Homicide Related (41 page)

D
ooley was contemplating the possible consequences of putting his fist through the wall of his bedroom when his uncle called up to him.

“You've got company.”

Company? What company could he possibly have?

He got up off his bed and headed downstairs.

He saw her before his foot hit the third step: Beth.

She was standing on the mat in the front hall. Usually when she dropped by, she chatted comfortably with Dooley's uncle. His uncle was standing in the front hall with her, but neither of them was talking. They both turned when they heard Dooley on the stairs. Beth looked up nervously at him. Jesus, now what?

His uncle tactfully retired to the kitchen. Beth glanced around, frowning.

“Do you think we could go outside?” she said.

The weather had turned during the night. Fall was past tense. Winter was now. And she wanted to go outside? Not a good sign. It meant she wanted to talk to him somewhere where there was no chance his uncle would overhear. It meant she was going to dump him.

“Okay, sure,” he said, trying to hide the dead feeling inside him. He grabbed his jacket from the closet and stepped out onto the porch with her. He had to hand it to her—she looked at him full on. She wasn't shying away from what she had come here to do.

“It's about Nevin,” she said.

Here it comes, he thought. He had to fight the urge to pummel something—the reinforced front door, the porch railing, the brick exterior of his uncle's house—something that would bloody his fists and make physical the pain that was ripping him apart.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Right.

“My mother really likes him. She's been friends with his parents forever. They helped her a lot after my father died.”

All the more reason, he supposed.

“I've known him for a long time, too.”

It just got better and better.

“He never came near me when Mark was alive.” Mark was her brother. “I think he was afraid to.” Here she offered a faint smile. “Anyway—”

He couldn't stand it. He couldn't take the tension that was building as she prefaced what she had to say.

“Look, Beth—”

“My mother would probably think she was in heaven if I went out with Nevin,” she said. “I know she would. And I know Nevin likes me, too. I'm pretty sure that's why he acts the way he does.”

Yeah. Chauffeuring her around in that Jag of his. Taking her on in impromptu debates. Dropping in on her and scoring eager invitations to dinner from her mother. Spending a weekend with her up at some country place that, Dooley bet, had all the conveniences of home, plus a waterfront view.

She looked down at the steel-gray paint of the front-porch floor.

“It's my fault, too,” she said.

It felt like a hand had reached right into Dooley, had grabbed his stomach, and was squeezing it and twisting it all at the same time.

“I was mad when I found out about your mother,” she said. Her eyes met his again. He looked deep into them but couldn't see himself reflected there. “And I was mad when I heard you'd been in the building. I thought you were checking up on me.”

“I guess I was,” he said. Jesus,
I guess?
Could he be more of a weasel?

“And I should have told you where my mom took me for the weekend, except …”

Except by then she probably thought it was none of his business.

Her eyes slipped away from his again. Her fingers picked at one of the buttons on her coat.

“His parents are my mom's best friends,” she said. “That makes him hard to avoid. The thing is …” She shook her head. She looked annoyed.

Dooley closed his eyes.

“I don't know how to say this,” she said. “I don't want you to think—” She took one of his hands in hers. He opened his eyes. “I was mad,” she said, “because I thought I knew you.”

Jesus, the best thing that ever happened to him, and he had fucked it up by fudging the truth. Fudging? There he was, being a weasel again. He had lied to her. To Beth, of all people. Okay. Time to come clean.

“I thought if I told you about my mother, you'd—”

“I love you,” she said.

He stared at her.

“There, I said it. If you don't feel the same way, I'll understand. But I wanted you to know. What happened before I met you, all that stuff with your mother, that's not you. At least, it's not the you that I know. And Nevin—he's not a bad person. Actually, he's pretty nice. But he acted like a jerk when he returned my sweater. He did it on purpose. He doesn't like you.”

No kidding.

“So, anyway,” she said, picking at the button again, uncertain again, “I just wanted to tell you that. And, like I said, if you don't feel the same way—”

He caught hold of her other hand and pulled her to him. He didn't know what to say, so, instead, he kissed her.

About the Author

Norah McClintock is the author of more than thirty novels for young adults. She is a five-time winner of the Crime Writers of Canada's Arthur Ellis Award. Her books have been translated into more than a dozen languages. She lives in Toronto with her family.