White Lies (7 page)

He started back down the street. Halfway along he finally spotted her car. He'd missed it on the first pass because it was at the end of a long driveway, partly hidden by the branches of a large pine. The house was a modest-size bungalow. He couldn't tell for certain, because it was draped in shadows, but it didn't appear to be in the best of conditions.

Not a hole in the ground, he concluded. But definitely nothing special.

He was contemplating what this meant when a light flicked on in the front room. A moment later Katrina passed before the front bay window, wearing something blue. Before Zach knew it, he was off his bike and moving up the driveway to get a closer look. He stopped behind the Honda. He could see inside clearly now. Some boxes were stacked against one wall, but aside from that the room appeared to be mostly unfurnished. He could also see the start of a hallway. Doors opened off of it, but because of his angled line of sight, he couldn't see into any of those rooms.

Katrina appeared again.

He had a much better view of her from the closer range. She was walking back and forth, her head down, as if she was looking for something. The blue thing she was wearing was a terrycloth bathrobe, sashed tightly at the waist. The throat was open, revealing the crest of her cleavage. She bent over, out of sight for a moment, stood, went to the hallway, flicked off the lights.

For a moment Zach didn't move as he wondered what he was doing—or was about to do. The words “trespassing” and “peeping” and “stalking” all ran through his head, but he was pumped up on something, and he dismissed them just as quickly. Then he was dashing across the lawn, passing beneath the bay window. He turned the corner. The shadows were deep and black, offering him more cover. He crept forward, one hand trailing along the ivy-swathed wall. He felt frightened and electrified at the same time. His footfalls were silent on the soft grass. He came to the back of the bungalow and peered around the corner. Yellow light shone through a small window twenty feet away. He was about to start forward when the light went out, plunging the house into darkness.

That slapped Zach's senses back into his head. He blinked, feeling like a sleepwalker who'd just come awake to find himself standing in his neighbor's kitchen. His heart was pounding and he was sweating.
What the hell had come over him
? He'd never done anything like this before. He was filled with surprise and disgust. Disgust he was a fucking pervert. And shame.
Jesus Christ, Zach
. He quickly backtracked the way he'd come, invisible eyes on him, watching, judging. He climbed on his bike and rode home. Screw McDonald's. He was feeling edgy and vulnerable and wrong. Like he might just have a panic attack right then and there.

He pedaled fast.

Katrina woke up at six a.m., fresh and eager to start the day. That ignorant bliss only lasted a few moments until she remembered the events of the previous evening. She wilted. Zach. Goddamn Zach the hitchhiker. She recalled him announcing to the other teachers she had a cabin on the lake, the excited chatter about the party that followed, and her own reaction—standing idly by with what was no doubt a doe-in-the-headlights look stamped on her face, as if she was star struck by the idea.
Party
?
My place
?
Bring it
! And underlying those memories, as silent and dangerous as a crocodile slinking beneath the surface of the watering hole, was the faint yet unshakeable feeling she'd crossed a line when she'd vaguely agreed to host the party from which there was no turning back.

But there was nothing to do about that but get up and on with her day. She showered, ate an apple, then drove to Cascade High School. No who-the-hell-are-you? looks today. Most of the students had likely seen her around the hallways yesterday. Even if they hadn't, students talk, and she would have been the subject. As she approached the English Department, she had a prickling feeling she was going to walk in to all the teachers gossiping about her party, asking for directions, what they should bring, spreading the word until soon the whole school would know about it. That didn't happen. In fact, no one mentioned anything from Ducks & Drakes at all. At noon in the faculty lounge—a Spartan place dominated by Formica tables and chairs—she was sure Monica or Big Bob or even Helen, the art teacher, a chatterbox without a lid, was going to light a conversation that would ignite a discussion. No one did,
preferring other topics such as the Mariners and the pitcher who won the Cy Young Award last year and whether the cafeteria food was healthy or not. Today it was a slice of lasagna and a roll, lean green beans, canned fruit, and veggies and dip. Big Bob said these lunches were the healthiest thing he ate all week; a couple of the female teachers tsk-tsked him. Regardless, it seemed what happened outside of school, stayed outside of school. Katrina was fine with that. Just fine indeed. And by the last bell of the day at two, she'd decided she'd worked herself up into a fuss about nothing.

She was in the parking lot, about to hop in her car, thinking about stopping by the little Italian place she'd seen the other day on Front Street and bringing home a pizza for later, when Zach strolled by, pushing a bicycle. “How are you feeling today, Zach?” she said, simply to say something.

“I don't get hangovers,” he replied, appearing annoyed, as if he'd been asked that question a number of times today already. A gust of wind tussled his mop of brown hair. He swept it back away from his eyes, the way some of her students did, and she was reminded again of just how young he was. Tall, brash, annoying. But just a kid. He continued past her.

“Whoa, hold on there, mister,” she said. Kid or not, he wasn't getting away with the stunt he'd pulled that easily. If she kept letting him push her around, he was only going to start pushing harder, like a playground bully. “Do you want to explain what you were trying to accomplish last night by telling everyone about my cabin?”

He gave her a look she couldn't read. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don't.” He turned away, scratched his nose, turned back. “Oh—by the way, I talked to some of the other guys today. Everything's still set for the weekend. Still good to go. I'm going to see about renting the bus.”

Katrina stiffened, as if the temperature had just plummeted twenty degrees. She knew she'd heard him right. She just couldn't
believe what she was hearing. “What do you mean, ‘still on?'” she demanded.

“The party.”

“This is exactly what I mean! God, Zach. Why are you so intent on meddling in my affairs?”

“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands, appearing contrite even though she knew he was about as contrite as a snake caught sucking back a mouse. “If you didn't want to have a party, you shouldn't have agreed to it.”

“I never confirmed anything.”

“Sure you did.”

“No, Zach, I didn't.”
No, Zach, you little shit, I didn't
, had been on the tip of her tongue, but she held back. She would not allow herself to sink to his level. “If you remember correctly,
you
made the suggestion I have a party.
You
invited everyone.”

“You agreed.”

“I didn't say I would for sure. In fact, I don't believe I said anything.”

“You shrugged. Same thing.”

“No, it's not, you lit—” Her voice was ice. Cool and hard and dangerous. “It's not. It's a very big difference.”

He turned away again, like he was having a tough time holding her stare. Good. Another scratch of the nose. But when he looked back, there was amusement in his eyes. Hesitant amusement, even uncomfortable amusement, but amusement nonetheless. Like someone who knew he was in the wrong, but also knew there was nothing you could do about it. “So why didn't you just say no?” he said.

“Because you put me on the spot.”

“Whatever.”

“You don't want us to come?” she said, mimicking him the best she could. She was getting pulled into his childish world after all, but she couldn't put on the brakes.

“You're a grown woman,” he replied. “You can make up your own mind.” He shrugged. “Anyway, this really isn't a big deal.”

“Yes it is,” she said, clipping her words.

“Why?” A kind of cunning flickered in his eyes, replacing the amusement.

He knows what he's doing
, she thought.
He knows exactly what he's doing. Trying to get me to cough up the truth
.

Well, he could try until the cows came home. She was more resolved than ever to see this through.

“Listen, Zach,” she said, her voice Sunday pleasant again. “I'm going to take care of everything. Just stay out of it, okay?”

“Is that all, Miss Burton?”

She didn't like his condescending tone. She didn't like anything about him. “Good night, Zach.”

He started away and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “bitch.”

“Excuse me?” she demanded, but by now he had mounted his bike and was pedaling off.

Katrina got in the Honda. Yanked the door closed too hard. She turned onto Chumstick Highway, making a hard right, trying not to squeal the tires. They still squealed. She was enraged. Just when she thought she'd gotten out of the mess she'd gotten herself into, thought her life was going to settle back down into a regular routine, Zach comes whistling by the very next day to stir the pot.

What was his problem anyway?

But she knew, of course. He was a genuine brat. Aside from that, he was still extremely ticked off—and probably more than a little embarrassed, as he should be—about what happened Friday night on the highway, and this was his way of getting back at her. She sighed, angry and confused. Because now she was back to square one. Instead of having the ugly situation fade away on its own, as she'd naively allowed herself to believe, one of those things people get excited about when they're drunk but never speak of again, she would once more be forced into thinking up an excuse. And ironically, to set herself free from the sticky web of lies in which she was becoming increasingly ensnared, she would have to tell yet another.

She vowed it would be the last.

Zach grinned wickedly as he rode his bike home. He had never actually brought the party up with anyone today. It had been a ruse to see how Katrina would react, to smoke her out, so to speak. And although she had yet to buckle and confess, there was now no longer any doubt about it. She
had
lied. Not only to him, but to everyone who'd been at the pub. This certainty lifted his spirits tremendously.

Katrina pushed open the door to the small hardware shop. An electric chime announced her entrance, though nobody called out to greet her. She took three steps inside, then stopped. In places like this—men places—she always felt uncomfortable, out of her element. Like she was allowed to be there but wasn't supposed to be there. Even the smell of paint, metal, and wood seemed suddenly alien. It was the same feeling, she supposed, men had when they accompanied their girlfriends or wives into Victoria's Secret.

She glanced tentatively around, wondering where the nails would be located. Unlike in a supermarket, the aisles were not labeled. To the left of her was a pair of pumpkin-orange Black & Decker lawn mowers, their prices slashed, likely to move them before the snow started falling. In front of her were several pyramidal arrangements of paint cans. She stepped around the display and peered down the first aisle she came to. The eight-foot-tall shelves were lined with power tools and hand tools and other such equipment that looked like kitchen utensils on steroids.
Garlic press? Sorry, but why don't you try my deadhead mallet. Don't forget the safety goggles!
The next aisle was crammed with coils of wire and small plastic bins, each brimming with nuts, screws, nails, and a number of other gizmos.

She bent down in front of the nails, thinking she had done quite well, finding what she needed in less than two minutes. She was trying to figure out what size nails would be best when someone asked her if she needed a hand.

Katrina looked up and was surprised to see a tall, broad-shouldered
man smiling down at her. She stood, smiling back at him. He was handsome in an almost exotic sense of the word. In place of a neatly trimmed haircut and clean-shaven face was raven-black hair pulled into a loose ponytail and about two days of dark stubble. He looked partly Caucasian, but his black eyes and high cheekbones and strong chin reflected his Native American heritage. He was wearing a short-sleeve button-down cotton shirt that revealed thick forearms covered with green-and-black sleeve tattoos. Physically, he was the antithesis of the pretty-boy, suit-and-tie power-broker look—Shawn's look, really. But Katrina found she was instantly attracted to him. His presence exuded a strength and attraction to a degree she'd rarely experienced.