling me you never stole an engine until you came here to Bowie?”
“Ah, now, I never said that.” Wilder shrugged. “I might’ve hotwired a few cars, stole a few beamers. You know how kids are up in New York.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, though I didn’t. “Back to Rapier and McCreary…you’re not even going to deny it?”
“Why should I?” Wilder said. “Given how they treat people, you in particular, I can’t see you running off to tell them. But even if you did, I wouldn’t care.”
The sarcastic part of me took over, and I couldn’t
let that slide.
“Yeah,” I said, “you’d just admit it was you and sit there, take whatever punishment they gave out. You’re a real saint, Wilder.”
“I don’t believe in lying.”
“Yeah, sure,” I laughed.
“It’s true.”
I looked over to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.
“What good does lying do?” he added. “People believe what they want to believe, no matter what the truth is.”
“Well if the truth doesn’t matter,” I said, “why not lie?”
He thought that one over before saying, “There’s no point. Lies only create more lies.”
“Until the truth gets so lost you can’t find your way back,” I said, thinking of my family.
“Exactly.”
As if it had been there all along, I felt an odd kinship bloom between Wilder and me, a thread of understanding linking the two of us intrinsically, closing the gap between us till there was no space, no division. He understood. Perhaps better than anyone else, he understood what it was like to be the topic of scandal—and so did I. Though our situations were completely different, him the son of a preacher, me the daughter of a wild child, we were the same—at least in that way. I shifted uneasily at the realization, an unfamiliar feeling of warmth spreading throughout my body.
The car suddenly seemed too small.
Trying for calm, I said, “I still don’t think you stole those cars.”
“Oh?” He sounded amused.
At the next street, I turned onto Arrowhead. The rain was down to a drizzle, but I kept my eyes on the road. “Sorry. I know you’re supposed to be some big criminal and all, but I just don’t buy it.”
“What if I said that you’re wrong?”
I took a second to meet his eyes, finding the same rare light green I’d seen after he pulled me from the lake. He was as wet now as he’d been that day. Seeing his earnest expression, I shook my head. “For someone who doesn’t like lies, you’re pretty convincing.”
His smile was small, but it was there. “I am when I want to be.”
“So, what’s—”
“Look out!”
I slammed on the breaks, jerked my head around just in time to see a large white blur dart into the road, passing mere inches from my fender before vanishing into the trees.
Placing my head on the steering wheel, I took one deep breath. Then another.
That…whatever it was…had come out of nowhere, just rushed into the street. I couldn’t understand it. My lights were on. The seven-year-old car wasn’t exactly silent. Thank goodness I’d been going slowly. Looking to my left, the direction the thing had come from, with a jolt, I recognized just where we were.
The old Victorian looked so much like a haunted house, especially at this late hour with its dilapidated structure and darkened windows. It was a favorite on Halloween. Kids would pass by telling tales of ghosts and other scary things, making bets on who could get closest, a daring few actually bold enough to ring the bell. They didn’t expect candy anymore. Everyone knew Mae never gave out candy. But the tradition remained. If you rang Crazy Mae’s doorbell, you’d be revered the next day at school, a hero admired by your more cowardly peers.
“You know,” I said to lighten the mood, “they say these woods are haunted. Never really believed it myself, but I guess that could’ve been a ghost we just saw. You can’t really hurt a ghost. George told me it’s technically impossible, since they’re already spirits.” Then a horrible thought. “God, I hope it wasn’t Mae’s dog.”
Violent or not I didn’t want to hit someone’s pet. Though…it hadn’t looked like an animal. Taller than any dog I’d ever seen, it had stood upright, almost like—I stopped the thought in its tracks. Ghosts were one thing. But it was too much to think I’d almost hit a real, live person.
When Wilder didn’t answer, I turned to him. His face was ashen, hands fisted tightly on the tops of his thighs. He looked horrible, absolutely still like he was in shock.
“It was moving pretty fast,” I said. “I don’t think I hit it.”
But whatever it was had come close—too close for comfort.
I watched Wilder slowly release a breath like he was trying to get a hold of himself.
Jeez, I thought, he really is freaked.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, easing the car forward. At least we’d both buckled up.
“Not your fault,” he said finally.
After such a long silence, I was surprised at how good it was to hear his voice.
“Mine’s that one up there.” He gestured to a two-story that looked like it’d come straight out of a cheesy family sitcom, white picket fence included.
I pulled up in front, stopping at the curb. So this was where the infamous Ethan Wilder and his paragon of a father lived. I looked around for June Cleaver then felt like a jerk, remembering that Wilder’s mom had abandoned him years ago. Kind of like my dad.
“So,” Wilder said, “how much for the ride?”
I eyed him wearily. Seconds ago he’d looked like he was going to be sick. Now, he was teasing?
“Free?” He feigned surprise. “Wow Doherty, I didn’t know you cared.”
Alright, if he wanted to play, I wasn’t above a little teasing.
“Information,” I said, crossing my arms. Despite myself, I was still interested. “You like the truth so much, tell me something I don’t know, something about you. The real Ethan Wilder.”
“You mean, besides the fact that I killed my sister?”
His delivery was inspired, but I rolled my eyes.
“You did not,” I said.
“Oh?” His gaze narrowed. “You don’t believe me?”
“Not a chance.” I shook my head; no way did I believe that. “The truth, Wilder.”
Crossing his own arms, he said, “I’m gay.”
“You’re what?!” I nearly swallowed my tongue.
Ignoring my outburst, he went on.
“I’ve loved you, Delilah, half my life.”
At that, my heart skipped a beat. How could he say something like that so easily?
“I killed my sister.” He waited for his words to sink in. “If I told you only one of those statements is true,” he said, stare fastened to my face, “which would you believe?”
I thought it over. The first had to be a lie. I’d seen him with too many girls. No way Wilder was batting for the same team. I automatically discarded the second statement. It couldn’t be true either. I hadn’t met Wilder before this year, so his being in love with me for any extended period of time was simply impossible. His being in love with me at all was inconceivable. That left what he’d said about his sister. The idea flitted through my brain, in and out in less than a breath. The more I knew of Wilder, the more convinced I became that some terrible, terrible mistake had been made four years ago. I didn’t believe for a second he’d killed his sister, not even when he said it so convincingly. To think, the same person who’d jumped into that lake could be capable of such an unspeakable offense. No, whatever else he was, Ethan Wilder was not a murderer. He just couldn’t be.
Considering my options, I settled on the only possibility.
“So, you’re gay.” I shrugged. “No big deal. Next time I see Ronnie, I’ll let him know you’re fair game.”
Wilder laughed. The sound was real, filled with complete abandon. Hearing him laugh like that, knowing I’d caused that break in his cool façade, made a strange ache bloom in my chest. I wanted to hear that laugh again and again.
“You do that,” he said, stepping outside. “I’ll see you, Doherty.”
Unable to resist, I said, “Should I tell Ronnie to get your coffee from now on? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, seeing as how you love it so much.”
Wilder peered through the open door.
“I hate coffee,” he said seriously.
“You do?” I asked confused.
He nodded. “Always have.”
“Then why—?”
> “I’ll see you.”
Shutting the door, he took his time walking up the stone pathway.
Before I’d had a chance to ponder the coffee comment, the door to his house opened, and light spilled into the night. The reverend stood silhouetted in the doorway, hands on hips, a frown marring his features. Words were exchanged, but I was too far away. All I saw was Jim Wilder shaking his head, stabbing a harsh finger in my direction then turning it on his son. Done talking, he grabbed Wilder by the arm, jerking him none too gently into the house.
I drove away slowly, feeling sick to my stomach.
The bruises I’d seen on Wilder’s arms suddenly didn’t look like stripes. After watching his father grab him like that, they’d taken on an entirely different form.
Fingers.
The marks were exactly the size and shape of human fingers.
CHAPTER 14
The next day I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept much last night, startling awake every hour from nightmares of self-righteous preachers with glowing red eyes. And before that, I’d stayed up until 3:00 a.m., talking to George about my suspicions.
“So, you think Jim Wilder, the Jim Wilder, is…”
“Shh!” I pulled George closer, trying to ignore the swirls of gold, black, and blue. The colors were giving me a headache. Streamers hanging from the ceiling, doors all decked out, posters with stupid sayings like “Crush ‘em Big Blue!” and “Let’s Go Owls! Hoo-Hoo-Hooray!” Pep rallies were a big deal here. “Not so loud.”
“Okay, okay,” she said then lowered her voice. “But you seriously think Jim Wilder might be abusing his son? And that Ethan bit him to protect himself? That’s out there, D, even for me.”
“You didn’t see them last night, George.”
“Yeah, but…”
I sighed in frustration. “Didn’t you wonder where Wilder got all those bruises?”
“I don’t know. I just figured he went out brawling at nights to make extra cash.”
And she thought I was the one with the overactive imagination?
“Think about it,” I said. “Wilder and Mae were the only ones there. The cops said human teeth. Maybe he got sick of being his father’s punching bag.”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 12