Second Verse (11 page)

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence.

“Where did you find that?”

“In my mailbox. Plain envelope, like an off-white color, with my full name on the cover, Vaughn Broussard. Both the note and envelope are written in a fancy script. Almost like calligraphy.”

“Holy shit.”

“Right?”

“And you think this is about the murders?”

“What else could it be about?” he asks.

“But why would someone care about us looking into that? It was like a million years ago.”

“How should I know? But this is freaky. How does anyone even know? I haven’t told anyone.”

“Me either.”

“And what have we really done? Read some newspaper articles? That’s hardly groundbreaking.”

How about reading personal letters and crawling into secret tunnels to find the dead’s hidden, private secrets? What about visiting the murdered’s old, senile friends?

I doodle on the corner of some old scrap paper, the pencil in my hand giving me focus and comfort. In the background, Vaughn’s guitar clangs quietly as he settles it onto his knee. We’re quiet, each lost in our own way of working through our thoughts.

As I listen to the melody he strums, I consider something else. “Well. Do you think—”

I cut myself off. I shouldn’t say it. Hell, I shouldn’t even think it.

“What?”

“Well, Kelly was here today.”

“And?”

“Well, she was kind of, well not exactly, but sort of … I don’t know, maybe she wasn’t. She just said—”

“Lange. What are you trying to say?”

“Stace!” I push the word out before I have time to over think it. “Kelly warned me about, you know, spending time with you. Getting Stace upset.”

Another long, quiet moment.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Nah. She isn’t capable of this. Stace can be intense about things, but she wouldn’t do this.”

Intense
. The way he says it makes me uncomfortable.

“Okay,” I mumble. “Well you know her better than me, obviously.”

Strumming casual chords now, calm notes that are the exact opposite of the tension that gallops through me, Vaughn sighs.

“I’ll talk to her. Would that make you feel better?”

“It would, actually.”

“She wouldn’t do this though. Not slashed tires and threatening notes. But I’ll talk to her anyway. If it’ll help. For you.”

“Thank you.”

“But I can’t think of a single person who would care.” His voice cracks. “Why would someone try to stop us?”

From beneath her letters and personal papers, I pull out Ginny’s photo. I stare in her eyes, trying to read her expression. It’s a cross between sadness and amusement.

What is your secret? What could you possibly know, more than eighty years after your death, that someone doesn’t want us to find out?

A loud creak emerges from my closet and at the same moment, the stained glass butterfly I’ve hung on the top of my mirror falls, shattering on the dresser top. I screech, my heart pounding against my ribs.

In the mirror, I catch sight of my pale face, my sunken eyes, my lifelessly hanging hair. I look like death and feel it too. And even though we look nothing alike, in my eyes is that same intense, haunted expression Ginny once wore.

The music on the other end of the line abruptly stops. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at the letter on my lap. “But I have news too. I also found something today.”

“Not a note, too?”

“No, not exactly. Not like yours. But I found some letters. They’re Ginny and Beau’s.”

For the space of two heartbeats, we’re silent.

“Read them to me.”

I
T’S LESS THAN
a week until The Hunt and it’s all they talk about in school. The hallways buzz with it, the classes too. Even the teachers play along, offering to spy on the seniors if we stay on our best behavior in class. Everyone has a blast, guessing what this year will bring, hoping it will top last year’s.

After finding the letters and staying up way late reading them to Vaughn and talking to him, I’m a zombie in school. I’m half asleep in English, one of the only “real” classes we’re required to take at Preston, when the first bout of sickness rolls in. This one, though, has a source. And his name is Ben.

The first thing that sets me off are the details. He talks to a group of guys in the front of the room and I can’t help but overhear.

“We have this theory about a serial killer.” By
we
, I assume he means him and Kelly, since she’s the one who mentioned it in the first place.

“I’m thinking something bloody, of course, but I mean, really sick. Like sliced off limbs and stuff. Heads,” he makes a slicing sound, “totally cut off. And a whole bunch of people, like a family. You know, Dahmer-style.”

Despite my best efforts, my head swivels toward the group of them. Everyone’s laughing like a sick murder scene is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I want to vomit. I really do. I want to tell them all to shut the hell up. Stuff like that really happens. It’s
not
funny.

But then my nausea grows. I swear Ben looks at me sideways before laughing again. “It would be the ultimate. Plus, if there were multiple murders to solve, they would have to heighten the prize, right?”

My hands shake on my desk. I thrust them into my lap and stare at the door. Where is Mrs. Mantoney? What kind of teacher comes this late to class?

He can’t be talking about the Chopains, right? He’s not that cruel. This has to be a coincidence.

Has to be.

I keep the mantra running in my head, afraid to look up again, tracing invisible pictures on my lap, shapes and designs. Patterns to distract me.

I’m being paranoid, I know. But after the tires and the pen and Vaughn’s note, the thinly veiled threats, I’m totally suspicious of everyone. But this is Ben. He’s my friend. Why would he mess with me?

The door creaks open and finally,
finally
, Mrs. Mantoney walks in. She drops her briefcase on the desk and smiles. The conversation decreases only slightly as she begins the long ritual of unpacking her bag. Ben turns and gives me a small wave.

Feeling better?
He mouths the words, a genuine smile spread across his face.

I nod, my worry lifting slowly, like fog.

The paranoia has got to stop.

I reach into my bag, digging around for my pencil case, but pull back quickly when something bites me.
Ouch. What the hell?
I wince at the pain, bleeding finger in my mouth, and realize I’ve managed to knock my bag over, spilling everything from the front compartment onto the floor.

I gape at the pile. No art case. No sketchpad. Just five Exacto knives, without their sheaths, one tipped with crimson. The sight of my blood on the blade makes the room waver.

I don’t even carry one Exacto knife, let alone five.

I clean up quickly, hoping no one notices.

A
ND THEN THERE’S
lunch.

Kelly comes up to me as soon as I enter the cafeteria. “Got a minute?”

She’s breathless. Behind her, I see Stace’s patchwork bag on our table, but no one’s there. Weird, considering the bell rang a few minutes ago.

“Where is everyone?” I try and push around her.

“Um, listen. Today is
not
a good day. Maybe you shouldn’t sit with us.”

I stop, stunned.

“I’m not saying forever, but for today, it would be best if you weren’t here. At all actually.” She looks anxiously behind her and back to me again, eyes full of an apology. “This isn’t up to me, but Stace, well. I don’t know, Lange. I don’t know what to think.”

“What—?”

“Her and Vaughn had it out. Things are toast with them. She is not happy. And, well. There’s only one person she blames.”

Wonderful. “Fantastic. So you’re what, disowning me too?”

“It’s not that.” She sighs. “We’re still friends. Today’s just rough, okay? I’m trying to play damage control, to smooth things over. Just give me some time. Talk to Vaughn for the details. Like I said, I have no idea what exactly went down.”

“So that’s it?” I cross my arms and look behind her, where the lunch table still sits empty.

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” I turn on my heel and head down to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Upset or not, I’m not about to stand around and get rejected by the only friends I have.

I trudge upstairs, making my way to the only place I can think of that’s private and quiet, where I can seethe in peace and figure out what to do next. In the back of the library, I flop into a chair at the most remote, hidden table I can find. Then I look into the next alcove. And despite my anger, I smile.

Vaughn raises his eyebrows and looks over each shoulder, jabbing his finger to his chest. “That smile for me?”

When I wave him over, he plods across the aisle with a zombie walk and sinks into a chair.

“What the hell happened?”

He sighs. “Well, I guess you can say things are not so great with Stace and me. She kind of flipped.”

“What happened?” I ask again, ignoring the telling betrayal of my increased heartbeat.

Lange, you suck. Reveling in someone else’s heartbreak
.

“I want to be friends with her, I do. But … ” He waves his hand. “It’s useless drama. She’s being her normal irrational self. I tried to talk to her, like I told you I would. I didn’t bring up the letter or anything. I just tried to smooth things over between us, with our friendship.”

“And?”

“She basically exploded on me.” He looks at his hands and I can almost see the internal debate of his next words. “She poured out all these feelings for me. Honestly, I didn’t realize she felt the way she does. Not to that extreme.”

“Seriously? Are you blind?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “I don’t know, maybe. But that’s not the point. There’s something else …”

“What?” I ask, cringing.

“I told her I don’t feel that way about her. I just don’t.” He looks at me. “She blames you. I’m sorry, Lange. It’s not your fault. Regardless of how I feel about you, I’ve never liked her that way, really. She doesn’t see it that way, though.”

Regardless of how I feel about you
.

I attempt to ignore the hammering in my chest.
What way do you feel about me?

“Well that explains why Kelly basically kicked me out of the cafeteria a few minutes ago and told me to stay clear for a while.”

His eyes widen. “She what?”

“Well not in so many words, but … yeah.” I stare at the table. “How did things get so out of control?” A shudder passes through me but I swallow and raise my chin. I will not get upset over Stace.

“Hey,” he says. “Come here.”

I scoot my chair closer. He circles an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him.

“It’ll all work out. Don’t even worry about
that
of all things.” He mock laughs and I nod. He’s right. At this point, we definitely have bigger problems.

“That reminds me,” I say, pulling back and holding up my index finger, Band-Aid and all. “Wait until you hear what I found in my bag this morning.”

I
N
M
OTIONS,
I work on the final touches on Transformations, darkening the face of the third figure, who looks back, stuck in half-shadow with her expression mostly hidden. It’s the first time I feel in control all day, bringing my pencil to the page. Creating. An argument erupts at the end of the table. Jake and Anthony, two of the best painters in school, who happen to be brothers, are
always
arguing about something. This time, it’s The Hunt.

Of course.

This is seriously going to be the longest week ever.

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks it’s downtown. It’s
always
downtown.”

“I don’t know. I heard it doesn’t have to be though. Who knows? Could be at a house.”

“What house? Like half the school is gonna be running through someone’s house! You’re a dumbass.”

“Well maybe not a house, but maybe not downtown either.”

“But all the Halloween festivities are down there. It’s where we all end up right? Trust me, that’s the first place to look.”

“Whatever. You look where you want, I’ll look where I want.”

I listen to them bicker while I draw, wondering how their family can stand to live with them. They are so annoying.

“Very nice, Lange.” Mr. Murphy nods. Standing next to me, with his arms crossed and an impressed, if subtle, grin on his face, he makes me feel good. Proud. Accomplished.

“Thanks.” I stop working, tilting my head to the side like him, trying to see it as he does. Obviously it’s impossible to be subjective, but I try.

“I had no idea you were doing a self-portrait piece. I really love it.”

“Oh, it’s not a self-portrait!” I laugh, brushing my hand across the surface of the page. “This was inspired by something else. Definitely not me.”

He steps back, surprise turning his smile into confusion. “Oh. I’m sorry. That last figure, the one you’ve been working on today. It favors you so much. I’m sorry I misinterpreted. Although, if you plan to be one of the greats, that will happen often.” He laughs, the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

One of the greats
. I want to snort. As if that’s going to happen.

“Thanks,” I say meekly, picking up my pencil again. I start shading the third figure again, adding more darkness to her shadow.

I try to see it with a critical, unbiased eye. The third girl does have dark hair and a slight frame. But her nose is wrong and the chin too. Even the set of her eyes, though partially hidden… they’re the total opposite of mine. There’s no way this is even close to looking like me.

Crazy Mr. Murphy.

A
FTER SCHOOL,
I look through the pile of Ginny’s papers again. I reread the letters and cards, look through the stack of drawings. I pick up one of the small notebooks, a red hardcover with frayed edges on the binding, this one not nearly as water damaged as the others. I’m surprised—and excited—to discover what is handwritten on the first page:
My Journal
.