Buried (19 page)

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I
n the auditorium, the crowd is insane. I'm no longer seated up front with the contestants but in the back, where a guy with linebacker shoulders blocks my view. I can only see if I lean into Amy, who's sitting on my right. K.C. is on my left, and he's straining his neck to get a good view too.

The seats are hard metal and press uncomfortably against the steel studs in my jeans pockets.

“Can't you sit still?” my sister asks when I bump her with my elbow.

“No.”

“These seats are hard as rocks,” K.C. puts in diplomatically.

“Harder.” I cross my legs, then uncross them and stand up to stretch. Among the frenzy of people moving down the aisles, a familiar figure startles me.

I start to wave at Jay but stop myself. No one even knows we're sort of friends. But I lean sideways to watch him. He's wearing formal black slacks and a navy blue dress shirt and walking beside a distinguished-looking, salt-and-pepper-haired man who holds himself with the stiff bearing of a military officer. I don't need to be told this is Jay's father, the (not-so) Honorable Judge Blankenship.

“Who are you looking at?” K.C. asks.

“No one.” I turn back to K.C., my cheeks warm.

“No one must be very interesting.”

Very
, I think as I swivel away from K.C. for another glimpse of Jay. But he and his father must have found seats. And why shouldn't they be here? The Jay-Clones are in the contest, so of course Jay would want to watch.

As long as that's Jay's
only
reason—and not to cause trouble for Philippe.

Lights flash across the auditorium, then flicker and dim as someone takes the stage. There's a hush, the audience eager for the star attraction. But it's only boring introductions. The principal, school board members, parent club president, and finally Collette, shimmering in red, take the podium. When she introduces herself and then Philippe, the audience explodes with fandom screams, whistles, and applause.

A spotlight shines golden on the star of the night. I smile, amused, thinking how only a few years ago he was just plain Phil, a troublemaker and dropout no one wanted around, but now people pay money just for a glimpse of him. Fame is like a mask, hiding realness beneath glamour.
Not for me
, I think, and I'm glad to be sitting in the audience. But stardom totally works for Philippe. He's dramatic and really hot in his tight jeans, and the black shirt under his leather vest has the top buttons unfastened. His white teeth flash as he takes the microphone to welcome the audience. Then he steps aside for Principal Niphai, who announces the first act.

Applause is muted for the first singer, Jaden Ming, then more enthusiastic for tiny, big-voiced Christiana Lee.

The Jay-Clones go on third, and as they take the stage the applause is so deafening I have to cover my ears with my hands. They did okay in auditions, but tonight their harmony is off and their clunky notes make for horrible chords. After a few minutes I want to cover my ears again, for different reasons. When they finish, the applause is only polite.

The next two acts are much better. Then the Cotton Candy Cowgirls are announced and I brace myself. My costume fits great on a taller, more full-figured girl with mocha skin and a big smile. Priscilla, the girl I replaced, has now replaced me. When I search myself for bitterness and find none, I realize with relief that I'm okay with this. Priscilla plays well … and loud. She rocks out on her electric guitar so passionately that I can barely hear the other girls sing.

The big dude in front of me shifts, blocking my view. The clogging is coming up and I don't want to miss it, so I lean into Amy. I still can't see the stage, but I have a clear view of the aisle—and out of the corner of my eye, I see Jay.

Why is he leaving in the middle of the CCCs performance? Where is he going? He's moving fast toward the exit … then gone.

Blast his conniving soul!
He's going to cause trouble for Philippe.

I whisper to K.C. that I'm going to the bathroom, then I push my way down the row and exit the auditorium into the brisk autumn air. I look around the quad but don't see Jay. Clearing my mind, I focus my finding energy on him. Even though I usually need to hold an object, I can visualize him so clearly it's like I'm touching him with my mind

I move without thought, following a mysterious compass that knows more about my destination than I do. When I see a flash of movement turn a corner toward the parking lot, my inner alarm goes off. And I switch from a walk to a run.

In the minutes since Jay left the auditorium he's changed his clothes, switching into a dark cloak, black boots, and a concealing ski mask with a smiley face.

“Jay!” I call out.

He stops as if my voice is lightning and I've struck a direct hit. He whirls around. “Shhsh! Someone might hear you! What are you doing here?”

“I had a feeling,” I say with a coy smile.

“Go back to the show,” he tells me, punching a button on his keys the makes the lights flash on a white truck. “I don't have much time. My dad thinks I'm sitting with friends, but he'll look for me when the show is over. So I have to return before the last group finishes.”

“Return from where?” I demand. “What's the Reaper plotting?”

“As if I'm going to tell you,” he says, snorting.

“I already know your secret, so why not tell me more?”

“You'll tattle back to your winged girlfriend.”

“I don't tattle to anyone.”

“You'd warn her.”

“Why are you so sure what I'd do?” I ask accusingly. “Is this about Philippe?”

“I should lie.” He lifts his mask to look into my eyes. “But I won't. Not to you.”

The sincerity in his tone softens my anger. And the way he's staring into my face shoots electricity through me. I see past the pretty features that mask the intelligent and volatile soul hidden deep within.

“What are you going to do to Philippe?” I ask.

“I'm not going to kill him, or cut off his famous curls.”

I almost smile. “Then what?”

“Payback—that's all. Well deserved.”

“Your opinion,” I say, with heavy accusation.

“Don't try to stop me, Thorn. I don't want to do anything to make you hate me.”

“Why not? You only care about revenge.”

“You're wrong. I care about … .” He reaches out with his gloved hands and brushes a finger against my cheek; a touch as gentle as a feather, but it feels like sweet fire against my skin. “I care about more than you know. It's why I have to even the score.”

I should move away from him, yet I don't. His gaze tugs and torments me with confusing emotions—curiosity, excitement, fear. As if he embodies the air at the edge of a cliff. What would it be like if I jumped?

Crazy thoughts
, I tell myself. I'm only here because whatever Jay has planned for Philippe could hurt Amerie, too.

“Forget about revenge,” I say quietly.

“Why should I?”

I shrug. “I don't know … maybe because I'm asking you.”

“That's a good reason.”

“So you'll go back to the show?”

He gives a sad shake of his head and reaches for my hand. My fingers curl around his as if drawn to a magnet. An electric surge shivers through me and strange images whirl through my head: an image of us together, in a semi-dark room with striped red curtains and a fake-fur bear rug on the floor. We're not alone … there's a sense of others in the room. And danger. The images flicker and fade away. But fear lingers, and so does a map in my head that's eerily similar to the map of where I found the grave.

Jay has been talking and I missed part of it. “ … Get something back, and this will be my only chance. I'm leaving now.” He reaches up to pull his mask back on, and all I can see are those deep dark eyes. “Please don't follow me.”

“I don't need to follow because I know where you're going.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

A puzzle piece clicks in my mind. “To 358 Red Hawk Drive.”

His jaw drops open. “How do you know?”

“I'm psychic,” I say as if joking. “And I predict you'll take me with you.”

My prediction is one hundred percent right.

Since there's no talking Jay out of his stubborn revenge, I go along to make sure that whatever he has planned doesn't hurt Amerie. The drive is familiar, through dusky hills and shadowy trees and buildings. When I shiver, Jay turns up the car heater and offers me a spare jacket. I slip it around my shoulders, inhaling leather and Jay. I find myself looking at him in a new way. His full lips are pressed tight with determination as he stares out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel like it's an adversary.

When we reach the bend in the road where one direction goes up the canyon toward where I found the grave and the other winds into the half-finished housing development, I tense. Our headlights reveal a street sign for Red Hawk Drive, which winds through the skeletal houses and up the hill into the older area of homes. Some houses here have lights on. There are rock-and-cactus-decorated yards and parked cars.

A light green sedan is parked at number 358. Jay cuts his lights and rolls silently to the curb a few houses down.

“You stay here,” he tells me.

“Like hell I will.”

He shrugs and doesn't argue when I open my door. Moving stealthily close to the large decorative rocks, he creeps up to a window. Staying low, he peeks inside.

“What do you see?” I whisper.

He shifts to another window. “A light in the living room, but no one's there. The house looks deserted.”

“What about the car?” I gesture behind me to the driveway.

“Must be an extra for when the family stays here. But Philippe and his crew have been staying in the bus and a hotel. No one lives here anymore.”

“Philippe grew up here with his stepdad until he got a record deal and moved to L.A.”

“Don't tell me you're a Philippe groupie?” he mocks.

I smack his shoulder. “Shut up. I heard it from Amerie.”

“Damn. You got a powerful arm.” Jay rubs his shoulder. “I'd ask you to wait while I go in, but I'd probably be wasting my breath.”

“Totally. A big waste. I'm coming with you.”

He nods, and I follow him as he winds around the backyard and goes up to a sliding glass door covered in dark beige drapes. He pulls tiny silver tools from his pocket, jiggles the lock, and silently slides the door open. We go inside.

It's not a large house—a modest living room opens into a small kitchen, and a narrow hallway leads to three doors. Jay pulls out a small flashlight and starts down the hall. He opens the first door: a closet-sized bathroom. He moves to the next door, shining the light into a very feminine room with a pale white carpet, a flowered comforter on the bed, a bright red suitcase propped open against the wall, and shelves overhead filled with hundreds of decorative porcelain plates.

“His mother's room,” Jay murmurs.

“Before he moved her to LaLa Land,” I add.

“One door left,” he says.

We pause outside the final door and as my fingers brush the handle, I get a mental image of Philippe looking more like he appeared in the school yearbook; tough, with scars from fights and a mean scowl. Negative energy shivers through me.

The beam of Jay's flashlight lands on a wooden cabinet and he hurries into the room, which gives off a strong Philippe energy.
Philippe's old bedroom
. My footsteps soften as I step on a fake-fur bear rug. Drawers creak open and shut as Jay searches. Then there's a sharp intake of breath. I come up behind Jay as he shines his flashlight on stacks of vinyl records.

“Yes!” he exclaims as he pulls out a record. “We can go now.”

“You only wanted a record?” I ask with surprise.

“It's a really good record.”

“Valuable?”

“Not really—except to complete a vinyl collection.”

“So why do you want it so badly?”

“To return it to Wiley.”

“This is all because Philippe has an old record of Wiley's?”

“Phil borrowed it when he and Wiley were in a band together. Then Philippe found fame and took off for L.A. The singer on this record is Wiley's great-grandfather, and it's autographed to his mother. Wiley sent texts, wrote letters, and left phone messages, but big-shot Philippe couldn't be bothered to reply. So I left more direct letters and a DVD of Phil and Wiley jamming together. When they were in the band, Wiley helped Philippe write some of his songs, so I warned Philippe to return Wiley's property or the DVD goes on YouTube—which means everyone would find out that Philippe didn't write his bestselling song alone. Wiley doesn't even care about getting credit; he just wants his great-grandfather's record back. And now that I have it, Philippe can keep his secret.”

“So let's get out of here,” I say.

“Sure, let's—”

“Stop!” interrupts a shrill voice. “Don't move!”

The overhead light flashes on. I blink in the blinding brightness.

“I said don't move!” the woman warns. “Slowly turn around, both of you.”

Her voice is familiar, and when I turn to face her I see red: glamorous red dress, ruby high heels, and furious crimson lips pressed tight. Philippe's manager, Collette, aims a gun at us.

I remember Sabine's warning about a gun. Uncanny Opal was right again. Now it dawns on me that the red suitcase in the feminine bedroom was open. Collette must be staying here instead of a hotel.

“Put that down,” Jay tells her, in a relaxed and friendly tone. He lifts one arm as if in surrender, but holds tight to the record with his other hand. “We're not thieves.”