You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (15 page)

It was just starting to get dark when the taxi dropped him off. And yet he didn't see any lights on inside their modern craftsman two-story home. It didn't make any sense, because his dad's BMW and his mother's maroon Impala were in the driveway.

That was when it finally dawned on him something could be wrong.

Scott took out his house key and started to unlock the front door. But it was already unlocked—and yawned open with just a little push. Stepping into the shadowy front hall, he hit a wall of stench. It smelled like rotten fruit or meat gone bad.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, leaving the front door open behind him—in hopes of airing out the place a little. “Mom?” he called out. He set the Blu-ray and his father's birthday card down on the hallway table. “Dad? Reed? Where is everybody?”

He walked toward the kitchen near the back of the house, and the rancid odor got stronger. Grimacing, he fanned the air in front of his face. At the kitchen entry, he stopped dead. “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

The place was a mess. He saw the source of the foul smell. Someone had emptied out the refrigerator. They'd even taken out the shelves. Cans of beer and soda were on the floor—amid a puddle of spilled milk and rotting vegetables. The raw prime rib roast was on the counter—with a couple of flies buzzing around it. Beside the big slab of meat were some of his dad's power tools and an extension cord.

The refrigerator hummed. It was a stainless steel side-by-side model.

Scott started to gag as he stepped closer to it, and he put a hand over his nose and mouth. He saw that someone had screwed a lock onto the refrigerator. The metal hasp ran across both doors. In lieu of a combination or key lock, a thick-handled ladle and a spatula had been rammed through the lock's shackle to keep the hasp in place.

As he wiggled and tugged at both utensils, Scott thought the makeshift lock had been screwed on there to keep someone from getting into the refrigerator.

But he was wrong.

Scott finally managed to wrench out the ladle and the spatula. He dropped them on the floor. He lifted the latch and then opened the door. The inside light went on.

“Oh, Jesus, no,” he cried, stepping back into the puddle of milk.

His kid brother was curled up inside the refrigerator—almost fetal-like. Reed wasn't wearing anything except his special underpants. His body was so pale that it had a slight blue tinge. His eyes were open in a dead stare, and his swollen tongue drooped over his lower lip. Someone had tied his hands together and bound his ankles.

When he made the 911 call, Scott Logan was weeping and barely making any sense.

And he hadn't even gone upstairs yet.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

W
hen the bus dropped him off at school, Spencer prayed Reed Logan wouldn't be there today. Was it too much to ask that he'd gotten sick—or maybe been run over by a truck?

Before he'd left the house this morning, his aunt had told him that Luke still didn't know about what happened with his parents. She'd planned to have “the talk” with Luke last night. “You saw how stressed he was over the play rehearsals,” she'd whispered to Spencer in the kitchen—while Luke had slept in. “He's staying home today, and I'll tell him this afternoon. Meanwhile, try to avoid Reed Logan . . .”

Spencer noticed two TV news vans parked outside the school. Reporters were stopping students and interviewing them. He figured they were probably taping some follow-up feature on Damon's suicide—or maybe KC and Mr. McAfee's last rendezvous. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Spencer hurried past the TV news cameras and into the building. Other students were doing their damnedest to get on camera, but not him.

Heading down the crowded, noisy hallway toward his locker, he kept a lookout for Reed—as well as Ron or any of their pals.

“Spencer!” Tanya's shrill voice was unmistakable. It rang out over all the chatter and locker-slamming. She clutched her phone and threaded through the crowd toward him. Today she wore a somewhat conventional sweater and jeans ensemble.

Stopping at his locker, he tried to work up a smile for her.

“Spencer, have you heard?” she asked excitedly. She grabbed his arm, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “It was on the news this morning, and it's all over the Internet. Reed Logan's dead . . .”

“What?” he asked, not sure he'd heard her right.

Tanya nodded. “His brother found him last night. Someone locked him inside the refrigerator in their kitchen—and he suffocated. The police think it happened late Friday night. Mr. and Mrs. Logan are dead, too—shot in their bedroom. Can you believe it?”

Bewildered, Spencer stared at her.

Tanya wasn't smiling. But she certainly was keyed up about telling him—and didn't seem the least bit sorry. He now realized the TV newspeople outside had come to get reactions from Reed's classmates about his death. He looked at the others in the hallway, checking the news on their mobile devices. They all knew.

But Spencer was still trying to put it together. “Do the police know who did it?” He couldn't understand why Reed had been locked inside a refrigerator. What was the point to killing him that way? Spencer remembered just minutes ago cynically wishing Reed were dead.

“Mrs. Logan's jewelry was missing, along with some expensive techno toys and the money from Mr. Logan's wallet,” Tanya explained.

Spencer felt sick. He was thinking it seemed awfully similar to the scene staged in his parents' bedroom—with his mother's jewels and his father's wallet money missing.

“You didn't do it, did you?” Tanya asked.

He scowled at her. “Why would you even ask that?”

She laughed nervously. “Hey, I'm kidding. It's just that we talked about him the other day, saying everyone would be better off if he was dead. I'm not going to be a hypocrite and shed any crocodile tears for Reed Logan. He was a total prick to me. He was awful to Damon, too—and to you. I mean, really, think about it. Are you truly sorry he's gone?”

Spencer couldn't answer her. His life at school would sure be easier now. And yes, Reed was a jerk. But did he deserve to die? Did his parents deserve to die? No.

The first bell rang.

“Well, I've got to get to that snooze-fest known as world history,” Tanya said—with an eye roll. She smiled at him. “See you at lunch, okay?”

Spencer couldn't believe she could act so cutesy right now. Then again, she'd had a little time to get used to the idea of Reed's death. It was all still a shock to him. He squinted at her. “Do you—” he hesitated. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

She shrugged—almost evasively.

It was a strange response. “You mean you might know?” Spencer asked. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

She laughed again. “God, no! But hey, you know it's not exactly like I lost a good friend.” She rubbed his shoulder. “See you in the cafeteria.”

He watched Tanya saunter down the hallway. She seemed so content and self-satisfied—as if she'd just won a gold star for something.

Spencer pulled out his phone, and went online to confirm what Tanya had just told him. He still couldn't fathom it. He was barely aware of the hallway emptying out—or the second bell ringing to signify that first period had begun.

He speed-dialed Andrea, but got her voice mail. She was probably in the shower. It was hardly the thing to leave on a recording, but he told her about Reed and his parents. He said he'd try her again later.

He wasn't sure what else he could do—except go to his first class. He hurried to his locker to grab his trig book. As he worked the combination, he tried to think of what excuse he'd use for being late.

But then he opened his locker—and everything stopped for a moment.

Something hung from one of the hooks, something that hadn't been there before.

It was a blue Dodgers baseball cap.

* * *

It started to drizzle as Spencer waited for Andrea to show up. With his backpack slung over his shoulder, he stood on the street corner—by the teachers' parking lot. He stepped under the protection of a big elm, its leaves a hodgepodge of autumn colors. He'd been waiting for fifteen minutes, and still no sign of his aunt's VW.

They'd talked at lunchtime. The news about Reed and his parents had obviously upset her. She'd said she would pick him up after school. Spencer hadn't told her about finding Reed's trademark cap in his locker. In fact, he hadn't told anyone yet. He still wasn't sure what he was going to do about it.

At first, Spencer had wondered if someone was playing a sick joke on him. Was it really Reed's cap? He couldn't be sure. It had to have belonged to someone. It wasn't new. The inside band had dark spots from sweat.

Part of him wanted to go to the police with it, but then he'd only bring attention to himself as a potential suspect. He couldn't leave the cap there in his locker because the school held random locker inspections. He almost wanted to destroy it. But that would be just plain stupid. So Spencer carefully slipped the cap into an old plastic Gap bag he'd had at the bottom of his locker. Then he stashed the bag in his backpack, which he held on to for the rest of the day.

At lunch, he managed to avoid Tanya. Everyone was still talking about the murders of Reed and his parents. Spencer listened and said nothing. He was the only person there with a souvenir of the killings. He couldn't be sure if the cap was the genuine article. Maybe someone was trying to screw with his head? Or were they trying to frame him for the homicides on Friday night?

He figured he'd ask his aunt what to do. But where was she? He'd been waiting in the rain for almost twenty minutes now.

“Hi, Spencer.”

He turned around to see Bonnie shyly smiling at him. “I thought that was you,” she said, stepping under the tree with him. “Are you waiting for a ride?”

“Yeah,” he nodded—more times than necessary. His hand automatically reached back to make sure his backpack hadn't opened up. This was probably the twentieth time he'd checked his backpack today—like it might suddenly and magically pop open.

“Pretty weird day,” she remarked, hugging her books to her chest.

“Really weird,” he replied. “Um, are you waiting for a ride, too?”

“No, I'm walking home. It's only a mile. They called off cheerleading practice. Anyway, I spotted you over here and thought I'd come say hello.”

He nodded again. “Thanks. Um, hello . . .”

“I'm glad you're talking to me. At least that's an improvement over last time.”

Spencer shrugged. “Um, listen, I know Reed was your friend, so I—I want to say, sorry for your loss.”

“That's very nice of you, considering what a rat he was to you.” Bonnie plucked a brown leaf from one of the tree's lower branches. “Like I was trying to tell you on Friday, Reed and I weren't really all that close.”

Spencer said nothing. She seemed so guarded and nervous. He remembered seeing that same apprehension in people he met who knew about his time at Northern Virginia Behavioral Health Center.

She knew that he'd been institutionalized. Did she know why?

His phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and checked the caller ID. It was his aunt. “Excuse me,” he said, clicking on the line. “Hi, Aunt Dee. What's going on?”

“I'm sorry, Spencer, I couldn't get away,” she said, sounding a bit stiff. “Is it possible for you to take a bus or a cab home?”

“No sweat,” he said. “Is everything all right? You sound weird.”

“Everything's fine. Come right home, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. Then he turned away so Bonnie couldn't hear him. “Did you—talk to Luke? Does he know?”

“We'll discuss it when you get here. Hurry on home, all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, puzzled. “See you in a bit.”

“See you,” she said. There was a click on the other end.

Spencer switched off his phone and turned to Bonnie again. “My ride bailed on me,” he explained, trying to smile. “That was my aunt. She wants me to grab the next bus home. Anyway, it was nice talking to you.”

“You, too,” Bonnie replied, tossing the leaf aside.

He started toward the bus stop on the other end of the street.

“Spencer?” she called.

He swiveled around. “Yes?”

“Listen, if you want, you can walk with me to my house. Like I said, it's only a mile. Then I'll drive you wherever you want. It'll probably be faster for you than taking the bus.”

He studied her pretty face. He could almost see how conflicted she was, working up the courage to offer a ride to a crazy person, acting as if she wasn't scared to be alone with him. Or was he just projecting his own stuff onto her? That was what his therapist called it,
projecting
.

“I'm okay with the bus,” he said. “But thanks just the same. See you tomorrow.” He waved, then turned and started walking again.

As much as he wanted to, Spencer didn't look back over his shoulder.

* * *

Walking home in the light rain, Bonnie told herself it was for the best.

Until she knew more about him, she really needed to exercise caution. She couldn't let Spencer's sad, puppy dog eyes fool her. The fact that he was being bullied didn't make him any less dangerous. Last Thursday she'd seen how he'd snapped, pinning Reed against the lockers and threatening him. And the next night, Reed and his parents were murdered. How could she be so certain Spencer wasn't the killer? After all, he'd killed before.

But Bonnie knew she still didn't have the full story there. Plus Spencer had been only eleven years old at the time. There was every indication that he'd fallen under the influence of the older boy, Garrett. He'd spent nearly six years in a psychiatric hospital and juvenile detention. They wouldn't have let him go if he was still a danger to himself or other people. He deserved a second chance.

Still, she needed to give him a wide berth until she knew more about him. It was dumb to have put herself in a situation in which she'd be alone with him for an extended period of time—even just an hour. Bonnie reminded herself once again that she didn't exactly have a terrific track record as far as judging guys at face value.

Apparently, Ron had gotten the news about Reed and his parents before leaving for school, and had stayed home. She'd called him at lunchtime and left a message: “If you get really blue, and you need someone to talk to, give me a call, okay?” Just because she didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore, it didn't mean she had to cut him out of her life completely. Ron hadn't called back. She really didn't expect him to.

Bonnie felt the light rain on her face. She glanced back over her shoulder. She couldn't see Spencer anymore. He must have turned the corner.

Her phone rang, and she dug it out of the pocket of her hooded sweater. She automatically thought of Spencer—even though she was pretty sure he didn't even have her phone number. The caller ID showed: UNKNOWN CALLER.

Bonnie clicked on the phone anyway. “Hello?”

She heard someone sigh on the other end.

“Hello?” she asked again, glancing around to make sure no one was on their phone across the street playing a joke on her.

“Bonnie?” the caller whispered, almost singing her name—like it was part of a rhyme or something. She couldn't make out if the caller was a male or female.

“Who is this?” she asked, stopping in her tracks. A shudder passed through her.

“Bonnie . . .” the caller repeated in that same lyrical tone. “You're next . . . you're next . . . you bitch . . .”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

* * *

The bus dropped him off three blocks from Luke's town house on Olympic Drive. His head down, Spencer walked in the drizzle. He wished he'd taken up Bonnie Middleton on her offer. As undecided as he was about her, it certainly would have been better than walking home alone. Then again, this wasn't really his home. And he wasn't quite alone. He had Reed Logan's prized baseball cap with him. And he still had no idea what to do with it. Just having the damn thing in his possession made him feel guilty, trapped, and doomed.