Instinct (21 page)

That doesn’t
include me. Nicole’s mother requested I not attend the burial.

I catch
Beverly Sharp’s eye as she moves down the center aisle supported by her husband
and a slightly older man I don’t recognize. Probably an uncle or cousin.

Her gaze locks
with mine and instead of the hatred and blame I have come to expect, there is
only confusion. Pity surges through me as I watch her pass, wondering even if I
manage to prove Phillip murdered Nicole if it will be of any help to her
mother. I simply don’t know.

By the time we
make it outside, I am sweating with the effort of appearing normal. I have
heard so many unknowingly honest comments in the crowd that it is a wonder that
I haven’t struck out at the voices around me, trying to silence them with my
fists since I cannot escape them in my head.

Mom leaves me
at the curb while she goes to get the car. People walk around me as though I am
encased in an invisible bubble that prevents them from touching me, but they
watch me as they pass, curiosity and condemnation in their eyes.

I am the girl
who let Nicole die, after all.

A familiar
voice carries to my ears and I turn to see Simon Householder pursuing Cole’s
father down the sidewalk, peppering him with question after question about the
oddity of two dead teenage girls who were friends with his son.

When he sees
that other people are pausing to watch the exchange, Geoffrey Wise stops and
turns to face the crowd, effectively ignoring Simon even while purportedly
answering his questions.

“I don’t want
anyone to know about Jake’s involvement with Miranda’s death,” he says, nodding
solemnly, his voice heavy with sorrow but still resonating loudly enough for
everyone to hear.

“Our town will
always feel the loss of these two young women keenly, and I can promise safety
measures on the bridge in question are being investigated as we speak. But as
to the involvement of my family with either death, I can only feel disgust that
anyone would try to sensationalize these unfortunate events. I believe the
families have suffered quite enough, don’t you?” he asks, raising his hands out
to his captive audience. Everyone within hearing distance claps, shooting dirty
glances at Simon. Even I have to concentrate hard not to join in the approval
of the mayor’s statement. Uneasiness snakes its clammy way down my throat and
coils in my stomach as I push off the impulse. Almost as if he can sense my
resistance, Geoffrey Wise turns his regal head in my direction, the barest hint
of a smile twitching at his lips. Dipping his head to me in silent tribute, he
turns and ushers his reluctant sons into the black sedan at the curb.

The crowd
disperses quickly after the car pulls away, and I am able to push my way over
to Simon, who stares resentfully at the road.

“Simon,” I
call out, and he snaps his attention around, eyes gleaming with expectation
when he spots me.

“I know
details about Nicole’s death,” he says in greeting and I feel my pulse race in
reaction to this hidden truth.

“Can we talk?”
I ask him, glancing around warily for my mother’s car. I know I have only
moments before she arrives.

“You going to
give me a scoop, young lady?” he demands, putting his pad and pencil away in
his overstuffed pocket.

I give him a
wry smile. “Only if you return the favor,” I stipulate, amused by the mercenary
glint in his eyes.

“I forgot how
sharp you were, Miss MacKenna. Alright. Let’s meet at the café. Say around
eight?”

I hear the
approach of the Torino, finally restored after its close call by the river.
“No, I can’t tonight. Mom will never let me back out. How about before school
tomorrow? If you can give me a lift afterward.”

“Fine. Meet me
there at seven.”

I nod in affirmation
before I slip away, back to where Mom left me waiting. When I glance back, Simon
has disappeared, no doubt aware that his continued presence is probably a bad
idea. I get into the car without comment and we make the drive home in silence,
Mom probably imagining her upcoming date, and me silently resolving to get the
truth out of Simon and find something with which I can go after Phillip.

I worry
neither of us will be satisfied.

            The café is
bustling this morning, a long line waiting at the register for coffee and
bagels; almost every table is taken with people still encased in coats and ski
jackets shoveling down piping hot food as fast as they can. Simon waits for me
at a table near the back, two stacked plates in front of him, the food itself
obscured by the bucket of syrup he’s poured over everything. I signal to the
waitress as I take the seat across from him and order a hot chocolate and
blueberry muffin.

            “I’ve got diabetes,”
Simon mumbles in between bites. I frown, thinking that having that much syrup
has got to be bad for someone with diabetes and I consider saying something,
but then dismiss the urge. He’s not a stupid man. He knows what he’s eating is
bad for him.

            “Good morning,” I
say, shedding my bulky coat and scarf. Outside the wind is howling and fierce,
chips of ice blown around in mini-tornados above the snow drifts. It is the
coldest winter on record for the area.

            Simon stuffs
another heaping forkful in his mouth and gives me a measured look. “Alright,
Derry, I’ve got little time to waste, so why don’t you just ask me whatever it
is you want to know,” he says around the mouthful of food.

            I smile in
appreciation of his attitude. “Fine. What do you know about Nicole’s death that
hasn’t been printed?” I ask, figuring I don’t need to waste time dancing around
the issue.

            He coughs and goes
slightly purple as he chokes on a clump of pancakes. Taking a deep drink of his
coffee and rubbing his chest, Simon stalls for time, obviously trying to think
of what he can get out of me in return for the information.

            Finally he puts
down the coffee and the fork and pushes his plate away. “I’ll answer your
questions if you can give me something to work with.”

            “I can tell you what
Nicole was doing out there that night,” I offer quietly, glancing around to
make sure no one is eavesdropping. Thankfully, we are ignored; the other
patrons are far too focused on their own plates to care what an old reporter
and a teenage girl are doing in a corner booth together.

            Simon’s eyebrows
shoot up. “Is that so? Alright then. Here’s what I know.” He leans forward,
keeping his voice low. “Nicole did not jump off the old railroad bridge. She
didn’t jump off of anything. The coroner says that her head was struck on
something sharp and wooden. Looks like pine. From the angle needed to break her
neck, he suggested a tree with a broken limb. To have done that kind of damage,
she would have had to have been knocked into the tree with a lot of force. Something
she couldn’t have done without help.”

            I digest this
information, which isn’t entirely new, but the confirmation and detail helps to
paint a picture. She struggled with Phillip first.

            “What else? What
about her neck?” I demand, refusing to get sidetracked.

            Simon nods and
gives me a knowing look. “Coroner said the neck was an odd break. It would have
paralyzed her and stunted her breathing, but if she had gotten immediate help
she might have survived. Would have been paralyzed, but she might have made it.”

            Nausea drips down
into my stomach, settling uneasily on the hot chocolate I’ve already drunk. An
image flashes before my eyes; Nicole fighting with Phillip and him throwing her
on an outthrust tree limb, snapping her neck with the force.

            A loud crash
resonates through the room and I shake the impression off, glancing around to
see a waitress stooping to clean up a dropped tray and several dirty plates. I
just watch her for a moment, taking in the bright flush to her cheeks as she
gingerly picks up the chunks of broken dishes, her eyes darting around as
though daring anyone to say something. I don’t know why this is so fascinating
to me. I don’t know why it is so hard for me to turn back to the conversation.

            Simon clears his
throat and taps the table to get my attention. “Derry? What are you thinking?”
he asks curiously, as though he really cares what I think about the situation.

            “Are they treating
her…death like an accident, or like a murder?”

            He gives me a
cynical look. “Now do you really think the police share that kind of detail
with me? A lowly reporter?”

            I return his look
with interest. “But they’ll give you every detail about her injuries? Come on,
what do you know?”

            With an amused
grunt, Simon shifts his bulk and glances at his watch. “I think we’ve concluded
the free ride portion of the meal. Your turn,” he says, pulling out his
ever-present notebook and pen. For a moment I am puzzled. Since I realized
people seem to be compelled to answer me honestly when I really want to know
something, I have become accustomed to getting answers without much work. Why Simon
is able to resist is beyond me, but I feel abruptly certain that he has given
me all of this information not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

            I narrow my eyes
and concentrate, trying to pick up a trace of the peculiar connection I get with
Cole and Jake, and even their father, but there is nothing. Only the lengthening
pause that hangs between us like an accusation.

            “Any time now,
sweetheart. We’re on a clock, you know,” he reminds me. Seeing that I have less
than twenty minutes before school I admit defeat and tell him about Nicole’s
certainty that Phillip murdered Miranda. Off the record, of course.

            “What exactly was
she basing this on?” Simon asks when I’m done.

            “Partly a feeling.
But mostly Miranda’s journal,” I admit, knowing how thin everything sounds out
loud.

            But Simon perks up
at the mention of the journal. “Journal? The police never found one. How did
Nicole get it?”     

            Seeing that I’ve
caught his interest finally, I give him a beatific smile and get to my feet,
putting a few dollars down for a tip. “Now do you think anyone would share that
kind of detail with me? A lowly reporter?” I return his earlier words wrapped
in sarcasm. Simon tightens his mouth in irritation, but after a moment his lips
loosen in a grudging smile.

“Fine, Derry.
I suppose you’ll give me that information when I can tell you more about the
investigation?”

I mime
delighted surprise. “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Householder. You give me a call
when you know something.”

He laughs as
he throws a twenty down to cover his ridiculously unhealthy meal. “I told you,
call me Simon. And yes, I’ll call you if I learn anything else. You’ll make a
fair reporter one of these days, Derry.”

I am absurdly
pleased by his comment, and cover my blush with the scarf I wind around my face
as a shield against the spitting snow. Simon leads me outside and down the
street to the train station parking lot where his car waits. He unlocks a tan
Malibu and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

“What?” he
demands, dropping heavily into the driver’s seat.

“Where did you
get this car? From a police auction?” I joke.

He gives me a
stunned look as we pull cautiously onto the road toward the high school.    “How
did you guess?”

“It’s got
former unmarked police car written all over it.”

With a
chuckle, he pats the steering wheel affectionately. “It’s good for stakeouts.”

By the time he
drops me off at the front of the school, I feel as though we have cemented our odd
little friendship. He waves, pulling away from the curb, and I can see him shaking
his head as he drives away.

As I turn to
walk up the stairs, all my mirth drains away and my feet are heavy with
reluctance. This is the my first day back since Nicole died, and suddenly the
thought of maneuvering the hallways alone, the empty seat in history, the
deserted alcove where we ate lunch is too much, and I halt on the steps, nearly
choking on the wave of desolation that descends over me.

I am still
standing there when I hear the crunch of shoes on snow behind me come to a stop,
and a hand rests lightly on my shoulder. Turning, half expecting to see Cole, I
am surprised when Ruth’s sympathetic face confronts me.

“I am worried
about Phillip,” she says, her real greeting lost.

I haven’t
really talked much with her since the day I ate lunch with Phillip and the rest
of his friends. We nodded at one another in the hallway and exchanged
pleasantries, but we moved in different circles once I was firmly established
as Nicole’s friend.

            She squeezes my
shoulder and gives me a sad smile. “I’m glad to see you’re back. I’m so sorry
about Nicole and what happened to you. Let me know if I can do anything,” she
says, and I know she is sincere. Despite her apparent loyalties to Phillip, I
remember that I liked her the first time we talked, and am relieved that at
least someone is genuinely sorry about Nicole’s death.

            “Thanks. I got your
card,” I reply, remembering that she had been one of the few to send me a note
while I was in the hospital. Phillip sent one too.

            I shredded it and
threw it in the trash.

            “Oh, good. I wanted
to visit, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted company or not,” she says and my skin
hums lightly. I don’t mind; I can’t imagine wanting to visit someone I barely
know in the hospital. But the sentiment is nice.

            “I was pretty out
of it most of the time anyway.” I take a deep breath and begin ascending the
stairs, knowing I can no longer put off the moment I have to resume my school
life without Nicole. Ruth comes with me, quietly companionable, her presence a
welcome support whether she knows it or not.

            We reach the doors
before she speaks again. “I know you and Nicole had your own lunch routine,
but…it would be nice if you came to sit with me today. I mean, I know Phillip
won’t mind, and…” she breaks off when she sees my face. “Sorry, I mean, just if
you wanted to…”

            Forcing a smile I
just nod. “Thanks, Ruth. Maybe.”

            Her answering smile
is relieved. “Okay. Well, let me know if I can do anything,” she repeats and
enters the school, leaving me behind on the snow-dusted welcome mat. With a
deep, fortifying breath I follow, ignoring the wet squeak my boots make on the pristine
linoleum as I plunge into the flowing stream of students headed to lockers and
classrooms.

            I get quite a few
looks, and hear a number of unwelcome truths as people pass me in the hall. I
can feel tears pricking at my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep from showing
weakness. I have no idea what people are really saying to me; it could be
condolences or insults and I’ll never know the difference. All I hear are the
hidden truths that whisper only to me.

            The door to history
is closed when I reach it, and for a moment I seem to see a pinched-faced girl
waiting for me, an impatient glint in her eyes, but I blink and the image is
gone, the hall is empty.

            I take a deep,
shuddering breath and enter the room, ignoring the dozen sets of eyes that
immediately lock on me, following my every movement. Pausing at Mrs. Sullivan’s
desk to hand her my official excuse, I glance at Nicole’s seat and then freeze,
my heart spiking and stalling before it resumes a quickened pace.

            Phillip is sitting
in her chair.

            He catches my eyes
and smiles, the smile of a tiger just before it strikes with a crushing blow,
the smirk of a wolf before he lunges, the grin of a shark before it snaps its
jaws closed over its prey. He smiles and it seems to me that his green eyes
glow with anticipation and something else. Something akin to hunger.

            “I always liked
Nicole,” Mrs. Sullivan says and I snap my attention back to her as she signs
the excuse and hands it back. “Let me know if you need help getting caught up,”
she continues and I just nod, completely incapable of speech. There are no
other seats available but my usual desk and the one Phillip is supposed to
occupy. I have no choice but to take my seat, feeling the electricity light
under my skin in the presence of the grinning liar next to me.

            “I thought it might
be easier for you if you didn’t have to think of Nicole’s empty seat,” Phillip
whispers, his eyes wide and innocent-looking. My skin is on fire and a wild
rage bubbles just beneath the surface. It takes every ounce of control I have
not to reach out and claw the loathsome grin off his face.  

            When I don’t
respond, he smirks and turns his attention to the front of the class, where
Mrs. Sullivan is passing out some papers. I barely glance at the sheet when it
is passed back to me and the guy in the back row has to come get his from me
when I forget to hand it to him.

            “You’ll be starting
your major project today. You and your partner will choose one of the events
listed and present an oral report two weeks from today. Take some time now to
talk it over and come up with some ideas. We’ll go over the details in a bit,”
Mrs. Sullivan announces. I sit staring at the sheet in confusion for a moment,
trying to figure out who I’m supposed to work with now that Nicole isn’t here.

And then I
remember. Nicole was never my partner.

Phillip is.

I turn to see
him watching me, his reptilian gaze a cold stroke down my spine.

“Hey there,
partner. You know, I’m glad we’ll be working together. Maybe it’ll give us a
chance to talk,” he says, false concern marking his face. It’s eerie in a way,
as though he is only pretending to be human, that he has practiced and nearly
mastered expressions of emotion, but is just slightly off, a mirror image
instead of reality.