Crash Into Me (7 page)

O’Shea
had been mentally evaluated and declared competent. The homeless vet was a man
of few words, apparently, but his statement of guilt had been unequivocal. He
spent the next three years in a maximum security prison. News of his death had
been widely reported, although the specific details hadn’t been made public.

Sonny
reorganized the files and pushed them aside, lying back on the bed and staring
up at the ceiling, collecting her thoughts. For the first time in her life, she
was having difficulty separating her emotions from the case.

It
wasn’t like she’d never handled a rape/murder before. With her personal
history, they were the most difficult, but she refused to let the past
overwhelm her.

At
least, not at work.

Tomorrow,
instead of drooling over Ben Fortune, she would visit the prison where O’Shea
had spent his last days. In order to move forward with the investigation, she
had to delve deeper into the mind of the man who may or may not have killed
Ben’s wife.

Once her dad fell
asleep, Carly snuck away from the house, needing ultimate privacy for the
ritual she was about to perform. He’d removed all the locks to her room, even
the one to her bathroom, so there was no longer a place at home where she felt
safe from discovery.

Now
she was hidden amidst a cluster of rocks at the northern tip of Windansea
Beach. It was dark, and late, and she was alone. This time she made sure no one
followed her.

She
sat down on the damp sand with her back against a flat rock, casting one last
look around before she removed the washcloth from the pocket of her jeans. She
unfolded it gingerly, careful not to cut her fingers on the razor blade it
concealed, and pulled her shirt over her head. Placing the washcloth against
the lacy cup of her bra so blood wouldn’t seep into the pristine white fabric,
she lifted her elbow slightly, poised to draw the edge of the blade across a
patch of smooth, unblemished flesh.

She
inhaled sharply, savoring the moment, anticipating the quick flash of pain, the
slick red trickle, and most important, the exquisite emotional release, as
sweet and tender as a sigh.

Carly
didn’t have an eating disorder, but it was easier to pretend she did at the
group therapy sessions her dad made her attend. Several months ago, he’d caught
her hunched over the toilet, vomiting her guts out after her first attempt at
cutting. Lots of the girls at her school were bulimic or anorexic; like drug
and alcohol addiction, it was a designer disorder. Nobody sweated you for
puking in the john after lunch—the only trouble was elbowing past the other
Barbie dolls to get your turn.

She
couldn’t blame them, now that she’d seen their faces in group, had heard their
stories, their confessions. Purging was the same as cutting, in a way. A fast
tension reliever, an easy, purely physical liberation, a quick release of blood
or food, in the place of emotions that were too strong or awful or dirty to be
dealt with.

Carly
understood the other girls, and commiserated with them.

She
did feel bad about deceiving her dad. In group, the counselors droned on and on
about honesty and open lines of communication, until the refrain repeated in
her head like a drill.

But
hadn’t he let her down a thousand times?

Fuck
group, she decided viciously, willing her hand to let the blade descend upon
her flesh. Every time she went to therapy and hung with those losers, it got
harder to make the first cut, and after she came down from the high it gave
her, she felt twice as guilty.

“Don’t
do it.” The low voice came from the rocky outcrop above her.

Carly
let out a strangled squeak, almost slashing herself accidentally as she jumped.
With horror, she realized that the voice was male, so she dropped the blade
into the sand and brought her shirt up to cover her chest.

When
he leaned forward, out of the shadows and into the moonlight, she took an
unsteady breath. He was just a boy, her age, and therefore unthreatening.

“It’s
none of my business, of course, but it seems a shame to put scars on such
beautiful skin.” He leapt off the rock he was crouched on and dropped down to
sit beside her.

Clutching
her shirt to her chest, she began to scoot backward, reassessing him as a
possible menace. She was tall, but he was taller, certainly heavier, and he
moved quick. Plus, he’d been skulking around in the dark, watching her.

He
plucked the razor from the sand and held it up to catch the meager light,
showing her his intentions before he stashed it. “As a man, I’d say a mark or
two doesn’t hurt. But I’ve never known a woman who wanted to ugly herself up.
Especially at such a pretty place.”

In
spite of herself, she smiled. He was probably just a smooth-talking juvenile
delinquent, but she liked being thought of as a woman. “You’re not a man,” she
said.

“Sure
I am. Enough so that I was enjoying the peep show.”

“Then
why’d you stop me?”

“And
let you mar perfection? Not a chance.”

“I’ve
done it before,” she bragged, flattered by his compliments.

“I
know. I’ve seen you.”

Carly
was disconcerted by the idea of being watched in a private moment. “My dad’s going
to kick your ass when I tell him you’ve been spying on me.”

He
eyed her shrewdly, or perhaps he was only trying to get another glimpse of what
was under her shirt. “Go ahead and tell him,” he said, calling her bluff. “I’ve
got your razor blade, and I’ll bet you have some old marks, scabs and stuff,
under that lacy little scrap you call a bra. Yeah, bring him out here. I’d like
to talk to him about what you’ve been doing.”

“You’re
a freak,” she said shrilly, worried now.

Carly
was just about to run when the clouds shifted and a fortuitous ray of moonlight
struck his face. She couldn’t discern the exact color of his eyes or hair,
although she assumed both were dark, but could make out his well-arranged
features, and they were familiar.

“I
know you,” she said. “I remember you from junior high. You were a year ahead of
me. What’s your name?”

“James.”

“James
what?”

“James
Matthews.”

Despite
the tension, or perhaps because of it, she laughed.

“What’s
so funny?”

“Your
name. It’s like two first names.”

“Okay,
Carly,
” he said, with more sarcasm than was necessary to make his point.

She
felt a flutter in her belly, like the tension she sometimes got before a big
test. “You remember me?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’ve
you been? I mean, I haven’t seen you at Shores.”

“You
go there?”

She
rolled her eyes, nodding. “It sucks.”

“I
thought you went to private school, rich girl.”

“No,”
she said glumly, letting the slight pass. “Dad’s into social justice.”

“What’s
that?”

“I
don’t know. Where do you go?”

“Nowhere.
I have homeschool.”

Her
heart made a funny little twist. Only religious wackos and lowlife dropouts had
homeschooling. “How is it?”

“Sucks.”

They
understood each other perfectly, for a moment, before a strange glint in his
eyes made her remember that she wasn’t wearing a shirt. James was cute,
dangerous, and a little scary. It was an appealing combination, but she wasn’t
ready for what his eyes said she’d get if she lingered here. “I’ve gotta jet.”
She stood, careful to keep her shirt from slipping.

He
jerked his chin up in a gesture boys used as
hello, good-bye, who cares,
and
whatever.
“Don’t come back here, rich girl.”

She
looked over her shoulder, aware that the pose was provocative, considering her
mostly naked back. “Why not?”

“This
is my place.”

Carly
started to argue, then rephrased the negative comment into a question, like
they’d taught her in group. “What do you do here? Besides peep at girls?”

His
eyes licked down her back then went far away, across the ocean. “Same thing you
do. I hide.”

Ben heard Carly come
in through the back door, but he didn’t go downstairs to confront her. Instead
he waited, listening for the sound of her footsteps, his pulse pounding with
adrenaline. All of the fear and anxiety he’d experienced over the past few
frantic moments upon finding her bed empty, transformed into rage.

She
tiptoed up the stairs, making very little noise, for she’d had the foresight to
remove her shoes in the hallway. Once inside the safety of her own room, she
let out a deep breath and pulled the door closed behind her.

He
reached out to click on her bedside lamp.

She
blinked at the sudden light, her eyes huge with guilt and wide with surprise.

“Where
the fuck have you been?” he asked. His voice was clipped, his enunciation
carefully controlled.

She
moistened her lips, eyes darting around the room.

“Don’t
lie,” he warned, forcing himself to remain seated. He’d never hit her, never
even spanked her as a child, but he was mad enough to make up for that
oversight right now.

“I
was with my boyfriend,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance. “What’s the big
deal?”

He
searched her face for signs of deception. Carly was a poor liar, despite having
plenty of practice, but he couldn’t always tell. “Summer told me you didn’t
have a boyfriend.”

Her
forehead wrinkled. “What does she know? You guys, like, discussed me?”

“What’s
his name, then?”

“James
Matthews.”

“You
made that up.”

“Did
not.”

Ben
believed her, and it did nothing to assuage his anger. He hated the idea of
some teenaged dirtbag taking advantage of his daughter’s precarious emotional
state. The last thing she needed right now was more turmoil.

Grabbing
the makeup bag he’d found in her bathroom, he upended it on the bed, spilling
its contents over the snowy white duvet cover.

Her
pretty face paled. “You went through my stuff?”

He
rose to his feet, eliminating the space between them in two angry strides. “Is
this what your boyfriend taught you?” he yelled, gesturing to the bloody
washcloths and razor blades on the bed. “To cut drugs and wipe up cokehead
nosebleeds?”

When
she didn’t answer, he took her by the upper arms and shook her, trying to scare
the truth out of her.

“It’s
not what you think,” she stuttered.

“What
is it, then?”

She
stared down at the carpet, refusing to answer.

He
released her, trying to maintain a semblance of control. It was impossible to
describe the way he’d felt while searching her room. The scenarios he’d
imagined and memories he’d relived. “When did it get so difficult for you to
look me in the eye?” he asked quietly. “I tell you that I love you, and you act
like it kills you. What the hell is going on with you, Carly?”