Waiting a second after he’d gone, I faced Wilder, noticing for the first time how pale he was. “You okay?”
“Sure,” he said but didn’t look up.
That should’ve been my first clue, but I was too distracted by all the police milling around. How could I have known what Wilder was planning?
How was I supposed to know that “sure” really meant goodbye?
CHAPTER 20
“Delilah, could you come in here?” Mom called.
I walked to the kitchen. Aunt B and Mom were at the table, each holding a mug, sitting hands folded, backs straight. Something had to be up. It was too early for them to look so awake.
“I don’t want to be late,” I said.
“It’ll only take a second.” Mom gestured to the seat next to her, and I sat. “So, how are you?”
“Fine,” I replied. “You?”
“Pretty good.”
“Of course, she’s good,” Aunt B mumbled. “She wasn’t almost shot.”
I decided to let that one slide.
Mom took a sip from her cup. “And how’s Ethan?”
“I think he’s okay. What’s up, Mom?”
Mom and Aunt B exchanged a glance. “Oh, nothing, baby. I was just wondering about you and him. How serious the two of you are, that kind of thing.”
“We’re not.” But I hoped we might be someday.
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Mom.”
“What?” she said innocently.
“Just say what you wanted to say.”
Mom’s eyes went to her sister. “B? You want to tell her?”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
Aunt B took a deep breath then said, “It’s not a good idea, the two of you. I don’t think you should be around that boy so much.”
I couldn’t believe this. “So much? Aunt B, we only see each other at school and the music store.”
“And the bakery,” Mom said.
“And the bakery,” I conceded, but, “Why are you saying this? Please tell me it has nothing to do with Jim Wilder. I already told you. He didn’t shoot his father. I know it for a fact.”
“And what about his sister?” Aunt B said.
The question threw me, but I didn’t pause. “He wasn’t responsible for her either.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know,” I said because I did. I’d known it since the day he pulled me from that lake.
“I agree with B.” I looked at Mom in disbelief. “Maybe it’ll be better if you stay away from him for a while. Someone seems to have it out for that family. You heard what the news said. Those bullets were from the same gun used on his dad.”
She had a point there. The police were so focused, using every available resource on Jim Wilder’s case; they’d matched the ammunition literally overnight. This morning it was announced on the news, but I only felt more scared. The shooter hadn’t killed either of their intended targets. That kind of thing could make a person reckless.
Aunt B was staring at me. “He’s courting danger, Delilah. I’ve seen his future, and it’s as uncertain as it could be. One wrong move and he won’t recover.”
I shook my head. “You’re wrong.”
It seemed like everyone was against him, even my own family. He didn’t have anyone on his side, surely not his father. What if Wilder needed me?
“I’m not. Not this time.” Aunt B placed her hand over mine. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”
“I hear you,” I said, pulling away. “I’d better get going. Love you.”
I wouldn’t lie to them. Hearing and listening were two different things, and I had no intention of staying away from Wilder. They watched me go, looked like they suspected I wouldn’t listen but knew it was my choice.
At school, George met me at my locker. We talked about homework, the holidays, who we thought shot up the bakery. George had concocted a list of her Top Ten Most Likely Suspects. Some of them were just crazy.
“Wendell Pickens?” Number seven was too unbelievable; I had to interrupt. “You think that sweet old man fired off a gun?”
“He might have.”
“George, he’s eighty-five years old.”
“So what, old people can’t pull a trigger?”
“But he’s a librarian.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And after a little research—research you had me do—I found out that though the pastor may pay his bills on time, he’s racked up a pretty big tab at the library.”
I laughed. “You’re saying Wendell Pickens shot Jim because of some overdue books?”
“It’s possible.”
I laughed again. George was stubborn, but I loved her for it.
“Look out,” she said, smiling. “Here comes your Wilder.”
“He’s not my Wilder.” It only took a second for me to find him. He was walking in our direction on the other side of the hall with his head down.
“Yeah, he is,” George said.
I waited for Wilder to look up. When our eyes met, he paused. I smiled, glad to see him, wanting him to know it. He stood there for a moment then turned away, passed right by us and didn’t look back.
My smile fell.
“He just didn’t see,” George said. “Wilder’s got a lot on his mind, D. You can’t take it personal.”
I nodded, though I was sure he did.
I tried to shake it off, but the bad feeling in my stomach wouldn’t let up. In Chemistry, every time I’d look at him, Wilder was looking someplace else. The few times I caught his eye his entire face had gone flat, free of emotion. It was like he didn’t even see me.
It took me longer than it should have to realize what was going on.
He wore the same expression as I passed him in the hall. Between third and fourth period, I tried talking to him, started off with a simple, “Hey, Wilder.” He’d said hi back, the word itself coming out so dull it could’ve been anything. But it wasn’t until what happened at lunch that I fully understood.
George and I were in our usual spot when Wilder showed up. As he took an empty seat at one of the tables, everyone, including two teachers near the end, got up and left. The move sent a clear message. Wilder didn’t belong. He was a reject, persona non grata, and everyone should keep a safe distance.
There was a five-second reprieve then the first ketchup packet flew.
The projectile hit Wilder on the shoulder, bouncing off his jacket, coming from I didn’t know where. The second hit him on the neck, and I looked to the teachers’ table. They’d all turned their backs, angling faces or chairs so they wouldn’t have to see. The only exception was Rapier. He was watching the whole thing with a look of sheer satisfaction.
I couldn’t stand it.
As a third packet went by, missing Wilder’s nose by an inch, I was already on my feet.
“We going to sit with Wilder?”
I hadn’t realized George was with me. “You don’t have to come.”
“I know,” she said, picking up her book. “I guess injustice rubs me wrong.”
We started walking, striding across the room, ready to face any condiment that came our way. Wilder’s head came up. He looked straight at me, and I froze. His body language, the look he gave said stop as clear as any warning sign. He got to his feet and went back out the same way he’d entered.
After a moment, George said, “D? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said, willing it to be true.
What had changed? Last night, he’d been so open, and now he was completely closed off to me. Had I done something? If so, I couldn’t figure it out. What I did know was Wilder didn’t want me sitting with him. He didn’t want me talking to him. With that one look, he’d put up a wall, one he wouldn’t let me cross.
Him, Bruce, Mom, Aunt B, they were all in the same boat. Nobody thought Wilder and I were a good idea, not even Wilder himself. The sad thing was I should’ve expected this. Given his track record, it was about time for him to m
ove on. Other girls were waiting in the wings, and there was always the love of his life, the one he’d fallen for at the ripe old age of eight. How could anyone compete with that?
I got used to the silent treatment after a few days. Wilder hadn’t been to the bakery since the shooting. I didn’t try to talk to him again in school. In fact, I barely saw him. You’d have thought that would make it easier, but it didn’t. I fought my feelings tooth and nail, told myself to get over him, but nothing seemed to work.
My heart was still his even if he didn’t want it.
#
“Quite a pair, huh?”
George’s voice broke through my thoughts. We were at the bakery. There were a lot of customers, but they’d already been served. George had brought in today’s Telegraph, and though the subject was interesting, I hadn’t been able to keep my mind on it.
At my questioning look, she added, “Dave and Anne. Two good kids who met bad ends.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think it’s strange?” I said, remembering the conspiracy blog. “They were both younger than nineteen and died within months of each other.”
“Life’s strange sometimes,” George said, “but this article is freaking incredible. I don’t know how they got it together so fast.”
“Could’ve used info from when she actually died,” Ronnie said as he refilled the sugar shakers.
“But just look at the pictures.” George flattened the paper so we could see.
Staring back at us was a very pretty girl with long brown hair, straight white teeth and an expression that said she was going places and no one was going to stop her. According to the article, Anne Wilder had been born with a heart of gold. She’d gone to church, volunteered at a homeless shelter, got straight A’s and fit the definition of an overachiever to a tee. Her death had sent shockwaves through the community of Bowie.
The article segued into Jim Wilder’s shooting, skating over the details of Anne’s death, making it sound more like a cold case than a suicide. They tied her death to what was happening now by proposing some kind of ridiculous theory about political espionage. Apparently, back in the day, Jim Wilder had considered running for office.
God, help us.
“Man,” Ronnie breathed, “that Dave Diamond sure was fine.”
“He was,” I agreed, and even George nodded.
There were four pictures total, the one of Anne, another of the reverend, a smaller shot of Wilder’s family, and the last of Anne and Dave. The power couple looked gorgeous, healthy and shockingly young. It must’ve been taken shortly before their deaths. Dave was behind Anne in the classic pose, arms wrapped around her waist, her hands resting atop his. You could tell by their expressions they had no idea. Neither knew they were going to die. Or in Anne’s case, she didn’t look suicidal. She looked happy, truly happy.
Too happy to shoot herself just so she could then drown in a pool.
“You know”—I studied the one of Anne and Dave—”Bruce once told me that those two were pretty hot and heavy.”
“Hot? Them?” George rolled her eyes.
“You’re right,” I said. “They couldn’t look more wholesome if they tried.”
“Hey,” George said suddenly, “what’s that on her finger?”
Ronnie and I leaned forward.
“Do you think it’s an engagement ring?”
“It would say if they were engaged.” I stared at the picture again. The ring was on the correct finger.
“It’s not.” Ronnie leaned back. “The stone’s too small. That is a promise ring.”
“How lame,” George said just as I asked, “What’s that?”
They both looked at me.
“D, you have to know what a promise ring is,” George said flatly.
I shook my head.
“They’re those stupid rings boys give girls to make them slaves for life.”
I looked to Ronnie. “What are they really?”
He had his mouth open staring at George, but after a second, he said, “First of all, they’re not stupid. And second, they can mean anything from pre-engagement to a promise of abstinence.”
My brow furrowed.
“They’re like chastity belts,” George explained. “Only you wear them on your finger. It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Pre-engagement?” I said. “You mean like a ring that comes before the ring that comes before marriage?”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said, smiling. “Pretty cool, right?”
I didn’t respond.
“Face it Scarlett, it’s dumb. Delilah’s just too nice to say so.”
It did sound pretty dumb.
Ronnie wasn’t smiling anymore. “You guys are just bitter.”
The bell spared me from further comment. Garrison came in looking like death walking. He had two days worth of stubble on his chin, circles beneath his eyes and a frown that didn’t belong on his kind face. As he got to the counter, Ronnie had already filled his coffee.
“What’s wrong, Officer Garrison?” See, I could say it, even if I preferred just Garrison. The officer looked like he needed a pick-me-up.
He shook his head, pulling the coffee over, taking a long drink.
“It might help if you talk about it,” Ronnie suggested.
Garrison eyed the three of us and sighed. “Oh well, I guess you’ll hear sooner or later. There’s no sense trying to keep it from you, not with the way this town works.” He took another swallow then said, “A couple hours ago, we found Mae Thrush dead. They’re thinking it was a massive heart attack.”
“Who found her?” George asked.
“Salesman.” Garrison rolled his shoulders. “He went up to knock on the door, but the thing swung open. He saw her prone body lying face-down in the hall and called 911.” There was a pause as if he didn’t want to continue. “It looks like she’s been there several days.”
“That’s awful,” I said, thinking about poor Mae. Dying alone, having no one question her whereabouts, a stranger finding her body. “That’s...just awful.”
“Damn.”
At the exclamation, we looked to George.
“What?” she asked. “I’m sad she’s dead and everything, but really, Mae was my best bet.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The shooter,” she said. “I thought it was her. It was the only explanation that made sense, Jim and Mae, lovers’ quarrel, the affair gone bad. D, she was my number one.”
I frowned at her. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“But she was,” George insisted.
“Hold on,” Garrison cut in. “Are you trying to say you thought Mae and Reverend Wilder were seeing each other?”
“Well, they were.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I have my ways,” George said cryptically.
Garrison turned fully toward her. “As a member of the Bowie Police Department, I demand you give me an answer, young lady.”
George met his thinly veiled posturing with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “As a citizen of the United States, I plead the fifth, young man.”
Garrison waved her off. “If that’d been true everyone would know about it.”
“Not necessarily,” George argued. “Besides”—she gestured to the newspaper sitting between them—”you have to admit, there are things even you cops can’t explain.”
He glanced at the article in disgust. “They should be ashamed of themselves. Those reporters have no idea what really happened that day.”
“And you think you do?”
“Yeah,” Garrison retorted hotly. “I do.”
“How?” I asked. He’d silenced George with his tone, but I wanted to know what he meant by that. “How do you know, Officer?”
His eyes widened as if just realizing he’d said something he shouldn’t. “I should really—”
“Garrison,” I said with a touch of warning. “You’d better tell me or else. I’m sure if I go g
et Aunt B, she’d be more than happy to squeeze the story out of you. Probably keep you here another hour or so.”
Ronnie shot me a glare while George gave me a nod. At least she approved. I let Garrison have a moment. He was a little jumpy, but the threat seemed to have loosened his tongue.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Jeez, Delilah. There’s no need to bring B into this.” Garrison did a quick scan of the shop, making sure no one was nearby. He lowered his voice. “After Anne Wilder killed herself, I was there, alright? It was my first week on the job, and me and my partner were the first responders. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
I couldn’t quite comprehend that. “You were there?”
He nodded, but still I wasn’t getting it.
“You were there the day Anne Wilder died?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “About ten minutes after. Now, keep your voice down.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“It’s not something I like to talk about.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Just people down at the station,” he replied. “Like I said, it’s not my favorite thing to talk about.”
And there’d be plenty of talk if this ever got out, I thought. He’d be hounded day and night for details. Garrison was smart to keep it a secret. But here was a person who could tell me firsthand about Anne’s death. He’d been here all along. I just hadn’t realized it until now.
“So, how was it?”
“George,” I said, secretly glad she’d said it so I didn’t have to, “Garrison doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to—although he knows we’d never say anything.”
“I was just curious,” George muttered.
“You mean nosy.” Ronnie shook his head, the simple gesture seeming to say, Shame on you, Georgiana St. Clare. Shame, shame, shame.
“No, it’s alright.” Garrison held up a hand. “I’ll answer this and only this question.” He looked right at George as he said, “It wasn’t anything like you’d think—seeing a dead body, being around all that blood, having the smell of it clog your nose. There’s nothing like it on TV. There’s no cool music playing in the background as you’re recording the body’s exact shade of gray-blue after drowning, checking the size of the entry wound to see just how much of the stomach was shot away.”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 21