The Creeping (10 page)

She sniffs. “That hardly proves anything, Slutty Sherlock. The cops could have misinterpreted what you said. Maybe you were trying to tell them it was Jeanie's dad and they didn't get it?”

“No, Zo,” I explain. “I repeated myself two hundred and fifty-five times. There was no mistaking what I said.”

“You're killing me with suspense,” Zoey says, distracted. I can tell she's probably giving herself a pedi by how disinterested she sounds. “Drumroll . . . what were you saying?”

I take another deep breath and swallow. “I was saying, ‘If you hunt for monsters, you'll find them.' ”

A loud clatter on the other end of the call. Plastic against tile. Zoey curses and then fumbles with the phone. She shouts, “You've got to be fucking kidding me, right? What the hell, Stella? If this is a joke, you're a real twisted psycho-slut and you just made me smear nail polish all over my new jeans.”

“This isn't the kind of thing I'd joke about.
Two hundred and fifty-five times
, Zo. Shane counted.”

“OMIGOD . . . I mean, what does that mean? Why was six-year-old you talking about monsters?” She sounds so concerned that for a moment I let myself believe she'll only be supportive and that it won't matter that I kept it from her. “Wait a tampon's bloody second.
How long have you known? I mean, you don't remember anything from that day, so how do you know what you said?”

I close my eyes. “I asked Shane to let me see the case file last September. I don't know why or what I was looking for. My dad was never going to tell me . . . .”

A long pause. “So you've known for nine months and you didn't tell
me
?” her voice is quiet, laced with venom.

“I didn't tell anyone,” I rush to explain.

“Anyone? What the hell, Stella? I'm your best friend. I'm not just anyone. We're supposed to tell each other
everything,
and instead you're keeping something this juicy from me for nine effing months? I told you when I went down on Patrick Hoser. Stinky effing Patrick Hoser! I tell you my most mortifying secrets.”

But all I hear is Zoey calling my deepest, darkest secret “juicy.” Of course she would see this detail as tantalizing. Of course she'd be livid with me. How could I have been such a fool as to think she wouldn't be? “It just kind of freaked me out, and I didn't know what I thought about it. It blindsided me. How could I tell you? You would have made up your mind about what it meant instantly. You would have told
me
how to feel about it. Maybe I just wanted to figure things out on my own for once?” Tears pour down my face. Is that really why I didn't tell her? It rings partially true, but not completely.

“Please, Zo, don't be mad. I'm telling you now and I need your help. I'm desperate for your help.” I hiccup out the last word.

I imagine Zoey sitting rigid on her bathroom floor, seething at the betrayal. “Yeah, whatevs. My mom's calling me for dinner, so I've got to go.”
Before I can beg her to stay on the line, she's gone. Only silence left.

I stare moon-eyed at my phone. Zoey has never hung up on me before. Shouted, berated, cussed, screamed, pulled my hair, and even thrown food at me, sure. But never once has she just fallen silent and refused to fight. Is it really so unforgivable that I kept something that scary to myself? Can't she fathom that I might have been frightened to tell her? That I might have been worried what she'd think?

“Shit,” I hiss, glaring at the ratty and worn stuffed bunny that rests on my pillow. Now who's going to help me remember Jeanie? Obviously Daniel could, but do I want to be alone with him? I doubt he'd be willing anyway. He's so freaking certain that I know more than I'm letting on. I mentally run through the list of those close enough to me that I could ask such a bizarre thing of. It's shorter than I'd like. What would I say anyway?
Hey, do you think you could help me remember who took Jeanie Talcott eleven years ago while her murderer is on the loose offing new victims and her body parts might be showing up one by one?
Yeah, right. I'm sure people would be banging down my door to help me with that morbid journey into the past. Especially now that I basically have a target on my back. Michaela's the only other person I could ask, but she never knew Jeanie, since she moved here in the eighth grade. Wait . . . Sam. Sam Worth went to kindergarten with me and Jeanie. The only reason he wasn't there the day she disappeared was that it was a girly playdate set up by our moms.

“Crap.” I smack my forehead with my palm and glare at my bunny's smug whiskered face. Even my bunny with stuffing for brains
knows that I screwed up any chance of Sam helping me. He'd probably hang up on me the instant he saw my name on his cell. Or he'd answer to tell me just how little of me there is left. In which case I could assure him that I'm next on a kill list, so there'll be even less of me left if he refuses to help.

I scroll through my contacts quickly before losing my nerve. I stab my finger at his name. Once I hear ringing, shame washes over me. I have no right to call Sam for help. No right to ask him to do anything for me. Ever. By the second ring I'm in a cold sweat. I hit end before the third can finish me off.

I roll off the bed and lie crumpled on my white shag rug. When my parents remodeled the house, Mom argued with me for days about my choice of carpet. She said it wasn't practical. She didn't understand that it was soft on my face and I wanted something to curl up on doing homework and talking on the phone. Even though there's a glaring green stain from a guacamole debacle, I'm glad I didn't let her talk me out of it. I wish I could crawl into the shag now and hide.

A buzzing above my head makes me jump. I sit upright and look eagerly at the offending cell. Let it be Zoey calling to give me a chance to explain. It's not, though. The screen glows blue with Sam's name in bold black letters. They look angry.

“H-hello,” I stammer. “Sam?”

“You prank calling me now?” His tone is quiet but not angry.

“No . . . I mean, I guess I did, since I called and then hung up. Sorry.”

“Sorry about calling during dinner and then hanging up, or sorry about what you said to me earlier?”

“Both.” I've recovered my bunny from the pillow and wrap my arms tightly around his mottled gray body. I hope he'll keep me afloat through this.

“Well, apology accepted, but I have to go—”

“Wait a sec. Please,” I squeak. “I—I have no right to ask you this, especially after earlier, but I need your help.” A noise halfway between a snort and a chuckle from the other end. “Did you hear about Jeanie's mom?”

“Yes.”

Another deep breath on my end. “Okay, so the cops have been here, and they think whoever killed her is the one who took Jeanie and is also connected to the body in the cemetery.”

“And? Hate to break it to you, Stella, but my Hardy Boys phase is over, and I'm not much of a detective.”

“The cops think it was Jeanie's dad, but it's not.” Panic makes my tone too high. “I don't know how I know, but there is no way it's him. I just know it's not. I—”

“Okay, I hear you. It's not Mr. Talcott.”

I take a long, silent breath and let it out slowly. Sam believes me just like that. Zoey doubted me, but Sam doesn't. “Daniel is back in town.”

“Since when? For how long? Have you seen him? What does your dad say?” He's louder with each question. “Do the cops know? You don't think it was him, do you?”

“Sam,” I shout over him. “Of course it wasn't Daniel. Just like I know it wasn't Jeanie's dad. Daniel was just a kid when Jeanie went missing, and no matter how much of a freak you think he is, you can't actually believe he'd ever kill his mother. What matters is that the cops are arresting Jeanie's dad for something he didn't do, and they're worried whoever's responsible might target me next. I have to remember, Sam. And if I can't remember, then we at least have to prove it wasn't Jeanie's dad.”

“
We?
What we, Stella? Just this morning you told me I was too nice to you. That we each had our own friends.” He half sniffs, half snorts. “No, sorry, you told me I had my own ‘stuff.' Can't Zoey help you on your crusade to save an innocent man? Can't your dad, you know, the
lawyer
?”

“Zoey won't help. She's angry, and I can't ask Dad. He'll tell me to stay out of it. You're the only one who remembers Jeanie. You can help me figure out what happened. Look, it sucks that I'm asking you. But I'm asking anyway.” I stop, brimming so full of shame I imagine it leaking onto the floor and turning my white carpet brown. I cover my stuffed animal's face so he doesn't have to witness how horrible I am.

“You are completely out of your mind for calling me like this after everything.” I wince, bracing myself for Sam's next words. “I'll be at your house tomorrow morning at eleven. Be ready, because I'm not coming in. I'll honk.” With that, he hangs up. Leaving me with my mouth gaping open, searching my bunny's face for the same shock I feel.

T
rue to his word, Sam's horn blares at 10:59 the next morning. I race downstairs, purse slung over my shoulder, scouring the floor below for my violet ballet flats. I'm hopping on one foot, then the other, slipping each on, as I burst through the front door. The news crews left late last night, the hum of their engines jolting me from sleep. A single police car sits idling. I hold up an index finger for Sam, who peers at me through the windshield of his beat-up teal station wagon—one of the many reasons Zoey's dubbed him the King of Loserdom—and hurry over to the cops.

The officer with pimply skin—who somehow manages to look even younger in the sunless morning light—rolls the passenger-side window down. He smacks his lips loudly, chewing a massive wad of gum.

“Good morning, Ms. Cambren.” His voice is artificially low, trying for older but failing miserably.

“Good morning.” I wave to his partner slouching behind the
wheel, devouring a bagel and lox. “Umm . . . I'm headed out.” I angle my head toward Sam's car. “We're just going to the mall and then coming right back.” I spin on my toes as soon as I've finished and run for the wagon. He calls after me, but I don't stop. They can follow us if they're that worried.

“Hey,” I say to Sam, throwing myself into the passenger seat of the wagon.

“Morning.” Sam avoids my eyes and devotes all his energy to backing the car out of the driveway. One of those cheesy car fresheners in the shape of a tree swings from the mirror. Cedar, I think.

After a block of Sam keeping the speedometer at ten miles under the speed limit, I laugh. “So not only does your car smell like an old lady's closet, you drive like one too?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Be sure to add that to your list of complaints about me. I don't really want to get a ticket from your illustrious police escort.” Some people can pull off sarcasm; Sam can't. It's forced and clunky, like my accent in Spanish class. He tilts the cracked rearview mirror toward me. Sure enough, the cops follow at a car-length's distance. “We won't be in any high-speed chases today, but maybe you should put on your seat belt?”

I struggle with the belt, sneaking a peek to see if Sam is upset. His face is unreadable, neutral. After five more blocks, I can't bear the silence. “I really appreciate you helping me, and I just want you to know that I'm really sorry and—”

“Stella. Stop.” One hand temporarily strays from the wheel as he holds it between us. “I'm helping you because that's who I am. I'm
someone who helps friends. Even if it's an old friend and even if they don't deserve it.”

“ 'Kay, thanks,” I mumble, staring at my hands. I swallow the ten other apologies I feel the need to vomit at him. Dependable Sam. Kind Sam. A friend who I've thrown away, over and over again. I don't deserve his help. He knows it; I know it.

The wagon makes a sharp right turn into a massive parking lot. BigBox's glowing red cube emblem could probably be seen from space, it's so bright and huge. Sam parks the car and jumps out. He ducks his head, regarding me frozen in place. “Come on, let's go lose our tail,” he says with a wink. I follow, nervously glancing over my shoulder. The police car idles in a handicapped space, but the officers don't move to pursue us. A rush of cold air bathes my face once we're through the automated doors. The store is packed with carts and families, the quiet drone of elevator music its white noise.

“What are we doing here?” I call to Sam, who strides briskly a few feet ahead of me.

“You'll see.” We snake through the crowded aisles, dodging crying toddlers and yelling mothers. A few red-vested employees nod greetings to Sam as we dash by.

“We can't lose the police in here because they didn't follow us in. They'll be at the car when we leave,” I say.

“That's what I'm counting on.” He takes a sudden left, and I have to backtrack a couple of steps to shadow him through a doorway in the store's rear wall labeled
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

“This really isn't a great time for you to take me on a tour of your work,”
I grumble, just before Sam grabs my wrist and tows me down an even darker corridor. “Okay, this is kind of freaking me out.” Sam drags me for a few more yards before slamming his shoulder into a door and bursting through. White light blinds me. I squint, trying to get my bearings.

“We're outside,” I exclaim. We stand on a paved loading dock; the cement extends twenty or thirty feet before dying into the woods.

A ribbon of light from the sun seeping through the clouds illuminates Sam's face as he smiles slowly. “I figured we would need to lose them, and since the wood runs into Jeanie's house, we can walk. It's about three miles,” he says, appraising my shoes. “You okay in those?” I nod, mutely in awe of Sam. I only asked him to help me remember, and that's all it took for him to devise a plan. I didn't even think about where we'd go today. Of course, the dirt drive by Jeanie's old house is exactly where we need to start. It's where she vanished.