Buried (13 page)

I wait forever—or about five minutes, according to my watch.

But there's no sign of Jay.

Shrugging, I give up and head toward the student parking lot to meet K.C.

As I approach, I hear shouts and notice a crowd gathering. I wonder if there's a fight. I don't want to get near that kind of drama, but I have to go that way to get to K.C.'s car. As I'm wondering how long I'll have to wait for K.C. to show up and unlock the doors, I see that he's already there. His back is turned to me, but I know immediately that something is wrong.

Then I see his beautiful rebuilt Ranchero, slashed with ugly smears of paint.

Dark bloody letters drip crude ugly words.

Spelling hate.

F
i
f
t
e
e
n

I
run to K.C., who is staring at his car in shock, and put my arm around him. His face is pale as a corpse, as if he's dead inside.
He gently traces his finger along the broken wing of the hood eagle. “She'll never fly again.”

“The wing can be fixed,” I assure him. “And so can the car.”

Around me I hear murmurs, mostly of sympathy, but one guy laughs and I turn around furiously, ready to rip out his tongue and twist it around his neck. When I see his blue letter jacket, I think it's Jay—until he lifts an arm and I see a rattlesnake tattoo. Wiley nudges his buddy and laughs again.

Furious, I start to go after him, but K.C. jerks me back. I hear Wiley laugh again and murmur two words that rock me with outrage:
Grin Reaper
.

Did Jay do this? Is there a smiley sticker stuck somewhere on K.C.'s car? Now I'm so mad that I really might rip out Wiley's tongue. I want him to suffer a horrible death—and Jay, too.

I'll get revenge on the king of getting revenge. I suspected Jay was up to trouble when I saw him sneaking around, but I thought his target was Philippe.

Why go after K.C., who is kind and gentle and never would hurt anyone? Unless this isn't about K.C. Could the vandalism be a warning from the Reaper?
Keep my secret or next time will be worse.

There is no worse, though, I realize as I look at K.C.'s stricken face. Hurting the Ranchero was cruel. The car can be repaired, but the pride and joy K.C. felt this morning has been destroyed.

When a teacher shows up and orders the crowd to clear out, I stay with K.C., still holding his hand for support. Someone must have called 911, too, because police lights swirl red and blue.

Sheriff Hart doesn't react when he sees me. He's all business, working with his deputy to ask questions, take photos, and write up a report. I'm wondering why the sheriff came in person for a minor crime (minor to them, anyway). I find out when he pulls me aside.

“A moment of your time, Miss Matthews,” he says politely, shutting his notebook and tucking it into his pocket.

“Uh … sure.”

“Is that young man your beau?” he asks with a glance over at K.C., who is still giving a statement to the deputy.

“He's just a good friend.”

“But he lives with you?”

“He's staying with my family.” I explain how K.C. was living on the streets until we took him in.

“How convenient for you,” he says, with a sly arch of his brows. He can't possibly think that K.C. and I had anything to do with the grave. But I can tell by his expression that this is exactly what he's thinking.

“K.C. is like another brother to me,” I insist. “We have never been … like that.”

“Duly noted.” His tone is professional but it's obvious he doesn't believe me.

“If you think I had anything to do with the … the grave, you're wrong. I've only lived here a few months, and you said the … um … bones had been there six to eight months.”

“That was only a calculated guess. I never assume anything until I have all the facts.”

“What about the DNA results?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Unlike what you see on TV shows, lab results can take weeks, even months.”

“So until then I'm your only suspect?”

“Actually, I don't suspect you.”

I stare at him, surprised. “Then why are you still questioning me?”

He purses his lips, regarding me thoughtfully. “Your version of events doesn't add up with the facts. I am not a believer in coincidence. It's unlikely you randomly drove to the remote spot and just happened to dig up a grave.”

“I didn't dig it up!” I say indignantly. “A wild animal must have done that.”

“But a wild animal didn't bury that body, and I think you know who did.
Why else would you drive to the exact spot? Someone must have told you how to find that grave.”

“No one told me anything.”

“I admire loyalty among friends, but your friend isn't being fair to you.” He leans closer. “If you tell me who she is, I can help. It'll be easier on you both and save everyone time. Lots of girls get in trouble, then panic and do things they regret later, but as long as they're truthful, they can usually avoid a prison sentence.”

Prison! I think of Skarla, who has been so cool to me. She's trying to make something of herself despite a dead father and a mother in jail. If I tell the sheriff what I suspect, Skarla could end up in prison, too.

I fold my arms across my chest. “That's all I have to say.”

“We'll talk again soon,” he says politely, but it feels like a threat. Then he joins his deputy.

From behind me, a familiar voice asks, “Why was the sheriff talking to you?”

I turn to find Skarla. She shifts her feet nervously and is jerky like she's hopped up on energy drinks … or scared.

“He was asking about K.C. because of what happened to his car.” I point to the Ranchero.

“I didn't realize that guy was your friend,” Skarla says with a sympathetic glance at K.C., who is now being questioned by Sheriff Hart. “I don't remember seeing him around.”

“K.C. gets that a lot. He's one of those average guys no one notices.”

“He's getting noticed now—but not in a good way.” Skarla frowns. “That's horrible about his car. The tagger can't even spell. They forgot the ‘c.' ”

I ball my fists. “Of course the idiot, ignorant, stupid-ass tagger can't spell. If I find who did this, I'll kill him.”

“You don't mean that.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “There's nothing else you can do here. Sorry about your friend's car, but I'm guessing this means you need a ride to my house.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on.”

I don't want to leave K.C., but when he tells me his auto shop boss is coming to tow the Ranchero to his shop and fix it free of charge, I grab my guitar.

On the drive to Skarla's house, I borrow her cell to call home. Mom is overjoyed, as usual, when she finds out who I'm with. Apparently Skarla's grandparents attend Mom's church and are “delightful people.” Mom doesn't even give me a curfew. I try Rune's cell, but she's not taking my calls.

Barbee and Micqui are already waiting at Skarla's and we get right to work. Fortunately I don't have to sing the sappy new lyrics. I don't have to participate in the clogging lesson, either. Barbee is really good, but Micqui nearly trips over her feet. When Micqui accidentally kicks Barbee, I cover my mouth to hide my laughter.

After an hour of kicks and swearing, the clogging routine fits smoothly into our act. We open with strums of my guitar, then sing a few stanzas and finish with the clogging. I have to give Skarla credit because she's right—singing
and
dancing could push the Cotton Candy Cowgirls into first place.

When Skarla's grandparents announce dinner is ready, I set down my guitar and follow everyone into the dining room. The scent of tomato, cheese, spices, and sourdough bread makes my stomach growl. The lasagna looks homemade and delicious, but it will have to wait—this is my only chance to find out Skarla's secrets.

After taking a few bites of Caesar salad, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. But I pass the bathroom and sneak into Skarla's bedroom.

The few times I've been in it before were quick, and while I'd glanced at some photos on a cork board, I hadn't seen any clues about a hidden pregnancy. I don't have much time now, either, so I close my eyes and search inside myself for my finding radar. I'm tempted to open my eyes, but something tells me I'll see more with my sixth sense.

So I move slowly, arms stretched and senses heightened. I touch a bed post, chair back, desk top, computer, door … and nothing unusual happens. I'm close to the window now, feeling the brush of curtains on my arm. My pulse quickens and I have a strong impulse to reach down. When I do, my fingers meet smooth curved wood and shivers tingle through me.

I open my eyes and stare down at a carved wooden trunk half-hidden underneath a quilt. I'm breathless like I've been running.
Not much time
, I think urgently, and worry the trunk will be locked. But the curved lid lifts easily.

What I see inside makes me gasp.

A neatly folded pile of clothes.

Tiny baby clothes.

I can hardly think about anything else during the rest of rehearsal. I stare at Skarla so intently that she asks if I'm okay.
No
, I think,
and neither are you
. But I say everything is fine, because it would be cruel to blurt out my suspicions in front of the other girls. Besides, what if I'm wrong? (Again!) I don't want to make the same mistake I did with Ruby. Next time I accuse someone, I need to be one hundred percent positive, which means checking facts with Manny.

We practice so long that it's dark when I finally get home. The house is strangely quiet except for a rumble of the television from my parents' room. I head for the family room, glad my siblings are in bed so there's no battling over the computer. There's an email with an attachment from Manny. The attachment is labeled
Justice Blankenship
, which puzzles me at first because I asked for information on Jay, not his father. But when I read further, I find out Jay's full name is Justice Hamilton Alexander Blankenship the Third. No wonder he prefers a nickname.

I skim through the file, noting Jay's academic excellence, community service, and celebrated sport achievements. Blah, blah, boring. A few photos highlight his winning moments in soccer, wrestling, and track; he's always grinning in that smug way that's as fake as the grin on the smiley sticker. Yet I notice something deeper in one photo—a tightening of his jaw and a grin that doesn't reach his dark eyes.

If you're the one who vandalized K.C.'s car
, I tell his photo,
I will make sure you suffer in unimaginable, horrible ways
.

Frowning, I close the file and return to my email.

I send a message to Manny, asking for information on Skarla and tell him about the baby clothes. Since it's late, I don't expect to hear back till tomorrow morning at the soonest. So I'm startled when a dialogue box pops open.

Hey, Bethie!

Manny, do not call me that!

It's your name.

Do you have a death wish?

LOL. U R 2 funE

What do you want?

He would have just sent me another email if he didn't want something. Manny's generous soul often comes with a price.

Since U offered, I want 2 interview @ celebrity.

What celebrity?

Philippe.

U R nuts!!!!!

Only few ?'s

No can do.

Plllllllz!!!!

He's 2 famous. I haven't even talked 2 him.

What about your friends?

My hands pause over the keyboard. Amerie has done more than just talk with Philippe, but no way am I telling that to
read all about it!
Manny. I don't tell him Amerie's name, either, although I admit to having a friend on the contest committee and offer to ask one question for him.

Manny counters with three questions.

We compromise on two.

Then I close the chat window and reopen the attachment about Jay. I print out the one photo that's different from all the others; it shows what I think is the real Jay. I study his face, seeing past the cocky grin to the dark depths of his eyes and wonder what he's thinking, who he really is behind those deep eyes.

That familiar “finding” feeling hits me. There's an internal tug, like a hand pulling me away from the computer and out of the room. Clutching the printout, I go with the feeling. I follow my unseen guide through the hall, up the staircase, and into my attic room.

When the door shuts behind me, the thud snaps me out of my trance.

What was that about?
I sit on a stool by my bed. I'm breathing hard and sweating as if I've been running. I stare down at the printout, then shake my head, annoyed with myself. Why am I letting this guy get to me? He's rude, arrogant, and a criminal.

As I'm wondering why he bugs me so much, I hear a noise outside my window. I'm on the third floor, so I assume it's just a bird—until I look over through my sliding door. Someone is on my balcony.

It's Jay.

S
i
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t
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I
resist the urge to throw something at him, because why break my own window?

Instead I stomp over and pull the door open with a fierce yank. “You have a lot of nerve coming here!” I say furiously.

“Hey, Thorn.” Jay is draped in his black Reaper clothes, except for the gloves and smiley face ski mask. “Nice room. Can I come in?”

“No!” I try to slide the door shut but he sticks his expensive sneaker in the way.

Then he puts up his hands defensively as if he thinks I might try to push him over the balcony, which is a real possibility. “Truce,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

“Ever heard of a phone? Get off my balcony!”

“Why the hostility?” He puts on an innocent expression, but I'm not fooled.

“You know what you did! And I do, too. Your minion gave it away by laughing at the scene of your crime.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, and I do not have minions.” He pushes further into my room, so our faces are only angry breaths apart.

“Your Jay-Clones,” I spit out. “Wiley was there, gloating over your tagging. You make me sick! Hurting someone who never wronged anyone else is beyond low! K.C. is the sweetest, kindest, most generous guy I know. Why tag his car?”

“I didn't.”

“Wiley thinks you did.”

“Wiley doesn't know anything. He has no idea I'm the Reaper.”

“Yeah, right,” I say skeptically. “How can your closest friends not know?”

“If they did, they'd turn me in—after they beat the crap out of me. They hate the Reaper.” He gestures to the ski mask half hanging from his coat pocket, where only half a yellow smile shows. “Mason, Wiley, and Keith are okay, but Danny—he's my third cousin—has a mean streak. Last year he was one of the Reaper's targets.”

“Your own cousin?” I'm not sure if I'm disgusted or impressed.

“He deserved it. He used his girlfriend as a punching bag, then when she dumped him he trashed her rep in online videos. So the Reaper cast him in a video on how to treat ladies with respect.” He grins. “That video passed a million hits on YouTube.”

“Why are you telling me this? Aren't you afraid it'll get back to your
friends
?
” I emphasize the last word in an accusing way.

“I know you can be trusted,” he says.

“Don't you mean
blackmailed
?
”

“Whatever works.”

My hand grips the sliding door forcefully, keeping him out of my room. I don't want to talk to him, but I'm both intrigued and reconsidering my plan to shove him off the balcony. I'm not ready to invite him in.

“I haven't gone to NB High long, so I don't know much about what happened last year,” I admit. “I didn't even know about the Grin Reaper until this week. A lot of things don't make sense. Your friends look up to you so much, yet you don't confide in them. Why hang with people you don't trust?”

“It's complicated.”

“That's the vague sort of non-reply I'd expect from you. How about being honest for a change?”

He bites his lower lip, which I notice is slightly chapped. There's a tiny scar, too, at the edge of his lips, giving him a ghost half-smile even though he's scowling. He's so close I smell his earthy scent—sweat, and citrus from soap or shampoo.

“You want the truth?” he asks quietly.

“It would be a refreshing change.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened to K.C.'s car—but I know who did it.”

My fingers slip from the sliding door as I reel back. “How do you know?”

“I told you I have ways of finding out things. When someone hurts a decent guy like K.C., I don't sit around doing nothing. I gather facts—then I make plans. I'll tell you more if you let me inside.”

“I've been told to never let strangers into my home,”

“And you always do exactly what you're told,” he says sarcastically.

“Of course. My mother is a minister, you know, so I'm a model citizen.”

He laughs, and I can't help but smile, too.

I glance behind him into darkness. “Why even come here?”

“To give you an invitation.”

“Sorry, but I don't do proms.”

He laughs. “I'd be disappointed if you did.”

“What's the invitation?”

“The Grin Reaper is going after the guy who tagged K.C.'s car. Tonight. Want to come along?”

His words are more seductive than poetry or music. Not in a romantic way—in a vengeful way. Although I have to admit there's something roguishly sexy about Jay that adds a thrill when I answer, “yes.”

So I invite him into my room.

“All this yours?” He gestures to my living room, which opens into a bedroom with a peaked ceiling, the kitchenette, and my private bathroom.

“As much as a rented house can be. My parents want the younger kids closer to them, so I lucked out and got the attic. It's drafty, with old plumbing and a toilet that doesn't always flush. But it's great to finally have my own bedroom.”

“Not a bedroom: a suite.” He gives a low appreciative whistle. “Sweet.”

I shrug, not believing for a minute that the son of a wealthy judge is impressed with my ramshackle farmhouse.

“Sit there.” I point to the sagging couch which came with the house. “I'm going to change my clothes.”

“Can I watch?” he teases.

“Only if you want to get kicked somewhere that will hurt very badly.”

“Tempting offer but I'll pass.” He shifts his hands to cover his lap.

“Good idea.” I'm smiling as I shut my bedroom door behind me.

What does a girl wear on a Vigilante Night Out?

I open drawers and search my wardrobe, settling on black jeans, a dark blue knit top, and a black jacket. I shut off the warning in my head that this is insanity squared by stupidity. I refuse to think of consequences. Instead I remember K.C.'s stricken face staring at his ravaged car. And I lust for revenge.

When I step out into the brittle icy air on my balcony, I blink into inky night until my vision adjusts. The sky is blanketed in dark clouds that shut out the stars, and if there's a moon, it's hidden, too. I tighten my jacket, then look down to see how Jay got up to my balcony. He gestures to a grapple hook rope attached to the balcony rail.

“Climbing was easy,” he explains.

“Not bad for an amateur.”

“Amateur?” He snorts. “You got something better?”

“Live and learn,” I say with a swagger as I reach down for my silk ladder.

I attach the ladder to the rail and toss it over the balcony; it unfolds with the grace of silken wings. Gripping the rail, I fling myself over, my feet catching on the rungs of the fabric ladder. Then I climb down as if the silky cloth is a sturdy staircase.

“Not bad for an amateur.” Grinning, Jay tosses his grapple hook and rope to the ground, then follows me down my silken ladder.

I pull the string to roll up the ladder, then follow Jay through the back gate. We hurry down our long dirt driveway to the country road, where only a dim light from our porch cuts through the night.

“Where are we going?” I ask, with a curious glance up and down the deserted street.

“Seven miles east.”

“Like that tells me anything.”

“Patience,” he says.

“Not one of my traits.”

“I'll explain all soon.”

“You'd better,” I tell him.

His strides are long and quick, making me half-run so I don't lose him. I consider asking him to slow down, but that would come off as weak—which I'm not. So I take two steps to his every step. After what has to be a mile, I'm breathing hard. When he said we were going seven miles, I didn't think he meant by foot. I'm relieved when he stops at a teal green sedan parked on the road.

“This is your car?” I expected him to drive the latest model pickup, like most guys at Nevada Bluff High.

“No. My father's.” There's a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“He's okay with your using it?”

“He's okay with anything I do—as long as I keep up my GPA and stay out of his way.” Jay shrugs, then opens the passenger door for me in a gentlemanly gesture. The door shuts behind me and there's a click of the lock as I slip into plush leather.

He twists the key in the ignition. The engine is soft as a kitten's purr and the heavy doors are soundproof; it's like we're shut off from the world. Jay doesn't turn on the headlights for a few miles. It's eerie to drive with no lights, only the faint red and blue glow from the dashboard. When he flips the lights on, the dashboard flashes with complex dials and buttons. I suspect this deluxe luxury sedan could drive itself.

“Now we can talk.” He leans back comfortably in his seat and steers with only two fingers on the wheel.

“I only want to hear the truth.”

“You think I'd lie?” He lifts his brows, offended.

“It seems likely, considering how good you are at it.”

“I swear I won't lie to you,” he says with a cross-the-heart gesture. “If you ask something I can't talk about, I just won't answer.”

“Fair enough. So start with the name of the tagger.” Anger flares as I remember the broken-winged hood eagle and K.C.'s stricken face. “Who is he?”

“Clive Farnway.”

I search my memory but come up blank. “Don't know him.”

“You don't want to.” Jay replies. “But you've probably seen his truck—super-sized tires, gold hubcaps, fully loaded and lifted up high enough to drive over a bull without getting pierced by its horns.”

“That monstrosity?” I scowl. “It always takes up three parking places.”

“That's Clive for you—greedy as all get-out. And a mean bastard.”

“What does he have against K.C.?”

“Nothing personal. I doubt he even knows K.C. With Clive, it's all about cars. He's a car snob. If K.C.'s car had been the latest-model truck, Clive would have been cool with it. But he considers all old cars junk—even a vintage classic.”

“You're saying Clive attacked K.C.'s car because it wasn't good enough for him?” I ask angrily.

“Clive is picky about what's acceptable for the student parking lot. This isn't the first time he's tagged a car.” Jay's lip scar stretches into a dead-serious line. “But it will be his last.”

I like the dangerous edge to his tone. Jay and I are on the same side now—at least for tonight.

“So what's the plan?” I ask him. “Are we going to beat Clive until he looks like dog meat?”

“Violence isn't my style,” Jay says as the darkness folds around us. “My punishments suit the crime.”

“Like what?”

“Strike Clive where it'll hurt worse than anything physical.” Jay's grin widens. “We're going after his truck.”