M.I.N.D. (20 page)

“Like calling me from my driveway isn't crazy?” I teased. Sweet, definitely, and very romantic. But then the lyrics to “He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother” floated into my memory—something about a road and sadness and no return—and my smile faded.

“I'm serious, Cass. Promise me.”

Was he talking about going to the police or consulting a crystal ball? In any case, it wasn't a promise I could make. “Message received, loud and clear,” I answered evasively.

Which brings me back to my ulterior motive.

Dinner at the country club isn't
that
crazy, is it?

Earlier today, Vardina had mentioned that Brendan would be there too, and I figured it was time I got to know him better. But I'm not talking about jumping; I'm talking about taking matters into my own hands.

Brendan was searching for something that's tied to the hit-and-run. When he didn't find it, he had to make sure Amanda stayed silent. Now that he knows about her condition, I'm thinking he's feeling a little relieved. People who are relieved let down their guard.

I'm going to find out what it is, where it is, and the story behind it.

Remember my kinesics project? Of course, at the time I was in a safe environment, surrounded by witnesses. I wasn't on a secluded country road, alone with a psychopath.

Did I mention I got an A?

Seventeen

Waterproof

The dining room is elegant, the mood festive. Crystal and silverware sparkle in the candlelight. At the center of each table are fresh spring flowers. Sitting at these tables are all the board members of the country club, plus their family and friends. But in the midst of the dazzle is a somberness. Everyone's been talking about Amanda. At school, too. Good thing Ethan's been absent. Hearing all that death talk would have been brutal.

I finish off my eggplant lasagna (I'm having vegetarian—my mother would be proud), while wondering how I'm going to execute my plan. I haven't had a moment alone since I got here. Vardina's been like a mother hen, showing me around. “You have to join!” she gushed after introducing to me to the mayor, or maybe it was the chef—after so many faces, I kind of lost track. Ha. My mother join a country club? That would be like me joining a swim club. Not going to happen.

At the head table, Josh is clearing away plates. I'm seriously glad he's not our waiter. The last thing I feel like is making small talk with Leanne's lord and master, as if I don't have enough to deal with already. I glance over at Brendan, who's sitting with his parents at the table to my right. I have to admit, he looks good all spiffed up in a suit and tie. Good and bored. He pulls out his cell phone, starts tapping away. His father whispers something in his ear, and Brendan slams down the phone.

“What a jerk,” Vardina says, motioning to him with her fork. “He's acting like his parents dragged him to the dentist.” Then brightly, she sings, “Hey, look! There's Zack. Now that's what I call revenge. He gets fired as a waiter and comes back as a guest.”

“Zack is here?” I say, craning my neck. “Really?”

“He's here with Nicole,” Vardina says, frantically waving. “Her mother's on the board.” She clicks her tongue. “Poor Nicole. She still has the hots for him.”

“I don't understand. If they're not back together, why is he with her?”

She shrugs. “How would
I
know? He's a guy, Cass.”

Vardina is on my right, next to her mom. Mrs. Applebee sure doesn't talk much. She's way too busy checking her e-mail. “This is
so
fun,” Vardina says, cracking open a gross-looking claw. “I just
love
lobster.” She pops a piece of the meat into her mouth. A stream of butter squirts onto the napkin tucked in at her chin. Which is why I chose the lasagna. Aside from my hatred of seafood, I refuse to wear a bib in public.

It's almost nine o'clock when Brendan shoves back his chair, gets up from the table. It's now or never. “I'll be right back,” I tell Vardina. “Nature calls.”

I follow Brendan into the lobby. Just outside the restrooms, he spins around and says, “You want to help me shake it off?”

“I don't have my tweezers,” I shoot back, and feel myself blush. Did I just say that? He grins from ear to ear, and I blush even harder.

“Ooh, feisty. I like it,” he says, giving me the once-over. “You look great, Spass. Something's different.”

Must be the dress. “Wear your best cocktail dress,” Vardina had said, which made me laugh. I've never had a cocktail in my life. Plus, the only dressy thing I own is that red satin sack I wore to my cousin's wedding, and that was two years ago. Can you tell I don't get out much? Anyway, when my mother offered to lend me something of hers, at first I balked. Sure, we wear the same size and all, but what kind of loser wears her mother's clothes? Then she showed me the dress, and whoa! It's black, short, and curvy in all the right places, which made me wonder what she was doing with it in the first place. Is my mother
dating
?

I smile at Brendan. “Still the same old me.” At least since yesterday.

He leans back against the wall and says, all casual, “I met my parents here, so I have my car. What do you say we ditch this place and have some fun?”

It's not fun that's on his mind. He wants to know what Amanda blabbed about on the bus. “Like what?” I ask, twirling my hair à la Stephanie. Two can play at this game, right?

He traces a finger down the front of my dress. “Oh, I can think of a few things.”

I jump back. Suddenly the prospect of being alone with him on a dark secluded road isn't all that appealing. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” I say, moving out of his reach.
Step 1: Unhinge the suspect.
“About Amanda,” I add, trying to read his expression.

His face is as blank as a whiteboard in July. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps it against his palm. “Yeah, it's a real tragedy. So when's the funeral?”

“She's not dead yet,” I say, swallowing my rage.

“She's a vegetable. Same diff.” He lights his cigarette. “What's on your mind, Spass?”

Oh, he's cool. Cool as a corpse.
Step 2: Bluff.
“I have something you want, Brendan. Something you've been looking for.”

“A lot of girls have made that claim.” He laughs. Nervously, I think. He takes another drag, then blows the smoke into my face. And there it is: His lower lip twitches.

“That thing I have?” I say. “She gave it to me on the bus, just before the crash. She said she was afraid you'd get your hands on it.”
Step 3: Make him sweat.
“Right now it's sitting in my desk drawer, all by its lonesome, just waiting for me to take it to the police.” What is it, Brendan? What's the
thing
? Spill!

He regards me for a moment, then shakes his overly moussed head. “I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I know
you.
You're the type who finds a ten-dollar bill in a public bathroom and hands it over to security. You'd have already called the cops if you had something on me.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't,” I say, my pulse banging away. “But I think it's really curious that she didn't want you to have it. Some people might think it has something to do with why she wigged out. I call it proof.” Then I fake-laugh. “What was it Zack said? One more screw-up and it's military school for you.” I stare him in the eye. “You don't know me at all, Brendan. Maybe I want something too. Maybe I want to make a deal.”

He tosses his cigarette onto the floor, crushes it with his shoe. “Know what I think? I think you're the one who's brain-dead. Get some help, Spass. You need it.” He stalks off, leaving me seriously questioning my future as a spy. What was I thinking? Did I really think he'd just blurt what he's looking for?

But wait.

Instead of heading back to the dining room, he rushes through the doorway that leads to the parking lot. I know he's bored, but it still makes me wonder, why the sudden exit?

I follow him outside, trying to stay out of view. Not an easy task, since the lot is lit up like a ballpark. According to Vardina, they recently heightened security. With all those look-at-me-I'm-awesome cars, there were concerns. I glance over at the hut where the valet keeps the keys. No one's inside. Perhaps they should consider a tad more heightening?

Crouching behind a silver Lexus, I watch as Brendan pulls out his phone. My guess is that he's calling my house, checking to see if anyone's home. I'm betting he's going to risk another break-in.

Catching him in the act might be just the proof Ethan needs.

The players are in place, the stage is set. My mother left the house the same time I did. She said she was going to dinner and a movie with a friend. Huh. Maybe she really
is
dating.

***

He gets into his car. Starts the engine and revs it. Music blasting, tires squealing, he races out of the parking lot, leaving behind a trail of dust. Smart move, Brendan. Nothing like drawing attention to yourself. Not that anyone is watching. What's the point of lighting up the place if no one's around to see?

I pull out Amanda's phone from my purse. I'm about to call 9-1-1 when something occurs to me. What do I tell them? Hi, I'm calling to say that in approximately ten minutes there might be a burglary at my house, so can you please drive by just in case? Oh, and by the way, remember the nutcase who called you on Saturday? That was me.

Plan B: I hitch a ride with him (in a manner of speaking), pop out when he arrives at my street, and
then
call the police.

Weaving in and out of rows of cars—I swear, you'd think it was a Porsche-slash-Lexus dealership—I head toward the back of the lot, looking for a place a girl might take a nap. On the other side of the chain-link fence are the woods that lead down to the river. The very buggy, creepy woods, I think with a shudder. There's a full moon tonight, but it's moving in and out of broken clouds, casting shadows that look like tombstones. I'm considering scurrying over to the unattended hut, grabbing someone's keys, and ducking into a look-at-me car—so there, Brendan! What type am I now?—when I see the valet returning to his post. Not that I would have done it; I guess Brendan has me pegged after all. I dart behind a Lexus parked in the back, toss my purse and shoes over the fence, and climb to the other side. It's a good thing the valet can't see me. Apart from the fact that he'd probably call security, my mother's little black dress has morphed into a blouse.

I land on my feet in a pile of leaves. I smooth down my dress, pick up my shoes and purse, and search for a wide tree. I plunk down, lean back, and close my eyes, but instead of lilac, I smell skunk. Ew. I try again, but no matter how hard I concentrate, I still get skunk. And I'm still me.

Okay, so he's not thinking of me. Perfectly understandable. I can see how focusing on not getting caught might take priority.

It's time, I decide. Time to let the cat out of the bag (sorry, Oreo). I pull out Amanda's phone from my purse, and it glows in the dimness. I search through her contacts and tap on Brendan. I'm not too deep in the woods, so hopefully I'll still have reception.

He answers on the second ring. “Who
is
this?”

Ha. The caller ID probably gave him the willies. “Don't worry,” I say. “She's not awake. It's me, Cassie. I forgot to mention something.”

He pauses. “What are you doing with Amanda's phone?”

“Ethan lent it to me—wasn't that nice?”

“What do you want, Spass?”

“I'm wearing the locket,” I say coolly. I'd kept it tucked under my neckline, waiting for the right moment. I wasn't expecting it to start pulsing or anything, but somehow I knew it would come into play. “You know the one I mean. The one Amanda was wearing on the bus. The one you picked up at that hit-and-run. I
know
, Brendan. I remembered what she told me. I know
everything
. And like I said before, I have proof.”

I hang up, lean back again, and close my eyes. “Brendan,” I say aloud. “I want to squash that scumbag Brendan…”

***

Wishing he'd put down the top, I picture myself riding al fresco without my usual hair stress. He shifts gears and a surge runs through him, and for the first time ever I get this thing that guys have with cars. Sleek black leather seats, walnut trimming along the dash, a seriously fat steering wheel…this car is amazing!

But what's this? He's pulling over. Why is he stopping? He parks on the side of the road. Hands taut on the wheel, nerves popping, he stares straight ahead. I can almost feel his brain whirring. He swears under his breath, then pulls back out onto the road. Except he's turning around. Why is he turning around?

Eyes steady on the road ahead, he picks up his phone, taps on the screen. After four rings, Amanda's recorded message plays in his ear:
At the tone…hell, you know what to do.
“Okay, bitch,” he snarls. “I'm ready to deal. We need to have a little talk. What kind of exchange did you have in mind? In the mood for a little candy? You and Amanda, birds of a feather. Why am I not surprised?” He glances at the clock on the dash. “I'm on my way back to the club. Meet me behind the tennis courts. I'll be there in less than five.”

Um, I don't think so. Can you say dark and deserted? Hopefully when I don't show up, he'll head on over to my house. Come on, Brendan, get with the plan!

He drives past the parking lot, then swerves left onto a narrow dirt road. Yes! He's turning around! But instead of turning, he stays on course. It must be the service road, I surmise as we wind past the clubhouse and then the bar and grill. But instead of following the road around to the tennis courts, he pulls off and plows straight ahead, into the woods. The trees here are sparse, and he maneuvers deftly. (Also, there's no chain-link fence. Like I couldn't know this earlier?) After a few bumpy seconds, he veers left and pulls into a clearing obscured by a thicket. Two things occur to me at once: one, this would be a great place to hide your car if, oh, let's say, you wanted to take someone's Porsche for a joyride; and two, he's a tad too close to where I'm fast asleep, propped against a tree.

He parks the car and pops the trunk. Gets out, goes on back. Reaches in, lifts the mat. Next to the spare tire is a folded dishrag. He picks it up, unwraps it carefully. Something is gleaming.

Oh. My. God.

It's a gun.

Shoot out any windows lately, Brendan? Just for the hell of it?

What kind of sicko keeps a gun in his car?

I have to get out of here. Unfortunately, since I'm obviously weighing heavily on his mind, at the moment I seem to be stuck.

He tucks the gun into his belt and closes his jacket, then takes off in the direction of the tennis courts. I can hear the thud of his heart over the rise and fall of his breathing, a staccato backdrop to the crunching of leaves beneath his feet. Suddenly, he stops. Something on the ground has his attention. It looks like a high-heeled shoe. My mental heart stops beating in my mental chest. I was sure I'd picked up my shoes. Both of them. How did they get over here?