Sloth (10 page)

“Really, I should go,” she insisted.

“No, stay.” He sighed and rubbed a worn spot on the knee of his jeans where the denim was about to tear apart. “Please.”

Beth nodded, feeling her chest tighten.
It’s not my fault. I didn’t do this.

The sun was already setting, but it was a cloudless day, so there was no brilliant sunset, only a steadily deepening haze as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Reed dug around in his pocket and pulled out a flat, grayish stone, its edges rounded and its top streaked with red. He stood up, placed it in front of the cross, where it was lost amid the bouquets of dying flowers. Then he sat down again and gave Beth a half smile. “I saw it, somewhere, that people do that. And I
just thought it was, you know, a good thing to do.”

Beth opened her mouth to say, “That’s nice.” Instead, she let out a gasping sob and burst into tears.

“Hey,” Reed said, sounding alarmed. “Hey, don’t—”

Beth had squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, so she didn’t see him leaning toward her. She just felt his strong arms pull her in, pressing her head against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.”

He smelled sweet and smoky and, as her gasps quieted, she could hear his heart beat.

“I miss her too,” he whispered.

Oh, God.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, her voice muffled by his shirt. She pushed him away and stood up. “I have to go, I’m sorry.” By the time he stood up, she’d already started running toward her car, tears blinding her vision.

She didn’t know if he was trying to follow her and, as she started the car and tore out onto the road, she forced herself not to care. She never should have allowed him to comfort her like that, and she couldn’t let it happen again.

She didn’t deserve it.

Harper jerked awake, her breath ragged, sweat pouring down her face. She turned over to check the clock: 2:46 a.m. Four hours to go before the rest of the house woke up, and she would hear some noises other than her pounding heart.

She felt like she was still trapped in the nightmare; the dark shadows of her room seemed alive with possibility, as if the childhood monsters she’d once feared had returned to haunt her. But that was just the dream talking, she reminded herself. And nightmares weren’t real.

Except.

Except that her nightmares were memories that fled as soon as she opened her eyes. All she had were glimpses: the scream of tearing metal, the stench of smoke, the heavy weight on her chest that made it hurt to breathe. Her pillow was damp, maybe with sweat—she rubbed her eyes— maybe with tears.

She should be used to it by now, and she ran through her regular routine: Lying still, on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting her breaths. It was supposed to relax her and lull her back to sleep, but this time, it relaxed some protective barrier in her mind, and the images of her nightmare came flooding back.

Harper sat up. “No.” It was halfway between a plea and a moan. “Please.”

But the truth slammed into her. She squeezed her eyes shut and fell forward, clapping a hand over her mouth, fighting against her sudden nausea.

Deep breaths,
she told herself, trying to stop shaking.

It was only a dream.

Except it wasn’t a dream and she
couldn’t
breathe. She felt like someone had shoved a gasoline-soaked rag into her mouth and she was choking on rough cotton and toxic fumes.

If it was true,
she thought,
Yd light the match.

She’d waited so long to remember, but now she fought against it; maybe she could hide in the dark, she told herself, slip back into sleep, and wake up the next morning, everything safely forgotten.

But she stood up and fumbled her way toward the desk, refusing to turn on a light—that would make it too
real. Blinking back tears, she found the business card and brought it back to her bed, reading the numbers by the dim light of her clock radio. Her fingers hesitated over the buttons on her cell. She had to do it now, she told herself; in the morning, in the light, she’d be too afraid.

The phone rang and rang, and then, just before she was about to hang up, the voice mail kicked in.

”This is Detective Sharon Wells. Leave your name and phone number after the beep. If this is an emergency, please call 911.”

“This is Harper Grace,” she said quickly, thinking,
This
is
an emergency.
She tried not to let her voice shake. “You told me to call you if I remembered anything. About, you know, the accident. And. I did.”

Harper snapped the phone shut and dove back into bed, burrowing under the covers. She squeezed her eyes closed but couldn’t force the images out of her brain.

Kaia laughing.

The truck barreling toward them.

Music pumping.

Breaks squealing.

And Harper’s hands wrapped around the wheel.

“I need to talk to you.
Now
.” Harper hissed.

Pretending not to notice the urgency in her voice, Kane tossed some books into his locker and eased the door shut. “At your service,” he told her, leaning against the cool metal and waiting for her to unload.

“Not here.” She looked up and down the hallway— students were trickling into the classrooms and there wasn’t a teacher in sight. “Come on.”

Not like he had much choice in the matter. She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him down the hall, slipping through a side door and depositing him on a small landing behind the history wing. It was an emergency exit whose alarm had been conveniently disabled, and since the stairwell down led to a narrow plot of cement bordered by a concrete retention wall, it was unlikely they’d be noticed.

“So what’s the emergency?” He perched on the railing and, letting himself tip backward, idly wondered how far he’d be able to lean before gravity pulled him all the way down.

“You want to tell me again what you saw?” Harper asked, pacing back and forth on the narrow landing. Her hair, more unruly than usual, flowed out behind her, and Kane suddenly noticed that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. His grin faded; Harper didn’t go for the natural look. Ever.

“Saw when?” he asked. “You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on here.”

“The accident.” She spit out. “In the parking lot, the day—you know when. What you told the cops. Tell
me
.”

Kane stretched his mouth wide open, cracking his jaw, then sighed. “I saw Kaia drive up to the school,” he began in a mechanical voice. The recitation of events had by now become so familiar, he’d memorized the spiel. “I saw you run out of the school. You talked for a while. Then you got into the car and Kaia drove away.”

“Bullshit!” Harper snapped. “Want to try again?”

“That’s the only story I’ve got,” Kane protested. “So unless you want me to make something up ...”

“You? Lie?” She made a noise that could have been a laugh. “Wouldn’t want to make you do that.”

She stopped pacing suddenly, and slumped against the brick wall of the school, facing Kane. Her chest shuddered as she gasped for air; how fast did you have to be breathing, Kane wondered, before you were officially hyperventilating?

“Chill out, Grace. What’s with you?”

“What did you
see,
Kane? Not what you told the police. What
happened?
.”

She knew something, he could hear it in her tone. Kane swung off the railing and approached her. “What. Are. You. Talking. About,” he said, slowly and clearly,
overenunciating, hoping that if he couldn’t tease away her mood, he could piss her off enough that she’d snap out of it.

“When I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t remember anything that happened,” Harper said.

“I know.” He said it casually, as if it were no big deal that she was talking about this, despite the fact that until now, it had been clearly marked as off-limits, surrounded by conversational barbed wire.

“They just told me what—” She closed her eyes for a moment and, drawing in a deep breath, set her mouth in a firm line as if readying herself for a blow. “They told me she died. She was driving, there was some other car, there was a crash, and she . . . died.”

“It sucks.” Kane shifted his weight back and forth, waiting for the point.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked softly.

”What?”

“That’s what I don’t get. What’s in it for you?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Harper?”

“I remembered.”

Now Kane closed his eyes, then opened them again, searching her face for . . . uncertainty? Vulnerability? Gratitude? He didn’t know, and whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t there. Her face was angry, and that was it.

“Last night,” she said, “I had a nightmare, and then when I woke up—”

He relaxed. “Just a dream, then.” Kane forced a laugh. “Grace, I know it’s tough not to know what happened, but just because you have a nightmare doesn’t mean—”

“I
know
what happened. It was my fault. It was me.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a soft
shake. “Nothing was your fault, Grace. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying!” she cried, pushing him away. “I was driving!”

“Shut up!” he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. “You can’t go around saying things like that,” he told her softly, urgently. “You know they found drugs in your system. If people thought . . .” Did she not get how dangerous this was? Did she not understand what she was playing around with?

She rolled her eyes. “What’s the difference? Everyone’s going to know soon enough. The cops will make sure of that.”

“The
cops?
” He grabbed her again, and this time, when she tried to push him away, he gripped tighter, pushing her up against the wall. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she admitted. “Yet. But I have to tell them.”

“Are you fucking insane?” He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, searching for a way to make her understand. “Whatever you think you remember, Grace, you’ve got to just forget about it. This isn’t something to screw around with.”

“I don’t
think
I remember, Kane. I
know
what happened. And I know what you saw. I just don’t know why you lied about it.”

Join the club,
Kane thought bitterly. It was his general policy not to get involved, and yet he’d opened his big mouth, spit out a single lie, and now it was too late. He was involved.

And, even more puzzling: He didn’t completely regret it.

“Grace, listen to me, okay?” He leaned against the wall
next to her and stared off into the grayish morning haze. “I’m trying to help you, so you have to listen to me. You
cannot
talk to the cops. You’ll ruin your life.”

“So?” she muttered. “I ruined hers.”

Kane pretended not to hear. “At least don’t do anything yet,” he insisted. “Just think about it. Give yourself some time. Don’t be an idiot about this. It’s too big.”

“And why should I listen to you?” Her voice had lost its anger and was now just a flat, tired-sounding monotone.

Because I’m your friend,
he wanted to tell her.
Because someone has to look out for you since you’re doing such a shit job of it yourself
“I know about getting into trouble,” he said wryly. “And I know about getting
out
of it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get out of it,” Harper snapped, opening the emergency exit door and slipping back inside the school. “Maybe I just want what I deserve.”

Beth shoved her fist against her mouth to stifle a scream. Then she bit down, hard, tears springing to her eyes—not from the pain.

Above her, she could hear Kane pacing back and forth on the landing, muttering to himself. She couldn’t make out his words, but then, it didn’t matter—she’d already heard enough. Beth tugged her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them tight, rocking back and forth, trying to drive the new knowledge out of her brain.

She’d cut class for the first time ever, needing to be alone. Kane had shown her the spot, long ago. That day, they had lounged on the landing, kissing in the sun. Today she had slunk down the rickety stairs and retreated to the dank, narrow space below. She had pressed herself up
against the concrete retention wall, closed her eyes, and hoped, just for a few minutes, to hide from her life.

But the truth had found her.

Harper had been driving the car.

Harper had been drugged up, and Harper had gotten behind the wheel.

Kaia was dead. And Beth was to blame. It was that simple.