The Prom Queen (13 page)

It was after ten, and these questions had been going on for over an hour. It seemed as if I had spent the whole spring talking to the police.

Officer Jackson said, “But did she seem extra nervous?”

I sighed loudly. “Yes!” I was letting my exasperation show. “Wouldn't you be? I can't even sleep at night.”

“Someone's killing off the prom queens,” snapped Dawn. “It's so obvious.”

Dawn had already told them her theory. Officer Jackson stared her down. “We're pursuing every lead” was all he said.

“I mean,” Dawn continued, “I was excited when we were first nominated. Now it looks like we've been nominated to—to die! Can't you see that?”

Officer Jackson's frown deepened. “If you'd just answer a few more questions, then we'll be through.”

Officer Barnett stood up. “I'm sorry, Lizzy. This won't take much longer. But you were the last person to see both Rachel and Elana alive. We're trying to find out everything we can.”

She turned to Dawn. “Before the rehearsal, you were—”

“Playing tennis,” Dawn said.

“And the last time you saw Elana was at the assembly?”

“Right.”

Officer Barnett turned back to me. “Let's go over the part about the baseball jacket one more time.”

I told her everything I knew. For the nine zillionth time I talked about the man I saw running into the woods, his maroon satin jacket.

“I'm telling you, I really think it's Lucas,” I added.

Officer Jackson snapped his notebook shut and stood up. “We're going to talk to him next.”

“So who do you think did it?” Dawn asked.

“We're following up every lead,” Officer Jackson said.

Dawn and I stared at each other. “Why can't you at least tell us who your suspects are?” Dawn asked, her voice rising. “I mean, don't you think we'd be safer if we at least knew who to watch for?”

Officer Jackson shrugged. “Just take every precaution you can,” he advised. “I'm afraid that's all I can tell you right now.”

Dad walked the police to the door. Dawn stood up, stretched, and shivered. “Well, I guess I'll go home too,” she said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing. Barricade my door, load my machine gun. The usual.”

She gave me a little smile. I tried to smile back, but I couldn't.

“It's just us now,” Dawn said.

“What do you mean?”

“For prom queen.”

I looked at her to see if she was serious. She was.

“You're not still thinking about the contest, are you? Three murders aren't enough to get you to stop worrying about who's going to win?”

Dawn shrugged.

“Well, you win,” I said. “I resign. I'm going to tell Mr. Sewall tomorrow. I quit. I don't want to be prom queen, believe me. Where are they going to hold the prom anyway? The Shadyside Funeral Parlor?”

I spun around dramatically. I meant to make that my exit line. But I bumped right into my mom.

“Hey, take it easy,” she told me.

I walked past her and up the stairs without saying a word.

I went to my room and slammed the door. But I wasn't as angry as I hoped I'd be. I probably wanted to take it all out on Dawn. I couldn't.

I heard the front door close. I peered out the window into the darkness. I could make out Dawn, moving down the shadowy front walkway. She looked so vulnerable. I felt bad that I had gotten so angry.

I watched until I saw her car pull safely on its way. Then I watched for a while longer. I watched the trees swaying in the wind. I listened to the leaves rustle. If someone was out there, there were plenty of places for him to hide.

It wasn't until I sat on the bed that I realized my legs were trembling. I could actually see them shake.

I felt shaky all over. My chest felt all feathery.

I lay down, trying to calm down. I'm next, I thought.

It was a terrifying thought, but I couldn't stop myself. The words kept running through my mind: I'm next . . . I'm next . . . I'm next . . .

And then Lucas's words: I like you. I really like you.

I was still lying there twenty minutes later, my eyes wide open, one scary thought chasing another through my brain.

And then the phone on the bed table rang shrilly in my ear.

I stared at it, listening to it ring.

I didn't want to pick it up.

“H
ello?”

“Lizzy?”

“Yeah?”

“It's Justin.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What's up?”

“Uh . . . well . . . I, uh—”

He sounded nervous. Why would Justin be nervous? “What's the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing, nothing. Can I, ah, come over?”

“Come over?”

“Yeah.”

“Now?”

“Well, uh, yeah.”

“Justin, it's almost eleven. My folks have already gone to bed.”

“Yeah, well, it's really important.”

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm fine.”

“Can't you tell me what it is?”

“No,” he said. “I'll tell you in person. Okay?”

Why did he sound so strange?

“Okay?” he said again.

“Yeah, I guess. . . .”

I couldn't think straight. Something was going on, but I wasn't sure what it was.

“Good. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. I won't ring the doorbell, though. I, uh, don't want to wake your parents. So just wait downstairs, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then I thought of something else. “Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“We can't. My dad puts on the burglar alarm at night. I can't go downstairs.”

“Tight security, huh?”

“That's right.”

“Well,” he said, “turn the alarm off.”

I heard the click as he hung up the phone.

The master alarm panel is on the landing outside my parents' bedroom. I could see the light under their door, but I didn't hear any voices. The light was shining under the guest room too, so my aunt Rena was also up. Hanging from the doorknob of my parents' door, my mom's cardboard sign read Alarm On.

I quietly punched in our security code. The red LCD light blinked twice, then faded out. I flipped the cardboard sign over so that it read Alarm Off.

Then I tiptoed downstairs to wait.

About twenty minutes later Justin's face appeared in the front window. He was wearing a maroon Shadyside High baseball cap. He pointed to the front door, and I went and let him in.

“Hey,” he whispered when I opened the door. He gave me a funny grin.

“Come on in. We can talk in here.”

I led the way into the den and closed the door. He leaned against my dad's desk and shoved his fingertips into the front pockets of his jeans. He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Then he took his hands out of his pockets. He seemed really uncomfortable.

“So,” he said quietly, “you talk to the cops?”

“For hours. Listen, you don't have to whisper or anything. My parents are upstairs.”

“Great,” he said too loudly.

What was his problem? He was usually so laid back, so smooth. Now he was staring at me intensely. His forehead was all sweaty.

“These are pretty scary times,” he said. “You must be scared, right?”

“You bet I am.” Is this what he came over to talk to me about?

I looked down at his hands. So did he.

He was holding my dad's silver letter opener. The one with the curved handle and the dagger-sharp point. He started to pace, slapping his palm with the knife.

“So,” he said, “what exactly did you tell the police?”

“Everything I could think of.” I couldn't take my eyes off the knife. “I told them . . .”

I stopped myself midsentence.

“What?”

I didn't want to say.

“What, Lizzy?” he went on, his eyes boring into mine. “What did you tell them?”

What I was about to say was that I told the cops about the strip of maroon satin in Elana's hand. But instead I said, “What do you care?”

He laughed a crazy laugh. “You're right. I don't care a bit.”

I wasn't looking at the letter opener anymore. I was looking at Justin's baseball cap. Sewn onto the front was the Tigers emblem.

Why hadn't it occurred to me before now? Justin was on the baseball team too. Not just Lucas.

Justin was all-state, one of the team's stars.

So Justin also had a maroon satin jacket.

“Why are you standing so far away?” Justin asked me, smiling awkwardly. “Think I'm going to bite you?”

“No, I—”

“Come over here, then.”

My mind had started to race. “I'm happy over here,” I said.

But Justin had started to walk slowly toward me, the letter opener held tightly in his hand. . . .

A
s I stood staring at the gleaming silver blade, there was a knock on the den door. It swung open.

“Dad!” I cried gratefully.

He was standing there in baggy, striped pajamas, confusion on his face. “Lizzy, who are you talking—”

He stopped when he saw Justin. He stared at him, then turned back to me.

“Dad?” I said. “This is Justin Stiles. Justin, Dad.”

“Hello, Mr. McVay,” Justin said. He set the letter opener back down on the desk.

“It's kind of late for visitors, isn't it?” Dad said. He smiled when he said it. He always smiled when he caught himself sounding like a parent.

I was so glad to see him, I didn't care about his sounding like a parent. I felt like hiding behind him.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “There was something I needed to ask Lizzy about, and I didn't feel it could wait until tomorrow.”

“I see,” Dad replied, yawning. “Well, have you asked her?”

Justin looked at me, then back at Dad. “Yes,” he said.

Asked me what? He hadn't asked me a thing, except about the police. My heart was still racing.

“Well, then, maybe you two can continue this conversation tomorrow?”

I laughed, even though there was no good reason to. “He's just leaving,” I told Dad. “Come on, Justin, I'll show you out.”

I ushered Justin to the front door, but he lingered there, refusing to leave.

We turned and looked back at Dad. He gave us a wave from the den doorway, then padded into the kitchen. I could tell he was rustling around in there, waiting for Justin to go.

“Thanks for coming over,” I said quickly. “Talk to you tomorrow.” I was talking loud enough for Dad to hear.

Justin stared at me. Finally he said, “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

I watched him walk down our front steps, down the path, and disappear into the dark. Then I closed
the door, locked it, and leaned my head against the door.

My father came out of the kitchen and stopped on the landing, staring at me.

“He left,” I told him with more relief than he could possibly imagine.

My father nodded, then started slowly upstairs.

Had Justin been about to stab me?

Or had my overactive imagination taken charge again?

I was overreacting. I had to be.

Justin had certainly appeared nervous.

And he certainly had more on his mind than he was able to say.

But he couldn't have come over to stab me with a letter opener.

That was just plain crazy. Right?

I sighed. I hadn't realized how tired I was until right then. When you think you're about to get stabbed to death, it tends to make you wide awake. Now that I was relaxed again, I was exhausted.

I went back upstairs, brushed my teeth, got undressed, and climbed into bed. I closed my eyes and nestled into my pillow. I threw my arm around my second pillow for comfort—my favorite sleep pose. Maybe I could get a good night's sleep for once.