All the Way Home (12 page)

“If you won’t talk to me, maybe your mother will?”

She gives a curt laugh. “My mother? No way.”

Obviously, Mrs. Shilling hasn’t told Barrett Maitland
everything
about the Connolly family.

“How about your brother? I know he’s away for the summer, but if you could give me a number where I could reach him . . .”

“Sorry.” She starts to turn away from the door.

“Come on, Rory, can’t you cut me a break? My publisher is expecting a completed manuscript by Labor Day.”

“That’s not really my problem, is it?”

“Okay, look, if you won’t talk to me tonight, how about tomorrow?”

“I’m busy tomorrow,” she lies.

“Saturday, then? We can go out for an espresso.”

“Espresso?” She turns back to him.

What are you doing, Rory? You can’t be considering meeting this man, no matter how much you crave an espresso
.

“There’s this little cafe on Front Street where that Chinese restaurant used to be.”

“I know. I saw it.”

“We can sit for an hour and talk. And if it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Are you out of your mind? You can’t do this
.

“Seven-thirty? Saturday night?”

“Okay,” she hears herself say.

I can’t help it. There’s no one to talk to around here. Nothing to do. I can’t spend the entire summer painting woodwork, humming to myself. I’ll end up like Mom
.

“Great.” Relief is evident in his voice. “I’ll come by for you. We can walk over if it’s nice out.”

“No,” she says abruptly. There’s something too intimate—too datelike—about the thought of walking over to the cafe together on a nice summer night. “I’ll meet you there. I have . . . errands I have to run before that.”

“Whatever,” he says easily. “I’ll see you then.”

“Fine.”

She turns and walks back down the hall toward the kitchen, listening to his steps retreating down the wooden front steps. She finds herself wanting to turn and make sure he’s walking away—that he isn’t lingering to watch her through the windows.

Which is an odd thought. Why would he do that?

Because there’s something strange about him. Something I can’t put my finger on
.

She should never have agreed to meet him Saturday night. She’d done it out of loneliness. Boredom.

And, hell, the man is great-looking
.

Her lips curve into a smile.

What’s wrong with being attracted to someone like him? Who wouldn’t be?

You shouldn’t be
.

He’s a true-crime writer. He wants to know about Carleen
.

S
O?
She doesn’t have to tell him anything. She can say she’s changed her mind. That she can’t talk about that after all.

She starts scrubbing the paint mark off the side of the refrigerator, thinking about how long it’s been since she had a date. Almost a month. Josh, the guy she’d been seeing in Miami, had left to sail his boat to Nantucket for the summer. She would probably have gone with him if Kevin hadn’t called and asked her to come home.

So much for Josh. She hasn’t heard from him since, though he’d promised to write.

Not that she’s pining away. He was fun, but not someone she’d ever settle down with for the long haul. He lives on his boat, spends his life aimlessly drifting from one place to another.

Are you so different?
Rory suddenly realizes.
Since when do you want to drop anchor and settle down?

And where would she even do it? Not here. Not in Lake Charlotte. This isn’t home.

An image of her father pops into her head.

Poor Daddy, with his atlases and globes and dreams of getting out of this tiny town. He never had.

Except that once. In California for that year on sabbatical. What a nightmare
that
had been.

Don’t think about that
, Rory commands herself.
It was long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore
.

Think about something else
.

She does. She thinks about Lake Charlotte, wondering if she could ever really stay put in a place like this.

True, it isn’t exactly the dinky little burg it once was. There’s all that new shopping out on High Ridge Road, and the upscale houses going up over in Green Haven Glen. Even the downtown area has been revitalized, with those boutiques and cafes.

There’s this little cafe on Front Street where that Chinese restaurant used to be
.

“That’s it!” Rory says aloud, stopping in midscrubbing motion.

That’s what’s bothering her about Barrett Maitland.

How would he know that the cafe used to be the Rainbow Palace? Molly doesn’t even remember that. The restaurant has been closed down for years.

So? Maybe he’s been in Lake Charlotte before. He didn’t come right out and say he’s new here, did he?

No, but he definitely gave that impression . . . didn’t he?

Confused, Rory analyzes her conversation with Barrett Maitland. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned coming to Lake Charlotte in the past?

Oh, come on. Why would he?

Part of her wants to think that she’s being way too suspicious of the guy. But it’s not the common-sense-driven part of her.

No, it’s the lust-driven, bored, lonely part, the part that wants him to be just a nice, regular guy who is who he says he is.

Not that that’s so great, either
.

I mean, a true-crime writer doing a book about the four girls who vanished from Lake Charlotte?

Hardly Mr. Perfect for you, Rory
.

But at least it’s a better alternative to . . .

Something else. Something too scary to even consider
.

Still, the common-sense-driven part of Rory is leaning toward thinking Barrett Maitland isn’t who he claims to be.

Because he was obviously in Lake Charlotte years ago. How else would he know that the little cafe used to be the Rainbow Palace?

Well, maybe someone told him. Maybe Mrs. Shilling mentioned it. After all, she’s the type of person who goes on and on about everything
.

That must be it
, Rory concludes.

Then she argues with herself,
But that’s a stretch. It was just the way he said it—as if he knew. As if he remembered the Chinese restaurant
.

Okay, this has got to stop
.

She’s making herself crazy, overanalyzing some inane comment, being ridiculously suspicious of the man.

Besides, what’s to stop her from coming right out and asking him when she sees him Saturday night? She can say,
“Barrett, have you ever been in Lake Charlotte before?”

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll ask him. And I’ll take it from there
.

T
he mosquitoes are biting like crazy tonight, buzzing around the warm, humid air trapped in the overgrown mock-orange hedges beneath the kitchen window at 52 Hayes Street.

A few more minutes, and then I’ll have to get out of here before I’m eaten alive
.

But it’s so tempting to just stay, despite the mosquitoes, and watch Rory. To smile as she grunts in frustration, trying to scrub the white splotch on the side of the refrigerator.

She’s not doing a very good job. She keeps stopping, staring off into space, as though something’s bothering her, distracting her.

Once, she said something aloud, but it was hard to hear what it was, even with the screen conveniently open.

You’d think she’d lower the blinds.

You’d think she’d be worried that someone might be hiding, watching her.

You’d think she’d be more cautious . . .

Especially after what happened to her own sister.

But that was a long time ago.

Maybe Rory feels safe, now.

Foolish Rory . . .

She’s always been a little reckless.

A mosquito buzzes loudly, seeking a patch of exposed flesh that will make a tender landing site.

Careful not to rustle the bushes when you move your hand.

Okay, good, now wait until it lands on your arm
.

Slap!

There. The mosquito has been satisfyingly annihilated, leaving behind a barely perceptible smear of blood.

But it’s there.

Blood.

The slightest sight of it, the faintest smell of it, brings back memories that won’t stay buried forever. Memories of what happened here in Lake Charlotte ten years ago.

No! No! Please, I don’t want to think about that again—

But it’s too late.

The gory images come rushing back, along with the ghastly stench of rotting flesh and the hideous screams of tortured girls who should have known better.

They just should have known better.

And now, with the memories, come a flash of rage.

It was their fault. All of them. Not mine
.

They ruined everything
.

I only did what I had to do
.

And I’ll do it again if I have to
.

In the kitchen, Rory suddenly turns on the faucet
.
The rush of water spills out the open window as she starts scrubbing her hands, standing at the sink, scrubbing, scrubbing . . .

Yes, keep at it, Rory. Dried paint isn’t easy to get off your hands
.

Neither is dried blood
.

And believe me, Rory—I know
.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“P
lease come with me, Rebecca
.
I mean, I’m totally begging you.”

“I told you, I can’t, Molly.” Rebecca folds her arms across her chest and tries not to meet her best friend’s gaze. But Molly’s in her face, standing less than a foot away on the other side of the Wasners’ screen door.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because . . . I’m busy,” Rebecca lies. “I have to help my mother with some things around the house.”

“Your mother isn’t even home. She goes to Bingo at Holy Father every Friday night and you know it, Rebecca.”

“Well, I told her I’d do some stuff while she’s gone.”

“Come on, Rebecca,” Molly pleads, reaching out to open the screen door. She tugs on it. “Why’s the door locked?”

Because I’m in the house alone and I’m afraid, as usual
.

Aloud, Rebecca says, “I don’t know. I guess I must have locked it without thinking.” She slides the hook out of its loop and steps back as Molly pushes the door open and crosses the threshold.

“You’ve got to come with me, Rebecca,” she says, putting a hand on Rebecca’s forearm. “I really need you with me.”

“No, you don’t. You’re going to that party to see Ryan, not to hang around with me.”

“But I told you, I need someone to be with while I scope out the Ryan situation,” Molly says patiently. “I mean, I can’t just show up alone like some friendless geek. What’s Ryan going to think?”

Rebecca sighs. “Why do you care so much what he thinks, Molly? You barely know him.”

“I’m in
love
with him, Rebecca. Totally in love.”

Rebecca stares at Molly, feeling like her best friend has become a stranger. She has the familiar blue eyes and curly dark hair, but she’s no longer the comfortable, reliable person Rebecca has known her whole life.

Rebecca hears a soft meow and looks down to see Sebastian circling her feet. He brushes cozily against her bare ankle, and she bends to scoop him into her arms, resting her cheek against his soft, furry head. He purrs and nuzzles her with his wet, velvet nose.

Feeling fortified, somehow, by her kitten’s affection, Rebecca says firmly, “I’m not going to that party, Molly, and you can’t change my mind about it. My parents would kill me—”

“I told you to say you’re sleeping at my house—”