Buried Secrets (New Adult Dark Suspense Romance) (5 page)

She got up and opened her door, peeking out.
What are you afraid of?
she chided herself.
Ghosts?
But she
was
afraid. She was afraid he was in there—afraid she would see him and he would tell her it was
her
fault for letting him go that night,
her
fault for not being more insistent he stay,
her
fault for letting Shane take him away.

“Don't be stupid,” she whispered, the sound of her own voice crazy but comforting. “Just run in there and get a pair of sweats.”

She edged her way down the hall and stopped just short of the slant of light spilling onto the floor from his open door. Standing there, just outside, she contemplated going in for a long time, she didn’t know how long. Then, finally, Dusty took a deep breath and stepped into the warmth of the sunlight, and then into his room.

He really was there—he was
everywhere.
The entire room was filled with him. There wasn’t a thing that wasn’t Nick. And she couldn’t believe how much that hurt.

His hair dryer and gel still sat on top of his dresser, along with the t-shirt he’d used to wipe his hands. His bed was rumpled, the magazine she’d been fake-reading still open on it, the stuffed dragon she’d thrown at him face down on the comforter.

Her breath caught and held and she closed her eyes, fighting tears. If they started now, they’d never stop. And there was no Shane here to catch her if she fell. The pain would come with sharp, razor-like teeth and eat her alive.

Once she thought she had it under control, she opened her eyes again and headed for his dresser. She found a pair of yellow sweats in the second drawer.

Walking toward his bed, she saw a picture of Nick and Shane on the night table, taken on a hay ride out at the cider mill back when they were in high school. Dusty had taken it herself, and Nick had liked it so much he’d asked her to blow it up to an eight-by-ten, so she had. At the time, Dusty had thought it was the image of he and Suzanne that he wanted to keep—her arm was around his waist on his other side—but it was Shane who filled the frame with her brother, his arm draped around Nick’s shoulder, a smug smile spread across his face. Suzanne had been folded under, hidden from view.

Nick smiled at her out of the gold frame and bitterness filled her throat as she picked up the picture, hugging it to her chest for a moment, cuddling it, her insides burning, as if she had swallowed dry ice.

In her grief, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, and when the hand fell on her shoulder, she screamed, dropping the picture onto the bed and whirling around.

“What are you doing in here?” Julia. Jesus, it was just Julia, coming up to check on her as Dusty had known she would. “And
what
are you wearing?”

Dusty's heart rate started to slow to a normal rhythm again and she managed an answer. “I... I came in here for a pair of sweats. Mine are dirty.”

“You’re going to wear sweats?” Julia's voice dripped with disapproval.

“Suzanne's wearing sweats.” She hated herself for saying it, but Julia's stern look made her defensive. She felt like she was eight years old, vulnerable and exposed standing there in just her sweatshirt and a pair of black panties.

“Well you can't wear those. I'll have to lend you something.”

Dusty felt a lump rise to her throat for no apparent reason and she fought it, holding back tears again.

“Suzanne left. Do you realize you've been up here for twenty minutes? I asked you not to be too long.”

Had Dusty really taken that long to build up her courage to go into Nick’s room?

Talking all the while, Julia walked toward the door, and like the eight-year-old she felt reduced to, Dusty followed, obedient.

“Come on, you can change in my room,” Julia said as they entered the hallway. “You'd better put those on for the moment until we get downstairs.” Dusty watched Julia shut Nick's door behind them. It was the first time she had seen his door shut in years.

“Well?” Julia asked when Dusty didn’t move.

Dusty just looked at her.

Her stepmother’s eyebrows drew together and her lips pursed. “Dusty, come on, I'm not in the mood for this. Don't you think I've had enough to deal with the past few days? Please don't be difficult.”

“Difficult?” Dusty’s jaw dropped. “What am I, six?”

“You’re acting like it.”

“I'm not going to let you make me feel guilty.” Dusty’s voice trembled. “I've had just as much to deal with as you have.”

“Dustine Victoria Chandler, don’t you go ruining this day,” Julia said in a harsh whisper. “Now come get changed.”

Dusty cringed at the sound of her full name spoken for the second time that day. “I don’t know if this day could get any more ruined than it already is.”

“You can’t wear that.” Julia’s voice was both horror-filled and pleading. “Now come on…”

“Why? Because these aren't
proper?”
She held up Nick's sweats. “Don’t you get it? Those people down there don’t care if I wear the right thing or say the right thing.” Dusty tried to keep her lower lip from trembling and failed. “He was my brother, and I loved him—even if you didn’t.”

“That was a very un-Christian thing to say.” Julia’s face paled and she took a step back, hand going to her throat. “You… you’re obviously not yourself today. Maybe you should stay up here and get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Dusty agreed, rolling her eyes. “That’s it. I'm just tired. Go back to your party.”

She left her stepmother standing outside of Nick's room, and when Dusty shut the door to her own room, Julia had gone.

✝
Chapter Fiv
e
✝

In her dream, they were playing Marco Polo.

They were playing Marco Polo and Nick was IT. The way he splashed around in the water, eyes closed, made it hard not to laugh, but she knew she couldn’t laugh or he would catch her. But he caught her anyway. Nick grabbed her from behind, making her squeal in surprise, and then she had to be IT. She could still feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, hear the sound of splashing water as her brother tried to glide past her.

“Marco!” she called.

Nick said, “Polo.” It was close, a whisper in her ear. She turned in a circle, groping for him. Her fingertips brushed his hair, his sun-warmed back beaded with water, and she opened her eyes, ready to yell, “You’re IT!”

She touched him, but when she opened her eyes
—Nick, where are you?—
she was staring at her ceiling and the dream
—Nick’s gone, he’s gone—
was gone.

Dusty got up to pee and found Julia had left a basket of clean clothes just outside her door. The sight of them filled her with sadness and guilt. Julia had obviously done laundry after everyone had gone while Dusty slept upstairs like the dead, dreaming fitfully about Nick.

After her shower, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, plaited her damp hair into one long braid and went downstairs. The deep roughness of her father's voice was as unmistakable as the familiar smell of bacon. She walked into the kitchen and sat at her usual spot at the table, as if they hadn’t just buried her brother yesterday.

Her father shook the sports section of the Richford Journal as he turned the page, glancing over it at her but not saying anything.

“Eggs? Bacon?” Julia pushed her chair back from the table. She was wearing the pink silk robe Nick had given her last Christmas and her blond hair was pulled up into a loose bun. She was a very pretty woman, svelte, petite, everything a man could want in a trophy wife. It was the only reason Dusty could imagine her father had for picking Julia—that, and the fact she was domestic. She was endlessly cooking and mending and cleaning. Her father’s shirts never went to the cleaner’s anymore. Julia ironed and starched them herself.

“Nothing, thanks.” Dusty picked up a section of the paper her father had left on the table just to look busy. “I don't have much of an appetite.”

Julia sat back down, picking up a silver pen, and continued writing thank you notes.

Dusty glanced over at her father, hiding again behind his paper. The business section now.

Just any other morning.

Dusty felt tears pricking her eyes and blinked them back.

“Do you want anything else, Jay?” Julia didn’t look up from her careful, perfect writing.

“No, thanks.” Her father folded the newspaper and set it on the table. “If I don't leave now I'll be late.”

He slipped the sports section into the briefcase waiting next to his chair.

“God forbid,” Dusty said under her breath. She was incredulous. How could he go to work the day after his own son’s funeral?

“Will you be late getting home tonight?” Julia stuffed a card into an envelope. The cards were a crisp cream color with the words
Thank You For Your Kindness
in a script font on the front.

“Afraid so. I’ve got a council meeting.” He shrugged his coat on. Her father had served a stint as mayor of Larkspur for a few years, and still had a spot on their little town council. “This expansion is a pain in my ass, but it should bring more money into this little town than we’ve seen in years. Did you say something, Dusty?”

“No.” She lowered her head, pretending to read the paper, but the words blurred, running together. Her father was some sort of executive for a major drug company—Pharmatech—but she still didn’t quite understand what he did all day. When she went to his office for “Take your kids to work day” in elementary school, it was in the tallest office building in Millsberg—ten whole stories—and he’d spent most of his time on the phone and in meetings.

As far as she could tell, he didn’t sell the drugs. He also didn’t develop, make or produce them—although Pharmatech had received a government contract for something, she didn’t know what, and they were building some sort of factory in Millsberg. That was the “pain in the ass” her father endlessly talked about, the one that would bring all sorts of new business to the neighboring little town they lived in—Larkspur.

She watched her father pick up his briefcase and had an urge to run to him, like she used to when she was young. Looking up at him back then, he’d seemed giant, invincible. Now, in the early morning light, he looked small and old, his eyes lined at the corners. He went twice a month to get his hair dyed—for business, not vanity. That’s what he always said. But she knew if he let it go, there would be a considerable amount of silver threads running through his hair.

When did he get old? It was like she’d blinked and missed it. Maybe it had happened suddenly, overnight, like those ghost stories about a shock turning hair white. Or maybe Nick’s death had opened her own eyes to things she hadn’t ever seen before.

“Have a good day, Dad.”

Her father blinked at her, surprised. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll try.”

Just any other morning—like a commercial—mother cooks breakfast, father reads the paper, daughter says have a nice day.

There's an empty chair!
Nick's chair is
empty, don't you
see that?

“Don't work too hard.” Julia got up to walk him to the door.

“I'll see you tonight.” He kissed her cheek and the door shut behind him.

Dusty heard his Range Rover start as Julia sat back down. It was quiet. Behind her, Dusty heard the dripping from the automatic coffee maker. The light blue of the kitchen seemed too bright, surreal, in the early morning light. Far away, a dog barked.
Red
, Dusty thought. Mr. Cooper's Irish Setter, Red, was the only dog they could ever hear barking out this far.

“Do you need any help?” Dusty couldn’t even believe she said it.
Maybe Nick was right,
she thought, incredulous. Maybe she was just like Julia.

“No.” Her stepmother glanced up, giving her a conciliatory smile that said she wasn’t going to mention Dusty’s bad behavior but she appreciated the peacemaking offer. With Julia, you always had to read the subtext. “Thanks though.”

Dusty picked up the paper again. The Millsberg Journal served as Larkspur's paper as well as the surrounding towns of Janesville and Goodwin. Her father also mail-ordered the Detroit Free Press and USA Today because The Millsberg Journal was just local fare for the most part.
Your Community Information Center.

The headline was more about the fracking controversy. The town council had finally passed the ordinance that would allow some big oil company to drill for natural gas on state land, but an injunction had been signed by a judge, halting the whole project. They wouldn’t have even been allowed to touch state land if the feds hadn’t recently introduced a bill—likely set to pass—that would allow state law to supersede federal law in cases like these. Larkspur was jumping the gun, so said the judge.

She’d heard all about it from her father, a typical businessman who thought drilling for natural gas would be simply “good for business” in their little town. Anything that brought business to their tiny little burg was seen as an improvement, as far as her father and most of the town seemed concerned.

But it wasn’t the headline article that really caught her attention. It was the column on the left.

Another Victim Claimed By Clinton Grove Cat.

Nick had made the headlines.

“Is it supposed to get any warmer?” Julia licked one of the envelopes and sealed it by tracing the triangle with one well-manicured nail.

Dusty glanced at the small box in the bottom left-hand corner that contained the weather outlook.

“Seventies.” The article drew her attention but it wasn’t about Nick after all.

By Mike Murphy

Larkspur Staff Writer

LARKSPUR--Another victim was claimed yesterday evening by what Larkspur residents are beginning to call the Clinton Grove Cat. Scott Summers, 12, from the neighboring town of Millsberg, was attacked last night while out with friends. Joseph Turner, 13, a friend of Summers', said, “We were coming home from a friend’s and we took the shortcut through the woods by the (Clinton Grove) cemetery. Scott was bringing up the rear and something got him. Nobody saw it. It was too dark.”

The shortcut to which Turner referred has been causing similar problems in the Larkspur area. Sheriff Buck Thompson said, “We're trying to keep the kids from using it but it's a problem. It is a lot shorter.”

The Sheriff also said that until the animal is caught, an eight o'clock curfew will be in effect. There have been two other victims in the past month. Joe Wilson, 41, a life-long Larkspur resident, was attacked and killed on August 28 in an abandoned train station across from the cemetery. Dominick Chandler was killed just four days ago (see obituary, page 17).

Sheriff Thompson believes the killings are the work of an animal. “It's no human, I can tell you that much,” Sheriff Thompson said. “We're just about going crazy down here trying to catch the thing.” Although additional help has been called in, the only other Larkspur officer is Deputy Matthew Burr.

Peter Friedman, county coroner, said, “I've never seen anything like this, except for the time I was working in Australia and I was handling a lot of shark attack victims. It's definitely an animal. I'd say it's a pretty large bobcat. We get those every so often up here. It has tremendously powerful jaws.”

There have been no reports of missing animals from any of the neighboring towns or zoos, leading officials to believe the animal must be wild. According to the Larkspur police department, extra men have been called in from Millsberg to patrol the streets after sundown.

Sheriff Thompson said, “I'd advise everyone to be wary, at least until we catch this thing. Stay away from the cemetery at night. There's no need to panic. Just take a few extra precautions and we'll be able to keep Larkspur safe.”

Dusty set the paper face down on the table.

Safe from what?
You’re not even sure what it is!

“Dusty, I'm going to go through Nick's room later.” Julia crossed something off her list, starting on another note card. “I have to pack up his things.”

“What?” Dusty looked up, something heavy rolling over in her stomach.

“Do you want to help me go through Nick's things?”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Julia licked another envelope, sealed it and set it on top of the growing stack. “Some of it—his clothes—will have to go to the Salvation Army, I suppose. Whatever you want, you can have, of course.”

The thought of Nick’s room being ransacked made her dizzy and nauseous.

“Do you remember what Suzanne brought?” Julia frowned at the notepad. “I don't have anything listed here.”

“I don't remember.” Dusty was thinking of Nick's baseball mitt, his one surviving dragon stuffed animal, his Louisville hockey stick propped in a corner.

“Do you want to help or not?”

They were all still there, memories of their childhood—his models of sports cars, the poster of The Avengers taped to the wall, his football, his Doors CDs…

“Maybe later.” Dusty stood, feeling so dizzy she had to close her eyes for a moment. “Maybe later, okay?”

“Well, I suppose it can wait.” Julia had begun to peel off stamps to put them on envelopes. “I would like to get it done as soon as possible though.”

“Why? Do you want him erased from our lives as fast as possible?”

Her stepmother’s sharp intake of breath made Dusty wince. She hadn’t meant to say it—it had just slipped out. Julia's cheeks flushed and she stared at Dusty, hand fluttering at her throat. Dusty opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she couldn’t.

“I just don't want to think about it,” Julia whispered finally. “If I don't have things around to remind me, I won't think about it.”

“I guess I want him to live a little longer.” Dusty raised her hands to her cheeks, cooling them.

Julia met her eyes and Dusty saw, for the first time, how she might really feel about Nick’s death. It was a brief thing, just a flash. Her stepmother had dropped her guard but she knew the tears trembling in Julia's eyes wouldn't fall. The only time she’d cried had been where it was proper to cry—the funeral.

“He's dead, honey.” Julia’s voice was soft and her voice shook a little. “There's nothing you can do to bring him back.”

“I know.” Dusty picked her jacket up off the back of the chair. “I just don't feel the need to bury him so soon.”