Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake Series Book 2) Page 22

  “I’m fine,” I say. She doesn’t know me well enough to know that when I tuck my chin in and let my hair droop over my face, I’m lying. “What do you want us to say? She let us down. She let us all down. She ought to be in jail with Dad.”

  Kezia doesn’t like doing this. She, like Javier, is good at protecting people, but not so much at comforting. But she tries. “I thought maybe you can tell me how you’re feeling about everything.”

  I roll my eyes. “Mad. Pissed off. Disappointed. What else do you want me to say? It’s done already! She’s gone!”

  Even I can hear how my voice gets raw at the end of that, and I shut up, fold my arms over my chest, and slump back in the couch. My entire body screams, Don’t talk to me, and Kezia accepts that. “Okay. Connor?”

  “She shouldn’t have lied to us about what she did with Dad,” he says.

  “I know that, but are you sad? Or are you mad?”

  She’s trying too hard, and I think she probably is as pissed at Mom as we are. We’re not a favor she and Javier are doing gladly anymore. We’re a responsibility. I’ll bet they’re both thinking the same thing: How did we get into this? And how do we get out of it?

  I’ll bet we’re all thinking it, but me and Connor, we’re not going to say it. We’re our mother’s children. We don’t want to talk about our feelings. When Mom dragged us to our counseling sessions after she got out of jail, I think I broke a record for the number of hours without talking in talk therapy.

  If I want to blab about it, if, I don’t want to do it here. And not with Connor listening. I have to be strong for him.

  Connor’s shrugged in response to Kezia’s question, and she gives us a sad little smile like she knows. She doesn’t. “Okay, but you know you can come to either one of us, right? Anytime. About anything. This is a hard day, and we want to be here for you.”

  “Yeah. Great. Are we done now?” I say. “Can I go to my room?”

  “Sure,” Kezia says. She sounds gentle. “You go rest if you want. We’ll be here.”

  Before I do, I bend over and put an arm around my brother’s shoulders. I whisper, just for him, “You can come to me, you know that, right?”

  He nods slightly. He will, when he’s ready.

  I walk into my room and slam the door. I lie down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling; I twist and turn and put my headphones on, but nothing works. I can’t rest. I can’t sleep. So I pace. I think about Mom. I remember all the things she’s done for me, with me, all the fun and light and laughter she gave me, and I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. That makes me angry at myself, first for hurting her, and then for not sticking to being angry.

  I feel so alone right now, and empty, and I want someone to care. Not in the abstract. I want someone to look right into my face and tell me they care what happens to me, and I want it so bad it hurts. But not Kezia. Not Javier.

  No. Who I really want to talk to is Dahlia, and I’m not allowed to go to town, or call her. I know why, and it’s smart, but I don’t feel smart right now. I feel desperate. There’s an empty place inside me that’s choking me, like there’s not enough air in the room.

  So I pick up my phone, put her number in from memory, and text her where to meet me. I sign it Tana, which is short for lantana, her favorite flower, and she nicknamed me Lannytana a while back.

  She hits me back in seconds. ½ hr ok?

  K, I type back, and then I end the call.

  She didn’t hesitate. It makes me feel warm and nervous.

  Connor’s shown me how to do this. I climb out the window and shut it behind me. Boot barks as I hop the side fence, but only once, as if he doesn’t quite know how to communicate that I’m breaking the rules, or he doesn’t really want to rat me out. He finally paces the edge of the fence, then climbs back on the porch and lies down. Guarding Connor, I think. Good. I need him to do that for me.

  I haven’t run in a long time, and I need to feel that again. The control. The burn. The stillness inside that comes when you focus everything on that one effort. It doesn’t leave room for all the noise.

  So I run. I take off through the woods, watching my footing but keeping to rough game trails until I hit a road, and then running at stride. I see the blue glitter of Stillhouse Lake through the trees in less than half an hour, and I slow down to a walk because my legs are starting to shake. I’m coming up from the far end, by the gun range where Javier ought to be working, except he’s taken an extended vacation to make sure we’re safe.

  I wonder how long it’ll take him to realize that I’m not safe right now. And how long to find me.

  I stay in the woods, moving carefully and hiding whenever I see any hint of cars or people. There aren’t a lot out today. It’s cold and a little cloudy. Indoor weather, for most folks. The wind’s too sharp for boating.

  I’m passing Sam’s cabin now. It’s standing empty, I guess; he locked it up and left it just as it was, so in an emergency I have somewhere to hide. But I don’t want to be guilty of breaking in, either.

  From his cabin, I can see our old house.

  It’s set back from the road and the docks—close enough to be considered lakefront, but far enough up the slope that we don’t have to worry about flooding or casual visitors. Our house. Except it isn’t, really, I guess. All our good times, all our memories of cleaning the place and painting and making it our own, of evenings at dinner and watching movies and being a family . . . all that’s wrong now. I don’t know how to feel about any of it.

  It’s like a museum of someone else’s life.

  I slip out of the trees and break into a run, trying to look like I’m just out for exercise and, nope, totally not the kid of the most notorious serial killer in the past ten years—nope, not at all. I don’t see anybody. I speed up as I get to the driveway and race up it, and I get a real good look at the place.

  The house was tagged by vandals before we left it, after word about Dad got out and people knew who we really were. The paint’s still there, splashed in insults over the garage and wall. New tags have been added. One’s a crude drawing of a hanging woman and two smaller figures on the same scaffold. Gee, subtle, guys.

  I stop on the threshold, breathing hard, and try to get my heart rate down. This is dumb, Lanny. Super dumb. You know it is. Yeah, and I was starting to think it was a bad idea, too. But I’ve come this far. I don’t really know why, but it feels like this is the only place in the world I can still feel normal.

  The front window is smashed. I see wind blowing in. The blinds are broken and fluttering like wounded birds.

  I’d stuck keys in my pocket, and now I unlock the door, which still has old crime scene seals on it. I use the keys to rake that seal apart, then push in. No lights, and when I try the switch, no power, either. Oh, and also, no alarm. The pad is dark when I look at it.

  I shut the door, lock it, and the smell hits me. Gross, God, what is that? Is it a dead body? For a second, stranded in the living room with only the dim light coming in from the crooked, flapping blinds, I imagine one hanging in the hallway from a rope, and if I hadn’t just locked the door, I’d have been out of it in the next second.

  Don’t be an idiot; there’s no dead body in here, I tell myself. I look around. The living room isn’t really disturbed, except for the brick that came through the front window. Well, and some creative spray painting on the walls. The TV is gone, along with the game console, and most of the games. They came in to do some damage, but they got distracted with stuff to steal.

  The stench gets worse when I go in the kitchen, and I see the mess in there. More scrawls of red spray paint, dripping like fresh blood, but whoever did it wasn’t good enough with a paint can to make it readable. I think it might say bitch, but only if I squint.

  The kitchen is the reason for the smell. Someone’s opened up the fridge and thrown food all over the floor; it’s a molding mess, crawling with flies even in the cold. I want to throw up, but I grab the broom and dustpan and trash bags, an
d I scoop up as much as I can. The garbage still in the can stinks, too; we never had time to empty it before we left.

  Somehow, I never thought I’d be inviting Dahlia into a crime scene. I do my best to get it cleaned up before she arrives.

  I bag it all up and take it out back to throw it in the big metal locking bin that’s supposed to keep bears away, not that I’ve ever seen a bear up here. It keeps raccoons frustrated, at least.

  I’m shutting the lock on it when a shadow falls, and I realize that there’s someone right behind me. I turn and get ready to scream and jam keys between my knuckles just like mom taught . . .

  But it’s her.

  “Hey,” she says, flipping her hair back out of her eyes. Dahlia, just like I remember, except her hair’s gotten a little longer. God, she’s pretty. Prettier than I’ll ever be. I want to cry because it’s so good to see her, and at the same time, I want to hug her, but I’m not sure I should. “So, you kind of vanished on me, bitch. What’s up with your crazy ass?”

  She hitches up onto the picnic table that’s on the back deck, the one Mom and I built but never really got to enjoy, and I go up and sit beside her, close enough our thighs touch along the side. My heart’s racing. I’m not supposed to be seen by anybody at all, certainly not someone who knows me. I’ve broken all the safe rules.

  But this feels so right. So very right. The emptiness inside of me is gone, and right now, in this moment, I have peace.

  “I had to go,” I say. “I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, but things got crazy. And then people were kind of out to get us. You heard, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Is it true you killed Lancel Graham?”

  Graham was dead all right. But it was a shock to hear my friend thought I’d done it. “What? No! God! Who even said that?”

  “Everybody,” she says and shrugs. “Well, they buried him, so it kind of sounded true, right? And you’re badass. They said he was some fucked-up killer. And so was your dad . . . ?” It’s kind of a half-ass question, and I don’t want to answer it. At all. It’s such a quiet question, and it feels larger than the whole world. I’d never told Dahlia about Dad. Not that I hadn’t wanted to, but there were rules. Mom’s rules.

  Screw Mom. Mom’s made a career out of lying—to us, maybe even to herself. But I don’t want to lie to Dahlia, ever again. Sitting here with her in the sun, feeling something real even if I don’t quite know what it is . . . that means something.

  I reach out and brush her fingers with mine. She doesn’t look at me, exactly, but she turns her hand, and our fingers twine together. My pulse jumps, because this feels strong. It feels right. We used to hold hands like this, sometimes. I thought it was because we were just BFFs.

  But now I think it’s something else.

  I can trust Dahlia. I have to trust her, because if I don’t, I’m just like Mom. A liar.

  “My dad is a monster,” I tell her. “It’s all true. He raped and tortured and killed girls just a little older than we are.”

  She turns to look at me, wide-eyed. “God. That’s shit. Weren’t you scared?”

  I shrug a little. “I didn’t know. To us, he was just . . . you know, Dad. He’d lose his temper sometimes, but he never hit us or anything. He just liked his rules.”

  She bites her lip, a habit she has when she’s nervous. I can see the half-hidden flash of her teeth. “I heard he did stuff in your house.”

  “Not in the house. In the garage,” I say. “He kept it locked.”

  “Still.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know. It’s pretty screwed up.”

  It feels like I’m dropping boulders off my back, telling her this. It makes me dizzy how light I feel. How safe.

  Dahlia is still holding my hand, and I can feel every ridge of her fingerprints, every beat of her pulse. I’m hot in the sun, and lazy, and for the first time in a long time, all the chaos stops.

  “Hey,” I say. “You still failing Spanish?”

  “So much fail,” she says, and then she laughs—not because it’s funny, but out of relief that we’re changing the subject. “No se habla, for reals.” But the laughter dies quick, and she gives me a look from under her thick, velvety lashes. Dahlia’s eyelashes are lush and soft, not spiky like mine when I apply mascara. I don’t have any makeup at all on today, and now I feel naked. Dahlia’s got blue eyes, very clear, the color of the lake in the heat of summer. Just a hint of green at the center. She’s wearing a thick sweater and a hoodie over that, with fingerless black gloves, and her blonde hair is streaked with deep strokes of green that start out emerald and fade before they reach the tips. She looks like a punk mermaid.

  “So,” she says. “I texted you about a trillion times. Stalker-texted. You never answered.”

  “Couldn’t,” I tell her. “We had to throw all our phones away and get new ones.”

  “Because . . . because the cops were after you?”

  “Not the cops,” I tell her. “We didn’t do anything wrong. No, it’s because of my dad. He escaped.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I thought they caught him?” Dahlia’s eyes have gone wide, and she’s staring at me like I’m wonderful and tragic and terrifying all at the same time.

  “No, they caught all the other ones who got out. He’s still out there. Somewhere.” I sigh. “That’s why I wasn’t supposed to text you, or call you, or anything. Because we’re trying to make sure he doesn’t find us.”

  “So . . . should you be here?”

  “Hell, no, and they’ll be super mad if they find out.”

  “Oh . . . where are you staying?”

  I want to tell her. I really do, and I would if it was just me . . . but telling her means putting Connor’s life in her hands, not just mine, and I can’t. I have to look out for him, especially since Mom’s . . . whatever she is now. “Around,” I tell her. “I can’t tell you, though. It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s just—”

  “No, no, I get it. I won’t say anything. I never saw you here.” She turns and looks at me directly, and it’s dazzling. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Tana.”

  It makes me catch my breath, and shiver, and I hope she doesn’t feel it. I change the subject again. “Who trashed the house?” I wave a hand back toward the hall, the kitchen, the damage.

  “Oh. That.” Dahlia twirls a finger in her hair and tugs it down. It’s cute. “Yeah, well, you know that ass cancer Ernie, from town? Him and some of his baseball buddies from high school. They got run off by the cops two or three times. I’m sorry. I was going to come and clean it up, but I was scared I’d get arrested, too. My parents would never understand. They don’t understand most things.” She glances at me again, and there’s something in it that I instinctively know, and then I don’t, but I feel warm suddenly, burning up inside the smothering clothes I’m wearing.

  “That’s okay. At least the cops got them before they did more damage. Hey, come inside,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t be out here where just anybody can see us.”

  “I—” Dahlia thinks about it for a few seconds. I slide off the table and walk to the back door. She’s leaving, I think, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Bad, I think. I don’t know. When I look back, though, she’s following me. “Sure.”

  I open the door and go inside, then lock the door after. “Sorry,” I tell her. “It’s a rule. Door’s always locked. I mean, you can get out and everything. I’m not holding you hostage.”

  “Freak show, you realize there’s a great big hole in the window, right? What good does locking up do?” Dahlia coughs and makes a face. “Ugh. What’s that smell?”

  “Ass cancer Ernie and his friends dumped food all over the floor. I cleaned it up. I guess the smell’s going to take a while to go away.”

  “Ernie’s got your games and stuff, by the way. He’s been bragging about it all over town, like the strutting dick he is. God, I hate him. I’ve been thinking about slashing his tires.”

  “Rea
lly?”

  “All he talks about is how evil you are. I want to take a baseball bat to his windshield. I mean, slashing his tires is pretty mild, comparatively. Almost a good deed.”

  While we’re talking, we’re moving down the hallway, away from the stench. Not like either one of us is planning it. I don’t feel so scared now; Dahlia always changes the world around me into something better, something almost normal.

  My door’s still half-open, and I swing it back.

  Ernie and his goons didn’t get this far, apparently, because it’s like stepping into a dream. Everything’s where I left it, and just as messy. I freeze for a couple of seconds, and Dahlia crowds in behind me; I feel the heat of her skin against my back, and the warmth of her breath on my neck as she says, “Oh God, is it trashed? Did they—”

  I move forward, because I don’t know if she could feel me shiver, and I pick up stuff from the floor and stack it in the corner just to have something to do. Clothes, mostly. There’s my favorite black tee, and it smells like old sweat, but I put it aside anyway to take back with me.

  I can hardly smell the rotten-food stench in here at all, and when I shut the door and open the window a little, it’s fine. I sit down cross-legged on the bed. Dahlia flops down next to me and hugs my pillow. I miss my pillow. Javier’s aren’t soft enough. Maybe I’ll take that with me, too.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” I tell her, and she tosses the pillow at me with an expressive eye roll. I catch it before it hits my face. It still smells like detergent, which reminds me of Mom, and how she did the laundry twice a week, and I helped fold stuff. Sheets and towels, every week. Routines. Safety.

  Why did she have to be such a liar?

  I avoid the pain. Change the subject. “So, what are you doing today?”

  “Heading up to the Rock.”

  Oh. Right. The Rock is a big, jutting boulder that rests about halfway up the hill; it’s heavily graffitied, and a gathering place for local kids who want to smoke and drink and generally do stuff their parents wouldn’t like. I don’t go very often, but I know where it is. Everybody knows.