The Dead List (15 page)

“Sure.” I headed over to where my car was parked, and it was only a minute before Jensen joined me. “What was that about?” I asked, watching the cruiser pull out of the parking lot.

It was late now, the sun turning the sky to a golden red as it set behind the mountains. Jensen frowned as he watched the cruiser disappear. “You’re probably not going to like it.”

I crossed my arms. “Try me.”

“He wanted to make sure I kept an eye on you.”

My mouth dropped open. “Come again?”

“Told you.” He sighed. “He just wanted to make sure you weren’t running around a lot by yourself. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Annoyed that the officer hadn’t felt the need to tell
me
not to go off traipsing through the town, I got that it wasn’t Jensen’s fault. I shifted my weight. “So, he’s not being entirely honest in there. He thinks what happened to me is related to Monica and Vee.”

“Right now, I don’t think any of them know what’s really going on.” Leaning against my car, Jensen rubbed his hands along his jaw as he stretched his neck from side to side. “Damn, this day has gone from weird to the absolute bizarre.”

That was the understatement of the century. Opening my driver’s door, I tossed my bag into the passenger seat.

“Why didn’t you tell me what really happened the night the police were at your house?” he asked, angling his body toward mine.

I gripped the door. “Why didn’t you say anything about Monica?”

“I didn’t think anything of it. Thought she just ran off or something. And I didn’t want you worrying, especially after what happened with you Saturday night,” he said, and that sounded pretty damn reasonable. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I?” I bit down on my lip. “The cops found no evidence of what I saw and it makes me sound crazy. Maybe I am a little crazy.”

He pushed off the car. “You’re not crazy.” Rounding the edge of the door, he placed his hand next to mine and lowered his head. “Ella, you’ve had a pretty crazy thing happen to you. If your imagination got away from you, no one is going to blame you for that.”

My eyes met his. “What if it wasn’t my imagination?”

His lips thinned. “God, I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Me neither.” I started to look away, but he cupped my cheek. The touch shocked me like touching a live wire would. Guard down, the next question slipped out. “Do you think what happened to me is related to Monica disappearing?”

His eyes held mine. “Truth?”

“Truth,” I whispered.

“Shaw isn’t going to tell you yes, because that could jeopardize the investigation. It could also needlessly scare you, but think about it. For the most part, Martinsburg is a pretty uneventful town, right? What’s the probability of one girl going missing, another attacked and barely escapes?” When I winced at that, he smoothed his thumb along my cheek, skating under the pink, faintly scratched skin. “And then another girl goes missing? How can they not be related?”

And that was a damn good question, but that wasn’t the only question that came to mind. My thoughts went back to that room, to the list of those who’d terrorized Penn all those years ago. Did it have anything to do with what… with what happened to him? But, why and how? There were other connections between all of us. After all, we’d all grown up together, but Shaw’s innocent question had planted a very ugly seed in my brain.

Uncomfortable with where my thoughts were heading, I pulled away, pressing back against my car. “I’m going to head home.”

Jensen let his hand fall to his side. “Rain check on grabbing something to eat then?”

I nodded. “See you at school tomorrow.”

He stepped back, closing the door for me after I got in behind the wheel. Sending him one last look, I pulled out of the parking spot, and when I glanced at the rearview mirror, Jensen was standing where I’d left him. His hands in his pockets.

Watching me.

#

“This is so scary.” Linds paced in front of the couch. “It’s like something in a movie. Or on one of those forensics shows.”

Heidi sat beside me, a red eyebrow arched. “Like Forensic Files?”

“What?” Linds stopped, head cocked to the side. “What is that?”

“A TV show,” sighed Heidi.

She shook her head. “No. Like Criminal Minds or something-something people actually watch.”

Both girls had showed up my house a few minutes after I’d gotten home. I was shocked when I’d heard that Linds had picked up Heidi and drove her here, and that hadn’t driven off the road, distracted by arguing with one another. Linds had seen my surprised expression, and had read it clearly.

“I’m not going anywhere by myself,” she had said, stepping in, and the door would’ve smacked Heidi in the face if she hadn’t caught it. “I am not getting kiddie-napped.”

“Like anyone would kidnap her,” Heidi had muttered under the breath.

Now Linds plopped down in the old, worn recliner. “This is really scary,” she repeated. “Why would someone do this?”

“Question of the week.” I twisted a section of my hair around my finger. “After talking to the deputy, I really don’t think they have an idea.”

“The thing is. There’s no evidence.” Heidi pulled a plastic bag out of her purse and opened it, picking up chunks of granola. Glancing at Linds, I saw her wrinkle her nose as Heidi popped one in her mouth. I grinned. She offered the bag to me. “Want some?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

Heidi shrugged. “Anyway, there’s no evidence right? And if there is something, they might be keeping it quiet, because the person responsible for all of this is the only one who knows.”

Linds hooked one knee over the other. “Did you learn that on Forensic Files?”

“Yep.” Heidi grinned. “And from watching the ID channel.”

“Or Monica could’ve ran off with their landscaper,” Linds suggested. “I mean, have you’ve seen her parents’ landscaper? He’s like hot.”

Despite the seriousness of everything, I laughed. “Well, I hope that’s what’s happening. I just don’t want it to be what we fear.”

“I don’t want it to involve
you
,” Heidi corrected, her hazel eyes more green than brown as she looked at me, a giant piece of granola between her fingers.

“I second that,” Linds tossed out there.

“Thanks, guys.”

“But you know the thing I don’t get?” Heidi popped the granola in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully as we waited for her to continue. “Let’s say these things are connected. I know, that’s a terrible thought to consider, but what do you have in common with Vee and Heidi? I haven’t lived her my whole life, but I didn’t think you guys were ever friends, right?”

“Ella has never been friends with Vee or Monica,” Linds answered.

Heidi frowned as she rolled up her baggie. “So that’s what I don’t get. If it’s connected, it has to be totally random then, right? It has to be completely random.”

My gaze fell to the coffee table as I nodded absently. Yes, totally completely random. Except that would make more sense if a clown mask hadn’t ended up in my locker and then on my bed before disappearing. And it would make sense if I didn’t have anything in common with Monica and Vee.

But in a way, I did.

#

Everyone at school on Friday was buzzing about Monica Graham, especially when the police arrived in the afternoon to talk to a few more students. No one had heard from her, and I couldn’t imagine what her family and those close to her had to be going through.

It was the same thing that Vee’s parents must be experiencing.

What was sad about it was that no one had really mentioned Vee the whole week of school. After her fallout with the cool crowd last year, no one really seemed to care what was up with her, but now?

She was the topic of conversation, right along with Monica.

I was exhausted by the end of the day, skipping out on Smoothie Fridays with Linds and Heidi, a ritual we’d started at the beginning of our junior year, but when I got home, I climbed the stairs and found myself standing in front of my closet after dropping my bag on the bed.

I opened the door and dropped down to my knees, pushing the piles of jeans out of the way until I found the unopened shoebox. Pieces of Christmas wrapping paper still clung to the sides. Mom had taped the lid shut, as if it would pop open, rip the wrapping off and ruin the surprise.

But there was no real surprise to what was in the box. Mom got me the same gift every year and she would come into my bedroom after every closet and throw away the unopened box from the previous year.

I had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, but I rocked back on my calves. Drawing in a deep breath, I exhaled slowly and then slipped my finger under the tape, breaking it. Once the lid was off, I was staring a pair of pristine black and pink sneakers.

Running shoes.

And the good kind with arch support, too. They had to cost a pretty penny, and these were like the fourth new pair I’d never worn, but Mom… she kept buying them.

The desire to slip those shoes on and lace them up kindled alive deep in my chest. Just the idea of heading outside and going for a run-running anywhere-and allowing myself to get lost in that burn was hard to resist.

But I didn’t put them on. I closed the lid and placed them back in the closet, setting them down carefully, almost reverently.

Running was not going to happen anyway. At least not with a possible psycho out there, roaming around. Besides that, I hadn’t slept more than three hours the night before and all I wanted to do was crash.

And that’s what I ended up doing.

Curled up on the corner of the couch, I watched a marathon of Ghost Adventurers with Mom, who had to have heard about Monica’s disappearance, but she didn’t bring it up and for that I was grateful. I didn’t want to think about any of it. My brain needed a break.

I ended up falling asleep on the couch in the early morning hours and then waking up with cramped muscles. Glancing at the clock on the beige walls, I had about two hours before I was supposed to meet up with Dad.

Throwing off the quilt, I swung my feet off the couch, stood, and then stretched out the tightness in my muscles. I could hear Mom moving around upstairs and smiled. On Saturdays, she’d recently taken to knitting as a hobby, holing up in her room with her needles and yarn.

I grabbed a class of OJ and then climbed the stairs. Stopping at Mom’s door, I knocked softly.

“Come in,” she called.

Nudging the door open with my hip, I peered in. Mom sat on her bed, cross-legged. Holding two needles in one hand, she was trying to untangle threads of bright pink yarn.

“Morning,” I said.

She smiled brightly. “You getting ready to meet with your father?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” She held up a swath of bright pink and green material. “What do you think of this?”

I schooled my expression blank. I had no idea what it was that she was holding. One end was uneven and it was about a foot wide. “It’s very… colorful.”

“Isn’t it?” She lowered her hands, eyes narrowing at her needles. “I’m making scarfs for the girls at the bank. I think it will make a great Christmas present.”

Yikes.

Taking a drink, I spun around and closed the door behind me before I admitted that a five-year-old could probably stitch something together better than that.

I hesitated at my door for a second, and then I forced myself to turn the knob. The room was how I’d left it yesterday, when I’d returned home from school, had stared at my running shoes and then changed into lazy, lounging clothes.

It was slightly cooler than the rest of the house. Placing my drink on the table next to my laptop, I walked over to the window and opened the curtains, letting the morning sun in.

As I took a quick shower and came back into my bedroom, it was strange, because I moved around like I was visiting a stranger’s house. With time to kill, I found myself standing in front of my narrow bookshelf, the glass of OJ all but forgotten on my desk.

I don’t know what made me grab what I did from the shelf, but my fingers skimmed over the thick spines, landing on a thin smooth one. Sliding it out, I didn’t look at what I held until I sat on the edge of the bed. Then I shifted my gaze to the blue and white yearbook-my middle school yearbook.

My fingers trembled as I cracked it open. Without skimming, I opened it right up to
that
section. Not the part where I looked like a little doofus. My eyes scanned down the list of names.

Penn Deaton.

An ache pierced my chest, forming a ball of remorse, sadness, shame, and guilt. It nearly closed off my throat, but air exhaled harshly from me as my gaze drifted down the row of colored photos, stopping on the fourth one from the left.

Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked them away as I stared at the young boy smiling back at me.

Penn… God, he had the best smiles. Big. Toothy. He hadn’t cared that his front tooth was chipped. Not until middle school. He had the prettiest brown eyes, framed by heavy lashes, and hair the color of raven’s wings. He’d always been small, and even in a picture that showed nothing more than his chest and up, his shoulders were slim. Frail. I had no idea how long had passed, but my cheeks were damp and I’d probably ruined the mascara I’d put on.

I smoothed my thumb over his picture, sniffling. I wished I could go back in time, paid attention to the signs that had been there. I wished I could go back and we didn’t do what-

Sucking in a sharp breath, I slammed the yearbook closed. It slipped from my hands, smacking off the floor. I pushed to my feet, stepping around it as I hurried into the bathroom. With shaking hands, I grabbed a makeup toilette and hastily wiped under my eyes.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Fixing my face so I didn’t look like I was coming out of withdrawals, I tossed the tissue in the little bin and then went back into the bedroom. I picked up the yearbook with two fingers, like it was venomous snake. I shoved it back into its place.

It was almost time to meet Dad.

Before I left, I picked up the small jewelry box off my dresser. Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I cracked it open, rooting around for the bracelet Dad had bought me for my seventeenth birthday. It was a diamond tennis bracelet, really too pretty and fancy to wear, but I always slipped it on before I saw him. Seemed like the right thing to do.