Deadly Little Secret (16 page)

“Sometimes the future, sometimes the past. Sometimes he sees an image. Other times it’s just a feeling.”

“Like a crystal ball,” she says. “Minus the ball.”

“Okay, so, balls aside, how can I get him to touch me? I need to know if John Kenneally is going to ask me out.”

“He doesn’t like to touch anyone,” I say, to clarify matters.

“Except you,” she smirks.

“Except me,” I whisper, swallowing hard.

“Oh my god, do you know how hot that is?” She fans herself with her pad of paper. “I mean, even if it is complete and total BS.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“Oh, puh-leeze,” she says, still fanning. “He’s obviously just looking for excuses to feel you up. You got to give the boy credit for creativity, though. I mean, that’s some pretty original BS.”

I shake my head, disappointed that she doesn’t believe him, but not sure I can blame her.

“When are you supposed to see him again?” she asks.

“He said he wanted to talk later.”

“Later as in tonight?”

I nod, wondering if it was him beating at the door. “Just don’t say anything, okay? About his psychometric powers, I mean. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Honey, you have bigger things to worry about than keeping secrets.” She looks at the eight-by-ten photo again. “It was taken at the park on the day of your date.”

I nod, noticing the grassy hill in the background behind me. “But it was taken after the date,” I say, pointing out my positioning—how I’m walking away from the hill, back toward the car.

“So, Ben was still behind you,” she says.

“No,” I say, correcting her. “Ben was hightailing it out of there, remember?”

“Maybe that’s just what he wanted you to think. Maybe he started to take off, but then when he saw you do the same, he snapped a picture behind your back—
literally
.”

“I also bumped into John Kenneally at the park,” I say, suddenly remembering it.

“And I’m just hearing about this
now
?”

“His team practices there every Saturday afternoon, by the way.”

“But it can’t be him,” she says, running her finger over the pen scribbles on the photo. You can see where the marks are etched into the paper, like whoever did this was really angry. “This isn’t John’s style.”

“How do
you
know?”

“I just do, okay? End of story.”

“Which brings us to rule number one,” I say. “Never make assumptions, remember?”

“No,” she corrects. “It actually brings us to rule number four: don’t trust anyone.”

“Not even you?”

“Okay, except me and your parents. And rule number five: don’t go out anywhere alone. Call me. I’ll come.”

“Even tonight?”

She lowers her cat-eye glasses to the tip of her nose. “What’s tonight?”

“I want to talk to Ben some more.”

“Okay, are you seriously as psychotic as he is?”

“Not psychotic,
psychometric
.”

“Whatever,” she snaps. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got right now. I mean, just think about it. Weird stuff is happening to me. Ben claims to sense I’m in danger. Even if he
is
lying, maybe I’ll be able to figure that out just by talking to him.”

“And, if he’s not . . . and you are in danger?”

“Then I’ll be able to hear him out,” I say, surprised she’s even entertaining the idea that he’s telling the truth. “I think I owe myself that, don’t you?”

“I think you should put his touchable powers to the test,” she says, gesturing toward the photo. “Have him touch some of this stuff and see what he has to say about it. My guess is you’ll be able to smell the BS from a mile away.”

A moment later, there’s a knock on the door, making me jump. My knee bumps the teacup, and the liquid goes spilling across the cherrywood table in a long, narrow stream that reminds me of blood.

I return the photo to the envelope and then stuff it inside my sweatshirt. Meanwhile, Kimmie grabs my wheel-spun bowl from the end table.

The screen door swings open, and the knob jiggles back and forth. Someone’s trying to get in.

Kimmie approaches the door, the bowl positioned high above her head.

A second later, I hear it—a key pushing into the lock. The door swings open.

“Hey, there, lovey,” my mom says, tossing her yoga mat to the floor.

My dad follows close behind her, squawking that the line’s been busy for the past two hours.

“Sorry,” I say. “I thought I hung it up. Where have you guys been?”

“Dinner,” Mom says, planting a kiss on my cheek. She eyes the pottery bowl, still in fighting position high above Kimmie’s head. “Is everything okay in here?”

“You bet,” Kimmie says, returning the bowl to the table. “I mean, aside from thinking you might have been a crazy ax murderer trying to break in.”

“But all’s well now,” I say, wishing I had a muzzle for her.

Mom gives Kimmie a smooch on the cheek as well. “Are you girls hungry? I have some leftover lettuce cups in the fridge.”

“Run for your lives,” Dad jokes.

“Actually, I should probably get going,” Kimmie says. “I have some design stuff I want to finish. I’m trying to get into a workshop at the Fashion Institute. You have to submit a portfolio even to be considered.”

“That’s great,” my mother chirps, catching a glimpse of her own yogified apparel in the hallway mirror.

“Wait, what about studying tonight?” I ask, giving Kimmie a pointed look.

Kimmie’s face scrunches up for about half a second before she finally gets the picture. “If you absolutely have to.”

“I do.”

“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Dad says. “How much later do you expect to work?”

“How about I call you in a little bit?” Kimmie suggests. “I really think we should go over that list of rules one more time.”

I nod as my dad lets her out. A giant pit forms in the center of my gut, because I know that there’s no convincing Kimmie—not tonight, anyway. If I want to talk to Ben, I’m totally on my own.

33

I head down the hallway to my room, suddenly realizing that Kimmie left me with the honor of telling my parents about the broken bathroom window. So while they cuddle up on the living room sofa, I go check out the damage.

It’s even worse than I thought. Not just a tiny crack or hole; the window is completely smashed in.

I grab a dustpan and brush, and start to sweep it all up, but then I notice a trace of mud on the floor. It trails across the ceramic tiles to the hallway and then toward my bedroom.

My mind races. I glance back at the window. Both the pane and screen have been pulled up. Like someone climbed through.

I look toward the shower, wondering if someone might be in there now. Slowly I approach it, my pulse quickening. I snatch a razor from the vanity, preparing myself to fight. In one quick motion, I whisk the curtain open and let out a gasp.

But luckily it’s empty.

My chest heaving, I try to get a grip, remind myself that my parents are only four rooms away.

I inch down the hallway to my room. The door is closed, even though I know I left it open. The razor still gripped between my fingers, I turn the knob, step inside, and see it: the word
BITCH
written across my dresser mirror in dark red lipstick.

34

My hand trembles over my mouth. I approach the dresser. There’s a mysterious pile of fabric sitting on top of it. I let out a breath and move a little closer, almost startled by my own reflection in the mirror, by the way the word
BITCH
cuts across my face and makes me look like I’m bleeding.

I look down at the fabric—the pale pink color, the soft fleece fabric, and the bits of ribbon. It’s the pajamas he bought me. They’ve been torn into a million tiny shreds, as if with a knife.

I glance over at the corner of the room, where I’ve been keeping the gift box and packaging. It’s all been ripped open. The note and tissue paper have been tossed onto the floor.

Still shaking, I drop the razor and close my eyes, cover my ears. I feel myself breathe in and out, trying to calm myself down, even though every inch of me wants to scream.

I take several steps backward, preparing to exit the room, peering out of the corner of my eye at my closet door, which is still closed. Instead of checking inside it, I hurry down the hallway and into the living room. My parents are sitting on the sofa. Tears stain my mother’s face.

“Mom?”

“Cam, can you just give us a few minutes?” Dad asks, his back to me.

My mom sobs—like I’ve never heard her before.

“What happened?” I ask, taking another step, noticing my mom’s cell phone gripped in her hands.

Dad turns to me finally. “Your mom just got some unsettling news.”

“About Aunt Alexia,” Mom says, trying to regain her composure.

“What about her?” I ask.

“She’s back in the hospital,” she says, tearing up even more; it’s as if saying it aloud only makes it worse.

I linger a moment, watching her sob, waiting for one of them to fill me in on what’s going on, but neither of them answers me. It’s like I’m no longer there. I turn away finally and head back to my room.

The closet is in full view.

My heart racing, I grab an old trophy from my desk, clutch it above my head, and pull the door open.

But there’s no one in there, and nothing looks awry.

I let out a breath and try calling Kimmie, but her mom tells me she went to the library. I dial her cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. Wes isn’t home, either.

Not knowing where to turn or what to do, I wash the word
BITCH
from the mirror, as if it were never even there. Then I sweep the pajama remains into the lingerie box and stuff it under my bed, completely out of sight.

My mom’s still crying in the living room; I try calling Kimmie’s cell again. No luck. Finally, I hear the cabinet door slam shut in the kitchen. I head out there, only to find Dad pouring gin into one of Mom’s favorite glasses— even though she never drinks. Even though I didn’t even know they kept a secret stash.

“Dad?” I ask, catching him by surprise.

He turns to face me. “Your mom’s really upset,” he says, trying to explain the gin away.