Rest In Peace (8 page)

“The sheriff asked Father Paul and Mrs. Wetherly's doctor to be there with him when he told her about the accident. So Father Paul and I rode over with the sheriff that night, and the doctor drove up the same time we did.”

While Lucy remained quiet, Matt cleared his throat and stared past her, frowning at a spot on the wall.

“It was so strange,” he finally said. “I don't know what I was expecting, really. But when we all got there, the front door was unlocked and the porch light was on. And Mrs. Wetherly was propped up in bed, almost as if she'd been waiting for us. She didn't even look surprised. Just so sad . . . calm . . . resigned, almost.”

A shiver went up Lucy's spine. Byron had told her how his grandmother
knew
things—how she'd even warned him that he'd never see Katherine alive again.
Did she see something the night of the accident, too? Did she know about me? Did she already know Byron was dead?

“I have to get to class,” Lucy said suddenly.

Matt stood as she swung her legs over the side of the cot. He watched her take several deep breaths, then he reached down for her elbows, drawing her slowly to her feet. As Lucy swayed a little, Matt's arms went around her, steadying her against his chest.

“Are you sure you feel like staying at school?” His smile was uncertain. “I'd be glad to take you home instead.”

Flustered, but not exactly sure why, Lucy pulled herself from his grasp. “Of course I'll stay. I'm fine.”

The thought of being alone again in Irene's house was unsettling. But staying here at school, even for two more hours, made Lucy feel even worse. Opening the curtain wider, she suddenly turned to face him.

“I drove Angela's car today.”

“I'll bring it over later. I'm sure I can get Mrs. Dempsey to follow me.”

“But will the office let me leave with you?”

“Hey,” Matt deadpanned, more like his old self, “I'm on official business for the Big Guy—they wouldn't dare mess with me.”

The temptation was just too great. After a quick stop at her locker while Matt got his things from the office and checked in with Principal Howser, Lucy joined him by the main entrance and followed him to the visitors' parking lot.

“My aunt lives on Lakeshore Drive,” Lucy told him as they headed through town. “Do you know where that is?”

“I do. And I think you should be very impressed with how well I've learned my way around.”

She knew he was trying to keep the mood light. She wished she could join in, wished she could rid herself of the terrible burden in her heart, but neither seemed possible to her now. So instead she stared out her window, so that he couldn't see her face when she finally spoke.

“Matt . . . I'm really sorry.”

His voice was genuinely surprised. “For what?”

“For the things I said. How angry I got.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

“I know I'm feeling sorry for myself. I know how pathetic that is . . . how self-destructive. And I know I should be thankful that I'm . . .” Her thoughts stumbled over sudden bad memories. She closed her eyes and forced herself to finish. “. . . that I got through it okay.”

She opened her eyes again and bit down on her lower lip. She waited for Matt to answer, but when he didn't, she turned in the seat to look at him.

“Aren't you going to ask me?” she burst out.

Matt kept his eyes on the road. “Ask you what?”

“What everyone's probably heard about—at least heard
rumors
about. Where I was—what happened to me—after Byron's car went off the road.”

“I think this is your street,” Matt replied.

He turned into the exclusive neighborhood, following Lucy's directions to the house. As he pulled into the driveway, he let out a soft whistle.

“Wow. I can see why your aunt's one of All Souls' most beloved benefactors.”

“Nobody loves my aunt. And don't change the subject.”

“You know, a lot of our parishioners live in this neighborhood. They don't attend mass either, but I'm pretty sure their tax deductions include very generous donations to the church.”

Lucy stared at him. He tapped his fingers slowly on the steering wheel, then turned off the engine. His expression was thoughtful as he faced her.

“Yes, I've heard rumors, Lucy.
And
questions.
And
lots of theories and speculations. But until I hear it straight from you, I won't believe anything. And I'd never just
assume
that you'd choose to tell me anyway.”

Before she could answer, Matt was out of the car. He tapped on her window, and she opened the passenger door.

“You have a key?” he asked, and Lucy nodded.

“But you don't have to come with me.”

“Oh yes, I do. I always walk ladies to their doors and make sure they're safe.”

In spite of herself, Lucy almost smiled. “Is that a church rule?”

“No, it's my mom's rule,” he corrected her, helping her out. “Which is even
more
sacred than a church rule. And there's no absolution when you break a mom's rule, didn't you know that? Break a mom's rule, and you suffer damnation for all eternity.”

“You can walk me to the front, then—it's shorter. But you don't have to check the house. Irene just got a new security system—she swears not even a fly could get in.”

The two of them went up the walkway to the wide, columned porch. Matt waited patiently while she fumbled the key into the lock, got the door open, and disengaged the alarm.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay here?” he persisted, his gaze sweeping the entry hall behind her.

“I'm sure. My aunt will be coming home . . . sometime.” Then as Matt frowned, Lucy quickly added, “And a friend might be picking me up later.”

“I'm glad, Lucy. You need to get out and be with people. It's okay to have some fun, you know.”

Despite his good intentions, Lucy felt that familiar stab of guilt. “And here's the key to . . . to Angela's car. It's a red Corvette. On the far side of the student lot, near the Dumpsters.”

“Don't worry. I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate this. And I really appreciate the ride home.”

“Anytime. I don't just keep office hours at school and church, you know. I'm on call twenty-four/seven.”

Lucy watched him walk to his car. She watched as he backed down the driveway, and she kept on watching, long after the black Jeep had disappeared.

The wind was growing restless. Just as the weatherman had predicted, a powdery snow was beginning to fall.

She wished she'd let Matt come inside with her.

Gripping the edge of the doorway, she fought down a sudden wild urge to call him back.

But as Lucy shut the door and locked it, she couldn't help thinking that the house felt even colder than the raw November air.

9

She hadn't planned on falling asleep.

With thoughts to sort out and homework to catch up on, taking a nap was the last thing she could afford to do.

But she'd been exhausted after Matt dropped her off. Exhausted and completely drained. So once she'd changed clothes and lain down across the bed, she'd fallen asleep so fast, she didn't even remember closing her eyes.

But the nightmares told her.

The nightmares always told her.

Nightmares like this one, that trapped her in Byron's van and in hidden caves, abandoned in the darkness and surrounded by dangers too terrible to imagine. Something was holding her down, something was making her burn, and through it all, someone in the background kept sobbing,
“She's going to die on Thursday
. . .
on Thursday.”

A frightened cry woke her. As Lucy lay there, groggy and disoriented, she tried to figure out where the sound had come from, then decided she must have made it herself. Bad enough to suffer the nightmares . . . even worse when they encroached upon reality.

She wasn't even sure what reality
was
anymore.

Her mind drifted back to school. To the girl coming out of the building, to the image of someone falling. Was she meant to give Wanda Carver a warning? How could she possibly approach a complete stranger like that? Offer some dire prediction that might be nothing more than the result of a head injury?

Just thinking about the consequences made Lucy shudder. Popular cheerleader Wanda Carver would tell the entire school. As low as Lucy's status already was, this bit of gossip would annihilate it completely.

Feeling depressed and defeated, Lucy sat up in bed. Why even bother telling anyone
anything
? She'd
tried
to tell people about the cave. About her escape through the woods, about the unknown stranger who'd rescued her. She knew how much people doubted her; even worse, she'd started doubting herself. She knew she couldn't prove anything about her terrifying experience, but that didn't make it less real. As real as these stitches on her head, these bruises fading from her face, the cuts and scratches healing along her arms and legs.

As real as seeing things without warning
. . .
as real as knowing things I can't explain.

Somewhere along the way, the fragile boundaries between Real and Unreal had shifted. Somewhere along the way, the boundaries between Seen and Unseen had begun to unravel and disappear.

Frowning, Lucy reached over to the nightstand.
That's funny
. . .
I could have sworn that lamp was on.

In fact, she distinctly remembered turning it on when she'd come in earlier, right before she'd changed clothes. And she'd been staring at the lampshade, too, right after she'd stretched out on the bed.

She jiggled the switch back and forth. But when no light came on, she swore under her breath and fiddled with the lightbulb. Still no luck.

She realized then that dusk had fallen. She could see snow outside the sliding glass doors, drifting onto the little balcony. The house was very quiet. A vast, empty quiet that told Lucy she was still alone. Nervously she got up, closed the curtains, and went out into the hall, rubbing her arms against the chill. The house felt even colder now than it had that afternoon.

The light in the hall didn't work either. As Lucy felt her way to the top of the stairs, she could see only darkness below. Irene had had automatic timers installed in every room—the whole first floor should be glowing with lamps by now.

Lucy stood on the landing, trying to think. It wasn't the first time the house had lost power, but it usually happened only during storms. Maybe it was something simple, like a fuse in the circuit breaker. Maybe that's why the house felt so cold.

Cautiously she reached out to grip the bannister. She'd have to go down and check the fuse box. She'd have to go all the way down to the basement. Anger flared inside her, mixed with fear. Why did Irene always have to work so late? Why couldn't she stay home and care even a little bit about Lucy's feelings?

Lucy forced her thoughts into a more positive direction. No need to panic. She'd reset the security system after Matt left; she was completely safe. Not even a fly could get in; isn't that what Irene had promised her? Everything was fine. Everything was normal. She'd fix the circuit breaker, and then she'd turn on every single light in the house.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and headed for her bedroom. There was a flashlight in her nightstand drawer, one Irene had insisted she keep there for emergencies. In fact, Irene had flashlights stored all over the house, if Lucy could only remember now where they were. She could always call 911 if she got really scared.
Quit being such a wimp—it's not like this is any big deal.

Yet Lucy's heart was pounding as she groped her way back along the corridor. And this time, her hand just happened to touch the door of Angela's room.

It was like receiving a shock.

The wooden panel was so icy cold that Lucy gasped and jumped back, pressing her hand to her chest.

For a second all she could do was stand there in the dark. The chill in her fingers shot all the way up through her arm, all the way into her head. She was too stunned to move; it was too black to see. Yet her eyes stared straight ahead, straight at Angela's door.

Irene had kept it shut ever since Angela's disappearance.

As though Angela and everything about her must be sealed away from Irene's disapproval and the constant demands of Irene's busy life.

Holding her breath, Lucy reached out for the door.

And felt it move slowly inward.

Angela's window was open. Lucy could see it from where she stood on the threshold, though the room was thick with shadows. The curtains fluttered like restless ghosts, and snow had swirled in through the screen, lying still unmelted upon the carpet.

Oh my God
. . .
someone's broken in!

Yet through a surge of panic, Lucy could see that the screen hadn't been cut, the glass was still intact.

It didn't make sense. She couldn't imagine that Irene had come in here and opened that window. And Florence came to clean only on Fridays. But maybe Florence had done it—opened the window to air out Angela's room and then forgotten to close it again.
Yes, that's it
, Lucy told herself firmly.
That must be it—what else could it be?