Gilt Hollow (8 page)

The Lamotts weren't there under a normal lease. And Willow had made it clear he wasn't welcome. He gripped
the edges of the wooden stool beneath him. She brought out something primal in him, all the hurt and disappointment boiling to the surface every time he looked at her insolent little face—the tilt of her chin denying their history, her eyes flashing rejection.

Which was fine by him—he had no need for her approval. Ashton leaned his stool back on two legs and pushed his shoulders into the wall as he admitted he wasn't being entirely truthful. He did need something from Willow. He just had no idea how to go about getting it.

In accordance with his herbal-enhanced mood, Jeff changed the LP to a mellow, and only slightly less angsty, band from the eighties singing about finding a destination under the Milky Way. Ashton closed his eyes and let the song flow through him. He'd missed this. The way music could either transport you or gut you like a pumpkin, leaving your innards exposed and vulnerable.

His eyes popped open and he reached over to open a nearby window. Evidently, one didn't have to hold the cigarette to experience its calming effects.
Not
what he needed at the moment.

He leaned close to the screen and sucked in a cleansing breath before bringing up his dilemma with the only person he had to talk to. “So, I've got this parole officer visit tomorrow, and I kind of gave him the Keller House as my place of residence.”

Unfortunately, his sounding board was as high as a cherry bomb on the Fourth of July. Jeff swayed a bit and squinted at him through a haze of smoke. “So what's the prob? It's your house, right?”

“Not legally until I turn twenty-one. Plus someone's already living in it. Dee Lamott signed a contract as the live-in caretaker.”

Following a long drag, Jeff flicked the stub into an ashtray under the counter and asked, “Aren't you tight with the Lamotts?”

“Used to be.”

Jeff's gaze sharpened. “They put you out with the trash after your conviction?”

Ashton gave a tight nod.

“Why not ask them if you can crash for a few days? That place is like a McMansion, dude. They could totally spare a room.”

Ashton smiled at Jeff's Shaggy-meets-surfer speak. But despite his old friend's herbally-induced rose-colored glasses, Ashton knew the truth when he heard it—asking Mrs. Lamott if he could stay in the house until he found a place of his own was the best option. If Adam were alive, it wouldn't even be a question.

Jeff began typing on his computer. “Or, like I said before, you can always crash—”

“Ashton Keller?”

The authoritative bark of his name whipped Ashton's head around. Chief Kagawa, stiff-necked and broad as a bulldozer, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, legs spread wide.

Jeff caught Ashton's eye—neither one of them had heard him come up the old, rickety staircase.

Slowly, making sure his hands were visible, Ashton stood. “Yes, that's me.”

Jeff lifted the needle from the record with a screech, dead silence settling on the room as the chief gripped the top of his nightstick and strode forward. “I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station, Mr. Keller.”

Ashton tried to stay calm. This was probably regarding a routine procedure. Like a registration following his release or
something. But the hard set of the chief's features said otherwise. “Can I ask why?”

“Harassment, theft, destruction of property . . . any of this ringing a bell?”

Ashton's muscles locked, his pulse ratcheting into overdrive. “What?”

The cop stopped a few feet in front of him, pulled out his cell phone, and held the screen up to Ashton's face. “This look familiar?”

The picture showed a football jersey with the number twelve embossed on it, pinned crucifixion style on a door. There were gaping slashes all over it, like someone had taken a blade to it. Ashton leaned in close to read the name on the back.
C. Martin.

“Colin's jersey was stolen from his locker during practice, urinated on, shredded, and nailed onto the gym door.”

“When was this?” Ashton demanded.

“He's been here all afternoon, chief.” Jeff spoke up for the first time.

Kagawa ignored Jeff, his dark eyes never leaving Ashton's face. “Sometime between three thirty and five. According to the school office, you signed out at one thirty today to take care of personal business.”

Ashton didn't appreciate the inferred air quotes around “personal business,” but he kept his voice calm and stuffed his emotions deep as he perched on the edge of the stool, his feet still on the ground. “I've been here since three.”

“That's right,” Jeff chimed in. “I remember the time he came in because he helped the UPS guy carry a shipment up the stairs. They're always here around three o'clock.”

Chief Kagawa lowered his phone and slipped it into his pocket, his gaze laser-focused on Ashton's face. “Everyone
saw your altercation with Colin today. That gives you motive and opportunity.”

“I wouldn't call it an altercation, exactly.” Ashton cocked a brow. “More like a misunderstanding.”

“Where were you between one thirty and three this afternoon?”

So he
had
heard Jeff say he'd been here all afternoon. Ashton almost smiled. The chief's evidence was unraveling. Colin had worn his jersey during school, and practice started at three thirty. Ashton was already at Twisted Beauty by that time and hadn't left. The school was on the other end of town, making it nearly impossible for him to slip out, do the deed, and be back to the shop before Jeff noticed. But Ashton knew how to play this game. Keeping his voice neutral, he replied, “When I left school, I went directly to Harrison's Electronics and purchased a cell phone. Then I stopped at CC's for a sandwich and walked here after I finished eating. I think I've got the receipt in my pocket.” With deliberation, so as not to make any sudden moves, Ashton dipped his hand into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out the cell and his lunch receipt.

The chief snatched the piece of paper out of his hand, scanning the tiny print.

Ashton continued, “The people at Harrison's and CC's could tell you I stopped in. I'm fairly certain, by the way the manager at CC's glared holes in my back, that she knows exactly who I am.”

Taking out a small black notebook, Kagawa scribbled down a note and then handed the receipt back to Ashton. “What's your cell phone number?”

After rattling off his new number, Ashton held up the small device. “It's just a basic call and text phone. No data
plan.” A smirk tilted his lips. “In case you wanted to follow me on Instagram. I won't be there.”

Chief Kagawa lurched forward, his face so close Ashton could smell the tacos he'd eaten for lunch. “This isn't over, Keller. I don't need Instagram to see your every move. If you so much as drop a tissue on the sidewalk, I'll hear about it. Understand?”

Ashton squinted into Kagawa's dark, hooded eyes and answered through clenched teeth. “Yes. Sir.” He'd had just about enough of authority figures treating him like dirt, but he didn't dare make a move. Not yet anyway.

The chief gave a tight nod and stepped back. He turned to where Jeff hovered by his computer. “Is that pot I smell?”

“No, sir. Just cloves and incense.”

“That better be all it is, or I'll be back with a warrant,” the chief snapped before stalking out.

After they heard the bell clang and the door slam downstairs, Jeff let out a ragged sigh. “Dude, you should get out of here. I need something stronger than tobacco. I'm closing up shop for the day.”

“Sure, man, I have something I need to do anyway.” Asking for help didn't come easy for Ashton, but having a place of residence with a respectable family would go a long way toward helping him earn credibility with Mr. Ponytail Reed and the local authorities. It was time to bury his true feelings about the Lamotts and charm his way back into their lives.

W
illow made her way down the front stairs while uncomfortable tingles raced across her shoulders. She paused and scanned the deep shadows gathering beyond the arched doorways branching off the dark foyer. She couldn't say why the house had this effect on her even after she'd discovered the identity of their “ghost.” But it almost felt alive, as if the home had a spirit of its own, and it didn't approve of its new residents.

Gripping the handrail, she took another step down. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the entryway echoed in her ears, her pulse throbbing in time. Was Ashton already in the house? He'd asked for more time, and she would give it to him, but how much time? She couldn't hide his presence indefinitely.

Another step.

She wouldn't be downstairs alone at all except she'd skipped dinner, and her rumbling stomach had forced her out of hiding. Rainn's high-pitched whine echoed down the hall from his room, indicating that Mom had her hands full as they worked on her brother's homework. Good. Willow had no desire to rehash their argument.

Another step.

Wind pushed against the house, shaking the windows in their frames like a death rattle in an old man's throat. Willow gripped the railing tighter. The eves above answered with a long moan. Visions of the resident ghosts at Hogwarts made her glance up at the ceiling, but in the gloom the crossbeams held tight to their secrets. Maybe she wasn't hungry after all.

A resounding gong boomed through the house. Willow swallowed a shriek and raced back up three stairs before she recognized it was the doorbell. She stopped to catch her breath and then jogged down into the foyer, yelling that she'd get it.

The side windows, with their original now-warped glass, were useless, so after a second's hesitation, she cracked one of the double doors. Her hand on the lock, she peeked out, ready to slam it shut again if . . . if what? A robber stood at the door? Unlikely.

Straightening her spine, she swung the door wide. Ashton stood to the right of the entryway, a steady breeze lifting the hair off his forehead.

“What are you doing?” Willow gasped.

Ashton raised a darkly amused brow. “I thought I was ringing the doorbell.”

“Who is it, Willow?” Mom called.

Willow's gaze swung back to Ashton, who offered a smile. “I came to talk to her . . . your mom.”

Footsteps sounded from the second floor.

“It's just a kid selling tangelos for band, Mom! No need to come down.”

“Okay, tell them I already bought some from the neighbor.”

“All right!”

Grabbing Ashton's hand, Willow tugged him through the door, shut it behind her, and led him to the farthest corner of the dim living room. A rush of electricity traveled up her arm and flared in her belly as she registered that his strong, warm fingers had closed over hers. She stopped in front of the empty hearth and yanked her hand away, spinning to face him.

Ashton's closed lips quirked up on one side, but the
expression didn't reach his eyes. “I had no idea you'd be so happy to see me.”

“Lower your voice,” Willow hissed as she glanced at the ceiling and then back to him. But she had to readjust the angle of her gaze to account for his height. How had he gotten so . . . large? She'd grown maybe an inch or two, but it was like he'd doubled in size in four years.

“Like I said,” he continued in his deep rumble, “I came to talk to your mom.”

“Well, she doesn't want to talk to you.” Ashton's jaw flexed and Willow bit her lip, wishing she could take back the tone of her words. What was it about him that brought out this thoughtless aggression? “I mean . . . um . . .”

Ashton pushed out a sigh, strode past her to the mini bar, and drew a glass of water from the faucet. Willow watched him, how comfortable he seemed, like he belonged in this rambling old mansion. Because he did. He'd been born into a life of wealth and privilege that she could only imagine. The Kellers had been like Gilt Hollow royalty—until that fateful night when one boy's actions toppled them from their pedestal with a resounding crash.

After downing a second glass, he turned and leaned against the granite counter, crossing his arms and ankles in front of him. “I have a parole officer visit tomorrow, and it would be best if I'm not homeless. I'm trying to do the right thing by asking for your mom's permission to stay here . . . just for a few days.”

“That's going to be difficult since she kind of forbade me to see you.” Willow slumped into one of the leather chairs by the hearth.

“Why?” His brows shot up, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Did you already give him this address? Your parole officer, I mean.”

“I kind of thought this was my house.” Ashton dropped his hand, crossing his arms again. “So, yeah.”

His words dripped sarcasm, but Willow pushed down her defensiveness. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to come back after four years and have your old life completely changed. Your family gone. Turning to face him, she whispered, “What about your parents?”

Shadows obscured one side of Ashton's face, giving him a haunted look. When he spoke, his voice was void of emotion. “I haven't seen them since my sentencing.”

Willow clutched the arms of the chair as something cracked in her chest, a heartrending pain for the boy she'd once adored. She'd known that his parents had their faults, but how could they abandon him when he needed them most?

Outside the window, fireflies sparked and plunged through the purple dusk, and Willow's stomach swooped along with them. She'd been a rule follower her entire life. Structure and order were her greatest comfort. After the fight with her mom, she'd spent the whole evening organizing her clothes by season, frequency of wear, and color. It calmed her, gave her a sense of control. But in this one rare moment, none of that mattered. She knew what she had to do. “What time is the appointment?”

“Seven o'clock.”

“Tomorrow's Thursday . . .” Willow nibbled on her thumbnail, thinking through ways she could get her mother out of the house. Then she remembered St. Vincent's soup kitchen, where they volunteered twice a month. Surely her mom wouldn't object to the suggestion that they were short on help. She lowered her hand and stood to face him. “I can give you an hour and a half . . . maybe a little more.”

The monotonous tick of the antique clock on the mantel filled the silence as Ashton stared at her, unmoving. Time seemed to reverse and they were once again connected, their friendship the biggest thing in their world.

Ashton unfolded his arms and pushed off the counter. He walked toward her, his heavy-lidded eyes searching her face. “Willow, I—”

Sharp footsteps echoed above their heads, cutting off his words as they both stared at the ceiling. “That's my mom,” Willow hissed. “Take the back stairs.”

He took a step closer and touched her shoulder, the pressure of his hand warming her all the way to her fingertips. “Thank you.”

A creak sounded on the stairs, and Willow pushed him away. “Go!”

He shot her a grin—a real one that lit his eyes like a sky full of stars, then turned on his heel and slipped into the dark.

Willow forced out a shaky breath, a rush of light-headedness causing her to grip the chair. Her mom rounded the corner and appeared in the arched doorway. “Did I hear voices?”

“Just me talking to Lisa.” She whipped her cell out of her pocket and held it up. “I had her on speaker phone.”

Mom stepped into the room, moonlight catching on the glittered thread woven into her skirt. “Willow, about earlier—”

“It's okay,” Willow rushed to interrupt the looming lecture. “I understand where you're coming from.” Which she did. She just didn't agree with it. “Hey, can I go to Lisa's after school Friday? We want to get ready at her house before the football game.”

Mom's eyes lit up. She'd been bugging Willow to “have fun with kids her own age” for years. “Absolutely.”

Willow walked forward, keeping her mom's attention away from the back hallway. “We'll probably go out after too.” She hadn't told Mom about her sort-of-date with Brayden Martin, and didn't plan to. “If that's okay?”

“Sure.” Her mom hugged Willow's shoulders as they walked side by side. “There's leftover paella in the fridge. Let me heat it up for you.”

A few minutes later, as Willow savored the perfectly seasoned shrimp, vegetable, and rice mixture, and her mom finished the dishes, she brought up St. Vincent's being short of help.

Her mom stripped off her rubber gloves and turned. “They serve at seven. We should be there by six thirty to help set up.”

“Perfect,” Willow said before taking a long swig of lemonade to hide her smile. Wow, that was easy.

A ping sounded from her pocket, and she took out her cell to find a SnapMail notification. She hadn't used that app since last year, when one of the girls doing a group history project had to communicate with her iPod because she didn't have a cell phone. Curious, Willow clicked open the message to find a picture. It looked like a GH football jersey tacked to a wall. She used her fingers to enlarge the image and noticed the shirt was stained and in tatters. She zoomed in on the letters at the top.
C. Martin.

Weird. Why would someone do that to Colin's football jersey? And send her a picture of it? She checked the return address to find a series of random letters and numbers.

The picture disappeared, reminding her that this app allowed the sender to set a period of time that their message
could be viewed. Her phone pinged again, a text popping up from the same unidentified sender:

Rein in your boyfriend before somebody gets hurt.

Willow read the words four times before it clicked in her brain. A chill spread down her spine one vertebrate at a time. If the destroyed jersey belonged to Colin Martin and her “boyfriend” was Ashton . . . Had Ashton done this in retaliation after their fight at school? Whoever sent this message certainly thought so.

“I'm going up to bed, hon. Need to start on the front landscaping tomorrow before the weather turns.” Mom leaned over and kissed the side of Willow's head. “Hey, you all right?”

Willow clicked off her screen, but the message had already vanished. “Yeah, I'll be up in a few. Need to make some chamomile.”

“Okay, good night.”

But Willow didn't make tea. She sat staring at the blank screen in her hand, the mutilated jersey burned into her eyes. Colin had been at the falls and had testified that Ashton pushed Daniel to his death. The dark house seemed to shrink around her. Ashton's parents were long gone. He'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her, except when he needed her help. Why would he come back to Gilt Hollow at all? Unless . . . he'd returned seeking revenge.

Willow shot out of the chair and shoved it against the table. Not five minutes ago, she'd considered going up to the third floor to knock on his door, hoping they could sit and chat like old times.
What an idiot!

Shutting off lights as she went, Willow raced up to her room and locked the door behind her.

How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she had no idea who Ashton was anymore?

■ ■ ■

Willow was on edge all morning. She'd half expected Ashton to show up on her walk to school. He hadn't. In the hallways, Colin's jersey was all anyone could talk about. She'd passed his locker, and a group of girls hovered and cooed over him like he was a wounded baby bird. Willow suppressed the urge to gag. God forbid anyone touch Colin Martin's sacred football jersey. Not that shredding and peeing on someone's clothes was okay. It wasn't. (And gross.) But the way people were reacting, you'd think his house had burned to the ground.

By second period she'd heard everything from “The police have cleared Ashton” to “Ashton ripped the jersey off Colin and shredded it in front of him.” People were ridiculous, and it made her question her own assumptions. Which brought her thoughts back to who and why someone thought it their duty to send her the picture and warning the night before—as if she'd had anything to do with it.

Worst of all, Lisa had a dentist appointment and wouldn't be in until lunch, so Willow couldn't even discuss what happened with her friend. Not that she could share all of it. She'd texted Lisa the night before to tell her she'd been wrong about Ashton breaking in. A part of her felt bad about the lie, but
no one
could know that Ashton was staying in the house. Secrets that juicy had a way of leaking out.

In second period, Brayden slid onto the stool at their lab table, flicked his bright hair off his forehead, and then shot her a warm smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Willow sat a little straighter and put her glasses into her hair. She'd taken a little more time on her appearance that
morning, returning to her usual plaid skirt, knee socks, and blouse-sweater combo. She'd even put on a little mascara and worn her hair down in loose waves around her shoulders.

Brayden scooted his stool over so they sat elbow to elbow. “So what's with the glasses? I've noticed you don't wear them all the time.”

Willow took the dark, cat-eye frames out of her hair and put them back on. “Better to see you with, my dear,” she cackled in her best wolf-in-granny's-clothing impression. Brayden hooted with laughter. She liked hanging with him. He reminded her there could be more to life than angst and drama. “I have a slight nearsighted astigmatism. It's not bad, but I need my glasses to read the small print on Smartboards.”

“I see.” Brayden's knee brushed her leg as he lifted his hands and slipped the glasses off her face. “Well, I like seeing your eyes.”