Switched (5 page)

Lucy, I have to find you, I thought.

Lucy, I have such terrible news.

Without realizing it, I had returned to my house. I slipped across the driveway and clung to the wide trunk of the old sassafras tree near the walk.

The tree was an old friend. How many hours had I spent reading in its shade or playing around it with the neighborhood kids?

Holding on to the trunk, I gazed up at the house. Still dark and empty.

Lucy, where are you? Lucy, I need you.

I scratched my knee. Realized the tights were completely ripped. I swept my hair off my forehead. It felt wet and tangled.

I must look like a horror, I realized.

I heard voices. The neighbors stepping out of their house. I pressed against the tree, trying to hide myself.

I can't stay here, I realized. I can't stand here staring up at an empty house.

My mind whirred and spun, like a cyclone. I
pressed both hands against my temples, trying to force my thoughts to calm.

I'll go back to Lucy's house, I decided.

The neighbors' car started up. The sound made me jump. I pressed myself tighter against the friendly, old tree trunk. And waited for them to leave.

Their headlights swept over my yard, rolled down the tree trunk. Can they see me here? I wondered.

They didn't stop. I watched the car roll down the dark street.

Back to Lucy's house, I told myself. To change into fresh clothes. And fix my hair. And make myself look more together.

I'll rush past the living room.

I won't look in there again.

I don't need to see the Kramers' bodies again. I see them every time I shut my eyes.

I'll clean myself up. It'll make me feel a little better. And then I'll phone my house. I'll phone my house, and keep phoning until I reach Lucy.

I won't tell her the awful news over the phone. That would be too cruel, I decided. I can't do that to poor Lucy.

I'll tell her to meet me in the Fear Street woods. I'll tell her we have to switch back into our own bodies right way. Then when we've switched back, I'll tell her what has happened.

And I'll help her. I'll be there for her.

She's always been there for me.

Having a plan helped to calm me down a little. My heart still thudded in my chest. But the spinning, whirring cyclone of my thoughts slowed. And the ground stopped tilting as I walked.

As I turned the corner onto Canyon Drive, I heard the wail of sirens. Distant sirens. I stopped and listened. Were they coming this way? Were they coming for me?

The sound faded. Replaced by the soft whisper of the trees.

I ran the rest of the way to Lucy's house. Let myself in through the back door so I wouldn't have to go past the living room.

I clicked on the kitchen light and glanced around. The kitchen gleamed, clean and orderly. No sign that two horrible murders had taken place in the next room.

I shuddered and made my way to Lucy's room. It was at the end of a short hall on the first floor.

The hallway was dark. I fumbled along the wall, but couldn't find the light switch.

I bumped hard into something solid against the wall. It took me a few seconds to realize it was a wicker clothes hamper.

I stepped around it, rubbing my knee, and pushed open the door to Lucy's room. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light from the window. Then I clicked on a small nightstand lamp.

It cast pale yellow light over the bed. My eyes swept over the smooth bedspread. To the closet.

I came back here to change, I remembered. I edged around the bed to the closet. Lucy's closet. Lucy's clothes.

The sliding door caught. It seemed to be off its track. I needed both hands to slide it open.

“Oh!” I uttered a cry as I stared into the closet.

Empty.

No clothes.

Two large cardboard cartons on the floor.

How can the closet be empty? Where are Lucy's clothes?

My heart thudded harder. I suddenly felt chilled.

What's going on here?

I spun away from the closet, lurched to the dresser against the wall, and began pulling open drawers.

Empty.

All empty.

Why would Lucy take all of her clothes? The question repeated in my mind.

Before I could answer it, I saw the blood-smeared knife on the desk.

And all questions and thoughts flew from my mind.

T
he knife blade glowed dully in the yellow lamplight.

Dark purple stains ran down the blade, onto the desktop. Rivulets of dried blood.

I stared at the knife until it blurred before my eyes.

It isn't real, I thought.

I'm not staring at a blood-caked knife on Lucy's desk. I'm not. I'm
not!

I tried to blink it away. But it would not leave.

It was real. A real knife. A kitchen knife. A black-handled kitchen knife.

I took a deep breath, then another. Then I made my way closer to the desk.

The knife stood upright. The blade had been plunged into the desk.

As I drew closer, I saw that the handle was also streaked with blood.

Such a big knife, I thought.

Such a big knife, all covered in blood.

Why is it here? Why is it sticking up from the desk in Lucy's room?

My hands pressed tightly against the sides of my face, I took another step closer.

The blade had been stabbed through a sheet of paper. A sheet of lined notebook paper.

A dark thumbprint smudged the bottom of the page. The thumbprint was dark purple. A thumbprint made of blood.

Struggling to focus my eyes, I saw writing on the paper. Scrawled handwriting in dark blue ink. Three lines of writing above the spot where the knife punctured the paper.

Squinting in the hazy light, I leaned close to the desk and read the scrawled words:

I HAD TO KILL THEM

I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE

LUCY K

I swallowed hard. I had to force myself to breathe. “No!” I cried, backing away. “No! Please—no!” I backed up until I reached the bed. Then I dropped
onto the smooth bedspread and buried my head in my hands.

I shut my eyes tight, but I could still see the scrawled words in my mind.

The scrawled confession. Lucy's confession.

She had murdered both of her parents. Stabbed them. Slashed them. Then plunged the murder weapon into the desk.

And then . . .

And then . . .

She took all of her clothes? Escaped with all of her clothes?

No. That made no sense.

I opened my eyes. Glanced up. Caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror.

That glimpse made me realize the full horror. That one-second glimpse made everything come clear.

Lucy had murdered her parents. She wrote her confession. Left the murder weapon in her room for all to see.

Then she switched bodies with me!

Now here I sat. Lucy. I was Lucy.

I was the murderer!

And Lucy had escaped by becoming Nicole.

Lucy escaped by becoming me. And I became the murderer.

Oh, how cold! I realized. How cold, Lucy!

How did you ever plan something so cold?

The perfect crime. The perfect escape.

You are now Nicole. And no one will believe that I am not Lucy.

When I tell the truth, no one will believe me. Because I am Lucy the murderer.

No wonder Lucy was so eager to switch bodies with me, so eager to enter my unhappy, depressing life. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew she was leaving me to take the blame. The blame for two horrible murders.

She knew she was making a clean escape.

Escape.

The word rang in my ears.

Escape. How can I escape?

I had a sudden impulse to grab the sheet of paper, to tear up the confession. To pull out the knife and hide it.

Then another frantic thought: I'll take the knife. I'll take the knife and find Lucy. I'll threaten her with it. I'll
force
her to switch bodies again.

I'll force her to let me be Nicole again.

If she won't, I told myself, I'll kill her! I really will!

No. No. No.

I knew I couldn't kill anyone.

And I couldn't kill Lucy, even after what she had done to me.

But what could I do?

I have to find her, I decided. I have to talk to her. I have to—

My wild, unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a loud noise.

Startled, I leaped up off the bed.

A pounding. It repeated. Three knocks.

Someone at the front door?

I clicked off the bedside lamp, casting the room in darkness. Then I made my way past the desk, past the knife, past the handwritten confession.

I crept into the living room and pulled back the curtains just an inch. Stared out at the front stoop.

And saw two grim-faced men in gray suits.

Two police detectives.

“N
o way!” I whispered.

No way I was going to stay there and let them catch me. They weren't wearing uniforms, but I could tell they were police officers. I knew they were after me.

Seeing the two detectives made me forget my fright. A flood of anger rolled over me, sweeping my fear away.

I pushed the curtain back in place and edged away from the window. “No way,” I whispered again.

I'm going to find Lucy, I decided. I'm not going to make this easy for her.

I'm not going to stand here beside the knife and the handwritten confession and say, “Here I am, officers. Take me away.”

I heard the insistent pounding on the front door.

I turned and hurried back along the short hallway, avoiding the clothes hamper this time.

My chest felt fluttery. But my mind was alert, alert to every sound, alert to every sight, every shadow.

I stepped into the kitchen. I had left the light on. I ducked low to keep from being seen through the window. Keeping my head down, I grabbed the back door by the knob and pulled it open.

The screen door rattled as I pushed it.

Had the police officers heard?

Were they coming around the back?

I slid out and carefully, silently closed the screen door behind me.

I glanced to the driveway, but I couldn't see anything. I listened hard for footsteps or voices.

Silence.

I'm out of here! I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I began jogging across the backyard.

A hazy half moon shimmered above the trees. The air was hot and very still.

My sneakers slipped and squeaked on the dew-wet grass. I was in the middle of the yard, past the small vegetable garden, almost to the rusted old swingset, when I heard a man's shout behind me.

“Hey—stop!”

I uttered a low cry and glanced back.

Both policemen were at the side of the house. One of them pointed to me. The other waved his hands above his head as if signaling.