The Confession (12 page)

“She's right. Leave us alone,” Hillary added sharply.

She tried to step past Taylor.

I gasped as I saw Taylor's eyes go wild with fury. Red-faced, exploding in rage, Taylor uttered a hoarse cry and grabbed Hillary's braid.

“Hey—!” Hillary protested.

Taylor tugged hard, snapping Hillary's head around.

And then one hand swung across Hillary's neck—and in an instant, deep scratch lines darkened across Hillary's throat.

Hillary shrieked. She grabbed Taylor around the waist with both hands. And pulled Taylor to the floor.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I wailed, watching helplessly. Gaping in shock as they wrestled on the hard floor, rolling over and over, scratching and punching, gasping and sobbing as they fought.

It took me a few seconds to get myself together. Then I bent down. Grabbed Taylor by the shoulders. And struggled with all my strength to tug her off Hillary.

“Stop it! Stop it! Taylor—please!” I pleaded.

She pulled away from me. I don't even know if she heard me.

I saw bright red blood on the hall floor. Blood smearing the front of Hillary's sweater. Blood from the scratches on her throat, I realized.

“Taylor—please! Stop! Stop it!”

Finally, I shoved her off Hillary. She tumbled on her side to the floor. Scrabbled to get back.

But I stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

Hillary climbed unsteadily to her feet. She pressed one hand against the scratches on her neck. She pointed with the other, pointed frantically at Taylor. “What's your
problem?
What's
wrong
with you?”

Taylor didn't reply. She stood hunched over, gasping, wheezing loudly. Her hair fell in wet tangles over her face. Her T-shirt was torn and had dark bloodstains down the side and sleeve.

“What's your problem?” Hillary shrieked at her. “Are you crazy? Are you—”

She stopped when Taylor started to vomit.

Taylor had been leaning over, gasping, struggling to catch her breath. Now she turned around, turned her head from us, her hair still spilling over her face.

A low groan escaped her throat. And then she retched. Her whole body heaving, her hands frantically pushing her hair out of the way.

“Oh, wow,” Hillary murmured, shaking her head. She still had one hand pressed to her throat. “Oh, wow. Oh, wow.”

I took a step toward Taylor. “Are you okay?”

She didn't reply.

“Taylor—are you all right?” I persisted.

She had her back turned. Her shoulders heaved one more time. Then she turned back to me for an instant.

Vomit clung to the long tangles of her hair. Her
eyes were red and watery. Tears rolled down her red, puffy cheeks.

“Oh, wow. Oh, wow,” Hillary chanted.

“Taylor—can we help take you home?” I asked softly.

She shook her head. And then lurched away from us.

I started after her, but then stopped.

Taylor started to run, bumping her shoulder on the tile wall, then swaying around a corner. She vanished from view. But I could still hear her footsteps, unsteady, running footsteps, echoing away.

I turned to Hillary. “Maybe the nurse is still here,” I told her. “Someone has to look at your neck.”

“It's just scratches,” she replied shakily. She blinked several times. Then she bent down and picked up her glasses from in front of a locker. “I'll clean it up when I get home.”

Her braid had come undone. She pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

“I don't believe her,” I said softly, gazing in the direction Taylor had run. “I didn't think she cared about Sandy this much. I really didn't.”

“I don't care,” Hillary snapped. “I don't care about Taylor at all. I only know one thing.”

She tucked her top into her jeans. I saw that her hands were trembling. When she spoke, she forced her words out through gritted teeth.

“I only know one thing, Julie,” she repeated. “I've had enough. This was it. This was
it
for me.”

She crossed the hall to her locker. I followed close behind.

“Hillary—what do you mean?” I asked.

“I'm not going to keep Sandy's secret any longer,” she replied. “I'm not going to let him ruin my life.”

I stared at her in surprise. I could see that she was serious.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I'm going to tell the police,” she said. “As soon as I get home.”

Chapter

21

I
argued with Hillary as we crossed the student parking lot, ducking our heads in the rain, hurrying to my car. I'm not sure why I argued.

A lot of the time, I was tempted to call the police too. I felt as if the secret were burning a hole in my chest. Sometimes I felt that I'd never breathe normally again—unless I let the secret out, unless I told the truth to someone.

But now, as I slid behind the driver's wheel, wiping raindrops from my eyebrows, I found myself arguing with Hillary, pleading with her not to call the police.

Why? Because it was Sandy, my old friend from third grade?

Maybe.

Or was it because Sandy had involved us all? Because we were all part of Al's murder now, and
telling the police the truth would set off some kind of chain reaction that would affect us all?

Maybe to that question too.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. As I said, I'm not really sure why I argued with Hillary. But I did.

“Al is dead,” I told her. “Turning in Sandy won't bring Al back.”

“I don't care,” Hillary muttered, staring straight out the windshield, legs pulled up tightly, propped over the dashboard.

“Sandy's life will be ruined,” I continued, turning onto Hawthorne.

The windshield wipers scraped in a steady rhythm. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.

“His life will be over.”

“Good,” Hillary snapped. “He killed someone, Julie. Then he practically bragged to us about it. Like he wanted extra credit or something.”

“That's not why he confessed to us,” I protested.

“Then why did he do it?” she demanded, her voice tense and angry.

“He wanted us to know the truth,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because … he trusted us and thought we should know what really happened.”

“But why?” Hillary repeated impatiently. “Don't you see, Julie—he could have kept it to himself. It wouldn't have made it any different to us. Al was dead. Somebody killed him. No one knows who. So why was Sandy so eager to confess to us?”

I opened my mouth to reply. But I didn't really have an answer.

“Because he wanted us to admire him,” Hillary answered her own question. “He wanted us to congratulate him. He wanted us to say he was a hero. And especially, he wanted Taylor to think he was a big macho hero.”

I gasped. “You don't think he killed Al just to impress Taylor!”

Hillary shook her head. Behind her glasses, her eyes remained half shut, thoughtful.

“No. I think he killed Al because Al humiliated and embarrassed him in front of Taylor. And because Al was bullying us all and making all of our lives miserable.”

She took a breath. “But,” she continued, “I think Sandy
confessed
to us because he was trying to impress Taylor.”

“And it worked,” I said, sighing. “Now Taylor is so nuts about him, she's ready to fight anyone who hurts Sandy's feelings. I can't believe she started that fight with you over
nothing!”

Hillary didn't reply. I could see she was thinking hard. And by the determined expression on her face, I could tell that my arguments weren't going over.

“I'll say it one more time,” I told her, switching off the wipers. I turned on the headlights. Even though it was only four-thirty, the overcast sky was already as dark as night.

“Sandy did a horrible thing,” I continued. “And it's horrible that we know about it. But turning him in to the police will only ruin his life. It won't do any good. You and I—we're really upset. But we know that Sandy isn't really a murderer. We know
he's never going to murder again. So is it right to ruin his life just because you're upset about knowing his secret? And upset about Taylor?”

Hillary let her feet slide to the floor. She turned to me. “I'm not so sure,” she said.

I slowed to a stop at a red light. The rain started up again. “Not so sure what?”

“Not so sure he won't kill again,” she replied.

“Hillary, really—” I started.

“He's threatening us,” Hillary continued. “He's trying to scare us. He's trying to bully us into pretending nothing ever happened. He's out of control, Julie.” She swallowed hard, then pressed her palm against her injured throat. “What makes you think he won't kill again?”

I didn't know how to answer. Maybe she was right. I squinted into the rain. The wipers smeared the glass, making it hard to see.

“Turn around,” Hillary ordered urgently. “Turn the car around!”

“Huh?” She startled me. “What's wrong?”

“I changed my mind,” she said, sitting up straight. She brushed back her hair. “I don't want to go home. Take me to Sandy's house.”

“Whoa!” I cried. “Hillary, what on earth … ?”

“You convinced me,” she said. “I won't go straight to the police. I want to talk to Sandy first. Reason with him. Maybe I can convince Sandy to go to the police. You're right, Julie. Sandy
is
our old friend, after all. I owe it to him. I have to give him a chance to do the right thing.”

I turned into a driveway, then backed out, turning
the car toward Sandy's house on Canyon Road. “I'll go with you,” I said.

“No.” Hillary squeezed my shoulder. “Thanks. But no. I want to talk to Sandy by myself. If we both go, it might set him off. He might think we're ganging up on him.”

“But, Hillary—”

“No,” she insisted firmly. “I mean it. I'm going in to talk to him by myself.”

“Then I'll wait outside for you in the car,” I offered.

She shook her head again. “Go home, Julie. I'll call you as soon as I get home. I promise.”

A few minutes later, I pulled the car up Sandy's driveway and watched Hillary dart through the swirling rain to the front door. The door opened after a few seconds. Hillary disappeared inside the house.

I waited for a minute or two. Listening to the scrape of the windshield wipers over the hum of the car engine. Staring through the spotted glass at the closed front door.

For a moment, I felt tempted to disobey Hillary's instructions. To climb out of the car. To follow her into Sandy's house. To stand beside her as she confronted him.

But I fought back the urge. Dropped the gearshift into reverse. Backed down the drive and obediently headed for home.

Several times I felt tempted to turn around and go back to Sandy's.

Why do I have this heavy feeling of dread?
I
wondered, moving the car through the gray evening, through the pelting sheets of rain.

Why do I feel so upset, so worried?

Why do I feel that something
horrible
is about to happen?

Three hours later I had the answer.

Chapter

22

I
planned to hurry home and sit by the phone and wait for Hillary's call. But the rain had the cars backed up on Mill Road. And it seemed to take forever to get to Fear Street.

As I turned onto my block, the old trees that hang over the street cut off the remaining light. Dark as midnight now.

Why do I have to live on Fear Street? I asked myself.

My friends all teased me about it. Everyone tells horrifying stories about Fear Street and the frightening things that supposedly happened there.

I don't think it's scary. It's just
darker
than everywhere else because of all the old trees.