Never Let You Go (21 page)

“Stop!” Megan yelled. She felt a wave of anger at Anna’s tone. “Just shut up about Sweetie! Why are you saying those things? I
can hardly stand to think of him lying there, and you’re going on like some disgusting ambulance chaser—” Fresh sobs drowned out her words.

“Soorrry,” Anna drew the word out, widening her eyes. “I was just thinking out loud. Don’t get all pissy.” She didn’t look fazed at Megan’s outburst, which made Megan feel even more hurt.

In the garden, Robert was already bent over the carrots, busily pulling weeds, a tree-shaped sweat stain climbing up his back.

Megan inwardly groaned. She couldn’t stand a repeat of last night’s Anna-and-Robert Show. But Anna just waved to him and solicitously led Megan to a shaded corner near the pumpkins. “Let’s weed here awhile where it’s cooler.” She started busily pulling strangleweed from the bases of the vines.

Megan just sat, feeling depressed and hot, while Anna worked her way from one end of the pumpkin patch to the other, stopping to whisper something to Robert at the end of the row. He nodded, and they both turned to Megan like concerned parents.

Megan resisted the urge to scream at Anna’s worried face and, instead, ripped up a giant dandelion by the leaves.

Robert said something to Anna, then gave Megan a friendly wave and left the garden, heading back toward the farmhouse.

Anna had made a pile of the strangleweed and was working her way back toward Megan, this time pulling up violets. She paused, still on her knees, and dabbed at her forehead. “It’s
so
humid, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully.

Megan nodded.

Anna reached for a clump of nettles and yanked. “You know, I was thinking about yesterday,” she said. “About how you left the stall open.”

A wave of nausea broke over Megan.

“I mean, whoever did it this time basically killed Sweetie, right?” Anna’s tone was conversational.

“I checked it.” Megan’s voice trembled. “I made sure I checked it
because
of yesterday.”

“But you can’t be one hundred percent sure, right?” Anna efficiently scraped the weeds together into one big pile, scooped them up, and walked toward the garden shed, her step crisp.

Megan rested her head on her knees.
Did you check it, Megan?
a voice asked in her head.
You
can’t
be one hundred percent sure, right?

For the first time, a worm of doubt squirmed into her mind. She pictured herself closing the stall door behind Sweetie’s little form, then sliding the bolt to the right, then twisting it down. The twist down locked it.

In her mind’s eye, she could see her hands making the motion. The picture was so clear, she could even see the hangnail on her finger.

But then, as Megan stared down into the dark hollow between her knees, the picture changed. Her hands closed the stall door and slid the bolt, but then they stopped. No twist.

Which is the right image?
Megan pressed her hands to the sides of her head, willing herself to remember. She squeezed harder, as if to force the right memory into her mind.

Someone touched her shoulder. She started. It was Jordan.

He sat down beside her. “How’re you holding up, Meg?”

She shook her head, knowing she was close to tears again. “I thought I was sure I latched the door. I thought I knew.” Her voice was thick. “But now . . .” She groped for his hand. “What if it was me? What if I didn’t slide the bolt all the way? What if he died because of me?” Her voice broke, and she swiped at the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks.

“Hey, now.” Jordan drew her head to his chest and stroked her hair. “Hey. Thomas said it could have been any of us. You can’t torture yourself like this. You’ll go crazy.”

“But he was suffering. . . .” Megan almost couldn’t get the words out. She could hardly stand the thought of Sweetie alone and in pain at the bottom of that muddy hill. Wanting his mother. Her heart broke, and she buried fresh sobs in Jordan’s shirt.

“Meg, stop.” He lifted her chin with one finger. “You’ve got to stop.”

His tone irritated her, and she lashed out at him. “Why should I stop? Am I not allowed to be sad?”

“No, of course you are.” He patted her hand. “It’s just . . . crying won’t bring Sweetie back.”

Anger boiled up in Megan, and she leapt to her feet. “I know that! Don’t you think I know that? Maybe I’m crying because I miss him. Did that occur to you?” she blazed.

Jordan got to his feet too. “I know you miss him, okay? It’s just . . .” He searched around for words. “I don’t know, when I’m upset, I like to do something practical. Not just sit and cry.”

“I can’t believe you!” Megan knew she was shouting, but she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to lash out, to throw something. “Sweetie
died
, Jordan. He fucking
died
, and you’re telling me to pick myself up and move on?”

“Well, yeah. Kind of.” He met her gaze.

Megan dropped her hands to her sides. “Wow. Just . . . wow. I can’t believe you’d be such a dick.”

The word angered him. He folded his lips tightly. “That’s really mature.”

“I don’t care!” Megan yelled. “I can be as immature as I want and cry all day.
You
don’t get to decide how I feel!” She stomped through the pumpkins to the garden gate.

Then she saw Anna standing by the shed, a spade in her hand. She’d heard the whole fight, Megan could see that. But the look on Anna’s face. Megan couldn’t quite understand it at first. Then she realized—Anna was trying to hide her laughter.

CHAPTER 15

Anna saw Megan look at her and retreated back into the garden shed. Megan’s gaze traveled from the black square of the doorway to Jordan’s face, which was still cold with anger. She turned and ran.

Her thoughts chased her, temporarily driving her fight with Jordan from her mind.
Anna laughed. She was amused . . . because I was fighting with Jordan? But she said it was okay that Jordan and me were together. She made out with Robert!

Megan slowed to a trot. The cabin was just ahead. She was so confused. She needed to lie down on her bed.

Megan pushed open the screen door. Though hot, the inside was blessedly dim. She felt like she could stand almost anything but the coppery glare of the sun.

Megan collapsed onto her rumpled bed. She lay there still, one arm crooked over her eyes, letting her thoughts slow until one by one, they clicked through her mind.

Anna had laughed at her fight with Jordan. That would mean
it made her happy. Why would that make her happy unless she wasn’t really over Jordan? Had Anna been lying?

Megan sat up. She had a pit in her stomach. Her gaze traveled over to Anna’s side of the room. Her bed was neatly made, the pillow plumped. So, she hadn’t rushed out this morning like she said. On her bedside table, a few hair clips sat in a bowl next to a vase of daisies. Her trunk was closed. There was nothing else to see.

Megan’s hands itched. Now that she had the thought in her head, she couldn’t contain it, like a cancer that grew and grew. Slowly, she rose and knelt at Anna’s trunk. She tugged at the lid.

Locked.

Megan sat back on her heels and stared at the trunk. It was black with dull brass fittings. She hadn’t even realized that it had a lock, but it did. There was a small keyhole above the latch. Megan looked around the room. Her heart was beating fast now. She picked a long bobby pin out of the bowl by Anna’s bed and bent one end down. She stuck it in the keyhole, rattled it around, pressing it alternately up, then down. Something moved inside the lock, and Megan took out the pin and tried the lid. It lifted easily.

She saw nothing inside but layers of neatly folded clothes, the same ones Anna’d been wearing since they arrived. She pulled out several pairs of sandals, tossed them on the bed. A paperback copy of
Hamlet
. Nothing.

Then, peeking out from a pair of jeans at the bottom of the trunk was a grass green crocheted bag. Megan recognized it. Anna had made it in eighth grade. Megan herself had crocheted a blue one with her.

Megan pulled it out and unbuttoned the closure. A square of gray fabric tipped out onto her palm. Megan stared at it for a second before recognizing it as the piece of Jordan’s shirt that Anna had cut when they first arrived. The pearl-handled razor was stuffed into the bag too. Megan pulled it out. The case was slightly greasy and had a familiar odor she couldn’t quite place. She unfolded the razor and sniffed the blade. It had been oiled recently—that was the smell. Megan reached into the bag and pulled out the last item, a piece of stiff paper.

It was a photograph, folded in half, and Megan stared at it in puzzlement for a long moment. Then she realized it was the picture Thomas had taken of the whole summer crew that first day. She and Jordan stood beside each other. Anna stood on her other side. But Anna’s face had been cut out and was stuck crudely over Megan’s. Megan held the photo loosely by the edges, as if it were poisoned. Her mind felt numb. Megan picked at the piece of tape on the picture until Anna’s face peeled away.

Underneath, Megan’s own face had been scraped from the photo. A blank white oval sat atop her shoulders. Anna’s small face grinned up at Megan from where she’d dropped it.

Then the cabin door opened. Megan started. Anna stood in the doorway. She wore the same grin as in the photo.

“Came back to get my sunglasses.” She strolled forward casually. Her eyes moved from the lock to the bobby pin lying on the floor to the items strewn on the bed. She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know I’d find you breaking into my stuff.”

Megan held up the photo. “What is this?” she whispered.
Her lips felt clumsy. Betrayal mixed with fear almost choked her.

Anna hesitated. She picked up the razor from the bed and the piece of Jordan’s shirt. Then she shrugged.

“You might as well know.” Her eyes glittered. “It’s been fun, but it’s time we talked.” She sat down on the bed, opening and closing the razor casually in her hand.

Megan watched her. Her fear had subsided, and she felt curiously distant from herself, as if a cool observer of her own life.

Anna opened the razor. The metal was a silky gray. Meditatively, she ran her thumb over the blade. A deep cut appeared, white at first, then welling deep ruby red.

The blood dripped onto the gray blanket. There was quite a lot of it. It was a deep cut.

Anna looked at Megan from under her lashes. “I’m sure you know it was me who put the roaches in your bed.” The blood was running down her hand now.

Megan thought of the squirming brown-green mass on her pillow. She stared at Anna, too shocked to move. The sight of the blood riveted her to the bed.

Anna looked slightly impatient. “Megan, come on. Don’t be such an innocent little girl. It was me, it was me, it was me.” Her voice rose with each intonation. She held the razor by the blade, then closed her hand around it and squeezed. The blood flowed from her clenched fist.

The fear was back, rising up strong in Megan’s mouth. She darted a glance at the door. But Anna followed her gaze and rose sinuously, sauntering across the room to lean against the
door with one knee drawn up. Her shirt pulled up a little, revealing her perfectly tanned stomach. The underside of her arm was smeared with blood. Blood puddled on the wool blanket where Anna had been sitting.

Anna gazed up at the ceiling. “And I was the one who killed your little colt.” She reached down, tucking up her shirt, and drew the razor across her stomach in a short line just above her navel. The blood beaded. “I hit him with a stick until he ran down that hill. I knew he’d fall.” She cut herself again, another straight line above the first cut. “He was scared.” Another cut. “He tried to get away, but I smacked him hard and he ran right down that hill—”

“Stop,” Megan whispered. Her mind roiled. Shakily, she rose from the bed, holding her hands out in a warding-off gesture. “Stop, you’re sick. Stop.”

Anna cut her stomach again.

“Stop!” Megan shrieked. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with you, Anna? You’re crazy!” She backed away from the bed.

The door. She had to get away, she had to get out the door. But Anna was standing in front of it.

Anna closed her eyes, leaning her head back. The cuts on her stomach were bleeding freely, the blood trickling down her belly, soaking the low waistband of her jeans.

Megan edged closer. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Shove Anna to the side and run for help? Would Anna attack her? She had the razor. . . .

Anna opened her eyes. She saw Megan and smiled beatifically. “It’s all your fault, you know.”

Megan stopped.

“
All
your fault,” Anna repeated, as sweet and calm as a springwater pool. “If you weren’t such a traitorous slut, none of this would have happened.” She wandered back across the room and sat down on her bed, causing the cuts on her stomach to gape. She smiled up at Megan. “Ugly traitorous slut.” Her voice caressed the words. She closed her eyes again, rocking her head slightly from side to side, then opened them, and leaning forward, reached into the drawer of her bedside table. She pulled out a bottle of nail polish.