Gilt Hollow (9 page)

Heat rushed into Willow's cheeks, and she resisted the urge to squirm as he stared at her. “Um . . . thanks.”

He grinned and handed her glasses back as the teacher called for their attention. Once Mr. Edwards had turned his back to point to a diagrammed cell, Brayden leaned in, touched his shoulder to hers, and whispered, “I should be able to get to Gino's by nine thirty on Friday. Will you meet me there?”

Willow nodded.

“It'll be crowded, but there's a table in the back, set into a window alcove. Try to get that one, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, I know the one.” Willow's belly flipped. So it
was
an actual date.

By the time she reached Music Appreciation, she'd made a decision; she'd fulfill her promise to Ashton and then move on. No more helping him. No more drama. After the meeting with his parole officer, he'd have to find another place to stay.

When Ashton slumped into the seat next to her, she stared straight ahead and spoke under her breath. “We'll be at St. Vincent's from six thirty to eight thirty tonight. The house is all yours.”

She could feel his gaze drilling into the side of her face, but she didn't turn. Several awkward seconds passed before she inclined her head so the sheet of her hair fell between them.

“Thanks,” he finally said in a gruff whisper.

Willow felt the moment he turned his attention away from her, and let out a tiny breath.

After class she darted out the door and to her locker. Lisa, looking flawless as usual but holding an ice pack to her jaw, mumbled through half-numb lips, “Teeth extraction is so archaic.”

Willow threw her books onto the shelf and grabbed her lunch bag. “Can we eat outside?” Catching a glimpse of Ashton's tall form out the corner of her eye, she didn't wait for Lisa's reply but began to steer her down the hall.

“Wha's the russ?”

“I'll explain when we get out of here.” Her pulse accelerated with her feet as she skipped down the back stairs. Why she was running away, she couldn't say. She just needed a break from the stares and the speculation—and a certain pair of piercing blue eyes.

Once they were outside, she chose a shady table at the far edge of the commons area and plopped down with a sigh. “So I guess you heard about the jersey incident?”

Lisa propped her elbow on the tabletop and gingerly reapplied the ice pack to her jaw. “Who ‘asn't?”

Willow began to unpack her food. “Yeah, well, somebody thinks I had something to do with it.” She pulled half of her
turkey sandwich from the container. “Or maybe they think I could've stopped it . . . I don't know.”

“It may be the Advil 500 I took, but I'm not following.” She enunciated her words with deliberation before shifting the ice higher on her cheek.

Willow swallowed and whispered, “I got an anonymous message last night with a picture of the jersey and a threat to rein in
my boyfriend
.”

“Let me see the message.” Ashton stood, arms crossed, beside their table.

Willow's heart smacked against her ribs. Clutching a fist to her chest, she spat, “You need to stop sneaking up on me like that!”

“I'm not sneaking. I followed you out here. You need to be more observant.”

Willow shot Ashton a glare that he ignored, and he walked to the other end of the table.

Lisa's eyes flared wide as he sat on the bench beside her. She scooted half an inch in the opposite direction and then pulled a container of yogurt from her lunch bag. After watching her struggle with the lid for a few seconds, Ashton took it out of her hands, pulled back the top in one swift motion, and handed it back. Lisa blinked at her yogurt and then stared at him like he'd just saved her cat from drowning in a raging river. “Thanss.” She shook her head and spoke her next words carefully. “I mean,
thanks
. I'm Lisa.”

His mouth kicked up on one side. “Hi. I'm Ashton.”

Lisa returned his smile in slow motion.
Good grief.
He was cute. So what? And he still had those adorable freckles across the bridge of his nose. Big deal. Lots of guys were attractive. The girl needed to get her priorities straight. With hard-won control, she gave Lisa a gentle kick under the table. “Don't mind my friend—she's doped up on pain meds.”

Ashton faced Willow, his expression turning sharp. “So can I see the message or not?”

“Not.” His brows crouched over his eyes. “They sent it on SnapMail.”

“Okay . . .” He drummed the fingers of his right hand against the tabletop. “What did it say word for word?”

Willow repeated the message and then added, “Why someone would, first of all, think you're my boyfriend, and second of all, think I have some control over your actions is beyond me.”

Ashton became very still. “You think I did this, don't you?”

Willow popped a grape in her mouth and didn't answer.

“You
think
I stole Colin's jersey right after half the senior class saw us face off in the hallway?” He lowered his chin, his brows hitching up.

Willow searched his face in silence. Yes, he'd changed physically and in other ways she could only imagine, but strategy had always been his thing. When they'd played war in the woods behind his house, he would develop contingency plans for every move the opposite team was likely to make. Chess matches with him were pointless. The only time she'd won a game, he'd had a fever of 101.

If anything, the whole jersey incident had worked in Colin's favor. Ashton was no saint, but he would never do something this stupid—even if he thought Colin deserved it.

With a curl of her lips, Willow handed him the other half of her turkey sandwich. He searched her eyes for several seconds before taking it, but when he did, Willow felt a knot unravel in her gut. It was almost as if they were friends again.
Almost.

A
shton accepted the sandwich with a solemn nod, seeing it for what it was—a peace offering. Willow had never liked sharing her food. She'd always hated when he'd steal a chip off her plate or taste what she'd ordered at a restaurant. It wasn't that she was selfish; she'd just always thought of sharing food as unsanitary.

After gulping down the turkey on wheat in three bites, he asked, “Who do you think sent the message? Maybe it's the same person who set me up to take the fall. Tell me the exact return address.”

“I have no idea what the address was.” Willow shrugged as a soft breeze blew waves of dark hair across her cheeks.

His mouth suddenly dry, Ashton snapped, “Then how do you know it was anonymous?”

She grasped the stray strands and tucked them behind her ear before rolling her eyes. “It was a series of letters and numbers.”

“Why didn't you write it down?” he accused, his tone harsher than he'd intended.

Willow sat up straight, her shoulders rigid. “Oh, I don't know . . . I might have been a tad bit distracted by the threating nature of the picture and the actual message.” Her cheeks flushed magenta and her dark eyes flashed. “It was on the screen for like twenty seconds tops.”

Ashton gripped the edge of the wood slab in front of him. “Then how the h—”

Lisa slapped her palm on the table with a loud
whap
.
“Chill ou' you ‘wo!” She shook her head and then spoke more slowly. “I
mean
if you two could stop bickering like old ladies, maybe we could figure this out.” Her eyes flickered shut and she pressed the ice pack tighter to her face.

Willow's brow furrowed as she reached over and squeezed Lisa's free hand. “Hey, are you all right?”

“I'll be fine. Just
stop
already.”

“Okay, okay.” Willow took a deep breath and then turned to Ashton. “I don't remember the exact address, but it appeared random.”

He nodded and asked, “Do you use that app a lot?”

“No, never.” She pursed her lips. “Except . . .”

Ashton's gaze lingered on her pink mouth for several seconds before he forced his eyes away and shifted on the bench, his skin suddenly too warm. “Wait, what did you say?”

With an impatient jerk, Willow flicked her bangs off her forehead. “I
said
, the only people who have my SnapMail address were in a small group with me last year.”

“Who was in the group?”

The color drained from her face, and Ashton straightened his spine as she listed the names. “Chad Richards, Isaiah Kagawa, Brayden Martin, and Penelope Lunarian.”

“Does Chad still live on his own planet?” The kid Ashton remembered had been an introvert to the extreme. It wasn't that no one liked him; he just didn't care what anyone thought. Unless you were willing to talk video games or old Godzilla movies, he wasn't interested.

Willow nodded. “Yep.”

Ashton sucked in a deep breath. The other three were a different story. Isaiah and Brayden had both been at the falls the day Daniel died.

Before he could ask, Willow supplied, “Penelope and Colin have dated off and on for the last four years.”

“Are they on or off right now?”

“Very publicly
off
.” Willow glanced at the time on her phone and began to pack up what was left of her lunch. “First day of school, Penelope caught him in the janitor's closet with one of the girls from the soccer team. She flipped out and threatened to cut off his, um . . . you know . . . his
part
.” She jerked her gaze away from his and focused on screwing the cap back on her water bottle.

Half a grin curved his lips before he could stop it. All this time and Willow still couldn't say it. “You mean his pe—”

Willow's eyes flew wide.

“Well!” Lisa spoke over him. “I think we have a candidate for who trashed Colin's jersey. Sweet little Penelope has a mean streak, and maybe with good reason.”

Lisa was right. Ashton could not believe he'd let himself be distracted from the goal. Of course, it had to be Penelope. But would she send a threat to Willow? That part didn't add up. “Do you and Penelope get along okay?”

Willow shrugged. “I guess so. I don't think we've spoken since we worked on that project together last year.”

The warning bell rang in the distance, and Willow shot to her feet like one of Pavlov's dogs conditioned to respond. Punctuality. Another one of her type-A quirks he'd forgotten. “Who does she hang out with?”

Willow braced her hands on the table and climbed over the bench. “She's the third spoke on the Yoko Ono wheel.”

“Huh?” Ashton asked as he stood.

Lisa and Willow exchanged a look and a giggle, but Lisa's laugh turned into a groan as she readjusted her ice pack. Her dark eyes sparkling, Willow turned and met Ashton's gaze. For several seconds neither of them looked away. His stomach did a funny swoosh, like when you jump your bike over a creek and land hard.

“It's what I call Yolanda and Ona. They've been kinda unbearable since you left.” Willow began to walk toward the school. Ashton followed. “They even gave me a special nickname.” She chuckled like it was a joke, but Ashton could tell that it wasn't.

His face must have shown his irritation, because Willow shoved her sack lunch into his chest. “Here. Looks like you need this more than I do.”

Ashton paused and clutched the paper bag, watching Willow and Lisa join the flow of traffic into the building. He pulled out the half-full water bottle and chugged. It was one thing to set him up. Another thing entirely to involve Willow. He lowered the empty bottle and crushed it in his fist.

• • •

After gathering the books she needed for her homework, Willow took an extra lap through the senior corridor, hoping to have a chat with Isaiah or Penelope. Out of the list of individuals who'd been in her small group last year, she'd ruled out Chad—for obvious reasons. When she'd confronted Brayden about the message, he'd appeared genuinely shocked, and then he'd made a joke about her having a secret admirer. Willow felt sure that if he wanted to warn her, he would've done it to her face. So that left Isaiah and Penelope.

But besides a few stragglers and the old janitor, the hallways appeared deserted. Giving up on her quest for the time being, Willow headed out the front doors to join the masses soaking up the late-September sun. A subtle earthy dryness crackled in the air as she paused on the stoop and lifted her face to the warm rays. The tops of the sugar maples in the
courtyard had turned fiery. As a kid, the changing colors of fall had signified the end of long summer days of play. She'd thought the variations of yellow, orange, and scarlet converging on the vibrant green meant the trees were losing their fight against winter.

Over the years, she'd learned to appreciate the cycle of the seasons and the coming crisp sweater weather, autumn festivals, and everything pumpkin spice. With a mind to swing by Gino's for her first hot cinnamon cider of the season, she skipped down the stairs but then froze. Straight across the parking lot, Ashton straddled a jet black motorcycle and then turned to put a helmet on a girl's blonde head. Hair flowing to her waist, antique lace skirt—Penelope.

Penelope Lunarian was one of those people who lived up to her name. Soft-spoken and uber-creative, she only dressed in clothes she made herself and never wore shoes unless forced. At first glance, she projected an ethereal, otherworldly quality, until one realized her quiet demeanor wasn't shyness but pretention.

Something in Willow's chest tightened as Ashton cracked a grin and snapped the helmet strap beneath Penelope's chin. Then he took her hand and placed it on his right shoulder. She hitched up her skirt with her other hand and climbed on the bike behind him. When she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his broad back, Willow turned away, unable to watch as they roared out of the lot.

No longer in the mood for a cider, she began to trudge toward home. Usually she and Lisa walked together until they reached the shaded intersection of Walnut and Second Street, where her friend turned to head home, but Lisa had texted to say she had to leave early and sleep off the pain meds.

So Willow set off with only her thoughts to keep her
company. She kicked a pinecone off the sidewalk, little brown bits clinging to her shoe. Did Ashton really like Penelope? Or was he just using her to gain information? If he'd sought her out to get answers about the jersey, or even to make Colin jealous, he appeared to be enjoying his role a little too much.

But, whatever. Ashton could hang out with whomever he liked. Willow shifted her fifty-pound backpack onto her other shoulder with a huff. So why did she feel like someone had punched her in the throat?

■ ■ ■

Rainn grabbed a sloppy joe off the tray she carried and sped off with a giggle to join a group of his friends. Willow shook her head as she returned to the service window to replace the missing sandwich. St. Vincent's served all their meals restaurant style. Pastor Justin, who ran the soup kitchen out of the fellowship hall of their church, believed herding the needy through a cafeteria line was demeaning. He felt being served restored a bit of their dignity.

Willow had to agree as she delivered the hot plates of food to groups of chattering men and women. Squeaky clean faces and damp hair contrasted with their mismatched, worn clothing. The church allowed use of their shower facilities if people arrived early enough to sign up for one of the limited bathroom time slots.

“Sir, would you care for coffee or iced tea?” Willow smiled into the older man's ruddy face as she handed him a bundle of silverware. No paper dishes or plastic sporks were used, only real ceramic plates and metal utensils—even if they did disappear occasionally.

“Coffee with extra sugar, sweetheart.”

“Coming right up.” After taking drink orders for the rest of the table, Willow hustled off to the drink station. It used to break her heart looking into the faces of these people whose lives had somehow deteriorated beyond repair, but after getting to know some of the patrons, she learned that, as hard as it was to believe, many of them chose this lifestyle. They felt free of responsibilities, bills, and debt—even if it meant sleeping under a bridge.

She loaded her tray with steaming coffee and packets of sugar and cream. The plight of the mentally disabled and families with children still killed her, but it felt good to do her part to help them, no matter how small.

After delivering the drinks, Willow went back to her first table to clear dishes and fill empty cups. A woman lifted her mug with a trembling hand. “More sugar. I said I wanted extra sugar, and you only gave me one packet!” The drug addicts kind of scared her. She had no idea why, but they were obsessed with sugar.

Willow poured the woman's coffee and then reached into the pocket of her apron. “Two packets of sugar left.” The woman knew the rules limited one sugar per cup. Willow set the tiny white envelopes on the table and slid them under a napkin, lowering her voice, “I won't tell anyone if you don't.” She was rewarded with a moist-eyed grin.

Astonished and a little touched that something so small could mean so much, Willow pivoted and headed back to replace the coffeepot.

“Nicely done, Willow.” Pastor Justin stood by the drink table, arms crossed over his barrel chest. A former college linebacker, six feet five and tattooed, he didn't fit the traditional clerical image. “That could've turned ugly fast.”

Willow winked. “I've a few tricks up my sleeve.”

He chuckled and helped her fill glasses of iced tea. “How's it going at the old Keller House?”

“Um . . . interesting.”

“Don't tell me the place is haunted, like everyone says.”

“In a sense . . .” Perhaps it was his superpower, like Wonder Woman's lasso of truth, but Willow found it impossible to lie to this man she'd known her entire life. “It's more the ghosts of the past turning up around every corner.”

“Ah . . . you're referring to Mr. Keller.” Pastor Justin's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Well, I have to commend you for forgiving the past and accepting him . . . even if it puts you in an awkward position.”

Her mother must've shared with him that Willow wished to befriend Ashton again, but Willow wasn't sure she'd forgiven Ashton for anything. Right then, she couldn't think about him without her blood simmering.
Penelope. Really?
The girl had nothing in her head but rainbows and stardust.

Willow hated to disappoint, but she wasn't sure she could own up to accepting Ashton either. She lifted the tray of drinks and noticed that the pastor still watched her with something like concern on his face. “Wait. What aren't you telling me?”

Pastor Justin pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. When he held it out for Willow to see, she dropped the tray back to the table with a clatter. Her heart in her throat, she took the flyer. Ashton's face glared back at her in black and white, his mouth set in a tight line, his brows lowered in anger. The picture wasn't very high quality, like someone had snapped it with their cell phone. Scrawled across the top in bold letters were the words Killer Keller, and on the bottom it said, “Stop harassing our students! Leave now!”

“Where did you find this?”

“I took this one from the bulletin board at Bob's Market.”

“This
one
?” The paper trembled in her hand.

“I removed all the ones I came across in town, but they're everywhere . . . on telephone poles, mailboxes, store windows.”

“Isn't that illegal? Like character defamation or something?”

“That's debatable.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Some may say they were only exercising their right to free speech. Not that I think it's right, mind you.”