The Creeping (17 page)

I grunt noncommittally and check that everyone else is a couple of yards ahead. I keep my voice low. “I've been trying to remember what happened . . . you know, the summer of Jeanie.”

He freezes midstride, with one foot suspended over a fallen trunk. His eyes dart to mine before he resumes the step and offers me a hand to help me over. “Sorry. That took me by surprise. I always thought you didn't want to talk about it.”

“You're right,” I admit. He is. I'm not certain Caleb and I have ever discussed that summer directly, even though he indirectly shut up a lot of guys—including Mike Walt—for teasing me when we were younger. “I definitely wasn't into obsessing over it. But with the dead little girl and Mrs. Talcott and the cops suspecting Mr. Talcott . . . how can I go on my merry way, pretending everyone's salvation isn't trapped in my screwed-up brain?”

“Salvation?” One blond brow lifts up, and he swats at a swarm of gnats we're traveling through. It's an unusually buggy afternoon.

“Okay. Maybe that's melodramatic. Mr. Talcott's freedom and probably Daniel's sanity hinge on me doing something.”

“Seriously, Stella, don't you think it's safer to stay out of it?” he asks. I open my mouth to argue before he cuts me off. “Just hear me out. You matter to me. Zoey matters to me. My mom matters to me. That's not a lot of people. You're like my less bitchy kid sister.” He elbows my side playfully before sobering up. “Whoever took Jeanie, whoever killed that kid in the cemetery, whoever killed Mrs. Talcott, you don't want a piece of them.” His shoulders rise and fall, and I can tell he doesn't want to keep talking about it.

The way he refers to Jeanie's, Mrs. Talcott's, and Jane Doe's killers separately rather than saying
the
killer . . . It nicks my imagination. I get these sudden glimmers of yesterday at Griever's, and Jane Doe's body in the cemetery. I'm sure Caleb doesn't mean anything by it, because he doesn't know about the Balco girl. Caleb doesn't know that the crimes are stacking up and they couldn't possibly be the work of one person.

Zoey spins to face us for two backward strides. “Hurry up, slackers,” she yells, staring daggers at Caleb and waving her middle finger in the air. He picks up the pace instantly. I trot to stay at his side. We're coming up on the others, and I'm losing my chance.

“Caleb,” I hiss under my breath, and reach out to tug on his T-shirt—there's a grinning adolescent pop star on the back. I'm sure Caleb thinks he's oh-so ironic wearing the T-shirt.

Before my fingers make contact, Caleb stops suddenly and spins to face me. “I know what you're gonna say. You're asking me to help you.” He sweeps his hair off his forehead and blinks, daring me to argue.

I step toward him and keep my volume low. “Yeah, I am. Just talk to me about that summer and about Jeanie.”

He steps away and says too loudly, “Why? So you can pick up the trail of a killer? So you can get closer to a homicidal maniac? So you can get yourself killed?” There's desperation in his pale-blue, rounding eyes. “This isn't rescuing you from your mom's so we can bum around Chicago for a week. This is
dangerous
.” His voice takes on a pleading quality that echoes mine.

“Please.”

“No. I love you too much for that. And don't make me—”

“Don't make you what?” I cock my hand on my popped hip.

“Tell your dad what you're doing. I'll tell the police, too.” He says it uncertainly. He doesn't want to cause me trouble. He cares about me, and what can I say in response? If I push it, maybe he really will tell Dad. Maybe I really will be sent to my mom's. And there will be no Caleb there to whisk me away.

I sigh. “Just forget it, okay? It was stupid of me to ask. Stupid of me to think I'd crack a case the police can't.” I walk around him to catch up with the others. I think he calls my name, but I don't stop. Eventually, he joins the group, and I try to shake off being annoyed with him. How can I be angry because he wants to keep me safe? Wouldn't I want the same for him? I'm disappointed, though. Caleb was my last chance at recruiting another to help Daniel, Sam, and me.

When we're halfway to the cove, Drew or Dean says, “My boy saw that psycho Daniel Talcott back in town.” I cringe at hearing Daniel's name in this jerkwad's mouth.

“Dude, it was probably Daniel who hacked up his mom and sister. Or a father-son crime,” Taylor spits. He saunters up and flings his arm across my shoulders, binding me to his side as we walk. “That whole family is screwed up. I heard they're into incest.” His skin is clammy, venomous sweat seeping into mine. I throw his heavy arm from my back and stomp forward. I grind my teeth, willing a billion verbal lashings silent. For Zoey. Only because I know Zoey brought Taylor to make me happy.

I look to Caleb for a distraction, but he's making gooey eyes at Cole and asking her about California. I drop to the ground, pretending to be engrossed in tying a shoelace to lose him. It doesn't work, since Taylor waits for me to finish. “Are you afraid 'cause Mr. Talcott is out of jail? We could pay him a visit for you, kick his ass.” I look up at Taylor, disgust rising up with bile in my throat. His head blots out the sun like a lunar eclipse. Drew and Dean hoot in agreement, arms
waving like a couple of monkeys.
No
, monkeys are smarter.

“Jeanie and her mom weren't hacked up. And the cops let Mr. Talcott go because they didn't have any evidence that he did it,” I snap, getting to my feet and jogging to catch up with Michaela. “Anyway,” I add, “Daniel loved Jeanie. Neither of them are guilty. I would know.” I hope I sound convincing enough. They lose interest anyway and drone on about the logistics of luring a hog into the pool of a rival school as a senior prank as we empty out onto the shore. I spread my towel next to Cole's, and Taylor beats Michaela to my other side. Just fan-freaking-tastic. I'll be stuck with him all afternoon. How on earth was I completely into him seventy-two hours ago? He's still hot, but it doesn't come anywhere near to making up for his personality.

“I brought shots,” Cole squeals, retrieving a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka from her purse. She passes out little lime-green plastic shot glasses and begins pouring the first round. Zoey strips her shorts off and wades into the water. Caleb shouts for her to cover up. Drew and Dean follow like eager puppies after a bone as she waggles her finger at both of them.

Taylor lies on his side, facing me. He pops a giant wad of gum into his mouth and says, chewing noisily, “You want to swim, babe?”

I grab a filled shot glass from Cole and knock it back before she can even pour herself one. “No thanks, I want to sunbathe for a while,” I say. He shrugs and cracks his gum loudly.

“Whoa there, bobcat.” Cole giggles. “Want to wait for me to take one too?” I thrust the glass out for her to refill. Cole raises an eyebrow
and then shrugs, filling me up again and topping off a red party cup that Caleb offers up. If I have to pretend to have a good time while the rest of the town goes mad and Daniel loses his whole family, then I'm going to need a good buzz. Luckily, I don't drink much, so I'll be nice and fuzzy after two or three.

“Pace yourself, slutini!” Zoey yells from where she sits atop one of the D's shoulders. “We're going to have a bonfire when it gets dark.” I grin back at her, showing way too many teeth for her to think it's sincere. There's no way, no how that I'm spending my whole day here. I need to remember things. I need to research past disappearances. I need to check that Daniel's okay. I need to see Sam. Cole clicks her shot glass against mine and throws her head back, gulping the cloying vodka that goes down like maple syrup. I do the same, letting its warmth spread in my stomach.

“Maybe you should eat something?” Caleb calls from Cole's other side. He's unwrapping what looks like a turkey sandwich and offers me half, spilling wheat crumbs on Cole's midsection. He moves to brush them away, stops, and blushes crimson at almost touching her.

Cole plucks one of the crumbs off her stomach and pops it into her mouth—she is definitely more a Zoey than a Michaela. I don't see Caleb's reaction, because Zoey shouts out for me. “Stella, get in here! Let's play chicken.” I shake my head mutely. “Fine. Cole, c'mon and bring Taylor!” Taylor shrugs and sprints into the water. Cole gallops after, emitting a burst of high-pitched noises as she hits the lake. Five minutes later Zoey's and Cole's shrill screams are likely heard across town. Michaela brings the magazine she's been reading and reclines on Cole's
towel, talking off and on with Caleb about her early admission college apps as I force the last bite of sandwich down.

“You okay?” Michaela whispers to me after a few. I incline my head in a way that could mean anything. “I guess that's a stupid question, because how could you be?” I muster a smile for her. “Let me know if you need anything. My sister just had
another
baby and my parents are gone for the next two nights, and I will totally throw you a pink wine slumber party.” Michaela might be pursuing her idea of the glory that lasts—
tomorrow's glory
—but she isn't one of those stuffy girls who are all pasty and cross-eyed from too much studying.

This rare combination of being fun and obliterating the scholarly competition was one of the reasons we became friends. Here is a girl who spent honors eighth-grade math drawing a graphic novel about our teacher's love life and still managed to pull off perfect scores on the quizzes. Mr. Ralph—picture Mr. Potato Head with a lazy eye and a vintage Beanie Babies collection on his desk—never had a clue the entire class eagerly awaited Michaela's Monday installments, which featured his weekend adventures in dating. It was obviously a comedy.

That's why
I
fell in love with Michaela. For Zoey, it was practically love at first sight. It was the first week of eighth grade, and Zoey attended the informational meeting for all the kids who wanted on student council. She had her sights set on social chair—
obviously
. Michaela wanted class treasurer—
shocking
. They hadn't met because they didn't have any classes together, and Zoey wasn't the omnipresent force she is now. They locked eyes across the classroom full of brace-faced kids, bouncing in their seats.
They just knew
. Zoey seconded Michaela's
nomination for class treasurer without missing a beat, and Michaela returned the favor. They campaigned hard for each other—okay, Michaela campaigned and Zoey made bribes and threats. The rest is history.

I smile at my pink-wine-loving friend. “Thanks, M. I may need it.” She turns back to Caleb, and they continue talking about his experience applying for schools. Michaela's being generous, since Caleb's college is fathoms less competitive than the programs she's interested in. Caleb isn't exactly an overachiever; his group in school was a hodgepodge of stoners, skateboarders, and wannabe musicians. Senior year he scored high on the SATs and got into a small college in Chicago. Zoey's never forgiven him for it. Rather than her average grades being the standard Caleb was measured against, it was the other way around. Zoey became the loser of the family in her mom's eyes, overnight.

“Shot?” I ask them, pouring myself a third. Michaela shakes her head and withdraws a rose-colored bottle with dolphins on the label. She rarely drinks anything but pink wine—oh, and pink
sparkling
wine. Caleb wags a chastising finger as I tip the glass to my lips but doesn't say anything to mother me. I try to sip the shot slowly, but the sickening-sweet taste makes that impossible. After I choke it down, I check my cell to see if Sam's responded. He has.

With Daniel. At library. When/where should we pick you up?

I'm instantly all keyed up and can't sit still on my towel bunching under me. Daniel and Sam are at the library, most likely researching
past disappearances in Savage. I should be there.
I'm
the
Wildwood Herald
reporter with supersleuth research skills. And here I am: in a bikini, drinking girly vodka, and getting ogled by lacrosse players, while Sam gets his hands dirty in our town's history. But as the seconds tick by and the alcohol takes effect, the sense that I'm penned in lessens, and my frustration loses its edge. I text back:

At cove. Pick me up at 1.

It's just before eleven now. Putting in a good two hours should appease Zoey. Yeah right. Who am I kidding? There's no appeasing Zoey. She'll be livid. But there's nothing I can do about it. I close my eyes, letting the sun's rays make me drowsy and unfocused. After ten or fifteen minutes I clumsily spray sunblock on, hoping that I don't turn streaky. I dig out a bag of gummies from Zoey's purse and pick through for the green worms.

I turn my attention back to the water, where Cole and Taylor are ganging up on one of the Ds. The other has vanished with Zo. I can't help the smile on my face. She does work fast. Taylor catches me watching and waves. I wave back halfheartedly, and he takes it as an invitation.

He stands dripping over my towel. A sheen of water makes his chest and stomach sparkle in the sun. It's hard for me to force my eyes from being glued to his body. Downing three shots in less than an hour was not my best idea ever. My lips tingle, and my nose is numb. I sense my reservations about him ebbing.

“Will you come for a swim?” he asks. I let him pull me up from
the towel and to the left along the shore before I answer. Before I really register the question, we wade into the jade water, ripples and minnows scattering. The icy temperature sends a jolt of awareness through me. Sam. Sam is why I don't want Taylor anymore. What do I want with Sam, though? And how do I know that Sam even wants me? Why would he? I assumed last night that he was going to say something about still being interested, but what if it was the opposite? What if he was going to say that he's finally over it? That he'll never bring me a gardenia corsage again, or send me a valentine chocolate-marshmallow heart, or follow me into a spooky old cemetery. I'd know if I hadn't run like a coward.