A Twist of Hate (22 page)

              Siobhan redirected the conversation. “Pepper, everything smells wonderful.”

              “Well.” Dill clapped his hands together beneath his chin. “We figured hospital food would kill you outright, so we brought a few of your favorites. Lobster ravioli in tarragon sauce, sweet pepper soup, baked garlic and onion cream soup—your fave!—a prosciutto and fontina calzone, potato chip vegetable salad, and a berry salad for dessert.”

              “I can’t possibly eat all of this.” Siobhan’s stomach growled its disagreement. “My grandmother’s been bringing food. Bland, sick-in-bed stuff like chicken broth and water crackers. This is awesome. Thank you.”

              “So where did the dragon lady run off to?” Pepper asked. “I was hoping I’d see her. I’m going to get her recipe for macaroni and cheese or die trying.”

              “Get the black bean soup, too,” piped Dill.

              “And her sweet potato pie,” Fen added. “I could go into business for myself on that pie alone.”

              Dill and Pepper glared at him. “I wouldn’t, guys,” Fen hastily added.

              “We figured you would have company for dinner,” Pepper said. “Where’s your handsome papa?”

              “At the office,” Siobhan answered. “He’s on a big deadline. My grandmother is probably on another floor visiting some of the older patients. She doesn’t know them or anything. She just likes sickness. And minding other people’s business.”

              “Get her down here!” Dill demanded.

              “I’ll send for her after I eat or she’ll confiscate everything and send you guys packing. She scares away all my visitors.” Fen fed her a spoonful of the lobster ravioli. Siobhan moaned, “This is so good!”

              “Where are your Princes Charming?” Pepper asked.

              “We saw the news yesterday,” Dill crooned, grinning.

              “What are you talking about?” Siobhan asked.

              “Those three kids at your school,” Fen began. “There was one who got shot in the shoulder.”

              “Brian Livingston.” Siobhan’s appetite waned.

              “And the one who got knocked in the noggin,” said Dill.

              “David Kent,” Siobhan said sickly.

              “And that blond Adonis you never brought to the diner for us to meet,” said Pepper.

              “The one who got cut,” Dill prompted.

              Siobhan’s stomach lurched. Her heart monitor sharply beeped. “Camden was hurt? I haven’t been watching the television, no one told me! Is he here in the hospital? Is he alright?”

              Pepper gathered Siobhan in a hug. “We’ll find your grandma, honey. I’m sure she knows more about what’s going on. Come on, don’t get yourself worked up. Your papa probably didn’t want to upset you. If it were serious, I’m sure someone would have told you.” Pepper jerked her head at Dill and Fen, and the pair ran off to find Grandma Curran.

              “I wondered why he hasn’t come to see me,” Siobhan said. “I can stand anything but the thought of him being hurt. He saved me, Pepper. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw him in the tree house. He stayed with me. I couldn’t beg him to leave, not even when the gun was put to his head.”

              “You mean more to him than his own life.” Pepper locked her arms around Siobhan’s shoulders. “You two have become pretty close, huh?”

              “I’m not alone anymore. I don’t have to explain things to him. He knows me.”

              “Then he must know that you miss him.”

             
So why isn’t he here,
Siobhan thought somberly.

***

              “You can put away an amazing amount of food with only one hand.” Siobhan watched Brian finish another one of the dishes Pepper, Dill and Fen had brought her.

              “I’m ambidextrous when it comes to eating,” Brian said. “This is good, but the dinner you made Friday was better.”

              “The party turned out better than I thought it would,” she said absently.

              Had it been a couple days ago? It seemed like three years had passed since she had been surrounded by her friends and her father, with Camden at her side.

              She used her left hand to undo one of her braids. Every time she fell asleep, Grandma Curran braided her hair. She hated her hair in braids.

              Brian moved from the swing table at the foot of her bed to sit beside her. “What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

              “Did you know Camden was hurt?”

              Tiny muscles in Brian’s jaw bunched. He quickly updated her.

              “He was released yesterday?” Siobhan repeated, a tremble in her voice.

              Brian nodded. He unplaited her right braid.

              She ran her fingers along the skin of her cast. “Why didn’t he come see me?”

              “He probably went to the jail to bring a care package to Michael.”

              “That’s a mean thing to say. You would have lost your arm if Camden hadn’t acted so quickly while everyone else stood around screaming.”

              “I heard all about Cam’s heroic moments. Everyone seems to be ignoring the fact that none of this would have happened in the first place if Camden hadn’t—”

              “Don’t.”              

              Brian swallowed back what he might have said. He ran his fingers through her unbraided hair. “I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or what I’m supposed to feel.”

“Neither do I. But I know blaming Camden won’t help.”

***

              Mr. Dougherty hurried from the window when Camden pulled into the driveway. He dropped into an armchair at the opposite end of the living room and snatched up the
New York Times.
He snapped it open before Camden came through the front door.

              Camden was surprised to see his father home. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

              “Hey,” Mr. Dougherty called casually. “How was your first day in the world of nine-to-five?”

              “Mr. Curran runs a tight ship.” Camden avoided his father’s eyes. He took off his blazer and hung it on the coat rack in the foyer. “He’s working on a design for an electronics firm in Tokyo. He speaks Japanese. Siobhan never told me that.”

              “How are you feeling?”

              Camden lifted one broad shoulder. “Tired. My cut hurts.”

              “Mr. Cleese called. He wanted to know how you were. He also wanted to know if you’d like to go with him tomorrow, when he visits Siobhan. She has to speak with the state prosecutor at ten tomorrow morning. He thought she might need some company when it’s over.”

              Camden wanted to run out of the room, out of the house, and to keep running until the shooting was far behind him. The only reason he hadn’t already was because he knew he couldn’t outrun his memories.

              “I brought dinner from that new Italian place in Clayton,” Mr. Dougherty went on. “I hope you like mushroom fettuccine. I was hoping we could talk over dinner, about what happened, and your mom, and—”

              “I’m not hungry, Dad.”

              “Maybe tomorrow then.” Mr. Dougherty hoped his disappointment didn’t show. “How’s Siobhan?”

              “Mr. Curran says she’s a lot better.”

              “Visiting hours aren’t over until nine,” Mr. Dougherty said hopefully. “We could visit her tonight.”

              Camden’s face tightened and he shook his head. The numbing effect of his guilt had worn away, leaving a dull, throbbing ache. Siobhan couldn’t possibly want him, not now.

              “I’ll drive,” Mr. Dougherty offered. “I’ll finish the paper while you change.”

              “Your paper is upside down,” Camden said.

Grinning sheepishly, Mr. Dougherty righted the paper. He looked up to see Camden disappearing upstairs. The quiet click of his bedroom door signaled the end of further discussion about visiting Siobhan.

***

              “Why didn’t you tell me about Camden?”

              Mr. Curran kissed Siobhan’s cheek and forehead. “I didn’t want to worry you, sweetheart. Camden is in good shape.”
Physically, at least,
he almost added.

              Someone had opened the drapes. A velvet blue sky dotted with pinpricks of silver held Siobhan’s gaze. “Did he mention why he won’t see me?” she asked.

              “We didn’t see much of each other today. He was here first thing on Saturday. He came to see you as soon as he could get out of bed. He needs some time.” Mr. Curran pulled a folder from his briefcase. “This is hard for him.”

             
It’s hard for me, too, Daddy,
she thought miserably, staring at her father. His full attention was devoted to the papers in the folder. He had become an old man overnight. Grandma Curran had become even more irascible. Brian was an entirely different person, and Courtney skipped town.

              Camden apparently wanted nothing more to do with her.

              “Did he ask about me?”

              “I told him you were sitting up now, and that you’re doing well.” His focus remained buried deep in his documents.

              “That’s not what I asked.”

              Mr. Curran glanced up, looking at the space directly to the right of her face. “Camden had a hard day today.”

              “Do you blame him, Daddy?”

              “Camden didn’t make Michael Littlefield pick up a gun.”

              “Do you blame me?”

              “Why on earth would—”

              “I think I provoked him,” she said in a rush, unshed tears clogging her voice. “I tried to ignore him after he jumped on me last summer, I really did, but then came the play, and I was put in an awkward position. I had to do what I thought was right. Brian and David and Camden, they were hurt because of me.”

              Mr. Curran held her and waited for her to calm before asking her about what happened last summer. She told him, and it raised his ire anew.

              “When Det. Flynn comes for your statement in the morning, you tell him what happened in August. Why didn’t you tell
me
, Siobhan? I’m your father! Am I so difficult to talk to?”

              “No,” she said meekly.

              “Do you trust me?”

              “Yes.”

              “Then why didn’t you tell me that that little bastard tried to harm you right there in my own house?” he yelled.

              “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me,” she whispered, the mere possibility of losing his approval hurting her heart.

              He covered her head with kisses. “It’s all right, baby girl. I’m not disappointed in you. You’ve never disappointed me. None of this was your fault.” He held her face in his large, strong hands and said, “You did nothing wrong.”

***

              Camden stood at his bedroom window. Police tape still circled the tree house and the immediate area surrounding the big oak. The loose ends fluttered in the wind, drawing Camden’s eye whether he wanted to look or not. His father had hired a professional service to clean the pool house once the police had finished combing it for evidence. The pool house was spotless. No reminders of the laughter, good food and good friends Siobhan had brought together there remained.

              Camden left his bedroom and went to the backyard shed. He selected a mid-sized sledgehammer from the assorted tools mounted on one wall, and then went out to the tree house. The halogen security lamps in the backyard provided just enough illumination for Camden to see its filthy interior.

              The colorful flowers Michael had brought up were in various stages of decay. Raccoon and squirrel tracks surrounded the moldy food on the table. The stubs of the candles bore the marks of tiny sharp teeth. Streaks and puddles of dried blood discolored the floor.

              Camden stooped to pick up a piece of fabric lying at his feet. It couldn’t have been important. The police had taken everything that could be used as evidence against Michael, who had pleaded, “Absolutely, one-hundred percent not guilty,” at his arraignment.

              Camden turned the piece of black cloth over in his hand. It was part of the collar of Siobhan’s tunic. He pressed the torn remnant to his closed eyes, behind them clearly seeing Siobhan, bloody and scared, pinned beneath Michael.

              He opened his eyes to see an almost perfect handprint on one of the floorboards. The hand that made the print was too small to have been Michael’s. And the substance used to make it hadn’t been paint.