Nothing Bad Is Going to Happen (7 page)

“I need a lawyer, Kippy. I need a very good lawyer—an expensive one. Luckily I'm very rich now.”

“What are you talking about?”

He yawns. “There's a storage facility outside of town where my collectibles are being stored while I'm in jail.
That's the entirety of my money: hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of coveted
Star Wars
paraphernalia. When I cash it in I might be forced to send you another little present.”

“Is someone auctioning your stuff for you or something?” I ask, ignoring the threat.

He laughs again, a weird, high-pitched giggle, like a girl's. “I've got to go, Kippy. I just wanted to call and hear your voice—please tell Davey I say hi.”

My chest feels cold.

“What did he say?” Libby asks as I hang up. “Are you okay? You're making that barfy face again.”

“He just kept laughing,” I tell her. “Then he told me to say hi to Davey for him.” I swallow hard.

She looks scared. “Maybe we should go back to Rosa's.”

“No. If we're going to do this, we have to do it right,” I say, feeling my heart race. “We've got to gather evidence.” I take a deep breath. “We've got to return to the scene of the crime.”

When I called you back just now I got an operator lady who said that inmates can make calls but can't receive them. Perfect. Now I have to wait for you to call again. I guess that's what you want.

I'm writing this from the passenger seat of Libby's car, which has basically become my office, and if you were standing in the middle of the road right now and I were driving, I'd run you over.

This is what I've figured out so far: You called me from jail, so I know you didn't do this with your own hands. You got someone to help you, and knowing you, you want to make some kind of game out of watching me find out who it is. You probably think you're being nice, don't you, letting me play detective again? You're sick but so am I. And lucky for me I found someone even weirder than me to help: Libby's not just driving me around anymore, she's helping me figure out
what the hell is going on
.

Well, mostly she's still driving. Right now
she's busy singing along to Beyoncé, which is kind of ironic when you consider the fact that the lyrics are mostly about self-empowerment and Libby's stuck catering to Colt's every whim. I mean, we're not really friends or anything—she's sort of just my driver—but if we were, I'd definitely tell her about the rumors that Colt's hooking up with Sarah McKetta.

Dr. Ferguson once told me that victims have a tendency to recreate the circumstances that made them victims to begin with. Not because they want to get hurt, but because it's familiar. I don't think that's what these letters are.

Ugh! It's hard not to get all contemplative and casual and basically revert to my old self when I'm writing to you. That's the real reason I got in touch with you in the first place, if I'm being honest with myself. I mean, yeah, I wanted to express my anger, and to make you feel bad, so I wrote you hate mail. But mostly I feel like I've unraveled into this completely different person. It's hard not to feel nostalgic for when things were simpler.
I miss Davey. I'm afraid he's a vegetable. Libby's a pretty good wingman but—well, you've met her. Her boobs are bigger than her brain and she's so used to getting what she wants, she thinks the answers are gonna fall straight from heaven.

What am I doing! You don't deserve to hear about any of this! I wish I could have reached through the phone lines and strangled you. I'm not sending this one.

Outside Davey's house,
there's a little girl's bike on its side in the snow, which is weird because he doesn't have any particularly young neighbors that I know of. I could have sworn it wasn't there when we showed up last night, but it
was
dark at the time, so who knows.

“Weird,” I mutter, before following Libby through the unlocked front door. Inside Pasta Batman and Marco Baseball are barking like crazy and lunging for our crotches. The heat is blasting, making the smell of stale beer even stronger. I should have locked up when Sheriff Staake made me leave last night, but to be fair, I wasn't thinking clearly.

Still, I could have sworn I didn't see that bike.

“What's wrong with your face?” Libby asks. “You look . . . ugly.”

I sigh. “Thanks, Libby. I'm thinking.”

“Also, gross, is that jelly?” She crouches to better examine the scattered donuts. “Strawberry?”

I stoop to pick them up. I'll toss them in the trash in the kitchen. Hopefully Davey's parents won't wonder about them. I wonder if sex donuts were a thing when they were my age? “Mr. and Mrs. Fried?” I yell. “Are you home yet? We just came by to feed the dogs.”

I wait a second but nobody answers.

My phone buzzes again and I groan when I see who it is.

This is the fifth text I've gotten from him today. He keeps asking if he and I can get together now that my boyfriend's “halfway out the door.” (I'd like to strangle him.)

“What's wrong?” Libby asks, seeing my face.

“Nothing,” I lie, checking the time. It's eleven. “We should leave in about twenty minutes,” I tell her. “Miss Rosa's bringing home lunch.”

“Yummy,” she says, apparently expecting to be included in said lunch.

I glance at her. “Don't you have to carve Jesus for the Frostbite Challenge?”

“Meh. I'm bored of it. Besides, I know we're gonna win.”

“You can split whatever she brings me, if you want.”

“Cool.” She starts pulling off her boots. “Gah, I can't believe Davey was alone here so much. Big house for one person.” She yanks her head away as Pasta tries to slobber on her face.

I nod. “You want to hear something crazy about that, actually?”

“Duh,” Libby says, pursing shut her mouth to avoid accidentally French kissing the dog.

“One time Davey was like, ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, I get that you're totally upset about your kid dying—she was my sister, I'm upset, too—but, like, maybe you could stay home more because
I'm still alive
.' And they said, ‘We're not alive, honey.'”

“Creepy,” Libby says softly.

I nod. “Let's search the living room.”

“You go ahead. I'll start upstairs,” she says, reaching for her purse.

“Good idea. Cover more ground.”

The living room is exactly how the EMTs left it. The
coffee table is shattered and there are aspirin bottles everywhere. Sheriff Staake should have taken these in for fingerprints. Though I guess if they were the family's stash of aspirin, then everybody's touched them.

“Hey, come look at this!” Libby yells.

Pasta Batman yaps sharply from the foyer.

“Lemme deal with the dogs real quick.” I call them both into the kitchen, then crank open the back door so they can do their business while I pour some kibble in their bowls.

But instead of pooping in the snow, both dogs turn on their heels and run back in, barking like crazy. “What the fuck, Marco.”

I turn around to see a masked man blocking the back doorway, and drop the kibble, screaming.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, yanking at his camouflage mask.

Libby pounds down the stairs and careens into the room, skidding on her socks. “What?” she screams. “What in the name of—oh, hi Sheriff Staake.”

“I told the Frieds I'd feed their animals,” Staake says, folding his balaclava in his hands. “Also, I left my gun here last night.” He slides the door shut behind him.

“Why were you wearing that?” I ask, gasping for breath.

“What, this?” He holds up the balaclava. “It's cold, Bushman—plus they're on triple sale at the Buck Fleet and trendy to boot. Anyhoo, sorry that I frightened you.” He smiles. “Looks like you took care of the dogs so I'll just . . .” He reaches for the kitchen counter and slides a holster belt toward him. I hadn't noticed it before.

“Was that loaded?” I ask.

“Of course it was,” he says. “I'm not stupid. I gotta stay ready for anything.”

“You left a loaded gun here?” Libby asks, scowling at him. “Just, like, lying around? Why did you even take it off?”

“How did you even have time to take it off?” I add, jumping in. “We weren't here for that long, as far as I can remember.”

“Are you two looking to get arrested?” he barks.

We shake our heads. “No, sir.”

“The belt's a bit too tight on me, if you want to know the truth,” he says quietly. “It gets a wee bit pinchy. Now stay out of trouble, you hear? Because I'm watching you. Buh-bye now.” He yanks open the door and tromps back into the snow.

“That was insane,” I blurt out once he's gone. “He didn't even ask what we were doing here. Do you think
he's following us? Do you think he's the . . . Oh my God, Libby, what if it's him?”

“Also, what kind of sheriff leaves his gun places and then breaks in to get it back? I mean, Gah,” she says. “My grandma has a drinking problem, too, but you don't see her leaving her rifles around willy-nilly then just prancing onto private property to find them. She has a gun safe like every other sane person. Anyway, come on, there's that thing I gotta show you.”

“But wait—”

“No, I don't think Sheriff Staake plotted your boyfriend's supposed suicide attempt,” she says, waving me along. “For one thing, do you really think he'd be able to plan that sort of thing? He's too drunk to function, for Gah's sake.”

“That's true, I guess.”

As we pass through the living room, Libby snatches a liter of vodka from under the bar. “Can I take this?” She holds up the bottle.

“Um.”

“I'm taking it. Davey's sober anyway. Now follow me, you've got to see his bedroom. It's not evidence exactly, but anyone who says he wanted to die last night is a total idiot, for sure, because it's just . . . Well, come on.”

I follow her upstairs. She pushes open his bedroom door.

“See?” she asks. “You wanted romance last night, remember? And he went for it.”

White rose petals are scattered all across the bed, and candles are covering every square inch of desk, dresser, and end table. “Look how excited he was,” Libby says. I watch her pick up one of the candles and sniff it, and feel a pang where my heart should be. None of this was here last night. I think I made Sheriff Staake look everywhere with me. My thoughts feel sped up. “Vanilla. That's intense. That means he really thought about it—hey, are you okay?”

“Someone was here after we left last night,” I mumble. “Whoever did this, they . . .” I try to focus on the rose petals, but they're moving, fluttering on Davey's freshly made bed—as if there's a breeze coming through the stuffy room. “They came back to mess with my head.”

“Kippy?” Libby shouts. “Wait, I'm sorry, I thought you'd be happy,” she is saying. The words are faraway and heavy, like we're underwater. Her face is a throbbing, telescopic pinpoint. The floor beneath my feet is quicksand.

“Oh my Gah!” Libby says, plunking down beside me on Miss Rosa's couch. “I know you said you don't want to talk about it or whatever, but I can't stop thinking about
your face when you fainted, just like, ‘UGGGHHHH'”—she reaches in front of her, clawing the air, mimicking my fall—“no offense. Do you have diabetes or something? Since when do you faint? Wait. Tell me the truth”—she blinks at me—“are you dying of cancer? In movies when people faint they're dying of cancer. Or else they're pregnant. Oh my Gah you're pregnant.”

“You have to have sex to get pregnant,” I say, tapping my pencil against the list of evidence I've compiled so far.

“Is it narcolepsy?” Her eyes get wide. “Oh my Gah, is it aliens?”

Part of me wants to tell her everything: the nightmares, the fainting spells, how the shadowy figure at Davey's house looked a lot like one of my hallucinations. The other part of me needs her on my side and knows that if she finds out how real my flashbacks can be, she'll probably turn into everyone else, and start questioning what
we're up to. She'll stop helping me.

“No, it's never happened before,” I lie. “I was just . . . just thinking about someone sneaking back into Davey's house.”

She looks bored.

“Also, I don't know.” I shrug. “Being in Davey's bedroom. You know what I mean?”

“Ohhhh,” Libby says knowingly. “So it was like a princess fainting sort of thing.”

“What?”

“You know,” she says, flapping her hands. “Like, they're standing there with their humongous ponytails, and their animal friends, and the prince shows up, but they thought he was dead, and it's all too much, and then: KABOOM!”

I don't know what she's talking about, but I nod. The annoying truth about my fainting spells is that they're pretty unpredictable. Plus, I definitely didn't feel like much of a delicate princess up in Davey's bedroom—more like a selfish sex fiend who couldn't stop thinking,
If only I hadn't let Libby talk my ear off in the car—and put my hair up in a bun and reassure me and, like, generally be a friend and stuff—I would have gotten here in time, fought off the bad guy, and Davey would have been like, “Whoa, you saved me,” and I would have been like, “Yeah, that's cuz I'm a hero. Now let's get boned.” Then I would have led him to the perfect bedroom with the perfect roses. And it
would have been perfect, and my negligee would have matched the décor, like in some kind of good dream, and I wouldn't be sitting here drenched in sweat next to the hottest girl in school trying to find out who ruined everything before they kill me first.

“Sorry,” I mutter, seeing the look on Libby's face. “I went to a place.”

“What's with all these knives lying on the carpet, anyway?”

“Just be glad I disarmed the booby traps.”

The back door slams and I hear Miss Rosa kicking off her snow boots in the kitchen. At the sight of Libby and me sprawled out on her couch, she harrumphs, clutching a greasy bag of fast food protectively to her chest. “Who is new girl?” she asks. The smells of hot hamburgers and dirty snow fill the living room. “Rosa has two meats, for two peoples. Three? Too many.” I stuff the list back into my backpack, along with a bunch of crumpled doctor's notes and half-finished letters to Ralph.

“That's okay,” Libby says, smiling. “Kippy said she'd share with me.”

Miss Rosa nods approvingly. “Soup is on,” she says, unpacking the bag.

“Sorry for inviting someone over without asking you,” I say. “It's just you said to feel at home, so . . .”

“Is not problem,” she says. “So long as Rosa gets whole
hamburger, is okay.”

“Cool, yeah, we just went for a quick drive, or whatever, so—”

“You leave house?” she shouts, immediately enraged. “There is strange man with rope of evil and you go around by selves?”

“Wait, what?” I shake my head. “What's a rope of evil?”

“Oh.” She scowls. “Is other thing. Bad memory from Rosa's brain. Anyway,” she continues, smiling, “I call police but they say, ‘No understand you, foreigner, go back to Russia.' American monsters! Russia!” She spits. “Is Poland. Even Dom, he is too angered about Davey and ‘statutory rape' to believe this danger. Everyone is missing, how do you say, the dagger?”

“The . . . point?”

“Yes, everyone missing point. Is disgusting.” She crosses the room and pats my head and shoulders. “But you are okay? No missing limbs, is good. What happens? What do you see? When you go outside, you bring knives, yes? Please tell Rosa you bring with you at least one knife.” She frowns. “I give you so many nice knives,” she says, gesturing to the weapons scattered on the floor. “And you leave them here, don't you?”

“Sorry,” I mumble.

Rosa shakes her head, her wide eyes magnified by her thick glasses. “Soup is on and the police, they hide like pathetic
wilk
—how do you say,
wilk
?” She growls and bares her teeth, moving her tiny fingers through the air like a claw.

“Wolf?”

She presses a hand to her forehead, angry at herself for forgetting. “Yes, of course. Wolf. Baby creature. Is sad like peanut. In Poland, we feel so unhappy for wolf.”

Libby shakes her head. “Wolves are considered scaredy-cats in Poland? Here they're just . . . scary.”

“Poles fear nothing except for Beelzebub. He is demons. The
wilk
, eh. They run and howl in the dark, like wretched babies. Good only for meats.” She hands me a hamburger wrapped in paper. “Eat.”