Buried (7 page)

Curious, I bend over the hole. A scrap of blue fabric hangs out of it as if an animal had started to drag it away. A heat pulses through me and I reach down for the blue fabric, which is soft and shiny like satin. There's a faded design, too, in the dirt-crusted fabric … tiny animals of some kind. Elephants? Weird.

My finding radar is really off this time. No answers to the mystery of my locket; only garbage. Driving here was a waste of time, and I'm annoyed with myself for giving into freaky imaginings.

So I turn to leave, but pause when the sunset peeks from beneath a cloud, shining golden-brown on the dirt-crusted twigs clinging to the blue rag.
Not a rag
, I realize as I bend down again, careful not to touch it.
A child's blanket
. And the twigs are shaped oddly; disconnected yet strangely symmetrical, like leathery beads once linked together. I lean closer, then draw back with a sharp intake of breath.

The twigs are not twigs.

They're human bones.

Tiny fingers.

E
i
g
h
t

A
ll the air sucks out of me. Can't gasp or scream. Beyond horrified. Sick to my soul. My feet finally move. Running back to the car.

Why did I come here?
I fumble for Amerie's keys. Warnings were there: the cries, the vision of a damp earth and danger. But I never thought I'd find … OMG. Those tiny fingers break my heart. I collapse against the side of the car. I want to run away and forget what I've seen. But powers larger than my own fears brought me here. I have to report this, so the tiny lost soul can find peace.

If I don't, I won't have any peace.

But reporting it means admitting that I came here because of a vision—which is unbelievable. When I can't offer a logical explanation, suspicion will fall on me. My family could suffer, too. I can't report what I found, but I can't pretend it never happened, either.

As I lean on the car, trying to decide what to do, I see bright lights flashing in my driver's side mirror.

I whirl around just as the sheriff's car pulls up beside me.

The decision is out of my hands.

The sheriff is middle-aged, his dark-blue uniform stretched across his middle. He moves slowly, in the stereotypical manner of a country sheriff. Yet there's a sharp awareness in his face that's not at all small-town. He pushes up his cap, his gaze shifting over me and then narrowing in a familiar judging way. And when I catch a shadowy reflection of myself in the car window, I see what he's seeing: devil-red wig, corpse makeup, metal on my skin and clothes.

This isn't going to be easy.

He introduces himself as Sheriff Hart, then fixes me with a hard stare. “What are you doing way out here?”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asks more kindly.

“I—I am … but not that poor … ” I clench my chilled hands together. “I—I found … found something.”

He doesn't move, studying me. “What are you talking about?”

“Over there … ” I point, closing my eyes to shut out the image. “Behind the tree.”

“Show me,” he says with thick suspicion.

I shudder. “I—I can't.”

His hand rests on the hilt of the gun at his side, studying me. Then he nods, as if coming to some decision. “Stay right here,” he tells me. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Okay,” I murmur. My legs wobble and I lean against Amerie's car for support.

I watch him stride over to the burnt tree, his gaze sweeping around, on alert as if expecting an ambush. He stops abruptly, a few feet from the hole.

“What's this?” he calls over to me sharply. “Were you digging?”

“I—I wasn't.”

“Could have been an animal.” He bends down, rubbing his chin. “What's this?”

My stomach clenches and I know the exact moment when he's seen past the dirt and ragged cloth … to the tiny finger bones. An intake of breath. But he recovers quickly, backing away and brushing past me as he strides to his vehicle. I don't move, as instructed, but my mind drifts, so I'm only half-aware of the sheriff barking orders into a phone. It's not until he finishes talking and comes over to touch my shoulder that I snap back to this awful reality.

“How did you know to come here?” he asks, steel behind his words.

“I didn't know anything. I was just out driving.”

“Do you have any idea what's over there?” He pointed past the burnt tree.

Tensing, I nod.

“So you'll understand why I need to get a statement from you.”

I hesitate, then nod.

“We can't do that here, so I'll have to ask you to come to the station with me.” There's underlying hostility in his tone, as if he's found me guilty and can't wait to lock me up. Freak goths are liars, right? I get that all the time. Sure, I lie sometimes, but not when it's important. Unfortunately, my truth is more unbelievable than any lie.

“I don't know anything,” I insist. “I need to get home or my parents will worry.”

“They should worry,” he says. “May I see your driver's license?”

Not a question. An order.

I imagine the news headline:
Minster's Daughter Finds Grave Under Suspicious Circumstances
. No, I can't do that to Mom. She'll get fired for sure.

But I can't refuse the sheriff, so I hand over my license. It's a horrible picture, of me with blond hair and no makeup. My heart sinks like quicksand.

I shift in my army boots while the sheriff studies my license. He rubs his chin. He makes “hmm” sounds. Then he picks up a phone and steps away from me so I can't hear what he's saying.

Amerie's car keys dangle from my fingers, the tiny pink fairy wings sparkling as if ready to fly away. I wish I had wings.

“Beth Ann Matthews,” the sheriff says, turning back toward me. “Why does Matthews sound so familiar?”

I shrug. “It's a common name.”

He snaps his fingers. “Are you any relation to our new minister?”

I groan. Can things get any worse?

Of course they can.

The next hour is forgettable—at least I'd like to forget.

Waiting on a hard plastic chair, strangers staring at me or ignoring me, conversations buzzing like white noise. I shut most of it out until Sheriff Hart informs me that my father is on his way.

Just great
, I think miserably. Why couldn't it be Mom?

When Dad arrives, he avoids looking directly at me. He sits stiffly beside me while I answer questions.

Unfortunately, everything I say sounds wrong.

Sheriff Hart shoots off questions like his words are bullets and I'm standing in front of a firing squad. I think I'd prefer bullets. His questions rip through truth and lies so I hardly remember what I've said. I can't tell him about my finding or the curl hidden inside my locket. If they search me and find the curl (which I'm sure belonged to the buried baby), I might as well dig a grave for myself and dive in.

So I stick to a simple (lame) story about driving around randomly and noticing the dug-up area. “I thought an animal had been digging recently. I had no idea it was a grave … with baby bones … ” I close my eyes tight to shut out the memory.

“Baby?” The sheriff's gray-brown brows arch with surprise as he leans forward in his chair, his jacket open slightly to give me an up-close-and-scary view of his gun. “We don't know for certain the bones are from an infant.”

“It's a logical guess,” Dad puts in. “We've moved here recently, so there's no way she could be involved in … well … whatever happened.”

“Easy enough to prove through a DNA test,” Sheriff Hart says.

That sounds worse that it turned out to be—just a quick cotton swab of my cheek.

Afterward, I touch the hidden locket under my shirt, aware that the real DNA is hidden inside it. At least that secret is safe … for now.

I return Amerie's car. She left school a while ago so I drive it to her house. And she is
not
happy with me. I hand over the Tinker Bell keys, profusely apologizing. I tell her I got lost in the hills and promise to make it up to her.

Dad has followed me in the family Waggoner. I fasten my seat belt and risk a glance up at his granite face.

“I'm sorry,” I say softly.

“I'm sorry, too.” Dad starts the car, then turns to look at me, frowning. “But even more, I'm disappointed.”

His words drive a stake through my heart.

There's nothing I can say now, and he's not talking anyway. I wish I could explain, but he'd never believe that a locket psychically led me to a grave. Even though I didn't do anything wrong, suspicions will linger, rumors will spread. Mom could lose her job. Worse—she'll lose her trust in me. I've already lost Dad's.

I stare out the window, panicking inside. To prove my innocence, I need to discover what
really
happened to that baby. But my only clue is the locket. All I know about the person who lost the locket is that she was on the stage during registration for the Singing Star contest.

But with so many contestants, how can I find out which girl?

I can only think of one way.

Enter the singing contest.

N
i
n
e

D
inner that night is marred with avoidance and uneasy
silences. Mom barely speaks to me and Dad completely ignores me. My sibs talk and argue and make enough noise that anyone watching would think we were a happy family. Maybe we were once, but not any more. And if Mom loses her job, I don't know how we'll survive.

When I'm alone in my room, I ache inside and wish crying came easy. I'm not one of those girls who can wash away misery with tears. Instead I reach for the comfort of my guitar, caressing the sleek molded wood of my old friend. I strum a few chords of a song I've been working, trying different combinations that don't work. Again and again, the melody starts off slow and bluesy but then the notes falter and it's all messed up.

Frustrated, I put away my guitar and go to bed early.

Sometime after midnight I wake up, tormented by nightmares of skeletons chasing me. My heart's racing and I glance around to make sure my nightmares aren't real. I reach out for a lamp and the light flashes on so bright I squint, then my vision adjusts. There are no boogie monsters lurking in the corners. Still, I can't sleep, so I self-prescribe a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. But on my way to the kitchen, I hear raised voices and pause outside my parents' bedroom. They're arguing … about me.

“—didn't have anything to do with the unfortunate child,” Mom says angrily. “Have a little faith in your daughter.”

“You have too much faith,” Dad retorts. “I know she was lying. She didn't just accidentally find that grave—she knew where to look.”

“You can't think she had anything to do with it!”

“Of course not. And the sheriff suspects the bones are six to eight months old. It's obvious what's going on with Thorn—she's covering for a friend.”

“Perhaps,” Mom says after a long pause. “But what if her story is true?”

“That she randomly drove to a remote hill and just happened to find a grave?” Dad scoffs. “I don't think so.”

“Beth Ann always did have a knack for finding things,” Mom says, calling me by my birth name although I've corrected her a zillion times. “Remember when she was five and she pointed to a poster for a lost dog and said the dog was locked in a garage? She cried so hard that I finally called the dog's owner and was told the dog had just been rescued from a neighbor's garage. I don't know how Beth Ann knew—she just did.”

“You're making excuses for her. She's secretive and never introduces us to her friends. She refuses to go to church with our family, which sets a bad example for the younger kids, and other people are noticing her behavior, too. Don't forget the letter.”

“I refuse to pay attention to anonymous letters.”

“Well, you should. You could lose your job.”

“It's better than losing my daughter.”

“We lost Beth Ann a long time ago.” I hear a smack like Dad has hit his fist on a dresser. “And I don't know what the hell to do with Thorn.”

I can't stand it anymore. Instead of going to the kitchen, I retreat back to my room. I'm shaking as I close the door behind me. I knew Dad disapproved of me, but I had no idea how much. He doesn't trust me … he doesn't even like me.

And it's not just about what happened to today. His resentment started before the letter, before we moved here—about the time he got laid off and took over carpooling, cleaning, and cooking while Mom worked longer hours. At first Dad just made snarky comments—“lighten up on the makeup” or “your natural hair would look better”—which pissed me off, so I avoided him. Somewhere over the summer, with moving and disappointments, we stopped talking.

I reach for my guitar; not to play, just to hold in my arms.

It's a very long time before I fall asleep.

On the drive to school, K.C. sneaks curious glances at me like he suspects something is wrong. “Why are you so quiet?”

“Am I?” I shrug, avoiding his gaze.

“What's the weirdness with you and your parents? You're all so polite, yet not talking to each other. Your mom looked like she'd been crying.”

“You're imagining things.”

We reach the school parking lot and I jump out before K.C. can ask more. He's too perceptive for my own good.

Instead of meeting Rune at my locker, I search for Amerie in the auditorium. She's not there, so I try her homeroom class.

The warning bell will ring soon and the crowded walkways explode with noise and rushing. Most kids are headed to class, but I spot five guys in blue letter jackets clustered at an intersection. They're like fashion-magazine models, with gelled hair and expensive clothes and sneakers. They surround their idol, Jay Blankenship, whose golden-blond hair is jelled into perfect waves. His smug way of leaning back and lifting his chin when he talks makes him look tall, although he's under six feet. But it's the tallest Jay-Clone—with the snake tattoo and black fingernails—that I notice.

Wiley from detention.

He wears the blue letter jacket like the other clones but his tough attitude, black polish, and snake tattoo make him stand him out. My dad wouldn't approve of Wiley. If we dated, he'd have to sneak up my rope ladder to see me. Then I'll offer him my favorite tiny bottle—glittery black nail polish. We'd curl up on the couch, taking turns polishing each other's fingers and toes.

Wiley catches my gaze and, shock of shocks, grins. A nice half-crooked smile, with just enough imperfection to show he's not completely boringly perfect like the other Jay-Clones. What is he doing with these preps, anyway?

I grin back, glad he can't read my mind.

Wiley turns away from his group, giving me a
come over
gesture.

Sure, why not? I can find out if he really is the Reaper. And if he isn't, there's always that bottle of black polish.

A group of basketball players, bouncing a ball between them as they hog the path, block my view of the Jay-Clones. But I hear one of them ask, “Who's the goth?” like I'm an object not a person. Snarky laughter follows until a different, startling familiar voice says, “Show some respect! She's the minister's daughter.”

I jerk with shock, because I recognize that voice.

The Grin Reaper.

Wiley
, I think excitedly. Although to be fair, I can't be sure it was his voice I heard; it could be any of the five guys.

From behind me I hear a rude shout—“Move it!”—and I'm shoved forward, pushed by the force of a crowd that's just heard the warning bell ring. When I break away, I look back but don't see the Jay-Clones.

Up ahead, though, I see Amerie.

Instead of wearing fluttery fairy wings, she has a silver, feathered headband swaying on her head like a winged halo. She's talking with three girls who look like seniors and are wearing gag-me-girly frothy peasant blouses, denim fringed skirts, and pink western hats. I hesitate, close to losing my nerve. For the first time since we met, I'm nervous about talking to Amerie. What I have to ask won't be easy.

“Hey, Amerie,” I say, casual-like although my palms are starting to sweat.
Turn around now
, I urge myself,
before you completely lose your pride
.

“Why aren't you in homeroom?” Amerie's star earrings sway as she turns toward me. “Isn't it on the other side of campus?”

I shrug. “I have time.”

“Cool.” Amerie gestures to the frothy-pink-hat trio. “Thorn, these very talented girls are Micqui, Barbee, and Skarla. Their singing group is called the Cotton Candy Cowgirls.”

“There were four of us before our guitarist quit, which sucks because we really need her,” says the shortest cowgirl. “I'm Michelle, but everyone calls me Micqui.” She didn't need to tell me that, since her name is written in pink letters on her ruffled blouse.

Freckled Barbee dips her pink hat and scowls down at me. She doesn't say anything, but I know she's checking out my gothness and thinking “freak.”

“Barbee's my twin. Not identical twin, obviously,” Micqui says. She sways as she talks, as if each word is choreographed to music only she can hear. “Barbee's hair is naturally a darker shade of brown than mine, although she hates me telling anyone she's not a real blonde. Is Thorn your real name? It's super cute.”

And you're super annoying
, I think, wanting to smack her for using the word “cute” on me. Instead I flash a fake smile. “Your costumes are so … um … colorful.”
Like a candy store barfed
.

“Skarla put them together.” Micqui proudly gestures to the third girl, who's wearing a huge grin and ginormous pink-rimmed glasses.

“The judges won't be able to miss your group,” I say, and notice Barbee glaring at me like she knows I'm being sarcastic.

“Your costumes are gorgeous,” Amerie says, shooting me a warning scowl.

“We don't usually wear them to school,” Micqui adds.

“Really?” I feign surprise, as if this is news to me.

“Don't be silly,” Micqui giggles. “It's for the contest.”

“Presentation is important in any competition,” Skarla says in her bubbly voice. She bounces forward. “We practice often and work hard to be our best. We'll only get one chance to make the finals, so we rehearse in costume to show the judges how professional we are and improve our chances for winning.”

“I'm sure,” I say with complete indifference. Enough time wasted humoring the chronically clueless. I lean in to whisper to Amerie. “Can we talk alone?”

“Now?” Amerie glances uneasily at her friends. “We weren't finished.”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important,” I insist in a firm tone.

“Something up?” she whispers.

I nod. “I'll tell you about it in private.”

Amerie's curiosity shifts into overdrive and she can't get rid of her friends fast enough. Then she follows me down the path to a shadowed doorway.

“We won't be overheard here,” I say.

“What is it? Have you met a hot guy? Are you finally going to hook up with someone?” she asks excitedly, obviously hoping for some juicy gossip.

“Nothing like that. Amerie, I need a favor.”

“Oh, sure.” She pats my hand. “Anything.”

I bite my lip, unsure how to ask this. “I've changed my mind about the Singing Star contest.”

“You no longer think it's subversive and anti-humanizing?”

“Not exactly.” I suck in a bravery breath. “I—I want to enter.”

“If this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.”

“Honest truth.” My stomach knots. “I need to enter.”

Amerie stares at me skeptically. “You'll go through auditions, criticism, judging, and getting up on a stage to sing in front of hundreds of people?”

Why does she have to put it like that?

“It may be my only chance to find out … um … if I have any talent.” I grit my teeth. “Will you sign me up?”

“I'd love to—”

“Great!”

“—but I can't,” she finishes.

My mouth falls open. “Why not?”

“I'm so sorry, Thorn. You waited too long.” Amerie shakes her head miserably. “The contest registration is closed.”

“You're in charge of the contest. You can get me in.”

“It's not up to me,” she insists. “Philippe's manager Collette is running the show. She's anal about rules.”

“Please, Amerie. I really need to do this.”

“Oh, Thorn, you're breaking my heart, but I can't help,” Amerie says sadly. “I never in a zillion years thought you'd want to enter.”

Disappointment slams into me. If this doesn't work, I'm out of ideas. I need to get up on stage with the other entrants to find out who lost the locket. Tight security will make it even harder. Not being in the contest will make it impossible.

“Isn't there some way you can get me in?” I beg.

Amerie taps her pink-frosted thumbnail on her chin, her expression changing as she thinks. She starts to say something, then closes her mouth and shakes her head. “You'd never do it.”

I think of the buried bones, the sheriff's suspicious gaze, and the disappointment in Dad's voice. I have to find the owner of the locket.

“I'll do anything to get into the contest,” I tell her.

“Anything?” Maybe it's my imagination, but her feathered halo seems to shimmer a warning shade of red. “There is one way, only you'll hate it.”

“Just tell me,” I insist.

So she tells me—and she's right.

I hate it.