Broken Hearts (17 page)

Erica uttered a silent, frightened gasp. “Then is Dave coming here to kill
you?”
she asked.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I want to go to sleep now,” Rachel said, yawning.

Erica pulled the hairbrush one last time through her sister's long hair. Then she set the brush down on the dressing table.

She glanced at the clock on Rachel's bedside table. A little after eight-thirty. Time to start her homework. She had an oral report to give the next day and hadn't even started to rehearse it.

Rachel took up so much of her time these days, Erica thought with a bitter sigh.

She waited until Rachel had slipped under the
covers, said good night, and turned off the light. Then she headed downstairs to see if her mother needed anything before she started her homework.

Mrs. McClain was about to go out. “Your aunt Beth asked me to come over and look at some fabric samples,” she explained, searching her bag for her car keys. “I won't be late.”

“No problem,” Erica replied. “Rachel's going to sleep.”

Mrs. McClain pulled out the car keys. “Good news, Erica. Your father is coming home tomorrow. And I think he's going to
stay
home for a while.”

“Great!” Erica said with enthusiasm. “I hardly remember what he looks like.”

“Me either,” her mother said, heading for the door. “I think he's tall. Or maybe he's short. I forget which.”

They both laughed. Mrs. McClain blew her daughter a kiss, then disappeared out the door.

An hour later Erica was surrounded by books, sprawled on her stomach on the living room carpet, scribbling furiously on a long, legal-size pad, trying to get her report together.

Outside, the wind whistled and howled. The living room lights flickered for a moment, threatening to go out.

That's all I need, Erica thought. A power failure. I'd have to write my report by candlelight.

She gazed up at the ceiling fixture, expecting the light to go out. But the flickering stopped. The winds continued to howl, a shrill, lonely sound like an animal call.

A few minutes later Erica heard other sounds. She raised her head, dropping her pen to the rug.

The sounds were coming from the den.

Somebody had bumped into something.

Somebody was in there.

Erica raised herself to her knees. And listened.

Another footstep. A creaking floorboard.

“Who's there?” she called.

Silence.

“Rachel, is that you? Did you wake up?”

No reply.

“Rachel? Answer me.”

It isn't Rachel, she realized. But it's someone. Someone in the den.

And I'm all alone here.

Gripped with fear, she struggled to her feet. Her heart pounding against her chest. Outside, the wind howled even louder, as if crying out a warning.

“Who—who's there?” Erica stammered.

Silently tip-toeing, she made her way to the den door. She stopped just outside the doorway and listened. Then, timidly, she poked her head into the room—and cried out.

E
rica bolted into the den, sputtering angrily. “Luke, what are
you
doing here?” she demanded.

Startled, Luke took a step back from the desk, his face bright red. “Hi, Erica. I—uh . . .”

“What are you doing here?” Erica repeated, stopping a few feet in front of him, glaring at him, her fists angrily pushed against her hips.

“Sorry,” Luke muttered uncomfortably. “I was just—leaving a valentine for Rachel.” He held up the square white envelope he had in his right hand.

“Huh? A valentine?” Erica lowered her eyes to the card. “But why did you sneak in?”

“I—I didn't want to disturb anyone,” Luke explained, his face still scarlet, his expression guilty, embarrassed. “I mean, I saw you studying so hard and I guessed Rachel was asleep. So I was just going to leave this and scoot.”

Erica studied his face, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. “You scared me to death,” she said, exhaling loudly. “If I was a cat, that would've been all nine lives.”

“Sorry,” Luke repeated softly. “I didn't mean to. Really.”

“You feel guilty, don't you,” Erica accused, crossing her arms in front of her chest, locking her eyes on his.

“Huh? Guilty?”

“Yeah.” She refused to soften her gaze, even though he looked away. “Guilty. Guilty about Rachel.”

“Give me a break, Erica,” Luke said, pleading.

“Do you know what happened to Rachel after you stopped coming? Do you have any idea how devastated she was?” Erica cried.

“I—I can't talk about it,” Luke stammered. “I still care about Rachel, but I'm with Melissa now. Here.”

He tossed the valentine at Erica and ran past her out of the den, into the hall and out of the house without looking back once.

♦ ♦ ♦

Across the street Melissa was playing perhaps the most boring game of Scrabble in the history of the universe. “Daddy, can't we quit?” she begged. “You're ahead by four hundred points because I've had nothing but vowels the whole night!”

Mr. Davis chuckled, leaning over the table, his eyes lowered to his line of letters. “That's not why you're losing, Beanpole. You're losing because I'm a good
defensive player. You have to have a strong defense in Scrabble. Most people don't know that.”

“Don't call me Beanpole,” Melissa grumbled. “You know I hate it.” She shoved her letters around on the holder, frowning. “Want me to call you Fatso?”

Mr. Davis raised his head abruptly. “Don't you dare.” He was a big bear of a man, weighing around two hundred pounds, and was very sensitive about his weight.

“I can't make a word,” Melissa wailed. “All I have are O's and U's.”

Mr. Davis glanced at the score sheet. “Okay, Melissa. We can quit. You always were a poor loser,” he teased.

Melissa uttered a cry of frustration and shoved the board across the table causing the pieces to tumble out of place.

“Loser cleans up,” her father declared, grinning. “I'm going to watch the news. It's nearly eleven.” He pushed himself away from the kitchen table and, after stopping at the refrigerator for a snack, headed into the den to join Melissa's mom.

Grumbling to herself, Melissa cleaned up the game, then headed up to her room.

Two hours later she was still struggling to fall asleep. Forcing her eyes to remain closed, she tried to think pleasant, soothing thoughts. She pictured Luke. His shy smile. The way his light brown hair curled just above his ears. How cute he looked in his silver-framed glasses.

She tried counting sheep. Fluffy white, four-legged
cottonballs. She pictured them hopping over a low fence, just like in the cartoons.

Whoever thought up counting sheep as a way to get to sleep? she wondered. What a dumb idea. Did it ever work?

She tried counting puppy dogs. Then she tried to clear all the animals out of her mind and concentrate on nothing at all. Sheer nothingness.

Clear, white nothingness. Soft nothingness.

She had just about drifted off to sleep when she heard a loud
thump
outside her window.

“Huh?”

She sat up, instantly alert.

“Hey!”

Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Melissa asked herself uncertainly.

No.

Someone was there, outside her window. Balanced on a tree limb.

Gaping in fright, Melissa could see someone out there, blocking the light from the street lamp, arms at the sides of her window.

“Who's there? What's happening?”

She tried to move, tried to scramble out of bed.

But fear had paralyzed her. She could only raise her hands to her face.

Then her window was pulled open.

A dark figure dropped into her room with a groan, landing heavily on the carpet.

“Oh!”

Melissa opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

He advanced toward her, arms stiff at his sides, a shadow moving in shadows.

As he came near, his face loomed out of the darkness. His eyes were cold, his features set.

“Dave!” Melissa cried in a tight, frightened voice. “Dave, stop! What are you doing?”

B
reathing hard, Dave stopped beside Melissa's bed. His dark eyes glared down at her. In the dim light from the window, she saw that he was even thinner, his scraggly hair falling past his shoulders now.

“Melissa,” he whispered, still trying to catch his breath. “You look so scared.”

“You—yes—” she stammered, finally finding her voice. She gripped the covers and pulled them up to her shoulders.

“So you think I'm guilty too,” he said, his voice filled with menace and disappointment.

“No, Dave—”

“That's why you're scared, huh?” he asked, leaning over her, so close she could smell onions on his breath. “You're scared of me because you think I killed Josie?”

“No,” Melissa replied angrily. “I'm scared because you broke into my house. I'm scared because you
climbed in my window like—like a burglar or something!”

He snickered. “Sorry.”

Melissa climbed out of bed and crossed the room to her closet, keeping her eyes on Dave. Feeling around in the dark closet, she found her robe, and pulled it on, struggling with one sleeve.

“Why'd you climb in here like that, Dave? What are you doing?” she demanded, clicking on the ceiling light.

They both blinked under the sudden brightness.

Dave looked terrible, she saw. His eyes were red rimmed, with dark circles under them. His hair was greasy and disheveled, his sweater and jeans wrinkled and filthy.

“I always wondered if you believed me,” he said, ignoring her questions. “I always wondered if you thought I killed Josie. If you thought I stabbed Erica. You said you believed me. But I always wondered.”

“I
did
believe you!” Melissa insisted, keeping her back against the wall, edging nervously toward the doorway. “You
know
I believed you.”

“I don't know
what
I know,” he said bitterly.

“Dave, what are you doing here now? What do you want?”

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” he replied, snickering at his own joke. He dropped down wearily on the edge of her bed and wiped his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his sweater. “That tree isn't easy to climb,” he muttered.

“Dave, why did you run away from school? Your mother called me. She—”

“She did?” He slapped his forehead. “She spoiled my surprise?”

Melissa groaned impatiently. “Dave, she sounded very worried about you. Very frightened.”

“You know Mom,” he replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Dave, why?” Melissa insisted. “Why'd you come back?”

“Okay, okay. I'll tell you why I'm here,” he said, suddenly turning serious. “I didn't come here to scare you, Melissa. I've missed you, you know.”

“I-I've missed you too,” Melissa said awkwardly, leaning back against the wall, relaxing a little and sighing.

“I heard about you and Luke,” Dave said flatly, without any expression at all.

“Well . . .”

“I was kind of surprised,” he said, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Me too,” Melissa confessed. “But you didn't come here because of Luke, did you?”

“I think I know who the real killer is,” he said abruptly, staring up at her, his dark eyes flashing to life. “I've had so much time to figure it out, so much time to think about it. I can't get it out of my mind. I'm obsessed with clearing my name, with finding the real killer.”

“That's why you've come back to Shadyside?” Melissa asked.

He nodded. “I want to prove that I'm not a killer. I want to prove it to you. To everybody.”