Gilt Hollow (24 page)

Too late to change her mind, she dropped it into her bag and grabbed a tube of lip gloss. She'd just lifted it to her lips when Mrs. Martin walked in. “Oh, Willow! You startled me.” Her hand pressed against her chest as her gaze focused on Willow's freshly glossed lips. A slow, knowing smile curled her mouth. “This isn't the way to win Colin's attention, dear.” She shook her head, her eyes sympathetic, as if she were used to dealing with her gorgeous son's groupies.

Willow could feel her face flaming, which seemed to confirm Mrs. Martin's theory.

“Why don't you come with me to the kitchen? I just made cookies.” She reached out a hand and gestured for Willow to precede her through the door.

A few awkward minutes later, Willow leaned against the kitchen island and forced herself to shove the cookie into her mouth in two bites. “Mmm. So good. Thank you, but I better get back.”

“Not yet.”

Willow froze at the woman's tone, her pale blue gaze—so much like her son's—narrowed on Willow's face. Bracing for a lecture on promiscuity, Willow was shocked when a glass appeared before her on the counter.

“You'll need some milk to wash that down.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Willow, I know things have been hard for you, but hiding in a boy's bedroom is not an appropriate way to get attention. Is it?”

And there it was. Willow swallowed hard. “No, ma'am.”

The basement door swung open, and Willow whipped around ready to beg whoever it was to rescue her. Isaiah stuck his head in without coming up. “Oh, there you are, Willow. We're about to start Ghosts in the Graveyard,
in
the actual graveyard behind the house.” He wiggled his fingers. “Spoookyyy.”

“I'm coming!” Willow plunked down the glass, and turned on her heel as Isaiah backed down the stairs. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Martin.”

“I'm so very proud of that boy.”

The random comment cut Willow off mid-flee. “Isaiah?”

Mrs. Martin wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Overcoming that nasty business with drugs.”

“What?” Willow had no clue what the woman was talking about.

“Oh, I . . . it was a long time ago. Daniel thought he saw Isaiah dealing, but . . . nothing ever came of it.”

“Daniel Turano saw Isaiah dealing drugs?” Willow asked in disbelief.

Mrs. Martin nodded, her cheeks reddening as if she'd been caught gossiping in church.

“But why haven't I heard about any of this? Why didn't Isaiah go to jail?”

Mrs. Martin busied herself cleaning up Willow's dishes. “I don't know. But I think it's best you get back to your friends.”

Willow made her way out to the pool area and found it deserted. Belatedly, she remembered she'd left her Solo cup in Cory's room, but it was too late to go back. No one would know it was hers anyway.

“Where have you been?” Ashton's urgent whisper startled her, and she spun around to find him lurking in the shadows.

“Did you send Isaiah to find me?”

“No. Where were you?”

Willow glanced around to make sure they were alone before she replied, “Snooping.”

Ashton pushed off the wall and stalked forward. “I thought we agreed we were done with that.”

“No, you agreed. I—”

The back door swung open and an older gentleman, blond hair graying at his temples, walked out carrying a tray of marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers. “Willow, right?”

“Hi, yes.” As he drew closer she realized it was Mr. Martin. She hadn't recognized him because he'd gained at least fifty pounds since she'd seen him last.

“Can you take this out to the bonfire for me?”

“Sure.” Willow accepted the tray.

Mr. Martin turned and his face hardened. “Ashton.”

Ashton gave the man a single nod. “Mr. Martin.”

The door clicked shut behind Colin's dad, and Willow muttered, “Well, that was awkward.”

“Don't change the subject.” Ashton crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Willow with lowered brows.
“What did you find in the house? And don't bother lying. I'll get it out of you one way or another.”

Wondering if he had any idea how menacing he could look, Willow set the food on a table behind her and crossed her own arms. She told him about finding Cory's untouched room, the box full of articles in Colin's closet, the overheard conversation, and then what Mrs. Martin had said about Isaiah. “Is the woman delusional or what? I've never heard that before.”

Ashton let out a sigh and pushed a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. “She's not crazy. I'd heard rumors, but Isaiah would never talk about it.”

“I can't believe you didn't tell me. This changes everything, because if Daniel ratted him out, maybe Isaiah pushed him on pur—”

A bloodcurdling scream rent the air, joined by another, and then a cry for help. Willow and Ashton exchanged an alarmed glance before sprinting toward the field.

By the time they reached the edge of the graveyard, they had to push through a group of kids to see what had happened. In the center of the crowd, Yolanda and Ona knelt on the ground, crouched over a prone figure. Ona sat back, and Willow could see Penelope as still as death, her platinum hair spread around her, a dark stain spreading across the side of her white sweater.
Blood?

“I called 911,” Lisa announced in a calm, clear voice as she walked into the open. “Someone needs to meet them at the driveway so they know where to come.”

“I'll go!” Several people, including Brayden, volunteered and took off at a run.

Willow gave Ashton's hand a quick squeeze just before he stepped forward and knelt next to Ona. “Is she . . .?”

“She's . . . still breathing.” Ona reached over and brushed Penelope's hair off her forehead. Yolanda was holding the unconscious girl's hand and whispering reassurances.

“What happened?” Ashton's voice sounded raw.

“She was . . .” Ona swiped at the tears streaking mascara down her face. “She was the ghost . . . and supposed to be hiding. I . . . I . . . found her like this.”

Yolanda stopped her gentle murmurs and raised her eyes to Ashton. “She's been stabbed.”

Just as Ashton started to rise, Colin flew through the air and tackled him to the ground. Insults pouring out of his mouth like fire, Colin slammed his fist into Ashton's gut. Ashton wheezed, gripping his damaged ribs with one hand. Willow stumbled forward, but someone held her back.

She whipped around to find Isaiah's stern face. “Don't.”

Colin landed a blow to Ashton's face. “I'm gonna kill you for what you did to her, you lowlife—”

But he never finished. With lightning speed, Ashton wrapped a leg around Colin and flipped him onto his back. Colin flailed, trying to fight back, but Ashton pinned his arm and smashed a fist into Colin's nose. Without hesitating, Ashton followed with a left hook to Colin's jaw. Colin used his free hand to defend his face, and Ashton delivered a blow to the throat instead. Colin's eyes flew wide as he struggled for breath, but Ashton kept hitting him—his fist hammering into Colin's head over and over. The football team closed in and stood watching. Why weren't they stopping this?

Ashton's face was a cold mask of rage. Willow jerked away from Isaiah and sprang forward. “Ashton, stop!” The pummeling continued. “Ashton Arnett Keller!” Something clicked behind his eyes, and his movements slowed. Colin moaned, his head falling to one side.

Willow approached slowly and touched Ashton's shoulder. “Ash?”

His jaw tight, he leaned into Colin's face. “I would
never
hurt Penelope, you scumbag. But I can't say the same for you.” Giving his chest one last shove, Ashton rose to his feet as sirens sounded in the distance. He turned, his eyes burning into Willow's.

Reading his mind, she took his hand and led him away from the crowd. It was only a matter of minutes before he was arrested.

Blue and red lights swirled behind Ashton's closed eyelids, cutting apart his life with every rotation. He would never hurt Penelope—never stab
anyone
. But the police had found the knife, and the glimpse he'd caught of its curved, mother-of-pearl handle looked suspiciously like one of the blades from his grandfather's collection. Not that the police could know that, but Ashton knew. And the knowing carried piercing implications—whoever had done this had broken into Keller House, endangering Willow and her family, and stolen the knife with the express purpose of setting Ashton up for the crime.

His heart slammed inside his chest, the throb in his head intensifying with every beat. His return to Gilt Hollow hadn't been entirely altruistic. He could admit that revenge had fueled him. One vision had driven his every thought, his every action—the one who'd set him up losing his life, his future—just as Ashton had. Suffering—just as he had. Disappointing everyone they love—just as he had. The identity of the person
didn't matter. In his mind, Brayden, Colin, and Isaiah had morphed into one hideous monster responsible for wrecking his life. And all he'd wanted to do was slay the beast.

But then Willow had given him a second chance, trusted him despite everything, and the terrible wrath swirling inside him had calmed. The need for vengeance had dissolved into dreams of clearing his name and starting fresh. He dug his fingers into his knees until his hands ached, the future he'd begun to hope for disintegrating with every whirl of the tires beneath him.

The cruiser pulled to a stop, and Ashton opened his eyes to see the brick facade of the police station. Deputy Simms exited the car and came around to open Ashton's door. When Ashton didn't move, Simms leaned in and gestured for him to get out. But Ashton's muscles had locked. What if the brief walk from the car to the station was the last free air he ever breathed?

“Let's go, Mr. Keller. The chief wants you booked and ready for questioning by the time he finishes his investigation at the Martin place.”

Panic twisted his gut. He couldn't go back to being locked in a cage, and for a brief moment he considered running. He could knock Simms out, nab his keys, unlock the cuffs, and steal the cruiser in less than two minutes. He could run to Mexico, get a job on a farm, and never look back.

Simms grabbed his arm. Ashton sucked in a deep breath, his muscles tensing. His instincts screamed for him to run as far and as fast as he could.

But then he exhaled and got out of the car. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave the Lamotts with no explanation. Willow would worry herself sick, and besides, running would only make him appear guilty. He would have to stay and fight for his freedom.

Officer Simms steered Ashton from the cool night air through the double doors, a blast of stale heat blowing onto their heads. “I need to call my lawyer.”

“Oh, you'll get your call.” Simms tugged Ashton down a short hallway, stopped in front of a bank of cells, and unlocked the first door on the right. He gave Ashton a hard shove, and he tripped forward, his hands still cuffed in front of him. “When the chief is good and ready.”

The metal door clanged shut, and as the lock clicked into place, déjà vu pressed down on Ashton's shoulders. He slumped onto the narrow cot. It was the same cage they'd put him in the day Daniel died.

W
illow bit her lip hard to keep the frustration from pouring out of her mouth. Mr. Martin drove his Lexus at a snail's pace through the fog-shrouded streets. She tapped her foot against the floorboards and shoved her thumbnail between her teeth, knowing she could've run faster than this old man was driving.

The cops had questioned everyone at the Martin house as they'd huddled under blankets and sipped hot cocoa while Ashton had been handcuffed and shoved into a police car. It hadn't surprised Willow that Ashton was the primary suspect in Penelope's stabbing. She'd told anyone who would listen that they'd been together at the pool when Penelope had been attacked, but the cops just nodded and moved on.

What
had
been a surprise was Bill Martin turning up after the cops left and offering to drive Willow to the station. Brayden had protested at first, but when Mr. Martin insisted, he'd let her go. Heat blasted from the car vents, permeating the air with the sharp scent of burning dust, but Willow couldn't stop shivering. She
needed
to get to Ashton, to see him and make sure he was okay.

“Did you know my son Cory?”

Mr. Martin's voice cut through the thick silence, making Willow start. She turned and met his gaze. Purple shadows hung under his bloodshot eyes and deep lines bracketed his mouth. He and her mother had graduated from Gilt High the same year, but he appeared at least ten years older.

“Y-yes. I knew him.” Cory's soft brown eyes and wide smile flashed across her memory.

“He was a good kid.” Mr. Martin's voice trailed off as he applied the brake and steered the car into a sharp curve. “He loved to hunt.” A smile lifted his profile. “He didn't really care for sports, like his brother. He didn't have that same competitive drive. Music and the outdoors, those were his passions.”

Having no idea what to say or why Mr. Martin would talk to her about Cory at a time like this, Willow just nodded.

“Did you know we called him turtle-boy?” He chuckled under his breath, but the laughter held a bitter twist. “The turtle and the hare, those were my two sons to a T.”

Willow stayed quiet.

“Colin rushes from one activity to another. Doesn't even stop moving when he's eating. But Cory couldn't be rushed through anything. He was thorough and precise in everything he did. Especially when it came to weapons.”

The words hung in the artificially heated air between them, carrying an almost physical weight. Willow swallowed and turned back to face him, her question little more than a whisper. “You don't think what happened to Cory was an accident, do you?”

He pulled the car into the police station parking lot and guided it into a spot near the front door. When he turned to her, his fleshy face had set into hard lines. “No. No, I don't.”

Willow sat stunned, implications swirling through her mind. Had Mr. Martin suspected someone murdered Cory but kept silent because his oldest son, his nephew, and the police chief's son where the most likely suspects? Why had he told her, of all people? And why was he getting out of the car? She'd assumed he was just dropping her off, but when
she hadn't moved, he stopped and waited until she joined him, and they walked into the station together.

The first floor of the building was one large room divided by a reception area and then, behind it, two rows of desks. Hallways and several closed doors branched off the main room. Mr. Martin stopped at the front desk. “I need to speak with Chief Kagawa immediately.”

The officer didn't even look up from what he was typing on the computer. “The chief is busy. Take a seat and I'll let him know you're here.” He gestured toward a row of mismatched chairs and a beat-up table marred with cigarette burns.

The bang as Mr. Martin's fist hit the countertop nearly stopped Willow's heart. “I need to talk to him now! Or, by God, I'll find him myself!”

The officer leaped out of his chair and rounded the desk, but Mr. Martin was already rushing into the station. “Kagawa!”

The cop ran after Mr. Martin and jerked him back by the shoulder. “Sir, you can't go back there!”

Mr. Martin whirled on the officer and stared him down. “He's got the wrong kid back there, and
this time
he's going to listen to me.”

This time?

“What in all that's holy is going on?” Chief Kagawa barked as he strode into the room.

Mr. Martin didn't hesitate. “Ashton Keller didn't stab Penelope Lunarian. He was nowhere near the scene of the crime. I'd been watching him from the kitchen window as he paced outside by the pool for at least fifteen minutes before Ms. Lamott joined him.” He gestured toward Willow, who nodded emphatically. “I came outside and spoke to both of
them and then continued to watch from inside as they had a heated discussion. They were both in my sight when the call for help was raised.”

Chief Kagawa's brows arched and he ran a hand over his buzzed head. “Are you willing to put that in writing?”

“Absolutely.”

■ ■ ■

After Ashton was released, Deputy Simms drove Willow home. But Ashton had insisted on being taken back to the Martins' so he could pick up his bike and head to the hospital.

It had been one of the longest nights of Willow's life, and when sleep had refused to come, she'd camped out on a chair in the living room, dozing fitfully. She blinked late-morning sun from her eyes as the grandfather clock struck eleven and her phone pinged. She grabbed it, anxious for news. Ashton had texted her several times from the hospital with updates on Penelope's condition, which had been touch and go all night.

Even before swiping in her code, she saw the SnapMail notification on her home screen. She sat up and put both feet on the floor before clicking on the icon.

Back off or you're next.

She could guess what the threat meant, but why warn her? Why not just come after her like they'd done to Penelope? She typed:

Next for what?

The first messaged disappeared, and she demanded:

Who is this?

No response.

The front door clicked open. Willow jumped up and ran into the foyer just as Ashton shut the door behind him.
He looked terrible—red-rimmed eyes shadowed with dark circles, a cut on his cheekbone where Colin had hit him, his hair a chaotic mess.

Willow threw her arms around him, careful not to squeeze his bruised ribs. She leaned back and searched his face. “How is she?”

Ashton's voice was guarded, the way he sounded when he wished to hide his emotions. “Still in ICU, but they said she should make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank God!” Mom gushed as she joined them. “Come to the kitchen. Both of you. I'll heat up some chicken noodle soup.”

Seated around the island, they all slurped the steaming broth until Willow finally asked what had been on all their minds. “Did Penelope have any idea who attacked her?”

Ashton stared down and twirled his spoon, the metal clinking against the edges of the ceramic bowl. A muscle in his jaw flexed before he glanced up. “No, all she remembers was someone grabbing her from behind and . . . the knife going into her side.”

There was something he wasn't telling them. “Ash?”

He met her gaze, his eyes a turbulent sea.

“Ashton, what else?”

He stared up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “Just before she was . . . stabbed, a male voice said, ‘You better keep your mouth shut.' ”

Ashton closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat.

Willow asked, “You don't think they meant . . .?”

“Someone tried to kill her”—he shook his head—“because she tried to help me.”

“You don't know that.” She took his hand, but his fingers remained limp.

“That's it.” Mom grabbed their empty bowls and stood. “I'm canceling the party next week.”

Mom had finally gained permission to host the Sleepy Hollow Ball after-party at the mansion and had been working her fingers to the bone cooking and decorating. Between the fake cobwebs, black candles, and skulls in every room, the first floor had begun to look like a movie set.

“That's a good idea.” Ashton sounded defeated.

“No! Mom, you've worked so hard.” Not to mention Willow had plans for that night.

Ashton slid off of his stool and slumped out of the room. “I need to sleep.”

Willow followed him. “Ash, can I talk to you first?”

“Better make it fast.”

They climbed the stairs, and when they reached Ashton's bedroom door, he leaned against the frame. “What's up?”

Willow gathered her courage and blurted, “Go to the ball with me?”

His half-closed eyes opened wide. “As a friend or a date?”

She smiled and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

A corner of his mouth curled. “What about Brayden?”

“I don't want to go with Brayden.” Willow stepped so close that her bare legs brushed the material of his pants. “I want to go with you.”

He looked down into her eyes and rested his hand on her hip, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin below her ribs. “On one condition.”

His touch weakening her knees, Willow braced a palm against his chest. “Anything.”

“Wear your Pikachu costume.” A full smile broke out across his face. In sixth grade they'd trick-or-treated as Ash and Pikachu. He'd worn normal clothes and carried a
pokeball while she'd looked like an overstuffed chicken with a tail.

She smacked his arm. “No way!”

He winced.

“Oh, I'm sorry! Are you bruised there?”

He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her against him, and leaned down to whisper, “No, I just wanted to see your reaction.” His breath ruffled the tiny hairs by her ear and she shivered. He was totally playing her.

“Idiot.” She shoved out of his arms and propped her hands on her hips.

“Brat,” he teased as he pushed off the wall.

Willow was poised to run, but Ashton sighed and stepped back into his room. “I'm too tired to fight with you . . . or kiss you, which is damn depressing.” He turned and shot her a weary grin. “But yes, I'll take you to the ball, Willow-ella. Just plan your costume so you can straddle a motorcycle.”

The door shut and Willow grinned. He was no Prince Charming, but he was hers.

After sleeping most of the day, Ashton awoke with a sad certainty pressing on his chest. Penelope's words had rocked him to his core. He'd been using her, and now she'd paid a horrible price. Next time it could be one of the Lamotts. And he could not allow that to happen.

His sudden release the night before had felt miraculous, but his hope had soon turned to fear as he realized his relentless need to clear his name and prove his worth to the people he cared about had only put them in danger. His return to Gilt Hollow had been a mistake from the start.

He rolled out of bed and grabbed the phone off his nightstand. Maybe if he took himself out of the picture, the violence would stop. He dialed the number he knew by heart and listened to it ring. Just when he was about to hang up, his father's brusque voice came across the line. “Winston Keller.”

“Hey, Dad, it's me.”

There was a pause and then, “Ashton?”

“Yeah.” Ashton swallowed and pushed the words out without taking a breath. “I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I want to come to Cincinnati . . . maybe live with you guys for a while and finish my senior year there.”

Silence.

“Dad, I came back to Gilt Hollow, but it isn't working out. There's nothing for me here.” Except the only people he cared about. Which was exactly why he had to leave.

“We didn't think we'd hear from you.”

Because they'd abandoned him and left him to rot in a jail cell? Ashton stared out the window and bit back his anger. There wouldn't be a plausible explanation for why he hadn't heard from his own family—not one Ashton would ever accept. But as a means to an end, he could swallow his pride.

“I know, Dad, it's just . . . I have nowhere else to go.”

“I don't know. I need to talk to your mother.”

Not good. His dad was a teddy bear compared to Catherine Arnett-Keller. His mom definitely wore the pants, and the boots, in the family. But Ashton had inherited her single-minded focus. Tightening his fingers into a fist, he told the lie he knew would sway his father. “I've been thinking, and I really want to learn more about what you do. About real estate.”

His parents had invested the family fortune wisely. His dad was a real estate broker and his mother an agent—the
face of the business. They specialized in buying old commercial buildings, fixing them up, and selling them at top dollar.

“Well . . . I always said you had the mind for it. Wily as a fox, just like your old man.” There was a smile in his voice. “I'll send a car for you tonight. Are you at Keller House?”