The Creeping (15 page)

“Stella, tell me what you've been up to.” Mrs. Worth launches
her first of many questions. I tell her everything I think a mom would want to hear. She beams proudly when Sam says we compete against each other for the second spot in our class—Michaela usually comes in first. She tilts her head and listens when I tell her about the last article I wrote for the
Wildwood
Herald
. She applauds when I tell her I might work as the
Herald
's editor senior year. She coos sympathetically when I share that I haven't seen my mother since Christmas Day. It reminds me of long summer afternoons spent by Sam's pool, with his mom serving us lemonade and teaching us to backflip into the deep end. She's always been the kind of mother I wish I had.

That is, until she scrapes her fork along her plate and finishes her last bite. “Do you have a boy you're seeing?” Her voice is low and velvety, but her words needle my eardrums.

I stare at the points of my fork; if I jammed them into my arm, would she be too distracted to make me answer? “No, not really,” I say after too long.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Really? It's hard to believe that such a pretty girl doesn't have a boy.”

“Mom, stop,” Sam groans. “You don't have to answer, Stella.”

I fidget in my chair. Mrs. Worth keeps her eyes on me, waiting for more. I swear the grandfather clock ticking in the living room has been turned up ten decibels. It's all I hear as I say, “I don't really date much. I mean, I go out on dates, I just don't have boyfriends.” I stop. I've already said too much. This apron-wearing, stay-at-home mom will not understand. The fabric of my camisole pulls uncomfortably
against the itchy skin on my chest. Great. I'm breaking out in hives, red welts rising as they watch.

Mrs. Worth scoffs at Sam, “Don't be silly. It's a harmless question.” She smiles warmly at me. “You'll get no judgment from me. I barely know what I want and I'm . . . well, let's just say I'm older than you. I can't imagine knowing what you want when you're your age.” She shrugs and slides her chair back from the table.

She shoos me out of the kitchen when I try to carry plates over to the sink. “You two go watch a movie or something.”

I follow Sam through the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. My purse is on his bed where I left it and my cell rattles, vibrating against a compact. I snatch it from the bag and glare at the screen, hoping beyond hope that it isn't Shane calling to chew me out. Taylor. Really, now? It's been days since the bonfire and no word. Plus, we usually text, so what's with him calling all of a sudden?

“You should answer it.” Sam surprises me, looking over my shoulder. I avert my eyes, worried that they'll reveal too much, and fumble for the end button.

“No, that's okay. I don't know why he's calling.”

“I do. Aren't you going out with him?” He laughs a bit nervously, mostly to himself, when I don't answer right away. He perches on the edge of his desk. He's still wearing his UFO shirt, but it doesn't look silly to me anymore. I take so long to answer because I can't get over the fact that even though Sam assumes Taylor and I are together, he didn't bring it up when I was throwing a jealous tantrum earlier.

“No, I'm not.” Thinking about Taylor makes me frown. “We've never
even been out together. You know, not without a group.”

Sam stares at his socked foot as he taps his toes on the carpet. I crawl back onto his bed, crossing my legs. “I don't get it then,” he says, shoulders drooping.

I start to get blushy as I realize I'm sitting on his bed. “Don't get what?” I sound too breathy.

“Everything, really.” He smiles crookedly. “But in this moment, I don't get why you never seem to have a boyfriend, but I always see you with guys. Granted, the infamous lacrosse or football players at Wildwood aren't my type either.” He waggles his eyebrows before continuing, “But I see you out with them. And . . . I hear things.” He finishes quietly, eyes intent on my expression.

I pretend to fawn over my polished nails to stall for time. The tactic doesn't deter Sam, who stares at me unflinchingly, patiently. Always patient. I sigh and admit, “I go on first dates with a lot of guys. I like flirting; guys act really interested when you're just flirting and you're still . . . you know, not giving it up. But I don't have boyfriends.”

“Why not?”

I stare at the ceiling as I answer. “Guys lose interest once you show you're interested. They only want what they can't have. Once they get it, they leave. Everyone knows that.”

“I don't know that,” he says firmly. I risk a quick look at his face when he says it. The crease in his brow is a parenthesis mark.

I shrug, turning my attention back to the ceiling and its whirling fan. It's safer to stare at. “Then you must be the only person on the planet who doesn't.”

I'm aware of him moving closer. I resist the urge to run. He stops directly in front of me, his head blocking my view of the ceiling. “Any guy who doesn't want you because you don't play hard to get is an ass. Those guys aren't good enough for you.” I chew my bottom lip. Zoey would totally pitch a fit to know this: I've always wondered what it would be like to kiss Sam again. You know, after I've kissed handfuls of boys. I wonder if it would still stack up.

For a moment I think I might find out. I'm aware of my bottom lip parting from my top. My phone vibrates again, just as he moves to sit next to me. I glance down to see Dad's office number on the screen.

“Dad?” I answer, breathless. Sam backs off, leaning against his desk, whistling softly.

“Hey, Pumpkin. I'm swamped at the office but wanted to check in and let you know I'll be late tonight. Are the police still in front of the house?” Typical. Dad doesn't even know I'm MIA.

“Not certain. I'm actually at Sam Worth's house. His mom made dinner and we're watching a movie.”

“That's nice, Pumpkin. He'll make sure you get home safe? Give me a call once you're back.” The call ends when good-bye is just rolling off my tongue. I can't help sighing as I toss my cell back into my purse.

“He still works a lot, doesn't he?” Sam asks.

“All the time. He keeps saying he'll cut back with Mom gone and all, but you know how it goes. Plus, I think it makes him sad to be home without her.”

“It must be hard for you too,” he says gently.

I wrinkle my nose. “I'm mostly used to it. What else is there to do but accept it? She left us.” My shoulders rise and fall. “Was Harry wearing a sweater-vest at the bonfire?” I change the subject.

One-half of his mouth hitches up. “Yeah. Don't you remember Harry? He's been in school with us since the eighth grade.” My fingers knit in my lap as I picture a twelve-year-old in a sweater-vest. “He wore headgear to school every day for two years?” Sam prods. I shake my head. He groans. “Zoey called him Dirty Harry.”

My hand flies to my mouth as I try to smother a laugh. “Oh my God. Dirty Harry is your BFF?” He smiles at the teasing in my tone. “Jeez, I thought he moved or something.”

“Nope. He got rid of the braces, started using dandruff shampoo, and became a Jedi Master at avoiding Zoey.” I cringe and laugh at the same time. “Really,” he says, stroking his chin, “Dirty Harry was not her best work.”

“No, it wasn't,” I agree.

Sam moves to sit on the bed next to me; the mattress squeals under his weight. He's serious all of a sudden, and it kills the laugh gurgling up from my throat. “Stella, about what I was saying before.” He turns to me, lips parted, the pulse in his neck beating steadier than my own. “I want you to know that—”

“SAM!” Mrs. Worth yells from the foot of the stairs. “The police are here to speak with you.”

“Oh crap.” I leap from the bed like it's on fire and jam my feet into the ruined flats. “It'll be Shane. I should have called him back.” I grab
my bag and rush down the stairs. Sure enough, Detective Tim Shane fills the foyer with his broad shoulders and menacing frown.

When I'm halfway down the stairs, he says, “In the car, please, Stella,” in his best cop voice.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Worth. Thank you so much for dinner. Bye, Sam!” I shout without turning to see if he's followed. My cheeks and thoughts are feverish. I want out of here. I'm not prepared to hear what Sam wants to say. Mostly because I'm not sure how I'll respond. I also can't stomach being chewed out by Shane in front of him.

I duck past Shane and through the door, jumping off the porch and jogging to his idling sedan. Heavy droplets of rain plop from the sky, and I hurry into the car's cloth interior. It reeks of cigarettes and greasy fast food. After another minute, Shane joins me, silently backing the car out of the driveway. Mrs. Worth stands on the porch waving, her back-lit silhouette somehow warm and inviting. Traveling away from her sends a pang deep into my chest.

We drive without speaking. I crack my window, hoping that some fresh air will vanquish the nausea rising in my stomach. When it doesn't work, I try apologizing.

I twist to face him, hands imploring. “Look, I know today was bad. I understand you had those cops follow to keep me safe. But I was totally fine with Sam. And there was something we needed to do without them.”

Shane grits his teeth and growls, “Stop calling them cops. It's disrespectful. They're police officers who would risk their lives to keep you safe.” I clasp my hands in my lap, trying to look remorseful. “You scared
the shit out of me. I've been looking for you for
hours
. The DNA results came back on the finger bone.” I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for him to hiss Jeanie's name. Waiting for all the strangely shaped jigsaw pieces to snap together as something obvious—horrible, yes, but instantly recognizable, like a kiddie-porn pervert. “It's not Jeanie's,” Shane says instead. The words are raw, screechy. My head droops to the seat.

“The lab says the bone is old—older than Jeanie's would be. They called a bone-dating specialist in to give us an exact age. Techs combed through the graves disrupted by the mudslide, and it didn't come from any of them.”

For a block there's only the beat of rain as I imagine techs counting the toes and fingers of skeletons, humming this little piggy went to market, as part of some deranged lullaby.

“We've got something really ugly on our hands, and then you go and ditch my officers like that. What were you thinking?” Shane's volume builds. “Or is that the problem, you weren't? You wanted to run off with your boyfriend, everyone else be damned.”

This ignites my temper. Yes, anger is easier than fear, so I grasp at it. “He's not my
boyfriend
, and I'm trying to do everything I can to figure out what happened to Jeanie and the poor little girl in the cemetery and whoever she had a piece of.” I jab my finger into his shoulder. “You're the one wasting time with Jeanie's dad. Do you understand that?” I glare at him accusingly. “You've got an innocent man while the real perv is free.”

Shane brakes hard at a red light; the tires shriek on the wet pavement. “What are you talking about? Kent Talcott is a likely suspect.
What do you mean he's innocent?” His baritone booms in the confined cab like we're inside a beating drum. Anger must be easier for him too.

“I'd know if it was him. Don't you get that?” I clutch my hands to my chest. “I'd feel it here when I look at him, and I don't. He's a good dad who's never done anything wrong. Like mine. You've taken the only family Daniel has left.” My voice cracks as I clamp my mouth shut. OHMYGOD. Why did I bring up Daniel?

“Daniel? Have you seen him? We reached his aunt in Portland, and he hasn't been there in months.” Shane's like a zombie scenting blood. “Stella, if he's in town, he's a suspect. We've been operating under the assumption that he's estranged from his family.” A car behind us at the stoplight honks. The rain is heavier now, almost hail.

I avoid looking at Shane. “Obviously I haven't seen him. You know I've always felt bad for him. I just mean that his dad is all he has left, and I get that.” Desperate to change the subject, I rush on. “Why didn't you include Mrs. Griever's statement in the case file you gave me? She was home the day Jeanie was taken, and not just that, she says there are others.”

Shane pulls the car into my driveway. Only two news vans remain, their reporters huddled under a tarp strung up between trees. “Griever? That old drunk who lives down the Talcotts' lane? She was barely coherent when we interviewed her. So old that she probably couldn't make it out of her yard. She said she didn't see either of you. Stella, she's just an old woman who tells tales. There haven't been any other child abductions in Savage in the last sixty years. Whoever the bone belongs to, they aren't from here.”

The fury drained out of him, he pats his pockets, looking for a pack of cigarettes. “I don't blame you for looking for answers, but Old Lady Griever will fill your head with nonsense.
I'm the police.
I can't solve a disappearance that there's no record of.” He leans forward and adds in a gentler tone, “Maybe . . . maybe you should talk to your dad about staying at your mom's during all of this? It could be good to remove yourself from it. This town is only just beginning to react. You see all the vigils.”

It takes all my willpower not to slug Shane in his globe-shaped face. Go stay with my mom? That's literally the only thing worse than all this Jeanie Talcott gruesomeness. I kick the car door open. There's nothing else to say tonight. He doesn't believe Mrs. Griever, but I do. “You shouldn't smoke or eat fast food,” I yell right before I slam the door in his face. I sprint to the house and jam the key into the door's deadbolt. Inside I flick all the light switches on and trudge up to my bedroom.