Shade Me (13 page)

“Who's ‘they'?”

“Dru. And the crocodile girl. And another blond woman, who I never saw before or after that. They didn't see me, so I left.” Immediately, I thought of the bored-looking blonde who'd shown up at the hospital.
Dru. Baby. Have you eaten?
Vanessa Hollis.

“
Left
left?”

He nodded. “The whole party felt weird. Like, dangerous or something. Shit you see on TV. I don't know. I had a lot to drink that night. I may not be remembering things right. But I remember how I felt, Nikki, and I'm just . . . I'm telling you. It was weird. He was weird. Stay away from Dru Hollis.”

I laughed. “Because he bought alcohol for his sister? Or because he protected her after she passed out? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now, Jones?” Although the truth was I really didn't know Dru, and in the back of my mind wondered if maybe I sounded like the ridiculous one. Especially since this whole conversation was making me think of ice cream and toothpaste and other things mint green.
Suspicious much, Nikki?

“Whatever. Do what you want.” He waved me off and started down the hall.

“Jealous much?” I said to his back, but unlike Vee, Jones didn't bother to acknowledge that I'd said anything at all.

I supposed that meant I had finally succeeded. It was officially over between Jones and me. A relief.

After he'd turned the corner, I headed after him, walking slowly toward the office. This was such bullshit, and if Jones, or Vee, or anyone else in this school thought they were going to scare me away from hanging out with whoever the hell I felt like hanging out with, they were all sorely mistaken. I thought about the two girls who'd whispered as they'd passed us in the doorway. Fuck them and their whispers. I practically vibrated with eagerness to walk down the classroom aisle in front of them. I couldn't wait to hold their stares, to dare them to talk in front of my face.

I heard Jones's footsteps fade and picked up my pace, fuming, muttering under my breath.

I was so busy being furious, I walked head-on into someone rounding the corner. I jumped back, letting out a surprised noise as he held out his hands to keep me from falling over.

“Watch out,” I snapped, but then my eyes landed on who'd nearly bowled me over.

“Miss Kill, I was just thinking about you.”

Damn it. Chris Martinez. I would have rather kept talking to Jones.

“Well, what a coincidence, then, that you should just happen to show up at my school,” I said.

“I was actually here to look through Peyton Hollis's locker, but yes, it is fortunate that I ran into you while I was here.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and cocked my head to one side. “Literally.”

He smiled, reminding me of holding that steaming coffee while talking to him in my entryway at home. Something about that smile made my teeth grind together. “Well, I hadn't intended to actually run into you, no.”

“Detective, I don't know what you want from me, but—”

“Answers,” he said simply, cutting me off. I didn't respond. “I need you to come down to the station. Is now a good time?”

I glanced at the lockers, the fluorescent light that was flickering above my head, shadows deepening on the ceiling around it.

“Actually, I have to get to class,” I said. “I'm already late. Sorry.” I offered him a sarcastic smile and maneuvered around him.

He sighed. “Sure, I understand. When do you think you can come? I just need to ask you some questions.”

I turned back. “I don't know what you think I might be able to help you with. I've told you a thousand times I don't know anything.”

“But you seem to still be very involved,” he said. “I'm asking right now, but at some point it may no longer be a question.”

“What does that mean? That you'll arrest me?”

He stepped close to me, so close I could smell his
cologne, and leaned toward my ear. “If you keep showing up in apartments you don't belong in, I may have to. Trespassing is a crime,” he whispered. My face burned, but I tried not to let it show. Was he talking about finding me in Peyton's apartment, or did he somehow know about Gibson's?

I swallowed and took a couple of steps back, tossing my hair over my shoulder as if I hadn't a care in the world. “I have a lot of homework to catch up on, Detective,” I said. “I really doubt I'll be able to come down this week. But thanks for the invitation.”

I walked away, turning the corner quickly and getting out of sight before I let out the breath I'd been holding. For a few moments, I stood in the middle of the hallway, shaking my head in disbelief. As if I would waltz into the police station and spill my guts on everything I knew about Dru Hollis just because some die-hard detective wanted me to.

As if I knew anything about Dru Hollis anyway.

The thought made my palms grow cold and clammy. Made the mint green crawl up my skin.

I tried to shake it off, continuing toward the office. Class would be half over before I got in there, and my rage at those girls had worn off a little. How tough would I look, how sure of myself, if the door burst open halfway through class and I was escorted out in handcuffs? Walking through the aisles would feel much more exposed than I'd originally thought. Much more like maybe they could be right.

But of course they weren't right. I knew this because I knew about Gibson Talley. I knew about the threats and about the way Vee reacted when I confronted her and about the black daisies and seeing Gibson in the hospital parking lot.

Instead of turning into the office to get my tardy slip, I blew right past it and through the front doors of the school.

If Detective Martinez wanted to talk, we would talk.

DETECTIVE MARTINEZ'S TOTALLY
obvious “unmarked car” was still sitting in front of the school when I left, so I knew I had some time to kill. I decided to drive slowly and take a little detour.

Hollis Mansion was on a street that featured sprawling houses guarded by a sea of undulating hedges and decades-old trees. Everything sculpted, everything pristine, expensive. Dad had a guy we called a gardener, but he was really a guy who mowed the lawn once a week and weeded our flower beds three or four times a year. People on the Hollises' street probably had fleets of actual gardeners, the type who were as much artist as landscaper.

I'd never been inside the Hollis house, although, truth be told, I probably could have shown up to any number of parties and nobody would have even noticed I was there. I wasn't comfortable around all this opulence. I didn't like show.

I pulled up in front of the house and parked. A gleaming white monolith that seemed to laugh at me with its enormous arched windows, Hollis Mansion was impressive, even to someone who'd grown up driving past million-dollar houses. Balconies and porches jutted out from every room, wrought iron and white picket and stately navy-and-yellow-striped awnings. Palm trees swaying gently against the chimneys. Concrete benches and statuaries and fountains. I could only imagine what it looked like inside.

I didn't know what I expected to do here, what I expected to learn. Maybe I was hoping that Peyton would have left a clue in a window or I would learn something more about Dru by studying the front of his house. But all I really saw was a shiny estate that looked like the perfect place to grow up.

I was just about to leave when the garage door began to rumble open, an SUV pulling into the driveway. But before the SUV could make it all the way to the garage, Bill Hollis stormed out of the house, stepping into the driveway so that the driver had to slam on the brakes. The door popped open and Vanessa Hollis stepped out, stilettos first, followed by long legs that seemed to end in a postage stamp of a skirt. Tucked into her skirt was a deep-V shirt, which showed most of a hot-pink lacy bra underneath. Make no mistake—Vanessa Hollis had some crazy curves, and she was proud of them.

I slid down into my seat and opened the window.

“Fine, you can park it,” Vanessa yelled, throwing up her hands and stomping up the driveway past Bill, her purse dangling from her arm.

“Did you even go to the hospital today at all?” Bill demanded.

She stopped. “I have to work. As you already know. My clients' needs don't stop just because someone's laid up. You've been there. Dru's been there. I've actually been there, if you'll recall.”

“Once. You've been there once.”

She shrugged, her purse bumping against her thigh. “I thought you were having her moved to someplace closer to home. More comfortable for us.”

“I'm working on that. In the meantime, it would be nice if you would make the occasional appearance.”

Vanessa slid her sunglasses down her nose, peering up at Bill, pouty. “She's not my biggest fan. I'm sure she doesn't mind my not being there.”

“Do you know how it makes us look?” he boomed. “Do you know how important it is for all of us to be there? The media has gotten ahold of the story. By tomorrow, this place will be crawling with cameras. I can only deflect so much. Show up.”

She turned, walked back to him, and ran her finger down his chest while slowly moving her knee up his inner thigh. I
had to lean closer to the window to make out what she was saying. It sounded like, “Don't you fret about a thing. It's all fine.” She leaned in, nuzzled his neck, and then abruptly turned and waltzed back through the front door. “Seriously, you worry too much,” she tossed over her shoulder before going inside.

After a few minutes of standing in the driveway, Bill Hollis climbed into the still-running SUV and pulled it into the garage. The door swung down, leaving the house looking as perfect as ever.

I watched a while longer, turning over their conversation in my head. Peyton had called him the daddy from hell in that email, had said he liked power trips. Vanessa seemed to be more concerned with herself than with Peyton. Dru was sitting in jail. Peyton was clinging to life.

All I could think about while pulling away was that this was one strange family, and I might be Peyton's only hope.

THE POLICE STATION
was crazy busy, even for a weekday midmorning, and at first I had the inclination to just turn around and walk right back outside. I was never in the mood for fighting crowds—too many things to try to shut out of my mind if I wanted to concentrate on anything, and in a police station crowd, the color of the room was so ugly it was almost unbearable.

Dread. Grief. Bitterness, confusion, rage.
Brown mist,
bruise-violet swirls, sickly green waves, rays of black and gray and pulsing reds.
I clutched my stomach, nauseated.

“Can I help you?” asked an officer at the front desk.

It took me a minute to realize she was talking to me. I swallowed against the bile that was trying to rise up in my throat and stepped closer.

“I'm looking for Detective Martinez,” I said. “I'm Nikki Kill. He's expecting me.” Not technically true—I had pretty much told him expressly not to expect me—but she didn't need to know that.

She gave me a long look, like maybe she wasn't sure if she was supposed to believe me or not. I wondered if she gave everyone that look—if that's what being a police officer in a busy city did to everyone—but started to feel myself glower the longer she stared at me. For all she knew, I was here to report a crime.

I opened my mouth to say something, but she picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers before I could. Probably a good thing. The last thing I needed was to be in a cell adjoining Dru's. Dad would really think we needed to talk if I got myself arrested. The “discussion” would be interminable.

The officer mumbled something into the phone and then hung up, moving on to the person behind me without so much as telling me to move over, hold on, or piss off. I scooted to the side and kept myself busy by staring at a
single white tile on the floor. If Martinez didn't come out soon, I was going to bolt.

And do what?
I asked myself. Go back to school? No big, I just missed first period to hang out down at the police station. Go home and talk to Dad? No thanks. Go to the hospital and wait for Peyton to wake up, trying to block out all that crimson around me? The thought made my throat feel dry.

“Miss Kill,” I heard. I looked up. Detective Martinez was coming toward me, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a gun clinging to his waistband. I hadn't noticed it at school, but he'd gotten a haircut—the buzz a little closer to his head. How weird it was to think of him having a regular life that involved normal stuff like haircuts. I tried to imagine him doing ordinary things like mowing the lawn or folding a T-shirt. Impossible. “I thought you weren't coming.”

“Surprise,” I said, pasting on my shittiest smile. I gestured toward the door. “But I can leave.”

“No, no, I'm glad you came. Follow me.”

Every fiber in my body told me not to follow him. Cops had failed me before. Cops had failed my mother. Yet there was something about this one. Something about the way he held himself, the way he followed me around, almost as if he was pursuing this case as hard as I was, the way he made me think of baby-chick yellow and sunshine yellow and the yellow of trustworthiness.

We went into what looked like a small conference room, a square table in the center, with three chairs surrounding it. I wondered how many criminals had been questioned in here. How many had broken under the accusations. My eyes flicked up toward the ceiling, looking for the video camera that was almost certainly pointing at me.

“Nobody's listening in,” he said, as if he could read my mind. He pulled out a chair. I stared at it, obstinate, and after a few seconds he went over to the other side of the table and sat in his own chair. He leaned back and crossed his leg so casually over the other one, I began to feel uncomfortable standing there. He gestured toward the chair. “Please, have a seat. There's no need for you to feel worried. Are you worried, Miss Kill?”