Won't Let Go (17 page)

“I know, it just—it makes the house that much more creepy.”

Allison’s hand drops from her face, she goes back to ripping apart her donut. “But—I don’t understand why you sounded so upset on the phone. What does that have to do with me?”

I let my fingers drum against the cover of the yearbook laid out in front of me. I take a deep breath and blow it out. It lifts stray strands of hair off my face and to the side. “Well, I found out a bit more about the story and wanted to see if you could help me.”

Dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin from the dispenser, Allison then says, “Sure. Of course. But I doubt I’ll be of any help. I was in middle school after all.” She rolls her eyes again as she talks then looks to the right and focuses on something I can’t see.

Doesn’t that mean you are lying, looking right, or is it left? Either way, I’m sure she’s a liar.

Pretty sure.

“I was wondering if the names Michael Gunn or Danielle Blake mean anything to you.”

This time, I can’t miss the widening of her eyes. They grow to the size of saucers. She even chokes on her coffee as she pulls the mug away from her rosy lips. When she clears her throat and speaks, it’s not what I’m expecting.

“No. No I can’t say that I recognize those names. I don’t understand what that has to do with the brothers.”

I’m almost certain she’s lying, but I just don’t know her well enough to know for sure. Nor can I think of any reason for her to hide anything from me. Then again, deep down in the heart of every person is always a pack of lies. They may be white ones, the kind that are almost innocent in nature, meant not to hurt people. Or they may be the kind that if you discover the truth, they would shake the ground and tear lives apart.
Which kind of lie is Allison keeping?

“Are you sure? I can show you pictures—” I say, quickly flipping open the book to the first dog-eared page. I spin it around, pushing it right under her nose. My long index finger taps at Danielle Blake’s picture. “Do you recognize her?”

The picture of Danielle is classically posed. Arms folded on top of a desk. Her long hair is curled and pulled up slightly off her face, tendrils frame the line of her jaw, the slight puff of her round cheeks. Her skin is nearly flawless. Even in black and white, she’s beautiful.

Allison gives me a pair of shifty eyes, quickly darting back and forth as she shakes her head. “No, I’ve never seen her before,” she says.

But did she even really look at the picture?

Even to me, the picture looks vaguely familiar, only I can’t place it. I’ve been in the town such a short time, there’s no telling—maybe I’ve seen her at a distance. But I can’t be certain.

I flip to another page and tap another picture, this time a little more forcefully. “What about him?”

Michael Gunn isn’t exactly what you’d call hot. There’s something missing from his features that makes him more on the...cute side. His dark hair is cut short, spiky. His left eye looks almost lazy as he stares down the camera lens. Unlike the Winston boys, his face is pudgy—double chin pudgy. But maybe black and white doesn’t do him justice. I, for one, will be the first to admit, it isn’t always about the looks. I know to girls it’s almost an insult to get a compliment about personality—especially when it doesn’t follow a line about looks—but I like that in a guy. I need to know there is more to the package than just a pretty face.

But Allison doesn’t seem to notice anything. She doesn’t even give the picture a second glance, or any glance for that matter. Instead she says, “I told you, I don’t recognize them.” Then she takes a peek at her watch and adds, “I have to be at work in a few minutes. I should get going.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was in a hurry to leave because she doesn’t even give me a chance to respond. She pushes back her chair, rises to her feet and pulls her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.” She frowns, half-heartedly. “I’ll see you around.”

I watch her hip-swaying strut as she makes for the door and pushes it open. As she passes by the window, she doesn’t give me a wave, or even a look. Something about her is totally rubbing me the wrong way, and I’m sure, without a doubt, she knows something I don’t.

Taking one last swig of coffee, I grab my messenger bag and head for the door, too. I heave a heavy sigh.
Yet another mystery I’m not sure I can handle, but I don’t let it bog me down.

Now, I’ve seen this done in the movies a million times, but tailing someone isn’t as easy as it looks. Especially since this town’s idea of traffic is two cars on the road, and that’s it.

I just couldn’t shake the feeling something about Allison wasn’t right. So I took a chance, and now I’m in my baby following her down Mountain Ash Ave. She drove right by her work. So clearly her excuse and quick exit were nothing but bullshit.

As she turns off of Mountain Ash and onto the highway heading out of town, I’m at a bit of a loss and don’t know if I should keep following her.
What the hell
, I think and turn onto the highway, too. At least this way, I can follow her a bit easier. There are actually cars—more than one—on this road. I comfortably tail two vehicles back.

It’s not long until Allison makes a quick left turn. So quick that by the time I see her sporty car spitting up gravel and dust on a dirt road, I’ve already missed the chance to follow. I smack the steering wheel with my fist and grow annoyed with myself. Paying attention should have been my top priority. I mean, I
was
following her for a reason. Now I have to hope for a quick chance to turn around. It comes not too far down the road, one of those road-side turn outs. It’s lined with semi-trucks and garbage cans. I pull in, quickly turn on my signal, and wait for the steady double line of traffic to reveal a space. It happens a few minutes later. I peel out, spitting up my own plume of dust and shoot rocks from my tires. But by the time I get back to where Allison turned off, it’s too late.

She’s long gone.

Instead of turning down the road, I decide to head back to town, but not before making note of the road sign—Evergreen Lane. This way I can stop off at the library and check out Google maps. I wouldn’t want to get lost on some side road, or risk encountering Allison, no matter how desperate I am to figure out why she lied to me. When I have more information, then I’ll confront her. I’m not one for crying wolf, nor do I want to accuse her of something I’m not one hundred percent sure of.
That would be the quickest way to lose a potential friend. And I’m sort of low in that department.

Once I’m settled into one of the four computer stations at the library, I move the mouse until the screen-saver disappears. The desktop is simple and not cluttered like my laptop. I quickly double click the web browser and watch as it loads, at a snail’s pace I might add. Google appears and I type in the name of the road and Willard Grove.

A map pops up onto the screen, instantly connecting me to the town and its small web of roads. It takes a little scrolling but within seconds I have enlarged the map and found Evergreen Lane. What I don’t understand is what exactly Allison found so important out there that she needed to lie to me just to get away. The road appears to be a dead end, one way in and one way out. This doesn’t help me at all.

“I was wondering when you’d come back.” I jump at the sound of Dawsyn’s voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says as I push my chair away from the desk.

“You didn’t scare me,” I reply, only the pounding of my heart and the hotness that swells over my face tells me otherwise.

“So what brings you to the library this time, more research?”

I nod. “Something like that.”

Dawsyn points to the computer screen that sits idle on the map of the town. “If you need directions, I’d be happy to show you around, personally.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t.”

Dawsyn raises a slender finger to his chin and taps it gently. “So, how about that coffee? And I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

I can’t help the fact my eyebrows quirk with interest, but the thought of another cup of coffee, and Dawsyn’s company quickly pushes them back down—I’m distracted enough by one hot guy, I can’t add another. “I can’t. Sorry.”

“You’re not even a little bit interested?”

Of course I am
, I think. What could he possibly have that would help me? But at this point, what do I have to lose? I’ve got a million questions, hardly any answers—I’m staring at the map of the town and Embry is lying in a hospital bed comatose. I’ve got all the time in the world.
Not
.

“Okay, I’ll bite, but no coffee.” I point my finger at an empty chair. “If you’ve got something to tell me, you can do it here.”

Dawsyn pulls some folded paper from his pocket and sits beside me. His wallet chain clanks against the plastic of the chair as he holds out his hand. I reach forward and grasp the papers just as Dawsyn says, “I had to put the book you left on the copy machine away.”

I frown. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s sort of my job, anyway. But before I did, I took a look at what you found.”

A funny feeling creeps over the back of my neck at his admission. It’s silly, but I feel like a small amount of my privacy as being invaded. I shake off the feeling. That book, those news-pages are public record. He has just as much of a right to look at them as I do. If I’d wanted to keep it a secret, I should have put the book back myself.

“I’m not sure if this is of any help, but you seemed pretty determined.” He motions towards the folded papers in my hand.

I take a deep breath and push some hair out of my face before I unfold the papers. I lay them on my knee and smooth out the creases. My eyes are just about to zone in on what I’m seeing, but Dawsyn’s smooth voice interrupts me, “There were a few more articles after the pages you copied. You left in such a hurry...Well, I thought maybe you missed them. I couldn’t decide what was important to you, the fact that your house was owned by those two kids or if it had something to do with comas.”

I nod and look down at the papers in my hand. In heavy black and white is a picture just outside the donut shop. There are several people milling around, shards of glass litter the pavement. The article is just another blurb about the accident. Nothing I haven’t already learned—law enforcement agents are still trying to figure out what happened, though the reporter already points the finger at Elliot. They don’t even seem to be considering the possibility it wasn’t him.

The next few pages outline several cases of long-term coma patients. Most never recovered and die from their injuries, or had the “plug” pulled on them. But one grabs my attention further, because the patient
did
recover. Though the damages done to her brain were extensive, she was able to recover almost fully—the only down side? She’d lost all her memories. But this sparks an unimaginable amount of hope to flare up through my insides.

“So, it’s the coma that’s got your attention?” Dawsyn interrupts.

I don’t respond. Instead I gently fold up the papers and stick them in my pocket.

“You really are the silent type, aren’t you? What does a guy have to do to wiggle their way in?” Dawsyn adds.

Maybe be a ghost, for starters.

I don’t know why, but Dawsyn is wearing me thin. Part of me wants to divulge my problems, beg for help, but I cannot, under any circumstances, bring another person into this mess. He’s given me the hope I need to push forward, he’s given me a tiny answer—that it is possible for someone to wake up from a coma despite what the nurse said. But that’s all I can accept from him. Any more interaction with Dawsyn could only further complicate the situation. The way he looks at me so attentively, so eagerly...I’d be foolish to lead him on any further. I’d be insane to accept anything more than these papers from him.

“I have to go but—” I choose my words wisely, “—but thank you.”

Dawsyn stands as I do. He leans in, and for one awkward second I think he’s going to hug me, or worse, kiss me. Instead, he points at the computer screen. “There’s not much out there, just the mill.”

“What?”

Dawsyn nudges me aside with his hip and taps the computer screen. “Right here, at the end of this road, it’s not shown on the map, but that’s where the sawmill is.”

I look at the screen as a million questions circle inside my head. For one brief moment I think about asking Dawsyn more about it, then I remember why I can’t. I don’t want him involved.

I close the window on the computer and push away from the desk. “Thanks again. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“If you change your mind about that coffee, well, you know where to find me. And if you decide you need help, with whatever it is you’re searching for, well—” he chuckles, “—you know where to find me.”

I leave Dawsyn, rushing away from his tempting offer of help, as my head hangs a little lower because I’m not any closer to finding out who framed Elliot. But my heart does soar with the hope that if I can figure everything out, maybe Embry will come back to me instead of crossing over.

I still have more questions than answers, and somehow Allison knows more than she’s letting on.
But what does she know?
What is she really hiding?

I slip back into my house shortly before lunchtime. I’ve been gone all morning and so much is weighing on me. It’s a set of waves that keeps crashing down. Just when I think I’ve reached the surface, another wave pushes me under again, forcing me to fight my way back up. With each passing day, just when I think I’m getting ahead, I realize I’m not. I really don’t know how much more I can take.

It’s leaving me exhausted.

It’s tearing my heart apart.

When I reach my room, I drop my bag on the floor, kick off my shoes and crawl onto my bed. I pull one of my pillows to my chest and hug it tight, curling myself around it for comfort. I close my eyes, force everything down and hope for a few moments where my life isn’t loaded with problems. Where Embry’s not trapped between this world and the next, where his brother isn’t rotting in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, where Allison isn’t hiding something from me. But most of all, where my heart isn’t being pulled in two different directions—the one that’s falling—hard—for Embry’s ghost, and the other where I don’t know how I can ever look him in the eyes knowing he’s the complete opposite of what I thought—hoped—him to be. That really he’s just like all those guys back in California I loathed.