You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (13 page)

Spencer weaved around the smokers and headed toward the sidewalk.

Bonnie Middleton caught up with him. “What was Reed talking about back there?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her. She shivered from the cold. “Is it true what he said?”

Spencer stopped and turned toward her. “Why don't you ask him? He's your good buddy. Last weekend at the memorial, I told you in confidence about my aunt and Damon's father. And two days later, that weasel back there asked me if it's true my aunt's ‘spreading her legs' for Damon's dad. Who else did you tell besides him? I mean, really, why the hell would I confide in you?”

“Spencer, I didn't mention it to anyone,” she said.

“Yeah, right . . .” He started walking again. He had no idea where he was going. He just needed to get away from all those people before he hit somebody—or started crying.

“Remember, I told you—it was
the word going around school
,” Bonnie said, keeping up alongside him. “I heard about your aunt and Mr. Shuler from Reed last week, for God's sake. You just confirmed it on Saturday. I didn't talk about it with anybody . . .”

“Fine,” he grunted. “That's terrific. Why don't you go back to your friends?”

“I'm just trying to help you,” she said.

“You can help me by leaving me alone,” he said, picking up the pace.

She stopped abruptly, and for that Spencer was grateful.

He kept on walking. He didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes.

* * *

It was always easy to spot Reed Logan in the crowded corridor. All she had to do was look for the backward blue cap. After his run-in with Spencer, he hadn't gone back to the cafeteria. But Bonnie found him heading toward his locker on the second floor. He was by himself, talking on his phone. He didn't seem to notice her.

As Bonnie approached him, she heard him mutter: “Anyway, I don't think we'll have any more problems—at least not from him . . .” He grimaced. “Yeah, well . . . I understand. I'll come right home after school . . . I told you I would, okay? Jesus. G'bye . . .” He clicked off the phone and started to tuck it into the pocket of his jeans.

“What's going on?” Bonnie asked him.

He swiveled around. “Shit, were you listening in?”

“Hardly,” she replied, frowning at him. “What's going on between you and Spencer Murray? It sounded like you were accusing him of harassing your family . . .”

“The guy stepped out of line, and it's been taken care of,” Reed replied. “End of story.” He headed to his locker and started working the combination.

Bonnie followed him. “Last week, when you mentioned that Spencer's aunt was seeing Damon's father, how did you know about that? Who told you?”

He opened up his locker and pulled out a jacket. “I just knew.”

“You mean the same way you
just know
about Spencer spending time in a—an institution? Is it true?”

With a sigh, he took his cell phone out of his pocket, switched it on, and showed it to her. “I got this text at five o'clock this morning,” Reed said. “And don't ask me who sent it, because I'll be fucked if I know.”

Bonnie gazed at the illuminated little screen:

“It's got to be true,” she heard Reed say. “Did you see the way the crazy bastard looked when I mentioned it?”

* * *

“Did he say how he found out?” Andrea asked, with the cell phone to her ear. She sat in her car with the motor off—in the Costco parking lot.

Jill Stephenson Logan's strange call had unnerved her. Maybe it had made her a bit paranoid, too, because Andrea was pretty certain a maroon Impala had been following her since she'd left the pawnshop ten minutes ago. She thought she'd lost the other vehicle here in the vast parking lot. Just to be sure, she'd stayed inside her VW and scanned the lot for the Impala. There had been no sign of it. Spencer's call had come just as she'd been ready to climb out of the car.

Andrea was still trying to process everything he'd just told her. Someone was doing to Reed and his family what Reed had done to her and Spencer—at the behest of Evelyn Shuler. Andrea couldn't fathom it. Evelyn had hired the bully who had been tormenting her son to carry out her dirty deeds. Then again, she probably figured he was an ideal candidate for the job. But all the while, he was still picking on Damon.

And Evelyn knew about it.

Luke's estranged wife had paid Reed Logan to harass her and Spencer. Had she also paid the boy to torment her own son? Every time her son was bullied, it was an excuse for Evelyn to call Luke or have a meeting with Luke and the school principal.

In one of the manuscripts she'd edited, Andrea had read about Munchausen syndrome by proxy. Was this Evelyn's spin on that? The constant bullying of her son kept her connected to Luke. Andrea couldn't imagine a mother so horrible. And yet it seemed possible. There was a bizarre, twisted logic in it.

She wondered if Damon had found out about what his mother had done. Was that why he'd snapped? Is that why he'd tied her up, thrown her in the back of the BMW, and forced her to die with him in that horrific explosion?

Right now, it was just conjecture, but Andrea needed to discuss it with Luke tonight—and then maybe the police.

Yesterday, she and Spencer had loaded up the VW and moved back into Luke's town house. It hadn't taken much persuading on Luke's part. He'd said the last two weeks alone had practically been unbearable. “I don't think things will start to feel okay again until you guys move back in with me.”

She wondered how
okay
he'd feel when she told him this news about his late wife. And Luke still had no idea that Spencer had spent time in a mental institution—five years, in fact.

Andrea wondered how much Reed Logan knew.

“He didn't say who told him or how he found out,” Spencer said on the other end of the line. “He knows I was in a place in Virginia. I can't be sure what else he knows. But it's only a matter of time before everyone else finds out about it—before they know my whole history.” She heard him starting to cry.

“It's going to be okay, Spencer, I promise,” she said. “We'll work it out tonight. The worst thing that'll happen is maybe you'll have to switch schools.”

“To where no one knows me—or what I did?” he asked in a shaky, broken voice. “How soon before they find out about me at the next school—or the school after that? And Luke still doesn't know. What do you think will happen after you tell him? And you'll have to tell him now. You can't let him hear about it from Reed Logan or Reed's mother or somebody else . . .”

“We'll be okay, honey,” Andrea said into the phone, trying to believe it herself. She shifted restlessly behind the wheel.

“Luke's such a nice guy,” Spencer went on. “I know you love him. And I'm screwing that up for you.”

“Listen, you just said it yourself. Luke's a nice guy. It's not going to be easy, but he'll understand. And if he doesn't, well, then we just weren't meant to be.” She sighed. “And don't worry about Reed Logan. He's in no position to threaten you. We've got him on destruction of private property, vandalism, and God knows what else. He has more to lose than you do if he starts shooting off his mouth about you. Just give him and his buddies a wide berth for the rest of the afternoon. Luke's got rehearsals tonight. So it's just you and me for dinner. We'll figure all this out tonight. I'm here at Costco. How about if I get you that lasagna you like?”

There was a silence on the other end. “Yeah, that sounds good,” Spencer said, finally.

After Andrea clicked off with him, she sat in the car for another few minutes.

They'd just moved back in with Luke. She'd even bought some perennials yesterday to plant outside his town house over the weekend. But after hearing what she had to tell him, he might just ask them to move out again.

She remembered how she and Spencer had wanted to start fresh in Seattle. They were going to blend in and stay out of trouble. But then she fell in love with Luke— and they inherited all this baggage. Still, that was no excuse for keeping Luke in the dark about Spencer's past.

She had been Spencer's guardian since his release from Northern Virginia Behavioral Health Center five months ago. In Virginia, he'd seen a therapist three times a week, and in Seattle, he met every other week with a woman named Diane Leppert, whom he really liked. Starting someplace new where no one knew them seemed like a good idea. But Andrea was still adjusting to a new city—and to Spencer. Sometimes, he felt like a total stranger.

She knew he must have felt the same way about her.

Andrea remembered six years ago, when she got the call at two o'clock in the morning. A cop told her that her sister and brother-in-law had been shot by an intruder. She learned that eleven-year-old Spencer and another boy, who was spending the night, had survived by hiding under his bunk bed.

The news absolutely devastated Andrea's widower father—losing his favorite daughter like that. But at least he had his grandson, whom he adored. At first, he was so grateful that Spencer had been spared.

But her father stopped communicating with Spencer when the boy was admitted to the institution. He moved away to Scottsdale and remarried. Andrea kept in touch by phoning him once or twice a month, but their relationship was strained. She had a feeling he wouldn't miss her if she didn't call. She'd long ago given up asking if he wanted to talk with Spencer.

She wondered how Luke would react when she told him the truth. She thought about a new way to approach the subject:
You know how Spencer sees a therapist every two weeks? Well, there's more to it than I let on . . .

She felt the knot forming in her stomach already.

Grabbing her purse, Andrea climbed out of the car. Before she shut the door, she spotted a woman emerge from a row of cars across the way. She was about forty-five, tall and big-boned. In a pale blue pullover and jeans, she walked at a brisk, determined clip. Her long black Morticia Addams hair fluttered behind her. She zeroed in on Andrea. “I want you to know I'm watching you!” she declared in a shrill tone.

Andrea automatically stepped back. “Let me guess, Jill Logan?” she said, frowning. “Do you drive a maroon Impala?”

“You already know what kind of car I drive,” Reed's mother retorted. “You saw it—or your nephew did—when you scratched it the other night.”

“You mean, like how your son scratched my car twice—and broke my headlight?” Andrea stepped aside to show Reed's mother the scrape across her Volkswagen's driver-side door. “This is his handiwork from two weeks ago. And just for the record, Mrs. Logan, I didn't key your car and neither did my nephew. We didn't break any of your windows or leave any dead animals outside your door. We aren't responsible for any of the acts being done to you and your family—”

“Then how did you know about those things? Huh? Answer that!”

“Because your son just accused my nephew, Spencer, of doing them,” she answered. “Spencer called me three minutes ago. Are you and your son tag-teaming us or something?”

“One more incident and we're going to the police,” Jill Logan warned.

Andrea threw her hands up in resignation. “Go ahead. I hope you find out who's responsible. I sympathize with you. I was at my wits' end when your son was doing those things to us. Tell me, how long have you known that Evelyn Shuler was paying Reed to pick on Damon—and harass us?”

“Oh, now really,” Mrs. Logan scowled. “Are you saying you're not the one who emailed me about it night before last? And you're not the one who's been calling and leaving all sorts of filthy, threatening messages?”

Andrea shook her head. “That's just crazy—”

“Then it must be your nephew. Talk about crazy. I understand he spent time in a mental institution. How do you know for sure he's not the one—”

“Because I know,” Andrea said, cutting her off. “Neither one of us would lower ourselves. Why on earth would we? If either Spencer or I had known any time before today that your son was behind all that vicious harassment, we would have gone directly to the police. And we still might. Reed admitted his guilt to Spencer only a half hour ago, and you just confirmed it for me. Neither Spencer nor I have broken any laws. But Reed could be in a lot of trouble for what he's done. So quit threatening me, Mrs. Logan, and tell your son to back off. No one at the school needs to know about Spencer's past. If that gets out, I won't have to guess twice who's to blame—your son. You tell that little criminal to leave my nephew alone.”

She slammed her car door. The VW let out a beep as she locked it with the device. She pointed to the scratch on the side of the vehicle. “And I'm sending you a bill for that.”

Her heart beating wildly, Andrea hurried toward the Costco entrance. She didn't look back.

She figured for now maybe Spencer's secret was safe—and Reed would leave him alone. But all she'd done was put a Band-Aid on a gushing wound.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

“H
i, Jill, this is Andrea Boyle,” she said into her cell phone. She was sitting in one of the four bar-stool chairs at the tall, round glass-top café table in Luke's kitchen. It was one of those updated kitchens with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Andrea could see her own reflection in the sliding glass door. She had her hair in a ponytail and wore a long-sleeve white T-shirt with striped flannel drawstring pants.

She was tired. She'd been acting upbeat and optimistic for Spencer's sake most of the evening. She'd tried to assure him that nothing was going to happen over the weekend. He seemed half-convinced. She knew he wasn't quite himself. He'd knocked off only a third of his Dinner-for-Two Lasagna, which under normal circumstances he inhaled in its entirety. Afterward, he'd ducked into Luke's study to watch
St. Vincent
for about the fifth time. He always turned to a Bill Murray DVD to take his mind off his worries.

Over dinner, she'd reminded him that Reed and his mother were in no position to make life any more difficult for him. But it had dawned on her that maybe it would be better for everyone if she tried to make friends with Jill Logan. Maybe if they worked together, they could figure out who was behind all of this. And maybe, just maybe, Reed Logan would stop being such a little shit to her nephew.

“Listen, Jill, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot earlier today,” she said into the phone. “Please, believe me, I understand your frustration. I was just about at the end of my rope back in late August when Spencer and I were getting practically the same treatment from your son. And I realize now that he was simply doing what Evelyn Shuler was paying him to do. I—I don't plan on holding him accountable . . .”

Andrea realized she was babbling, and she hadn't heard a peep from Mrs. Logan yet—outside of her first hello.

“Are you there?” she asked. “Jill?”

“I'm here,” she said at last. “I'm just wondering if you're recording this.”

“No, I'm not, I promise you,” Andrea replied. “I think we're better off working together to figure out who's behind everything that's been happening to you and your family. Obviously, they're trying to pit you against Spencer and me. I mean, think about it. They're giving Reed all this information about Spencer, things he'd rather not have getting around the school. And they're telling you about how Evelyn Shuler paid Reed to harass us. They're stirring up this hornet's nest, and I don't know why. Do you?”

“I have no idea,” she said tonelessly.

Andrea could tell Reed's mother still didn't trust her.

“Listen,” she said, hunched over Luke's breakfast table, “if anything else happens there at your house, could you call and let me know? I think you should also call the police and report it. Whoever is behind this, they seem to be—”

“You know what I think?” Jill Logan interrupted. “I think you or your lunatic nephew—or both of you—are behind these vicious attacks, and now you're trying to throw me off—”

“I assure you—”

“I don't have anything to say to you,” she cut in. “Please, stop calling me, and stop this harassment.”

Andrea heard a click on the other end. Then the line went dead.

“Nice talking to you, too,” she muttered.

She clicked off the line and sighed. She realized she'd never get Jill Logan's cooperation. Moreover, Jill would never give a straight answer to a question that had been plaguing Andrea since this afternoon: If Evelyn had paid Reed to key her Volkswagen, why did he scratch it a second time—the night after Evelyn had died?

Someone else must have pulled off that encore prank—maybe the same person who was now harassing the Logan family.

Spencer said Reed had told him he wasn't the one who had broken into their apartment and rearranged the shoes on the stairs. So Evelyn had another errand boy besides Reed on her payroll.

Andrea wondered about Evelyn's former boyfriend, Troy Slattery. Spencer said Troy was shooting eye-daggers at Luke throughout the memorial reception. He was also pretty sure Troy was the one who had stolen the silver frame. But by early September, Evelyn had already long since split with Troy and was campaigning to win back Luke. At least, that was the impression she got from Luke when he returned from a meeting with the principal one week into the start of the school year. Why would Troy Slattery be doing Evelyn any favors after she'd dumped him? And with Evelyn dead, why would he be harassing Reed Logan's family? What did Troy possibly hope to gain?

Her cell phone rang, and she wondered if Jill Logan had had a change of heart. She snatched it off the glass-top table and clicked it on. “Hello?”

“Hi, hon,” Luke said. “Guess who's stuck here in Rewrite Hell for at least another hour and a half. I'm sorry . . .”

“It's all right. Don't worry about it,” Andrea said. “Did you get something to eat?”

“Yeah, we ordered out—Thai food. I feel like a jerk doing this to you on your second night back. Anyway, don't wait up for me.”

“Is it okay if I do wait up?” she asked.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

After she hung up with Luke, Andrea felt relieved. The knots in her stomach went away. She'd put off the talk until tomorrow—or maybe Sunday. There was no reason for urgency. Reed Logan wasn't going to start spreading the word about Spencer's medical history before they were back in school on Monday—if even then.

So, the dreaded talk could wait.

After all, Andrea told herself, nothing was going to happen over the weekend.

 

 

 

Reed Logan woke up to the sound of the alarm.

He sat up in bed with a start—to a dark bedroom. It wasn't morning yet.

Every time it happened, he was so disoriented. He saw the blinking red light on the alarm unit on the nightstand—alongside the clock, his cell phone, and his Dodgers hat. He quickly reached over and switched off the alarm. He relished the silence—after that incessant ringing. He prayed it hadn't awoken his parents, especially his mother.

With trepidation, he listened for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He didn't hear anything—just the usual house-settling noises.

Reed slid his hand down under the covers. His underpants were wet.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered.

He'd had nearly an entire week of dry nights and had felt confident enough to go to bed last night wearing regular Jockey briefs instead of his usual boys' extra large GoodNites. He was trying to wean himself out of nighttime diapers before college.

He switched on the light. His bedroom walls were cluttered with sports pennants, some pilfered street signs, and a framed
300
movie poster with Gerard Butler leading the Spartan troops into battle. Above his bed was a rack of samurai swords that were knockoffs, but looked pretty real. The place was kind of a mess. His mother was on his ass to straighten it up.

His mother had been on his ass about a lot of things since two nights ago—when she'd gotten that text saying Mrs. Shuler had paid him to put the screws on that twitchy, neurotic kid of hers. Mrs. Shuler had said she wanted to toughen him up. It had been pretty bizarre, sitting in Dunmore's office, getting reamed for picking on the Freakazoid while both sets of parents were there. But he didn't give her away. He'd gotten a two-hundred-dollar bonus and a blow job for keeping quiet about that.

He'd been all too happy to take on more work for her with that harassment job at the apartment in Ballard. He had no idea who the people were—just that he had to screw with them. He didn't put it together until later that the victims were the new kid in their class, Spencer Murray, and his aunt. By that time, around early September, Evelyn didn't seem to need him anymore. In fact, she didn't want anything to do with him. He called, but she stopped picking up. He took out his frustrations on the Freakazoid.

At the time of Evelyn Shuler's death, Reed hadn't seen or spoken with her in well over a month. So far, no one had linked the two of them. In fact, he didn't really give it too much thought until some asshole keyed his mother's Impala while it was parked in their driveway on Monday night. Spencer Murray had shoved him against the lockers that same afternoon. Reed figured that was too much of a coincidence. They'd found the dead raccoon by the kitchen door the next day. Then there were the phone calls—and the text to his mother two nights ago, blowing the whistle on him as Evelyn Shuler's errand boy. Fortunately, they didn't tell her about the sex with Evelyn. Maybe they didn't know.

Just the same, his mother went absolutely ballistic on him.

That incident on Thursday with somebody breaking in and emptying a shelf out of the refrigerator had really freaked her out. He'd found it pretty disturbing, too. Then he'd gotten the anonymous text, blaming Spencer Whatever-His-Real-Last-Name-Was for everything and revealing that he'd been in a nuthouse.

They'd had one night after another of disturbing occurrences. But so far, they'd gotten through Friday night without an incident—until just now. And he really couldn't blame pissing in his bed on Spencer What's-His-Name.

Reed checked the towel covering the moisture-sensor pad on his mattress. It was wet. He wondered if any urine had gotten on the sheets. He was in luck. It hadn't soaked down to the fitted sheet and the flat sheet was merely damp in one spot. He wouldn't have to change the sheets tonight. He'd dodged a bullet.

Reed carefully carried the soggy towel toward his bathroom, which was right off his bedroom. He'd clean up the mess—and his mother wouldn't be any the wiser. He was just switching on the bathroom light when he thought he heard something. It lasted only a couple of seconds, and sounded like someone dragging a chair across the floor downstairs.

Biting his lip, he listened and waited. Nothing.

Reed told himself it was probably just the ice machine in the refrigerator. If his parents had gotten up, he'd have heard them. Stepping back, he glanced over toward his closed bedroom door—with the Nerf basketball net mounted on it. He didn't see any light under the door. That was always a telltale sign that he'd woken one of them.

“Relax,” he whispered to himself. Ducking into the bathroom again, he threw the wet towel into the tub. Then he peeled off his soaked underpants and tossed them on top of the towel. Naked, he stepped into the tub, shut the map-of-the-world shower curtain, and grabbed the handheld shower off the pole. He'd been through this hundreds of times before. He didn't need to wash his whole body—just from the waist down. Irish Spring took care of the urine smell. He lathered himself up and then ran the bar of soap over the towel and his Jockey briefs.

The pipes let out a squeak as he turned off the water. He opened the shower curtain and reached for a towel on the rack. He started to dry himself.

After the roar of the shower, it suddenly seemed so quiet—until he heard the footsteps.

Had the shower woken up his mother or father?

Wrapping the towel around him, Reed crept into the bedroom and made his way to the door. The crack at the threshold was still dark. The hallway light wasn't on. Yet, again, he still heard footsteps and the creaking floorboards.

Was somebody coming up the stairs?

If one of his parents had awoken and gone down to the first floor, they would have turned on the upstairs hallway light.

They still hadn't figured out how anyone could have broken in the day before yesterday—only to empty a shelf from the fridge. As far as his parents could tell, nothing had been stolen from the house. His mother had pitched all the food—not just the stuff that had gone bad, but anything with a broken seal and all the leftovers still inside the refrigerator. The incident had shown them how vulnerable they were to an intruder.

Somebody from the security company was supposed to come over later today to change the locks and the alarm code. But for now, they were still vulnerable.

Wet and shivering, Reed clutched the towel around his waist and leaned close to the door. His face was right beside the Nerf basketball hoop.

The footsteps were in the hallway now.

A part of him wanted to believe it was his mom or dad. He quickly tiptoed to his dresser, took out a pair of GoodNites, and struggled to put them on. He didn't want to be naked right now. He couldn't stop shaking.

From the squeaking floorboards, it sounded like whoever it was had moved away from his room—toward his parents' bedroom down the hall.

Relieved, Reed let out a sigh. It must have been his mother or father getting up in the middle of the night for a snack or something. And he hadn't been busted for peeing in his sleep again. Whoever it was, Mom or Dad, it sounded like they were going back to bed.

“Reed?” his father said, sounding startled. “Reed, is that you?”

It took Reed a moment to realize his father wasn't calling to him. He was talking to somebody in their bedroom.

“What's going on?” his father asked. “Who are you?”

His ear to the door, Reed heard someone whisper a response, but he couldn't make out what they said.

“Jill, honey—”

“Who's this?” his mother asked. “What in God's name . . .”

“Shut the fuck up,” someone barked.

“Oh, my God!” his father cried. “No, no—wait!”

Reed jumped at the single blast of gunfire.

His mother screamed.