You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (19 page)

Andrea put the photos back and checked under the bed.

She'd read up on the Logan family murders. The newspaper articles mentioned that money, jewels, and certain techno gadgets were missing from the Logans' house. In the back of her mind she wondered if she'd find something like that in this room.

She'd seen several different photos of Reed Logan in the media accounts of the murders, and in most of them he was wearing a blue baseball cap—backward. She'd always thought that the backward-cap look was the trademark of a cocky jerk or a bully—not all the time, but often enough. In Reed's case, he appeared smug and obnoxious in the photos. He looked like the bully he was.

Andrea didn't see anything under the bed. The dresser was full of clothes—nothing new, nothing she hadn't put in the washer and dryer for Spencer dozens of times. He had some receipts, coupons, and cards in the top drawer—but no jewelry, gadgets, or pawn tickets.

She didn't have to remind herself that it was the other boy, Garrett Beale, who had pawned her sister's jewelry. She knew Spencer had fallen under his spell. She knew if that boy hadn't been spending the night, none of it would have happened. While her father had washed his hands of the case, Andrea had pushed Spencer's lawyer to focus the blame where it belonged—on this manipulative thirteen-year-old. Garrett's parents were quite rich. They'd tried to bribe and intimidate her into changing her tack. But Andrea couldn't be swayed. She'd done everything she could to help Spencer.

Her life had sort of gone on hold during his incarceration. Anyone would have thought she'd have used those years to focus on herself, but it wasn't until Spencer's release from the hospital that she'd resolved to move on with her life—or
their
lives, rather.

But now they were back to square one. It was 2009 all over again—with a multiple murder, the police questioning Spencer's every move, and her wondering if everything that came out of his mouth was a lie.

She believed that he'd indeed made an appointment with his therapist at seven tonight. He knew she could check up on that. But he didn't like Tanya. So why in the world would he give her three hours of his time after school? What was he really up to?

Andrea started going through the closet—through the pockets of his pants and inside his shoes. There was nothing. The shelves were uncluttered—just two neat stacks of sweaters.

Under the bottom sweater in the second stack, Andrea discovered an old, beat-up navy blue bag from the Gap.

She reached inside it and took out what Spencer had hidden in there.

It was an old blue baseball cap—the kind a bully might have worn backward.

* * *

“Mom?” she called as she came through the front door. The family SUV wasn't in the driveway—a definite sign that her mother wasn't home. But Bonnie called out anyway. “Mom, are you around?” She just needed to make sure. She really wasn't sure of anything today.

Bonnie had phoned her mother during lunch period, after talking with Spencer. But she'd gotten her voice mail. She'd left a message: “Hi, I wanted to talk to you about something that happened yesterday. I should have told you last night. I'm sorry to sound so weird, but could you call me back when you get this? It's important, okay? Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

Her mother hadn't called back. By two o'clock, Bonnie had tried calling again—and gotten her mother's voice mail once more. She'd pictured her mother, dead in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. She'd skipped her last class and hurried home—convinced the house would be surrounded by cops and squad cars, and cordoned off with yellow police tape.

She was out of breath as she staggered into the foyer. There was a small crystal chandelier overhead and a Persian rug on the hardwood floor. Bonnie frantically glanced around. From this spot she could see part of the living room, kitchen, and dining room. Nothing was out of place, no sign of a struggle, no blood. She told herself she was overreacting. Everything Spencer had told her was just a theory—pure speculation.

She started to close the door behind her, but then figured she should keep it open for a quicker escape. Besides, there was a better chance of someone hearing her scream if the door was open.

“You're being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. Taking a deep breath, Bonnie closed the door. With a bit of trepidation, she started toward the kitchen. There were some unwashed dishes in the sink, but nothing unusual. She stared at the refrigerator for a moment before finally opening the door. No one was stuffed inside there. “See, stupid?” she said under her breath. “Quit doing this to yourself.”

Still, she took a big knife from the butcher-block knife holder on the counter. Then she went from room to closet to room, checking the entire first floor. Climbing up the front stairs, she continued her search on the second floor, the butcher knife poised the whole time. At the end of the hallway, her room was last. Would there be another pile of pencil shavings on her bed—or something far worse?

There was nothing. The room was just as she'd left it this morning. The bed was made, nothing was out of place. The bathroom was a bit messy, but that was all her doing. Bonnie stepped back into her bedroom and sank down on her bed. She set the knife beside her.

She still couldn't breathe easy. She hadn't gone up to the attic. And she hadn't checked the basement, where they had the window with the faulty lock.

Sometimes, all it took was a scary book or movie to remind Bonnie about that window and how vulnerable they all were. She'd had a few restless, nervous nights knowing she was the only one awake in the house. She'd think about that basement window and imagine some faceless stranger quietly crawling through it. From the basement he'd creep up to the first floor—and then up the back stairs.
You'd be the first person he'd kill . . .

Her former friend, Tanya, had been the one who had warned her of that.

A chill raced through her.

Bonnie grabbed the knife and got to her feet. She headed down the back stairs to the kitchen—and then into the pantry. As she opened the basement door, the hinges squeaked. She switched on the light at the top of the wood-plank staircase. The house had a laundry hamper chute on the second floor, and the soiled clothes came out at the foot of the basement stairs. Heading down the creaky steps, Bonnie stared at the pile of clothes and towels. She kept expecting to see blood on something in that heap—though it made absolutely no sense. The house was empty. Nothing had happened. She was alone here. She had to remind herself it was the middle of the afternoon.

As she neared the bottom of the stairs, Bonnie paused and glanced at the laundry room. No one was hiding behind the dryer. It was the usual mess of clothes, towels, and sheets—piled up on the floor by the washer, in baskets and hanging on the clothesline. A travel poster of Venice, which her mother still hadn't visited, was on the wall. From this spot on the stairs, Bonnie had a partial view of the basement bathroom—with just a toilet and a forever-dirty sink. No one used that bathroom except her brothers and their friends when they congregated in the playroom, which explained why it was always so disgusting in there.

Bonnie could also see part of the darkened playroom. The cheaply paneled area was her brothers' domain. It had an older model big-screen TV, a sectional sofa, Billy's drum set, and a StairMaster no one had used in eons.

Her father's workroom and the furnace room were beyond that—behind a door that was always closed. It wasn't just her, everyone thought that part of the house was creepy. Even with the lights on, those back rooms seemed perpetually dark and sinister. Her mother once admitted that during their first year in the house, she wouldn't go down there to use the washer or dryer unless someone else was home.

Bonnie heard a mechanical click and then a humming sound. She told herself it was just the furnace starting up—or maybe the whirring noise had come from outside. Either way, she didn't want to go any farther into the basement. And for a moment, she couldn't move at all. She kept a tight grip on the knife, and held on to the banister with her other hand.

Then she thought she heard a door yawn open.

Bonnie turned and rushed back up the stairs. Stumbling into the pantry, she swiveled around and slammed the door shut. The knife accidentally flew out of her hand and just missed landing on her foot. Her heart was beating wildly. She expected to hear someone clamoring up the stairs in pursuit. But it was quiet.

Catching her breath, Bonnie picked up the knife and moved over to the kitchen phone. She set the knife on the counter—within reaching distance. She tried phoning her mother again. It was almost past three. Why hadn't she called back yet?

Her mother's voice mail picked up again. “Damn it,” Bonnie muttered, hanging up. Something was wrong. Hadn't she made it clear in her message two and a half hours ago that it was pretty urgent?

Bonnie glanced over at the closed basement door.

She couldn't stand another minute alone in this house. It might be crazy, but sitting on the front stoop—until her mother, brothers, or father got home—somehow seemed safer. She should have stayed at school this afternoon, but she'd been worried about her mom.

Bonnie set the knife in the sink. She checked her pockets for her phone and her house key, and then hurried to the front door.

Once outside, she closed the door behind her.

She couldn't just wait there, not without checking something out. So she headed along the side of the house toward the backyard. The basement window with the broken lock was behind some low shrubs and a big rhododendron bush. Under the shadow of a tall evergreen, Bonnie threaded through the shrubbery to the window. The ground was still a bit muddy from yesterday's rain. She was ruining her beige sneakers.

She stopped and gazed down at the window, the top of which hit her at knee level. The window was open just a hairline crack. But it could have been that way for a long, long time.

Then Bonnie noticed the cluster of footprints in the muddy ground.

Someone had climbed through this window last night.

Or had they just climbed through it within the last hour?

Bonnie turned and ran, nearly tripping over the shrubs. She staggered out to the driveway—only to see the family's SUV coming right at her. She froze. The tires screeched. She let out a little shriek and put a shaky hand on the front hood. Her whole body felt wobbly. Past the windshield, she could see her mother in the driver's seat.

Her mom opened the door and jumped out of the car. “My God, Bonnie, you almost gave me a heart attack!” She rushed toward her. “Are you all right? What's going on?”

Bonnie started crying. “Where were you? I phoned you. Practically three hours ago, I phoned . . .”

“My cell battery conked out,” her mother said, rubbing her shoulder. “Honey, what's going on? What happened?”

Bonnie swallowed hard. “We—we need to call the police . . .”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

H
e hadn't been completely honest with his aunt about what he was doing after school. Spencer wasn't
helping
Tanya with her play rehearsals. He was watching her rehearse—only Tanya didn't know it. At least, he didn't think she knew. He'd found a seat in the shadowy balcony of the auditorium. No one down on the stage seemed to notice him. Still, he remained slouched down in the seat most of the time—just in case.

Having listened to Tanya go on and on these past few weeks about her part in
The Pajama Game
, he'd thought she was the star of the show. But it looked like she had about three lines, playing a factory worker.

That was what this surveillance was all about: finding out just how honest Tanya had been with him.

Yesterday, he'd asked her right out if she'd had anything to do with the deaths of the Logans, and she'd responded with an unconvincing, “God, no!”

Spencer was pretty certain she was in cahoots with someone. But as far as he knew, Tanya didn't have any friends. Seeing how she got along with her fellow cast members and the stage crew confirmed that. When she wasn't needed, which was often, Tanya sat alone in the theater's first or second row. No one talked with her.

Spencer wanted to see if she met up with someone during or after the rehearsal. So far—except for her texting somebody at one point, she'd kept to herself.

Last Friday, when Reed had said Spencer had been “sprung out of a loony bin in Virginia,” a handful of people had heard it—including Bonnie and Tanya. Bonnie had immediately asked him if it was true. The others didn't know him well enough to approach him and bring it up. But Tanya hadn't asked him a thing about it. Was that because she already knew? Was she the one who had sent the text to Reed?

Tanya had been Damon's best friend. And three of the people Damon had condemned in his webcast suicide were now dead. KC Cunningham and Mr. McAfee had perished in a car explosion within hours after Damon's suicide. But it was Reed's bizarre murder last weekend that seemed to start a precedent.

Spencer had read parts of Damon's journal. He remembered Damon's account of how Reed and Ron had locked him in a storage space under the stage:
I could hardly move,
Damon had written.
I couldn't breathe. It was so dark in there. I thought I was going to die in there . . .

From where he sat, Spencer could see the little door in the orchestra pit. It was along a wood panel under the stage where the cast was now rehearsing another musical number. That was where Damon had been trapped for two or three hours—until a janitor had come by and rescued him.

But no one had rescued Reed Logan. He'd suffocated to death inside the refrigerator in his home. Spencer imagined what it must have been like for the poor bastard—trapped in that dark space, unable to move or breathe.

There was nothing bizarre or random about Reed's murder. It was the perfect retribution. And Tanya had almost certainly been in on it. She didn't seem a bit sorry that Reed had died. And who else was left to punish Damon's abusers?

Now they were targeting Bonnie Middleton, who had made the mistake of emptying out the contents of a pencil sharpener onto Damon's head as he'd slept in the library. Damon had mentioned Bonnie in his webcast tirade. Spencer wondered just how angry and hurt Damon had actually been over that stupid prank—and how much Tanya had goaded him about it, fanning the flames so he'd hate her former best friend as fervently as she did.

Spencer wasn't sure what they had planned for Bonnie, but he figured it would involve pencils, lead, a woodcutter, or something along those lines. Bonnie probably hadn't been too far off wondering aloud if she'd “end up buried under a pile of pencil shavings.”

He hoped she'd warned her parents and notified the police by now.

And he hoped something would happen with Tanya—so this long, dreary surveillance might prove worth his while. He couldn't hang around here much longer. He needed to be at Diane's office by seven, and he had to transfer buses to get there.

Before seeing Diane, he always thought about what he wanted to tell her. Tonight, he wanted to talk about Bonnie, Reed's murder, and the police questioning him—along with all the memories that questioning had dredged up.

He remembered how he'd met Garrett Beale in the summer of 2009. He and his parents had moved from Silver Spring, Maryland, to Fairfax, Virginia, just days after he'd finished sixth grade in early May. Some summer vacation. If it hadn't been for his Aunt Dee, he would have gone crazy. She'd helped them move, and that first month, she'd taken him into DC a few times to do touristy stuff, which he loved. They'd always been close. But then she was his aunt. It wasn't like having a friend his own age. He didn't know anybody in Fairfax.

His parents were pretty much in the same boat. So they wasted no time joining the local country club, Westchester Hills. It was a ten-minute bike ride away for Spencer. He figured their pool would be his summer salvation. This one looked better than the community pool in Silver Spring. It had a waterslide, three different diving boards, and a snack shack serving burgers, hot dogs, and soft drinks. But after the first half hour of his first visit there, Spencer started to get bored. Going alone just wasn't much fun. Plus he felt self-conscious about his pale, skinny, prepubescent body. Still, it beat sitting around the new house, and he enjoyed looking at the girls in their swimsuits.

One girl in particular caught his eye—a long-limbed brunette in a yellow bikini. Spencer figured she was older, maybe even in high school. He felt like a little pervert as he watched Miss Yellow Bikini practice diving—over and over again. And each time she got out of the pool her bikini top and bottom slipped a little.

Suddenly someone came up on the other side of him, blocking out the sun. “Check out the tits on her . . .”

Just as Spencer turned in the lounge chair, the sun-blocker shook out his wet long hair—all over him. Then he laughed. He was a big kid, slightly pear-shaped, with green trunks that rode low on his wide hips. Spencer couldn't believe this total stranger was suddenly clowning around with him like they were best friends. The kid pulled up another lounge chair and sat down beside him. Spencer guessed he was a couple of years older. He had armpit hair. He said his name, but Spencer didn't catch it.

In the course of the next hour, Mr. Green Trunks pushed Spencer into the pool twice, flicked him in the ear countless times, held his head underwater for at least half a minute, splashed him so many times that Spencer's eyes burned from the chlorine, and then when Spencer bought a hot dog at the snack shack and took one bite, the jerk stole it from him and wolfed it down. Green Trunks seemed to think all of these stunts were hysterical and they were on their way to becoming bosom buddies—even though Spencer hadn't concealed his annoyance with the guy. He must have said, “Cut it out!” to him about twenty times.

Just to avoid him, Spencer didn't go back to the pool for a week—even though it had been perfect swimming weather. When he finally returned, he was relieved to find that the kid was nowhere in sight. Spencer had been lounging in a sunny spot for about ten minutes when something stung his earlobe.

It was Green Trunks, hovering over him, flicking his ear, and cackling.

“Hey, you know, that hurts,” Spencer said, sitting up.

“Oh, quit being such a pussy!” Green Trunks said, pulling a lounge chair close to Spencer's. His trunks were riding even lower this afternoon, so half his butt crack was showing. “There's nothing here but a bunch of dogs today. Where the hell have you been for the last few days?”

Spencer grabbed his bottle of SPF30 sunscreen and started rubbing it on himself. “Hey, you know,” he said, mustering up the courage to go on, “no offense, but I really don't feel like hanging out with you.”

“Well, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“I'm sorry, but all you did last week was pick on me,” Spencer said, his heart racing. He didn't like confrontations. Plus Green Trunks was intolerable enough when he thought they were
friends
. How abusive would he get once he knew Spencer didn't like him? “I mean, I don't exactly enjoy having my head pushed underwater and almost drowning. You almost broke my neck doing that, and I got water up my nose. And news flash: that ear-swatting thing you keep doing hurts.”

“Does it hurt as bad as this?” Green Trunks asked, punching him on the side of the shoulder. He knew what he was doing, too, because the prominent knuckle slammed against a nerve, sending a jolt of pain down Spencer's arm.

He dropped the bottle of sunscreen. Wincing, he rubbed his shoulder. “God, what the hell's wrong with you?”

Sitting back in the lounge chair, Green Trunks laughed. His fleshy stomach jiggled. He closed his eyes. “Oh, you're such a wimp. It doesn't hurt that much!”

Green Trunks didn't see another guy coming up beside him. The new arrival was about thirteen or fourteen, and good-looking with a wiry, muscular build. He wore sunglasses and blue striped surfer shorts.

“Does it hurt as much as this?” the new guy asked. With a loud smack, he slapped his open hand across Green Trunks' jelly belly.

Green Trunks let out a yelp. He sat up and grabbed his gut as if he'd just been shot there.

“Or does this hurt more?” asked the new guy, flicking his finger against the other boy's ear.

“Ouch! Cut it out!” he cried, covering his ear. “Goddamn it . . .” He almost tripped climbing off the lounge chair to get away.

Spencer caught a glimpse of his stomach—with a red mark from the other boy's hand. He usually didn't get a kick out of other people's misery, but he couldn't help smiling a little.

“Now you know how it feels,” the new arrival said. “Buzz off, Duncan. You loser . . .”

“Psycho,” Green Trunks muttered. Rubbing his stomach, he wandered away. He glanced over his shoulder at them. “You two deserve each other . . .”

The lean, older boy settled in Green Trunks' lounge chair. Spencer was in awe of him—and a bit jealous of his tan and his adult hairy legs. The guy was shorter than Green Trunks, but in far better shape and utterly fearless. The way he reclined in the lounge chair, he was a like young lion stretching out and resting after a victory in battle. “I was watching you and Duncan last week,” the boy said. “The first time he pushed you into the pool you should have climbed right out and slugged him. Duncan can dish it out, but he can't take it. Anyway, he won't bug you again.”

“Well, thanks,” Spencer said.

“You're new here, aren't you?”

Before Spencer could answer, someone stepped in front of them, blocking the sun. It was the yellow-bikini girl. “Hi, Garrett,” she said, giving him a nervous smile.

“Hey, yeah, hi, Courtney,” he said, lazily reaching over and mussing Spencer's hair. “This is my new buddy . . .” He lowered his sunglasses to squint at him. “Hey, what's your name, anyway?”

“Spencer Rowe,” he said. Then he nodded at Miss Yellow Bikini. “Hi . . .”

“Listen, Courtney,” Garrett said, pushing his sunglasses over his eyes again. “Why don't you grab us some hamburgers and Cokes at the snack shack? Get something for yourself, too. Have them charge it to Clinton Beale.” He touched Spencer's arm. “Hey, do you want cheese on your burger, Spence-o?”

Spencer had made his first friend in Fairfax. He felt so lucky that this cool thirteen-year-old had taken him under his wing. He couldn't help wondering why Garrett didn't have a whole bunch of friends his own age. He was certainly popular with the girls. Garrett went through them pretty fast. Every few days a different one would hang around with them at the pool.

Spencer had been moderately popular in Silver Spring, but he felt privileged to be hanging around with Garrett. His new friend lived in a beautiful, big house, and he had a wide assortment of techno toys and games. He also had a faithful German shepherd named Al, who was all banged up. Garrett said he'd gotten him that way from a rescue shelter. Suddenly Spencer wanted to get a dog, too—one he could rescue. Everything Garrett did, he wanted to do. He even started dressing like Garrett and combing his hair like him.

One thing he didn't want to emulate was the way Garrett treated other people. He'd be so charming and polite, but Spencer realized after a while that it was all an act. Garrett rarely had a kind word to say about the girls who flocked to him at the pool. He was always criticizing them behind their backs. This one stuffed her bra; that one had a flat ass. But they seemed to adore him—for a while, at least. Garrett had certain adults bamboozled, too. He'd go into a store and ooze friendliness to the salesperson while ripping them off. He was always stealing potato chips and candy bars from the snack shack. And the older woman who worked there fawned over him. Spencer always left her a big tip in the jar, hoping to make up for his friend. A part of him found Garrett's recklessness sort of exciting. But Garrett had a cruel streak, too. Spencer was constantly telling him, “That's not nice, don't do that . . .”

“Oh, you're no fun at all, Spence-o,” he'd say.

About a month after they started hanging out, Spencer went to the pool by himself for a change. Garrett had been busy that hot July afternoon. Spencer was in their usual spot, drying off after a dip in the pool, when Green Trunks Duncan came by. This was the first time Duncan had approached him since Garrett had chased him away weeks before. From his lounge chair, Spencer lowered his sunglasses and frowned at him. He felt a lot more confident dealing with Duncan now. Plus a little bit of Garrett's cockiness had rubbed off onto him.