The Creeping (9 page)

I huff and puff up the stairs to my bedroom. I feel cruel. I also feel burned, more hurt by his words than I should be. What gives? With everything going on, why would I let Sam Worth under my skin? Why am I even so effing aware of the way he treats me?

I flop down on my bed, roll over on my back, and text Zoey, jabbing my thumbs into the touch screen of my cell. I get no response. I try to relax, but when my mind wanders, it veers toward Sam. Do all his friends dress like that? I bet even the girls in his group walk around with shoelaces laced in their jeans. I picture the shuffling, twitchy group of guys from last night that I immediately identified as catastrophically clueless enough to be his. I snort.
With friends like that, he'd be better off alone.
I don't even know who Harry with asthma is or where they eat lunch at school. Probably in the bio lab, or the library, or the band room. What is Sam even into? How do I not know if he's in auto shop, or any sports, or any clubs?

To stop myself from obsessing, I roll off my bed and flatten myself on the floor. My navy violin case is under the bed, where I deserted it ages ago. And eons' worth of dust bunnies and grime cover it now. I
take the instrument out and spend the next thirty minutes plucking its strings until they're tuned. There's something so predictable about the way it works; how the pegs feel smooth under my finger pads as I twist them. I forgot how much I like the way it looks resting on my shoulder, its neck supported by my palm with fingers curled on the strings.
Fingers.
I stare at my bent index finger. Was it a child's that ended up in Jane Doe's little fist? I shove the thought from my head and dust the violin with a cloth, carefully uncovering the grain of the wood with each swipe.

“What's with the cello?” I whirl around. Zoey stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She pops a handful of gummy bears into her mouth from a bag she's cupping. “You didn't answer when I knocked, so I let myself in,” she says, multicolored gummy carnage visible in her chomping teeth.

“Careful not to choke.” I kneel on the ground, swiftly stowing the instrument in its case. “And it's a violin, not a cello.”

She rolls her eyes. “Same difference. I get PTSD thinking about the dying animal noise you made when you used to practice. I stopped at Powel's.” She swings the bag of gummies in my face. “And it took me forever to drive here, because there are cops everywhere.” I snatch the bag from her and ferret out the green ones. They're the only color I eat. “Are you listening to me, Miss Piggy?”

“Continue.” I grin, revealing a mouthful of green gummies. “Do I look so hot, Zo? Should I go over to Taylor's looking like this?” I tease, alternating winking one eye, then the other.

She tries to cover my mouth with her outstretched hand, but I
stick my tongue out, licking her. “Gross. Just shut up for a second, you sticky bitch!” she says, laughing. I try to look serious wiping the candy oozing down my chin, but I'm reduced to giggles when I see how hard she's trying to choke back her own laughter. “Stella! I'm trying to tell you something important.” I roll back on the floor, holding my stomach. It's such a release to laugh after hours of crap. “Stella, listen to me. It's Jeanie's mom.” I gulp the gummies down instantly. I sit up, staring at Zoey, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“They found her this morning. She's dead.”

D
ead” is a funny word. For ages I've said that Jeanie is probably dead, but it's different to hear that it's unequivocally true about someone. Dad's nana died when I was ten and both Mom's parents long before I was born, so I don't have a lot of experience with death. Zoey says it like a dirty word; something that can't be taken back. I've always said it like it's a get-out-of-jail-free card. Like Jeanie being dead is the best-case scenario; it's freedom from whatever monster took her. Mrs. Talcott being dead isn't like that.

The morning and afternoon pass quickly. Uniforms fill my house. It takes them an hour to arrive, but once they do it's as if they're breeding like bunnies to produce more cops that take up every spare inch of space. More badges whispering about me from the corner of my living room; more badges' radio static; more badges coming and going. Since it storms again, they track mud on the carpet, a funeral procession of footprints carving up the living room floor. If Mom still lived here, she'd throw a fit over the stains and mess, but Dad doesn't
notice incidentals. I curl on his recliner, lost in blankness, my vision tunneling until all I see is a tiny keyhole of light in front of me.

At first I don't get why they're all here, and then one word says it all.
Homicide
. Mrs. Talcott's death is ruled a homicide almost immediately. A rookie with acne and a lisp speculates loudly that he thinks it's Jeanie's killer come back to tie up loose ends and to off the witnesses. Then he and the dark-skinned woman cop he's talking to peek in my direction. As though they half expect me to be finished off already.

Detective Shane arrives just as the news crews set up camp on our lawn. They bring plastic tarps and giant umbrellas to shelter their equipment from the rain. Shane barks for them to move on to the sidewalk as he grinds his soiled boots into the welcome mat. He sniffs the air, face softening at the scent of Dad's turkey meat loaf wafting from the kitchen.

“Everybody who doesn't live here, out,” he orders. I close my eyes as Shane settles on the love seat across from me. I'm not questioned this time but briefed. Every detail he keeps brisk and clinical: Mrs. Talcott strangled; her body dumped along the road on the outskirts of town; they suspect a connection to Jeanie's disappearance and the discovery of Jane Doe.

“Are there any suspects?” Dad asks, his voice tense but controlled.

“You know I can't discuss possible suspects, Joe,” Shane answers.

“Jeanie's father is obviously at the top of your list,” Dad continues.

Shane sighs loudly. “Kent Talcott claims to have been home all evening with his wife. He says they went to bed at quarter to eleven, and that's
the last time he saw her. A gossipy neighbor heard about Jane Doe and phoned Bev Talcott to tell her a little after midnight. That's the last anyone spoke with Bev. The neighbor called us this morning once she heard Bev had been found. There was no sign of forced entry in the house. Kent said his wife often had trouble sleeping and would take late-night strolls. Neighbors corroborate this, and her key was found in her pocket.”

He sets his chin and continues, “As you know, Kent Talcott had a similarly questionable alibi for Jeanie's disappearance. He was still working as a park ranger at Blackdog State Park and was patrolling the fire trails that morning. There was a two-hour gap where no one saw him. Not surprising, since the trails are remote. His connection with the park where Jane Doe was found is hard to ignore.”

“Is there anything to indicate that Stella might be targeted next?” Dad asks.

There's a long pause and then, “We're linking the current crimes with Jeanie's disappearance—at least for the time being. Bev Talcott is Jeanie's mother, and Jane Doe looks extremely similar to Jeanie. There's also the issue of timing. Both murders took place either on or very near the anniversary of Jeanie vanishing. Given that Stella likely saw Jeanie's abductor and he or she is at work in Savage once more, Stella could be in danger. We're taking Kent Talcott into custody for questioning, and once my team can gather more forensic evidence, we'll know if we can keep him.” Shane recounts the details as neatly ordered clues that are bound to add up to one rational and inevitable conclusion: Jeanie's father.

I keep my eyes closed, wishing this nightmare away. Why is this happening? Why now? Why at all? Haven't Dad and I been through enough? “I'm in danger because I'm a witness to something that I have no memory of,” I say.

“Possibly, yes,” Shane says.

I look at Shane. “But other than blathering on about hunting monsters, I don't know anything.”

“Pumpkin.” Dad leans forward. “What are you talking about?” He is confused, of course; he didn't know I was aware of what I told the cops that day.

Shane's eyes flick from my dad to me. I worry that I'll get Shane in trouble, so I add, “I've known for a few years. Zoey heard it from someone a while back and told me.” Shane flinches ever so slightly at the lie, but he doesn't correct me.

“I see.” Dad nods gravely. “I wish you had told me you knew.”

I'm impatient now. “Why would I have? You kept it from me. You lied.”

“Stella”—he reaches for my hand, but I yank it away—“I apologize for that, but your mother thought that it would disturb you too much.”

I sniff and stand from the recliner. “Disturb me too much? You've got to be freaking kidding me. She wasn't too worried about that when she left us. My
whole life
is disturbing.” I look to Shane. “I was a living, breathing echo that afternoon, repeating only one thing over and over again. If it was Mr. Talcott who took Jeanie, why wouldn't I just say so? I could obviously speak. I would have recognized him, right?”

“Stella.” Shane motions for me to take a seat. I stay standing. “I wish I could tell you that we understand why you chose those words. We don't. I don't.” He sounds defeated by the admission, but I'm already too incensed to care.

“So am I on lockdown or something? Are you going to have cops watch me?”

“That's something we need to discuss,” Shane says calmly. “I'm keeping a patrol car out in front to watch the house, and until we've straightened this out, I think it's best if you stay at home or in public places with your friends. When you do go out, it's important you tell your dad exactly where and for how long.” I cross my arms against my chest and raise an eyebrow. He knows as well as I do how preoccupied Dad is with work. He nods, receiving my silent message loud and clear. “How about you tell the officers stationed out in front when you leave?”

I roll my eyes. So I'm going to be babysat by cops now? “Whatever,” I mutter, turning and leaving the living room. Shane and Dad both call my name, but I hurry up the stairs and lock my bedroom door behind me. Immature, I know, but at least I resist the urge to slam it. I can't think near the two of them.

Mr. Talcott's been taken into custody. Well, of course he has. He's the perfect suspect, except for the fact that there's not a snow cone's chance in hell he did it. The whole “hunting monsters” gibberish aside, I spent years looking into his face, and the only thing there is a grief so big it has its own heartbeat. Besides, I seriously can't imagine Mr. Talcott with his gigantic calloused hands and his
jean jacket knowing how to French braid hair. Huh. How many men know how to braid, let alone French braid? Even I fumble through it. I've never considered that Jeanie's abductor could be a woman. I can't really picture a woman taking Jeanie. Men are the ones who commit crimes like that. Male sickos.

I like to believe that even if the memories are lost, I'd still
feel
something in the presence of the person who took Jeanie. My nerve endings would tingle or I'd become really dizzy. There's not a bit of that with any of the Talcotts. Not even psycho Daniel. Poor Daniel. Where is he now? First his sister, now his mother. He'll be devastated. Frantic. I'm the only person who can help him. Somewhere in the black hole of my mind is the proof of his father's innocence and his sister and mom's killer. I throw myself down on the bed, gathering up the loose fabric of the comforter in my fists. Jane Doe, Bev Talcott, Jeanie, the finger bone. They're related somehow. Knit together by a common killer.

Whatever is happening, I won't be safe until I remember who took Jeanie. I need help for that. Help from someone who remembers the events of that summer; who remembers Jeanie. I know we were only six, but Zoey has a way better sense of who Jeanie was. Maybe something she knows could help? It's not much to go on, but it's all I have right now. I snag my cell off the nightstand. The phone rings twice before Zoey answers.

“Took you long enough,” she whines. “I've been going craaazy waiting for you to call. I can't believe your dad sent me home. Next time I see Joe, I am sooo giving him a piece of my mind, and for that matter—”

“Zo, just listen. I need your help.”

“Interrupt much? What, you need me to break you out of the prison cell your bedroom has become? Mom just got home and said your block has more cop cars than the Fourth of July parade.”

“No, not yet, anyway. Shane and Dad are still downstairs talking. But listen, they're pinning Mrs. Talcott's death on Mr. Talcott. Jeanie and Jane Doe, too.”

She gasps on the line. “I always thought he had rapey eyes!”

I sputter, “No, Zoey. He doesn't have . . . What are rapey eyes?” I shake my head hard like she can see me through the receiver. “Whatever they are, he doesn't have them. He didn't do any of it. I would know. I swear
I would know
.”

“Okay, but you don't remember anything, so
how
would you know? Maybe he's got a thing for little girls and diddled the one in the cemetery? Maybe the old ball-and-chain found out that he hurt Jeanie and Jane Doe, so he offed Mrs. Talcott to keep her quiet? I mean, you don't even know if you saw who took Jeanie for sure.”

“I know I saw something, and I don't believe it was Mr. Talcott.” I want to tell Zoey about the finger bone found on Jane Doe, but Shane was clear that the detail wasn't being released publicly. Also, it doesn't really feel like my secret to tell.

“What, now you have some sixth sense for guilt? Like a super-tingle in your tits telling you whether or not Mr. Talcott did it? How could you possibly know?”

I sigh. This is what I've been dreading. Spilling the truth. I steel myself for Zoey's wrath. “Because I told the police something
the day Jeanie was taken. I don't think I would have said it if I'd seen Jeanie's dad take her. I knew Mr. Talcott, you know? Wouldn't I have recognized him taking his own daughter and told the cops?” Okay, so that's half the truth, but not the part that she'll be pissed about.