Eternity (22 page)

“Had he seemed different to you at all recently?” A female officer named Breton was talking to him while her associates milled around inside.

JD stared at her. “His
daughter
just died. Yeah. He seemed different.”

She blinked. “So . . . changes of mood? Appetite?”

JD exhaled. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know him that well.”

“And did he seem depressed?” she persisted.

It occurred to him that the police must suspect he’d committed suicide. But how? By suffocating himself? There were no marks on his body—that, JD had seen. It was almost like he’d been . . . scared to death.

But what could JD say to convince them differently?
He’d mentioned something about mythological goddesses who really had it in for him. . . .
Not so much.

“I saw him yesterday,” JD said, hearing his voice get thinner with anxiety. “He was fine. . . . He was
alive
.”

“Uh-huh.” She scribbled a few notes. “Well, we’ll keep looking. Let us know if you think of anything that might help. Did you notice anything strange about the house when you arrived?”

He shook his head. “Not really. . . . The front door was locked and the back door was open, but that’s not too weird.” Should he mention the flower? Should he mention the Furies? Should he tell the cops that he suspected this was a homicide? That this
death—and several others—were all connected to the same three girls, and that he knew how to find them?

“Well, we’re going to try to find Walt’s next of kin and do some investigating on our own,” Breton said. “But we’ll probably call you down to the station for a more official statement sometime in the next day or so. In the meantime, get yourself home.”

Before he left, JD stole one last look at Drea’s father.
I’m sorry,
he thought.
I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.

• • •

He parked in a short gravel driveway right by the Behemoth, off Silver Way. His hands were still shaking. For the first time in his whole life, he almost wished he was a smoker. He could use a cigarette.

As he opened the car door and stepped into the gravel-dust-filled air, he tried not to think of the last time he was here, but his hand involuntarily went to the scar above his eyebrow.

Why had the Furies killed Walt Feiffer? Was this a vendetta against Drea’s whole family? He wanted answers, and he was going to find them in the only place he could think to look.

Melissa had said Ty’s house was back here in the Haunted Woods.

The gray-red sunlight was waning; twilight would be falling soon. The woods were deep and after a minute or two, he could no longer see the Volvo when he turned back in the direction
from which he’d come. He popped the collar on his jacket and continued walking.

He’d gone maybe a mile in—around a cluster of birch trees and over a fallen oak—when he saw something moving in his peripheral vision. He whipped around . . . but there was nothing there. Just thick, heavy trees, practically dripping with fog.

Another few steps, another fleeting shadow out of the corner of his eye. His skin prickled. But it was another false alarm. It was just him, alone, in this dark labyrinth of forest. JD stood still for a moment, listening. The rustling around him became a cacophony—insects, leaves, wind, and birds—a marching band with an indecipherable beat.

And then
bam
, just like that, Ty was right there, right in front of him.

A twist of fear seized him; he willed himself to stay calm. Where had she come from?

“Well, well,” she said, stepping over a mossy log. Her thigh-high boots, black leggings, and silver tunic were incongruous against the natural backdrop. She looked more like Em than ever, and yet there was something
not-Em
about her, something hard and superficial. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

Could they read minds? Had she already figured him out?

“I, ah, I asked Melissa where your house was,” he said sheepishly. “Thought maybe we could hang out tonight.”

“Lucky me,” Ty said brightly, smiling her polished smile.
“And lucky
you
. No one wants to get lost in these woods. Trust me. Want to come in for a bit? I can show you, we found these crazy old maps of how the town used to look. . . . ”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, blinking hard to clear a feeling like honey that was entering his consciousness. Despite himself, he was drawn to her.
Remember why you’re here,
he reminded himself.
For answers.

He nodded and began to follow her along a path covered in dead and decomposing leaves. JD tried to pay attention to details along the way; he might need to come back here. A left at the craggy oak tree, the one with a disc of fungus growing out its side. Slight right after the huge rock covered in a carpet of deep-green moss.

His heart rate picked up as the house appeared suddenly before them, in a clearing that JD could have sworn he’d passed through on his way to the ice pond where Mr. Landon died. Except the other day, it had been empty. Well, almost empty. There had been three ancient stone markers in the center of it, and dry grasses rustling at the edges. Now, however, he faced a big, old, decaying house with a clapboard roof, a house that had history in every nail, in every brown shingle. It was boxy and big, with a stone chimney and black shutters framing the windows. It stood tall with energy—like it was somehow alive. Granite slabs lined the walkway to the front door, which was adorned with an ornate gold door knocker.

“Here we are,” Ty said. “Home sweet home.” Her voice was a sing-song but had a cutting edge to it, like syrup poured over a knife.

Inside, the whole place smelled of flowers. Cloying, sweet, and overpowering—like one of those girls who poured a bottle of perfume on herself before leaving the house.

Ty showed them into a living room filled with Victorian furniture. The color scheme was oppressive—all reds and maroons and browns. JD stood stiffly, not sure where to look, where to sit, or what to say. There was a feeling that all this stuff was frozen in time—that to sit down would mean getting stuck in another era. This place was sucking the air right out of his lungs.

“I’m not sure if Ali told you, but this place used to be in our family,” Ty explained. “All this stuff isn’t quite our style.”

“It’s incredible,” he said, just to stay something. He had to get her out of here. Had to look around. For what, he wasn’t sure. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Ty laughed. “What a terrible hostess I am. I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll get us something to drink and I’ll dig up those maps I told you about.”

JD watched her walk down the hallway. When she came back he would ask her again how she knew Drea. Why she was at the funeral. Whether she’d ever met Drea’s dad. He was going to force her to show her hand.

He moved over to a large bookcase that stood near the bay
window in the front of the house. It was filled with leather-bound tomes and glass-encased knickknacks. A curvy hourglass lay on its side on one of the shelves, its white sand forever suspended. Next to the bookcase, a gargoyle bust. Then a floor-to-ceiling window that looked into a giant backyard garden bursting with those hideous crimson orchids. Against the barely blooming branches of early spring, the flowers looked out of place and foreign. Just like these girls in Ascension. JD thought back to Mr. Feiffer’s words:
It must finish where it began.

He moved through the room slowly, feeling as though he were swimming through something thick and dark.

Next to the window, tucked away in a back corner, there was a small display case with several items on a swath of red velvet.

He stooped to get a closer look, trying to understand why these seemingly ordinary items were being showcased. A worn copy of Shakespeare’s
Othello
with the initials
H. L.
inscribed on the cover. An earring, simple and silver, sitting on top of a ripped piece of paper, one marked by heavy charcoal smears. Two small pink oyster shells. A tin of Altoids. A stamped envelope. A patch, meant to be sewn to a backpack or a jacket, in the shape of a football. JD was so close that his breath fogged up the glass. He paused for a moment, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing. The house was eerily silent, every room cloaked in soundproof sheets of velvet.

There seemed to be hundreds of items in the case, but the
next one on this shelf made his breath catch in his throat. He would have recognized it anywhere. A gold squiggling-snake brooch. Where its eyes should be, two tiny pieces of red stone. He’d seen it hundreds of times—pinned to Drea Feiffer’s clothes.

He shrank back from the case, his mind racing, certain now that he was in a bad place—that this house, and its inhabitants, were evil. It was all starting to make sense. The football—Chase Singer. The charcoal drawing—Sasha Bowlder. The pin—Drea. Now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t be surprised if that copy of
Othello
was connected to Mr. Landon. JD’s blood went cold. What was he looking at? Prizes? Trophies?

Pieces for some kind of demented scrapbook?

These girls were the killers. JD steadied himself against the mantel above the fireplace, trying to get his thoughts to come one at a time, rather than all at once. The current was fast and there was no jumping to shore.

Before he turned away, another item in the case caught his eye. Up in the right-hand corner was a pen. Not just any pen. The fancy one, embellished with silver swirls, that he’d given to Em as a gift two Christmases ago. It was the kind of pen you kept—refilling it with ink when it ran dry, using it only to write down your most important secrets. He remembered how she’d looked at him when she opened the box on Christmas morning, still wearing her striped pajamas.

This is for a real writer,
she’d said, her eyes glowing shyly.

That’s why you should have it,
he’d responded.

And there it was, lying lost in the Furies’ case of terrible triumphs. He balled his hand into a fist and raised it high above his head, compelled to smash the glass, retrieve the pen, and get the hell out of this haunted house.

Suddenly, Ali appeared right next to him, close enough to make his arm hairs prickle. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He stumbled backward, knowing that his face betrayed a look of both shock and fear. JD tried desperately to appear unfazed. “Hi! I, ah, didn’t know you were here. I was just . . . ” He trailed off, unable to come up with an excuse.

“I heard you two come in,” she said, smiling coyly.  “I thought I’d come say hello. I’ve got to keep a pretty close watch on her these days.”

On Ty?
Me too,
he thought.

“Yeah, I ran into Ty out there in the woods. . . . She’s just in the kitchen,” JD said, pointing vaguely. “I think.” His mind was racing. Should he excuse himself and make a break for it? Being here with Ty and these trophies was bad enough. Now he had two of them to deal with? And what if Meg was home too . . . ? There was a seesaw tipping back and forth in his stomach, and JD felt vaguely seasick.

Ali’s eyes narrowed. Her lashes and eyebrows were so light that her eyes appeared as pricks of black on a white canvas. The room hung with silence as heavy as the drapes. “You know, you
should be careful,” she came right out and said at last. “If Ty’s paying attention to you, that means she wants something. And when she wants something, it’s never good.”

A wave of cold broke over him. “What does that mean?” He wondered if he should say something about the trophies, call her out on being connected to the murders, or simply run.

“It’s a warning,” Ali said. “If things don’t go according to plan, it’ll be worse for everyone.”

“Well, I don’t know what the
plan
is,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little late to this party.”

She smiled brightly. “And it’s been such a fun one. . . . ” Then her face clouded over slightly. “Until Ty got carried away. She doesn’t understand. We’re family. We’re supposed to stay together. . . . ” She trailed off and looked past JD at the trophy case.

“She doesn’t understand what?” JD asked. He knew he should leave, but he needed answers. His frustration and fear were mounting, and he felt like he might bubble over at any second. If there had been something to throw, he would have, then. He wanted to break something. To see it shatter into a million pieces.

“Well, I can’t tell you
that
,” Ali said. “We have a lot of secrets. I just want to make sure no one was spilling them.” She looked pointedly toward the kitchen.

“I know your secrets,” JD bluffed.

Another tinkling laugh. “Oh, no you don’t,” she taunted. She sidled right up next to him and whispered the next bit into his
ear, making him shrink away. “If you did, the past few months would have been
very
different. In fact, someone’s been keeping secrets from
you
.”

She was like a cat, batting him back and forth between her paws. He was at her mercy. His brain might as well have been rattling in his skull. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tonelessly. But he desperately wanted to know.

“Aw, that hit on the head must have confused you,” Ali cooed, reaching up to trace a finger along the scar on his forehead.

It felt like a hot poker being dragged across his skin. He jerked away. “What do you know about that?”

Ali tossed her hair over one shoulder and reached a pointy fingernail up to tap her lips in an exaggerated expression of thought. “I seem to remember a construction site . . . a pipe . . . a
terrible
accident . . . and a girl who was so in love that she did whatever we asked her to do in order to save you.”

The seeds. Em. That night at the Behemoth.

He’d had it all wrong.

Em.
Oh god, Em.

“So all that stuff about Crow . . . ” JD trailed off, recalling how convinced he’d been that he’d seen her kissing Crow at the construction site. How he’d believed Crow was the one responsible for knocking him out. Now, in a flash, he knew otherwise. It wasn’t Crow—it never had been. It had been the Furies all along. They’d tricked him. Possibly even messed with his mind somehow.