Broken Hearts (14 page)

What was that sound?

It took him a few seconds to realize it was his own breathing.

He pulled open the storm door. He reached for the brass knob with a trembling hand.

He turned it and pushed.

The door swung open.

I don't believe it! he thought, scrambling inside.

He pushed the door shut behind him and leaned back against it, waiting to catch his breath.

I'm in. I'm inside. Just like that.

The front hallway was dark. Dark as night.

Silent as a tomb.

I'm in. Now what?

He struggled to think clearly. He wished he could turn on a light. He wished his heart would stop pounding.

Got to get upstairs, he told himself. To Josie's room.

Calm. Calm.

There's plenty of time. The funeral is just beginning.

The funeral.

Funeral.

The word sounded so strange.

Stop stalling, he scolded himself. Get upstairs.

He pushed himself away from the doorway.

He took a step in the dark, narrow hallway. Then another.

A grandfather clock ticked noisily.

“Hey—!”

What hit his knee?

Squinting, he saw the wooden umbrella stand.

“Give me a break,” he muttered, his voice sounding tiny and hollow in the empty darkness.

He was nearly to the front stairway when he heard the intercom.

Dave stopped right in front of the box on the wall.

Had it just clicked on?

No, it must have been left on.

He moved his ear close to the small round speaker.

Crackling sounds.

Just static. Empty static.

Or
was
it?

Dave listened carefully. Was that
breathing?
Was someone breathing into it?

No.

Yes.

“Hello? Anyone there?” he called into it, bringing his mouth right up to the box.

No reply.

He listened.

He couldn't tell if he heard breathing or just the normal crackling and static.

“Anyone there?” he said again.

Silence.

Exhaling loudly, he made his way up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight. He stepped onto the landing, his hand reluctant to let go of the banister.

It was even darker up there.

He knew which bedroom was Josie's. He had visited her there once when she was sick. Back when they were going together.

The floor groaned beneath him as he walked quickly into her room. Rain drummed noisily against the bedroom window as if trying to break in.

The bed was neatly made, an old teddy bear on the pillow.

As if waiting for Josie to return.

A neatly folded stack of freshly laundered clothes was piled on a chair beside the window.

Dave sighed.

This is definitely creepy he thought. Josie was here two days ago. Now she'll never be here again.

He made his way to the old oak desk in the corner. Leaning over the desk chair, he started to search the desk top with both hands.

“Got to find the cards and get out of here,” he said out loud, his voice a trembling whisper.

A strong gust of wind made the old windows rattle. The entire house seemed to shudder in reply.

I
hate
these old houses, he thought, feeling his panic rise, choking him.

I hate Fear Street and I hate these old houses. I hate the rain and I hate the wind and I hate—

“Where
are
they?” he asked himself aloud.

He pushed aside a stack of school papers.

He searched through another pile of notebooks and binders.

No, not here.

But they
have
to be here. They
have
to be.

A wave of nausea swept over him. He stopped searching. Swallowed hard.

Where
are
they?

Not on the desk.

Of course they're not. She would never keep them out. She probably shoved them into a drawer.

He grabbed the drawer handle. Pulled so hard he almost pulled the entire drawer out of the desk.

Calm down. Calm down. He repeated the words over and over, but it didn't seem to help.

Where are they? Where
are
they?

He riffled frantically through the contents of the drawer.

No, not here.

Then where?

Where?

He shoved the drawer back into the desk, his hands trembling. His breath coming in loud gasps.

He dropped down onto his knees and peered under the bed.

Nothing there but dust.

What was that sound?

A car?

A car door slamming?

“I've got to get out,” he muttered out loud, in a shrill, quivering voice he didn't recognize. “Out. Got to get out.”

He'd failed.

He coulnd't find them.

Now someone was coming. He had to get out and fast!

His heart pounding, he climbed to his feet and lurched to the doorway. In the dark, narrow landing, he turned toward the stairs.

Halfway to the stairs, he stopped short.

And cried out in shock and horror.

S
wirling reds.

Puddles and pools.

Blood red.

Shimmering and rolling, spinning around him.

And behind the angry spills of color, Dave's scream, a hideous animal wail.

Of horror.

Of anger.

The scream refused to fade.

The red pools refused to disappear.

The scream continued to echo until it was replaced by new sounds.

A rumble at first.

Thunder?

No. Too close to be thunder.

And too human.

Footsteps, Dave realized.

The rumble and creak of footsteps on the stairs.

Heavy footsteps, moving closer. Rapidly moving closer.

The two officers ran up the stairs and burst into the hallway.

One of them reached for the light switch. The overhead light clicked on, a white sunburst, an explosion of light.

“Hey, you—!”

The two officers moved quickly across the landing. One of them reached for his pistol.

“Drop it!” the other one yelled to Dave.

Dave stared at the blood-covered letter opener gripped so tightly in his hand.

The red flowing onto the silver.

“Drop it! Now!” the policeman barked.

Dave leaned over the girl. He stared at the bloody wound in her side. Stared at the puddle of blood at his feet.

Erica.

The girl was Erica.

He huddled over Erica, staring at the stab wound.

The blood red swirls floated angrily in Dave's eyes. Blinding him.

Suffocating him.

So much blood.

Poor Erica.

Such a big, red wound. And so much blood.

Puddles and pools.

Such an angry, angry red.

Why was Erica here?

Why were the police here?

Why wouldn't the red pools go away?

Dave whirled around. He started to stand up.

“Stop right there, son,” the officer said, tensing the arm that held the pistol aimed at Dave. “Drop the knife and don't move. You're in a lot of trouble.”

M
elissa leaned forward to kiss Luke and bumped her forehead against his glasses.

“Ow!” they both said.

Melissa gave Luke a playful shove with both hands. “Don't you ever take those glasses off?” she chided.

He laughed and pulled his glasses off. He gazed at her expectantly, waiting for another kiss. But Melissa surprised him by jumping to her feet.

“Hey, come back,” he called. “What's wrong?”

Melissa walked to the den window and stared out at the darkening sky. Gray clouds collided over the bare trees, threatening a snowstorm. By the side of the garage, two large crows were pecking at the hard ground. Melissa watched them till they flew away, squabbling loudly.

“I got a letter from Dave,” she told Luke, still staring out the window, her arms crossed over the
front of her pale green sweater. She uncrossed her arms and began to fiddle with a tangle of black hair.

“Huh? From Dave?” Luke reacted with surprise.

Luke and Melissa had been going out for about two months. In all that time, she had mentioned Dave only once or twice. Dave, Luke knew, was in some military-style boarding school upstate. Luke wasn't exactly sure where.

“Poor Dave,” Melissa said, turning to face Luke, sitting against the windowsill. “He really lost it.”

“Yeah,” Luke agreed thoughtfully, putting his glasses back on.

“He always had a terrible temper,” Melissa said, still toying with her hair. “But I never thought he killed Josie and stabbed Erica. I still don't believe it.”

“I can't believe it happened a year ago,” Luke said softly. “It—it's all so fresh in my mind.”

“I still have nightmares about it,” Melissa confessed. “Getting the letter from Dave brought it all back.”

Leaning against the windowsill, feeling the chill from outside against her back, the frightening events of one year before whirred rapidly, painfully through Melissa's mind.

Dave had been caught huddling over Erica's unconscious body, the blood-soaked letter opener in his hand. Erica was rushed to the hospital where she eventually recovered. Dave was arrested and held.

But the police investigation couldn't link Dave to Josie's murder. And Erica never pressed charges, never accused him of stabbing her. “It was too dark,”
she had told the police. “And I was attacked from behind. I never saw who did it.”

Why had Erica been home?

She had been in a state of shock, too sick and upset to go to Josie's funeral. She had stayed home with Rachel while her parents went to the funeral.

She heard strange noises over the intercom. She called the police. She stepped out into the dark hallway to investigate—and was stabbed from behind.

Dave told the police that he hadn't been the one who stabbed Erica. He claimed that he had stumbled over Erica's body while trying to get to the stairway. She had already been stabbed. Dave was so shocked and horrified, he bent down and picked up the letter opener.