Whisper to Me (32 page)

“Why, because you like her?”

You stared at me. “What?”

“I saw you, the way you boosted her over the fence. I … it’s fine. I don’t know why I’m even mentioning it. Sorry … I’m … I’m not used to speaking to people, I’m not …”

“Cassie,” you said gently.

I looked up.

“Yes?”

“Is this why you were weird in the pickup?”

“Uh-huh.”

He smiled. A sad kind of smile. “I don’t like Paris. I mean, I do, I like her a lot, she’s a cool girl. But I
like
… you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Oh come on. You didn’t pick up on it?”

Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.

But I said nothing.

“****,” you said. “Now I’ve made it super awkward. I’m sorry. I … look, just forget that, okay? Let’s focus on Paris.”

Yes, focus on Paris. Focus on Paris. Don’t think about …

Don’t think about …

His hands on your sides, his hands in your hair, his hands …

No.

You took a deep breath. “So. Paris. The cops have not done one thing to stop him so far, have they? The killer, I mean.”

“You think it’s the killer? Horowitz said she might have run away.”

“You think that’s likely?”

I looked away. “No.”

“So,” you said. “We need to hurry.”

“This is the real world,” I said. “People get away. Killers get away. It happens all the time. How are we going to stop it?”

You looked at me strangely, narrowing your eyes. “ ‘People get away’? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said.

MY MOTHER. I WAS TALKING ABOUT MY MOTHER. A GUY BRAINED HER AND RAN AND THAT WAS IT.

But I wasn’t going to tell you that, not then.

And anyway, I had to admit it was true that from a distance the cops didn’t seem to be doing much about any of the women who had gone missing. I mean, it had been going on for so long and there had been no progress, and people were talking; it was the focus of a bunch of media stories too.

On the other hand:

At the same time though, I was thinking of Agent Horowitz. He seemed smart, and I liked him by instinct.

And yet on the other hand again:

You were right. It had been months, years even, and no advances had been made. No killer had been caught.

And … what if they didn’t get away this time? I mean, I couldn’t bring my mom back from the dead and I couldn’t get the guy who killed her, couldn’t make him pay, but what if I could get
this
guy?

This guy.

This one guy.

And make him pay.

And maybe find Paris before he killed her too.

Even then I knew this was not a realistic idea.

“Plus … ,” you said. “Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? The lack of police action? I mean … what if the killer was a cop himself?”

“A
cop
?”

“It would add up, right?”

“I guess.”

“Not only that, Julie said that Paris told her not to call the cops. Why would she do that?”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know. I’d forgotten about that.”

I will give it to you: I am pretty sure you were only doing all this to distract me, to give me something to think about, rather than just uselessly worrying about Paris, but you did it
excellently
.

“Well,” you continued, “what if that was because she
knew
the killer was a cop? So there would be no point calling them; she wouldn’t have known which of them were in on it, maybe?”

I looked at you. “Huh. Yeah, I guess that would make sense.”

“So let’s do it,” you said. “Let’s find her.” You pulled out your phone—it was an old-model iPhone; the phone of someone with money who hasn’t gotten around to upgrading yet.

I was wrong in thinking that, I know that now. I didn’t know it was the phone of someone with very little money at all. Someone whose dad bought it for him after he scored 1600 on his SATs. Bought it secondhand, spent days scouring eBay to get it for him.

But now I know. I know because I have spoken to your dad. A couple of times. Yeah. You didn’t realize that, did you? I know a lot more about you than you think.

I don’t mean this to sound sinister. I mean … I understand you better than I did.

Anyway.

You pulled out the phone, and you called up maps.

“This thing is too old for 4G,” you said, as the screen slowly loaded. “You said this was in Bayview, right? The row of old clapboards by the sand?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

You dragged the map with your finger, then used thumb and finger to enlarge it. I had never seen anyone do that before; that’s how sheltered my life was. That’s how much I didn’t have friends and how much the phones my dad got for me always sucked hard.

“You can just zoom it like that?” I said. “By touching? Wow.”

You looked at me like I was from another planet. “You haven’t seen one of these?”

“Yes! I mean, from a distance. Yeah.”

“Hmm,” you said. “Very Pygmalion.”

“What?”

“You know, in Ovid. The guy who makes a statue of a woman, and brings it to life. But she doesn’t know the language, the customs, and stuff. You’re like that.”

“I know the story. You’re saying … I’m a statue woman? Learning to speak like a person?”

“You know the language already. But you haven’t seen someone use a touch screen before, so it’s as if you’re new to the world, like her, and … Hmm.”

“Doesn’t really work, does it?”

“I admit it’s a flawed analogy,” you said. You smiled, and to my surprise I smiled back, though there was still an aching hole inside me where Paris had been. Where my memory of Paris still was.

“Anyway,” you said. You flicked something, and the map turned from a sketch, all lines and block colors, to a satellite image.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“I’m a Luddite, okay?” I said. “And I’m poor and have no friends. So bite me.”

You smiled again. “I love that you know the word ‘Luddite.’ ”

“Thanks. I think you’re alone in that.”

“Didn’t Paris love words?”

“Yes.” Paris appeared between us like a ghost.

Silence.

“Sorry,” you said. “Shouldn’t … you know, mention her.”

You lowered your head to your phone again, zoomed out. You held the screen up for me to see.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“You’re looking at a straight road, with no cross streets.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t see what that means?”

I peered at it. I could see the shapes of the houses, the darkness of the beach and ocean, the street. Cars parked up and down it. Everything, even from this satellite view, looking dilapidated and sad.

“No,” I said finally. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“You said when Paris was in the house, Julie saw a car
turn
in front of her. It woke her up with its lights. Yes?”

I took a breath, looking at the phone. I was holding it in my hand now. “But there are no cross streets,” I said slowly.

“Bingo. If a car turned, then it came out of a driveway. Or a garage.”

“You’re thinking …”

“Yes.”

“But how could Agent Horowitz miss this?”

“You said he was FBI, right?”

“Yeah. Or something like that.”

“So he’s from out of town. He wouldn’t know the street.”

“You’re from out of town,” I said. “How come you know the streets of Bayview so well?”

I asked it kind of as a joke, but you blanched a little. “I do a lot of deliveries,” you said. Your tone was strange, but I didn’t push you on it; I was thinking about Paris and Julie.

“I need to talk to Julie,” I said.

“Yes.” You took the phone back from me; put it away. “And then we need to decide what to do next. I mean, maybe she remembers what kind of car it was. And maybe … maybe Paris is still alive.”

“You think so?”

“It’s possible. No one ever finds the bodies, do they?”

“No. Well, a foot.”

“Yeah. But who knows what he does with them before he kills them?”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling sick. “You just made it awful again.”

“Sorry. But … what if she’s alive? Maybe we can find her together. I mean, if you want my help. If you want … we could try.”

There you went again, using that little word. That dangerous, beautiful little word.

We
.

It even clouded out my doubts—the terrible, selfish little part of me that was still thinking,
Is this because he likes Paris? Is that why he wants to save her?

But another part of me, a voice inside me, but not THE voice, said:
No, he likes you. That’s why he wants to help you.

Anyway.

You know what? You may have planned it all along. You may have just intended it as a distraction, to get me over my grief. If so, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the **** it got you into. I’m sorry for everything that happened after THIS. FATAL. MOMENT. IN THE STORY.

The one where I turned to you, and I held your hand in mine, as we sat there in the baking heat by the susurrating shore, and I said,

“Deal. We’ll find her together. You and me.”

I AM. SO. SORRY.

INT. A TEENAGE GIRL’S BEDROOM. BUT YOU CAN’T REALLY TELL THAT BECAUSE IT’S PITCH-BLACK. YOU CAN’T SEE ANYTHING, IN FACT. YOU CAN ONLY HEAR VOICES. VOICES WITH NO BODIES. I WOULD TELL YOU TO CLOSE YOUR EYES, BUT THEN YOU WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO READ THIS. YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO IMAGINE VOICES IN THE DARKNESS.

AND THEN, NOT INCONSEQUENTIALLY, YOU WILL GET AN IDEA OF WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE ME.

Oh no, wait.

Before the voices—you hear a phone being dialed, and then a ringing tone, okay? A ringing tone in the darkness.

Let’s start again.

INT. A TEENAGE GIRL’S BEDROOM. IT IS PITCH-BLACK. YOU HEAR A BEEPING THAT YOU SOON IDENTIFY AS A CELL PHONE BEING DIALED. IT RINGS.

A GIRL’S VOICE BLURRED BY TIREDNESS ANSWERS.