Vengeance (2 page)

Until it has a face.

Until you know the people who disappear. Until you know the person who wore the diamond and died. Until you’re the one with the ball rolling between your legs on the final out of the ninth inning.

Too much coincidence, you look for reason.

Too much death, you grasp for something to blame.

They call it the Curse of Falcon Lake, but that’s just because they’re not completely horrible people. But Delaney knows—I know, we all know—that when people say “Falcon Lake,” they’re really talking about her. People think it, I can tell. In the way they smile at Delaney. In the way they’re too kind. Too polite. Too distant.

Carson helped pull her out of the ice, and he died on the side of the road with her mouth pressed to his. Her air in his body. They said he was soaked when they got to the hospital, like he had drowned in her place. It was the snow he had seized in, melted against his hot skin, they all knew that. But the story held.

Next: Troy. The lake taking him and sparing her. He had found her in the hospital, befriended her when she got home, only to try and kill her—kill both of them actually. Didn’t matter. The lake released her, grabbed another.

Correction:
I
had taken her back from the lake. And now it was vengeful.

Delaney tried to put logic to it all. The numbers backed her up. The national death rate, the statistics. According to straight numbers, our town was due to have about fifteen deaths throughout the year. Maybe a suicide every three years. It was just statistics, she had claimed.

“People keep dying,” she said now, as if even she had a hard time believing herself. She pulled the elastic from her hair and shook it out, letting it tumble down her back.

I thought of the black pupils, growing wider. “Just statistics,” I said. She turned to look at me, her eyes like a storm coming, cloudy and hazel.

She nodded and looked away, toward the rising sun. I watched my reflection waver on the surface as I walked toward her. Then I took her hand—she flinched, then relaxed—and I pulled her deeper. The water rose up over our shorts, our shirts. I heard her gasp as it covered her stomach, rising toward her neck. The lake took her first, her feet leaving the bottom, her weight in the water. I was a step behind. We treaded water, her lips were trembling, and I pulled her close.

I felt her legs tangling with mine below. I felt her arms moving fast, like she was racing against something pulling her down. I felt her breath in the space between our faces. Her lips were trembling, and I kissed her.

And then her arms stopped moving, and her legs grew still, as if she was giving herself over to the lake, to me.

I wanted to move my hands to her back, her face, her hair. But if I stopped moving, we’d start to sink.

Her lips were cold, and I flashed to that other version of her: the one I pressed my mouth to as I exhaled air, watching her chest rise in response, refusing to let go. I pictured her blue, still, and I pulled away.

“It’s just water,” I said.

“I know,” she said, even though I was talking to myself. She arched back, away from me, like she had done it a thousand times, and laid herself flat against the surface of the water, letting it carry her. Her hair spilled out in a fan around her, and with her eyes closed, I saw that other version of her again: lifeless, a deadweight, the one I hauled onto the shore in the snow. The one I pressed my hands down on, keeping count in my head, trying to keep her heart pumping, feeling the crack of her bone underneath as I did.

I closed my eyes, shook the thought, leaned back to float like she did. The water covered my ears, so all I could hear was it rushing in and out, like the ocean. Like air. Like nothingness.

Listen
.

I thought of fingers on my wrist, digging down to the bone.

“Delaney?” I jerked upright, but she wasn’t in front of me. I spun around, but she wasn’t behind me. I felt my throat closing off, heard my heart in my head.
No
.

She broke through the surface of the water right in front
of me, pushing her hair back from her face. She took a deep breath, and I tried to do the same.

“Decker?” she asked. She swam closer, put a hand on my arm. “Is it happening again?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
Breathe. From the stomach. Breathe
.

She was pulling me back. Pebbles under my toes. Weight on my feet. “Decker, what happened?”

Water at chest level. Sun reflecting off the surface. Her hand on my elbow. I closed my eyes. Some days I’d wake up in a cold sweat, looking for her. As if the last eight months hadn’t happened.

That I hadn’t pulled her out of the lake. That she hadn’t woken up. That she didn’t exist.

But then weeks would go by, and I’d be fine. Months, even. And then she’d slip under the surface of the water for a moment and it would all come rushing back.

I never told her.

I never told anyone.

The doctor my parents dragged me to thought it was because Carson died—he had been healthy, or so we had thought, and then he just … died. The idea of being there and then being gone—the doctor said it was my trigger.

I never told him it wasn’t the idea of
me
being gone that was my trigger. It was always her. In my head, she was always disappearing.

“Decker?” Water at my waist now. At my knees. “This was a bad idea,” she said.

I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I slowly felt something release from my throat. From my lungs. “The lady in 2B died.” I shrugged when I said it. I didn’t tell her I was there.

“Clarissa Duvall,” she said.

Delaney had her arms wrapped around herself. She was shaking. The water was too cold for swimming, even in August.

We were out of the lake. We had just gone for a swim in Falcon Lake, and now we were standing on the shore, and we were fine. There was something empowering about it. Like everyone else, believing in the curse or not, I hadn’t touched it. Not until just now, and we didn’t die.

Delaney was standing in front of me, her wet clothes clinging to her, and I smiled. She laughed to herself for a second, looking down, a dimple forming on her left cheek. I loved the sound. I loved the smile. It felt like something coming to life.

“Okay, seriously,” I said. “I’m starving.”

“I’m actually kind of hungry, too,” she said, and her smile grew into the one I knew she saved for me.

“I can’t take you out like that,” I said, pulling at her shirt. “But the offer for pancakes still stands.”

“Are you offering to cook for me? Do you even know how to cook?” she asked.

“I’m not promising it will be any good.”

“Cook me pancakes,” she said, “and I’ll love you forever.” She was joking when she said it, and she made sure I knew
she was joking, in the way she was standing, in the way that her hands were on her hips, and in the way she bit her lower lip. But she also wasn’t. She was blushing, like she was nervous to admit how she felt. Even though I knew.

I laughed. “Deal,” I said. “Come on.” I took her hand, leading her toward home.

The sun was beating on my back. The air was record-breaking hot. But I couldn’t shake the cold—Falcon Lake, clinging to my skin, seeping into my bones.

Chapter 2

We snuck into the mudroom in the back of my house. I didn’t really need to sneak around—my parents were both at work. And even if they weren’t, it’s not like I had to clock in and out. But if Delaney’s mom saw her out the window, she’d probably freak. First, her daughter wasn’t where she said she’d be. Second, her daughter was dripping wet.

Third, she was sneaking over to my house.

We were both dripping water on the linoleum—the rest of the house, through the hall, the kitchen, the stairs, everywhere, was hardwood. “Stay here,” I said, even though it didn’t look like she had any plans of moving. “I’ll get towels.”

I ran to the upstairs linen closet, grabbed a set of old towels, grabbed two T-shirts and two pairs of gym shorts from my room before racing down the steps two at a time. I knew I was leaving a trail of water in my wake. I’d clean up later.

I wanted the water off my skin.

I wanted to make her pancakes.

She was in the exact same spot I’d left her in, a puddle gathering around her feet. I slowed when I reached her, when I saw her face. I heard the buzz of the garage door, the hum of a car engine.

“It’s okay,” I said, handing her a towel.

She took a step toward the door.

“It’s my house,” I said. “I’m allowed to be here. You’re allowed to be here, too.” My parents and I operated in a completely different pattern than Delaney and her parents did. And just to show her how okay it was, I reached around her, rubbed a towel over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “I am making you some freaking pancakes,” I said. “And then you’re stuck with me.”

I pulled back from her, expecting to see her smile, but she was looking past me, down the hall. I heard my dad’s footsteps first. Probably following the trail of water through the downstairs. Then he turned the corner, coming into view. Still in his work clothes, his work shoes, but his tie was loosened. His top button undone.

“We’re cleaning up,” I said, holding up the towel to show him. But he was eyeing the ends of Delaney’s wet hair, the puddle dripping on the floor.

He walked into the mudroom, stepped into my personal space. He put a finger on my chest. A hand on her shoulder. I could see the fear and logic warring in his face. “Delaney,” he said. “Go home.”

She was pale. Paler than from the cold water. Paler than
from the fact that she always wore sunscreen. She was pale, and her eyes were huge.
It’s just my dad
, I wanted to tell her.
He doesn’t believe it
. As she backed away, my dad ran his wet hand through his hair. Then he looked at his palm, at the remnants of Falcon Lake, and wiped it against the side of his pants.

“No,” I said. “You don’t have to go.” But I was looking at my dad when I said it, and I heard the back door creak closed behind her.

Always disappearing.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” I said.

“Don’t talk to
me
like that,” he said. People said I was his mirror—in the way we looked, definitely. In the way we acted, according to my mom. Even I could see it—in his dark hair and gray eyes and lean build. Like I could look at him and see my future.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said.

“Get changed,” he said.

“Why? Am I going to
die
because I went
swimming
? You don’t seriously believe that. You don’t seriously believe there’s a curse.”

He stared at the door. Then at his hands again. He wiped them once more, though there was nothing left. “I’m not talking about a curse,” he said. “I’m talking about
her
. You need some space. You’re becoming too wrapped up—”

“Stop it,” I said as I felt my hands clenching into fists. And he was way too late if he thought I was
becoming
too wrapped up. I’d known Delaney for the majority of my life, been
wrapped up in her in some way or another for the last ten years. Been in love with her entirely for the last three, at least.

“You can’t see it. You’re too close. …”

“
Stop
,” I said, and this time he did.

“Decker,” he said, but then he closed his eyes, shook his head, almost smiled. “Clean up this mess,” he said. The dark circles under his eyes, permanent fixtures from the last few months, meant he was probably working a headache of a case. And chances are, this conversation was adding to that headache. He disappeared into his office—guess he decided to work the rest of the day from home.

I wiped up the water. Changed, showered, tried calling Delaney, but it went straight to voice mail—figured she was still getting cleaned up. Or getting the third degree from her mother. I could picture Joanne taking the phone from her, powering it off, telling her not to see me for a while. Which would last maybe two hours. Her mother loved me. To be fair, I think she loved me a little less now that I was her daughter’s boyfriend—as opposed to her daughter’s best friend.

My dad used to love Delaney, too. I’d never pegged him for superstitious. God knows he wasn’t religious. He was a lawyer: he loved concrete facts, things that made sense, as Delaney did. But he also liked to argue, like me. I went downstairs and my dad was in the kitchen, hunched over the counter.

Lunch, I figured. I also figured we were done arguing, because that’s the way it worked with us. We just pretended it hadn’t happened. “What are you making?” I said. “Because I’m famished.”

I wanted pancakes. I wanted them with Delaney sitting across the table in my clothes.

“Lasagna,” he said, waving his hand over the tomato waiting to be cut. “For to night. It’s your mother’s favorite.”

“Awesome.” I took an apple from a red ceramic bowl and hopped up on the laminate countertop. “Can I invite Delaney?”

His hands paused over the cutting board. I took a bite from the apple, and the sound echoed through the kitchen. “Sure.”

Yep, argument done. “Excellent. Then you can apologize to her.”

I hopped off the counter and walked away, waiting for him to start yelling again. I reached the stairs. Nothing. And then, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work today?” He said it like an accusation, and I could hear all the accusations layered below it:
You ditched work to hang out with your girlfriend. You were here with her because you thought no one would be home
. This was his job—he was a professional at deflecting accusations and framing new ones. He defended people for a living, and he said sometimes the best way to defend someone was to accuse someone else.

“I went to work. They didn’t need me. They gave me the rest of the day off.” I learned that from my dad, too—how to tell enough of the truth so that people would believe you, how to skip over details without it seeming like you were skipping anything at all.

How to pretend that some parts didn’t exist:

A hand, gripping my wrist
.