Hemlock (21 page)

Pain and loathing flashed across his face, naked and raw.

“Kyle . . .” I took a step toward him and then stopped, not sure what to do or say.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “I can’t expect you to trust me when I’m not even sure who I am anymore.” He strode past me and out the door.

the door.

Feeling like a coward, I let him go.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

I SPENT THREE HOURS IN MY ROOM, PORING OVER THE police report and reviewing my notes on the other attacks. Besides the fact that al of the attacks had taken place on the south side of town, there didn’t seem to be any connection between the victims.

Which made sense. It wasn’t like werewolves suffering from bloodlust had motives for what they did—they were like rabid animals.

Unfortunately, that meant that Amy’s kiler could have been anyone. The white wolf was a needle and Hemlock was my haystack.

With a sigh, I slid my notes into my backpack and grabbed my phone. I needed a break and I’d had the thing for almost a week without realy setting it up.

without realy setting it up.

I added some music and changed the ringtone, then I transferred some photos from my computer. I flipped through the images until I came across a picture of Amy, Jason, Kyle, and me at fifteen. Amy had her arm slung over my shoulders, and Kyle was making rabbit ears behind her head. Back then, Amy’s curves were just starting to make an appearance, and half the time she dressed more like a tomboy than a Hilton heiress. She stared up from the picture with a cocky, chalenging grin, almost like she was saying, “Come
on
, Mac. Figure this thing out already.”

Suddenly desperate to make some headway—any headway—I slipped the phone into my pocket and grabbed my jacket. I scribbled a note for Tess and then headed downtown.

Amy had caled Trey Carson seven times the night she died. I was going to find out why.

Halfway to my destination, a light rain began to fal. I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept my head down as I turned right at the music shop and walked past a brick wal that was plastered with posters for garage bands and open mike nights.

Two girls—one short with mousy brown hair, the other leggy and blond—were struggling to put up a large, red-and-black poster before the rain realy started coming down. I almost asked if they needed help—the poster was realy too big for two people to manage, especialy in the rain—but then I noticed the tattoo on the blonde’s neck and got a good look at the poster itself. It reminded me of the war propaganda we had looked at in history class. The ilustration showed a wolf menacing a mother and child underneath the words
YOUR DUTY TO REPORT
.

the words
YOUR DUTY TO REPORT
.

A shiver crept up my spine as the rain slipped past the colar of my jacket and dripped down my back. I broke into a light jog, trying to get away from the girls and their poster and reach shelter before I got completely soaked.

A half a block later, I tripped to a clumsy stop under the striped yelow-and-brown awning of Java Coyote—so named because most of its customers were students at Kennedy and its owner had been cocaptain of the Coyote cheerleading squad in her glory days.

I found an elastic in my pocket and puled my damp hair back into a ponytail as I pushed my way inside. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim glow of the coffee shop.

Java Coyote was the sort of place that barely broke even. Most of the armchairs and couches were ancient and threadbare—a fact the coffeehouse tried to hide with an abundance of bright orange throw pilows. The pilows—combined with the dim lighting and deep burgundy wals—always made me feel like I was in a genie’s lamp.

Half the seats were occupied. For a weekday, that was practicaly unheard of. As I walked past clusters of students, I heard Heather’s name over and over. My skin itched as I tried to ignore the sensation of people staring at me. By now, everyone knew Heather was the werewolf the Trackers had caught on campus and that I had somehow been involved.

It wasn’t hard to spot Serena. She was at her regular Thursday table, engaged in her regular Thursday activity: watching the colege-age barista boy she’d been crushing on since summer.

I waved and got in line for a coffee and tried to figure out how I was going to casualy ask her about her brother. Serena could be fiercely protective of Trey—even though she hated some of the things he did and the guys he hung around with.

People continued to stare as I waited. I resisted the urge to turn to the nearest tables and say something snarky. Any reaction would just fuel whatever stories were going around.

I turned, paper cup in one hand, impulse cookie in the other, and stifled a curse. Trey was sitting at Serena’s table, leaning so far back in his chair that the two front legs hovered above the ground.

I wondered, suddenly, if there was some cosmic affidavit that said nothing in my life was alowed to be easy.

“Hey, Dobs,” he said, letting his chair fal back to the ground and kicking out a second seat for me as I approached the table.

Despite the weather, Trey didn’t have a jacket. I guess it was easier to show off his muscles in shirtsleeves.

I tried to smile as I sat down, hoping the grin didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Hey.”

Serena frowned. “You weren’t in English. Did you hear about Heather?”

I guess no one had filed her in on the whole story. “I skipped,” I said, remembering the sound of splintering wood as Heather forced her way into the closet. I stared down at my cookie; suddenly, I didn’t have much of an appetite. “And, yeah, I heard about Heather. Jason told me.” I knew Serena would find out the truth—

probably sooner rather than later—and that she’d probably be probably sooner rather than later—and that she’d probably be upset with me for lying, but I just wasn’t up to talking about it..

Trey snorted. “Let me guess, Jason was playing toy soldier with his Tracker friends and was in the heart of the action?”

I glared at Serena. “Did you tel Trey about Jason joining the Trackers?”

She opened her mouth, but it was Trey who answered. “Ree didn’t have to,” he drawled, “what with the new ink he’s been flashing.”

“Oh.” I stared at my hands and felt my face flush. Of course. I wouldn’t be the only one to notice Jason’s neck. “Sorry.”

Serena reached over and patted my hand. “It’s okay,” she said.

“What did Kyle say? Has anyone told him?”

I swalowed, remembering Kyle’s face in the classroom. “He knows. I think he just wants to be by himself for a while. You know, to process things.”

She sighed. “Mac, if you and Kyle are going to be—”

I cut her off. “Serena, I’m pretty sure there is no me and Kyle.

We’re not an us.” The words left a bitter taste in the back of my mouth. They felt true and final and sad. Forget the fact that he was a werewolf and planning on leaving town, how could there ever be an “us” after the way Kyle had looked at me just before walking out of that classroom?

A chair scraped back against the linoleum floor and I glanced up as Trey stood. “I have a feeling I have too much testosterone for wherever this conversation is heading. Anyway, I said I’d meet someone.”

“What someone?” asked Serena sharply.

“What someone?” asked Serena sharply.

Trey flexed the muscles in his arms, almost like a nervous tick.

“Not Cecil.” He glared at his sister reproachfuly. “I remember my promise.”

Before Serena could say another word, he turned and strode out of the coffee shop.

“Promise?” I asked, playing with the paper band on my coffee cup.

She rubbed the back of her neck, like she was trying to work out tension. “Cecil Bel. That guy who got arrested over the GHB

thing in March. He got out last week.”

I bit my lip. “Trey is stil friends with him?” As much trouble as Trey got into, I couldn’t see him hanging around with a guy like Cecil—not after finding out that he had drugged a girl.

Serena snorted. “No. He hasn’t had anything to do with him since he found out.” She took a sip of her coffee. “After Cecil got arrested, the police asked Trey some questions. Someone told the idiot about it, and he’s been going around talking a lot of trash about Trey being a rat.”

“And the promise?”

She shrugged. “I asked Trey not to beat the shit out of him.

Lord knows someone should, but I don’t want my brother getting in trouble for it.”

Trey had talked to the police about Cecil. It was kind of the perfect opening. I took a deep breath. Kyle and Jason were already mad at me; I might as wel see how many other people I could alienate. “Did you know the police also talked to Trey about Amy?”

Amy?”

Something slid behind Serena’s eyes, almost like a vault door slamming shut. “Yeah,” she said. “They kept hassling him even though he was at work when she was kiled.”

“You never told me.” I tried not to let the hurt and suspicion I was feeling leak into my voice. Judging from the way Serena tensed, I failed.

“I didn’t think it mattered. They only talked to him because she caled his cel. It was just a wrong number.”

“That’s what Trey told you?”

Serena sighed. “Yeah. So?”

I leaned forward. “Amy caled his number seven times. You don’t think she was smart enough to realize it was the wrong number the first time she got his voice mail?”

Serena stood and puled on a yelow raincoat, shoving her arms through the sleeves with such force that I half expected the seams to rip. “Look, we’re friends, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re not implying my brother knows anything he didn’t already tel the police.” The anger on her face turned to disappointment. “And you know what? You could have asked Trey about the cals yourself instead of waiting for him to leave.”

She didn’t give me a chance to reply—which was just as wel since I didn’t know what to say.

I watched as Serena wove around the other tables and then pushed her way past a group of java junkies and out through the door.

door.

Her purse was stil slung over the back of her chair. I hesitated for a minute, then scooped it up and ran out of the shop.

Outside, the rain had stopped. My sneakers slapped the wet concrete and puddle water splashed the bottoms of my jeans as I raced after Serena’s yelow raincoat.

I caught up with her at the end of the block, just by the entrance to Riverside Square. She glanced over her shoulder, then turned and crossed her arms. For a minute, she almost looked like Trey, like someone to be scared of.

Wheezing slightly, I held out the purse, and her expression softened marginaly.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I just thought it was strange that Amy would keep caling Trey and I thought, I dunno, that maybe he knew something that he forgot to tel the cops.”

Serena took her purse and frowned. “How did you even find out they talked to him?”

“Jason got a copy of the police report.” For some reason, maybe the look on Serena’s face when I asked about Trey, I didn’t want to tel her that Jason had gotten the report at my request. “So far, al it’s given me is lots of questions.”

“Can I tel you something? As your friend?”

I nodded.

“If you dig into Amy’s life, you might find out things you’d rather not know. She wasn’t perfect.”

I blinked. “You barely knew her.”

“I knew enough.” Serena glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got

“I knew enough.” Serena glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. Dad’s out of town at a pharmaceutical convention and I promised I wouldn’t let my little brother walk home from the bus stop by himself. Al this werewolf and Tracker stuff has my father kind of freaked. He tried to cancel his trip, but his boss is a total jerk.”

She turned and strode across the square, startling a bunch of pigeons into flight as she passed the fountain in the center. I could just make out her car parked on the far side of the park.

Not knowing what else to do, I let her walk away—even though part of me desperately wanted to shake her until she told me why Amy had caled Trey. Because I was pretty sure she knew more than she had told me.

I felt a familiar ache in my chest.

Serena was just the latest in the line of people who had kept things from me. Life with my father had been a whole series of fabrications. Kyle had hidden the fact that he was infected. Jason hadn’t told the truth about what happened the night Amy died.

People lied. That’s just what they did.

“Worst. Breakup. Ever.” Amy stared up at the night sky, hands clasped behind her head, ankles crossed as she lay on the hood of an old, black Chevy that was missing its tires and doors.

Abandoned cars stretched in al directions and hubcaps dotted the ground like giant silver snowflakes. We were in the junkyard on the edge of the Meadows—a place we used to go on dares.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. Amy was wearing a short, yelow sundress with spaghetti straps. I didn’t see how her bare arms and sundress with spaghetti straps. I didn’t see how her bare arms and legs could be very comfortable against the cool metal and glass of the car.

“Nope.” She popped the word, making a clicking noise with her tongue. “You don’t feel things like cold when you’re dead. In fact, you don’t feel much of anything. I don’t even feel angry at Jason anymore.”

Death had made her a bad liar.

“Why did he break up with you? And why didn’t he tel anyone?”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“I asked him why he didn’t tel me. He wouldn’t answer.”

Amy let out a soft snort. “Figures you’d be more interested in why he didn’t tel
you
than in why he broke up with me in the first place.” She examined her nails and chipped away at the polish.

“You’l have to work things out for yourself. Though smarts have never exactly been your strong suit. No wonder your dad left you behind. He couldn’t afford to let himself be dragged down.” Amy’s voice took on a sickly, singsong tone. “You were just an inconvenient mistake that was always in the way. Garbage he couldn’t wait to toss.”