Buzz Kill (27 page)

I'd thought I'd understood what he was trying to say—thought I'd been filling in the copious blanks—but all at once, he'd lost me. It was “like” he was betraying her?

“You're . . . You're talking in the past tense,” I said, searching his face—hopefully, in spite of the hurt I saw. “Like you two aren't together.”

Something about what I said caused a flash of raw agony in his eyes.

“Oh, God, Millie,” he groaned, resting his forehead against mine again, but this time bracing his hands on either side of me against the car. Not holding me anymore. “I should've told you before I kissed you . . .”

“Told me what?” I asked. My heart, which had just been—for lack of a less hokey word—soaring, iced over and started its inevitable plummet. Still, I had to ask, my throat tight, “What, Chase?”

The wretched anguish I heard in his voice wasn't enough to keep me from getting sick—physically ill—when he confessed, more loudly, like he needed me to hear and understand, “I
killed my last girlfriend,
Millie.”

I didn't even feel the stones under my feet as I ran home, barefoot, without ever looking back.

Talk about the clock striking midnight and everything just exploding. And when I got to my house, bursting through the door, my dad and Ms. Parkins, who were sitting on the couch, jumped apart like they were teenagers caught making out. But to her credit, even though I'd obviously lost her shoes and was clearly upset, my librarian-slash-father's-girlfriend knew when to back off, and neither she nor my dad followed me to my room, where I lay awake all night, pretty sure that Chase was referring to an accident, but still wondering . . .

Did I just kiss
a murderer?

“This is a pathetic Saturday night, even by our standards,” Laura complained to me and Ryan the evening after my disastrous dance. She was sitting cross-legged on my bed, flipping through my latest edition of
Philosophy Now
magazine, a gift subscription from my father, for my seventeenth birthday. I'd been surprised by the thoughtful present, but now strongly suspected that Isabel Parkins might've played a role in its selection. “Do you want to take the ‘Am I a Moral Beauty or a Beast' quiz?” Laura asked, sounding less than enthused. “I see the name Schopenhauer in there, so it might be fun for you at least, Millie.”

Ryan was stretched out on the floor, tossing a ball he'd formed out of my stray socks toward the ceiling. “Go ahead,” he urged Laura. “It couldn't make this night
more
boring.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I also agreed with indifference, even though I'd just been puzzling over that very theme as I sat at my desk, idly shaking the mouse connected to my laptop.

What is Chase?

Beauty or beast? Or both?

Am I more upset that he lied, at least by omission, or that he TOOK A LIFE?

I shuffled the mouse again.

And why am I afraid to confirm what I suspect? Because I know his true name and could Google the story. At least, I
hope
I know his real name . . .

“Millie, I was asking you whether you'd lie about your immigrant friend Sonja's employment status if telling the truth meant she'd be deported and maybe imprisoned by a harsh regime,” Laura said, snapping me back to reality. She sounded exasperated. “It was a long scenario, and I think you daydreamed through the whole thing!”

Ryan sat up and checked the old Winnie-the-Pooh clock on my nightstand. “And aren't you supposed to be at work? Why are you even here?”

“I called in sick,” I told my friends.
Because we're showing
Ikiru,
a Japanese film about a lonely bureaucrat dying from cancer, and Chase will show up for
that. “I guess I'm a beast,” I concluded gloomily. “No need to take a quiz.”

“Millie, what is wrong with you?” Laura tossed aside the magazine. “Why won't you tell us what happened at the dance? Was Chase a jerk or something? Did he dance with a bunch of other girls and leave you by the wall?”

I'd finally come clean about going to the formal, if only because by Monday word would be all around school about how the ultimate-outsider quarterback had finally deigned to attend a school function—with Millie Ostermeyer, who'd teetered around on too-big shoes and worn a scarf as a belt.

I cringed at the recollection.

What had I been thinking?

“Hey, Millie.” Ryan tapped my leg. I looked down to see that he was deadly serious. “Chase didn't try anything, did he? Because I'd kick his ass if he didn't take no—”

“No!” I said quickly. I was upset with Chase, and confused, but he was no date rapist. What little we'd “done,” I'd technically started, and I'd wanted every second of what had followed, right up to the point when he'd confessed to
killing someone.

“No,” I repeated. “Please don't think
that
about him.” Then, because I had to tell somebody, and Laura and Ry always kept my secrets, I said, “We did sort of . . . kiss, though.”

Ryan didn't seem surprised, but Laura's eyes got huge. “You did
what?
”

“Kissed,” I confirmed. “A lot. In the parking lot.”

Okay, it sounded borderline sleazy when put that way. But we'd been caught up in a moment . . .

How could I get butterflies again just thinking about how it had felt when Chase had first pulled me to him, and how I'd never wanted to be so close to another human being in my life, and had almost blurted out “I love you.”

Not only would that have been about ten years premature, but I couldn't love somebody I didn't even know, right? And I certainly couldn't love somebody who kept a secret
that big.
We'd talked about Allison before.
He should've said something . 
.
 .

“Millie, was it
bad?
” Ry asked. I could tell he was still ready to beat up Chase if necessary. “Because you don't look very happy about it.”

“I can't explain it,” I told them both. Yet I tried to. “It was too good, in a way.” Then, because it wasn't my place to spill Chase's secrets, I just concluded, shoulders slumping, right as the doorbell rang, “Anyway, it's over now.”

Or maybe it wasn't, because a few moments later, my father rapped on the door to my room and poked his head in. “Millie? Chase is downstairs. He's returning your—Isabel's—shoes.” That clearly displeased him, but he was being uncharacteristically cool about my coming home a mess, without part of my outfit. “He'd like to talk to you.”

“Millie!” Only Laura seemed happy about that prospect. She shooed me with her hands, practically bouncing on the bed. “Go! Talk!”

My heart was pounding, too—but I wasn't ready to see Chase. “No,” I told Dad firmly. “Tell him thanks for bringing back the shoes. But I don't want to talk.”

Dad opened his mouth, as if he finally couldn't stand not knowing what was up. But then he glanced at Laura and Ryan and must've judged that it still wasn't the right time. “Okay,” he agreed. “I'll tell him.” He started to close the door, but paused. “Millie . . . Do
I
need to talk to Chase?”

I knew he was thinking the same thing Ryan just had.
Did Chase go too far?

“No. It's okay,” I promised. “We just had a . . . fight. That's all. Nothing that requires paternal intervention.”

When my father left us without another word, my friends stayed quiet, all of us listening to Dad and Chase confer downstairs. I couldn't make out what they said, but a minute later, I heard the front door close.

Laura turned to me, confused. “Millie, why not
talk
to him? What is really going on?”

I couldn't explain more, though. Instead, I finally turned to my laptop—moving the screen so only I could see it—and typed “Colton Chase Albright fatal accident” into Google, fingers flying so I couldn't back out. Less than thirty seconds later, I found an article from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
about the drug-addled son of a prominent cardiac surgeon who'd walked away from an accident that had left a state lawmaker's daughter dead.

“He murdered my little girl . 
.
 . admits she was reluctant to get into that car . 
.
 . I'll see Colton Albright in prison, then hell . 
.
 .”

The rage and agony of a grieving father were palpable in the quotes, and I quickly clicked off the site, sick to my stomach again.

What if somebody had taken my mom like that? What if a drunk driver, not a disease, had claimed her life? I would never, ever forgive that.

“Millie, are you okay?” Ryan edged closer. “Why are you so pale?”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed. “And what are you doing on the computer?”

Before I could answer—even try to explain why I was acting so weird—the doorbell rang again, and as if on cue, we all got up and went to the top of the stairs. Laura seemed excited, while Ry was obviously still in big brother, protective mode.

“Dad, tell Chase I
really
don't want to talk to him now,” I hollered down. “Seriously!”

But as my words faded away, I realized Chase hadn't returned. My dad was talking to someone else. Namely, Detective Blaine Lohser, who was informing him, “I have a warrant here, authorizing us to search your property,
Head Coach
Ostermeyer.”

“What?” I heard disbelief in my father's voice. “What are you talking about?”

I couldn't see Detective Lohser, but I could easily picture the smarmy smile that was no doubt forming under his dated scrub brush of facial hair when he said, “We have reason to believe the weapon used to murder Henry Killdare is buried behind your house.”

“What are you doing?” I demanded, tugging on Detective Lohser's arms, which were crossed over his chest. We were standing in Dad's and my dark backyard, and a team of police officers was digging, under lights, in what used to be my mother's veggie garden. “This has gone far enough!” I cried, way too loudly.

“We got a tip, kid.” Detective Lohser repeated stuff he'd said earlier when he'd barged into our house, waving papers under our noses. He didn't bother looking at me. He was watching that team of cops intently. “We think it's legit.”

“This is crazy,” I insisted, hauling on his sleeve again. “Stop it!”

“Millie!” My father spoke sharply, but his arms were gentle as he came up behind me and wrapped them around me, like a paradoxically comforting straitjacket, and walked me back from Detective Lohser before I could pull him to the ground. Then, when we were a few steps away, my father did something he hadn't done since I was a little child. He kissed the top of my head, sort of rocking me and saying softly, “Quiet, Millie. It's going to be okay.”

I wanted to believe him, but I hadn't had such a bad year since my mother'd been diagnosed with cancer. My senior year so far was a disaster, and going downhill faster than an Olympic bobsled. I'd had a first kiss and gotten my heart broken on the same night. And if anyone—some pathetic guy pretending to be a detective—separated me from the man who could be distant, but who was, on that chilly October night, continuing to hold me, as if I were six again . . .

That can't happen. I can't lose my dad, too.

Resting against my father's reassuringly broad chest, I also watched the police officers, not understanding.

What did they think they'd find back there? Who was this “tipster”?

“Don't cry, Millie,” Dad whispered, kissing my head again. I was cognizant of people gathering in the alley behind our yard, checking out the commotion and lights, and wondered whether Laura and Ryan had hung around for moral support, or if they'd listened to my father and gone home. I hoped they were still close by. “It's going to be fine,” Dad promised. “There's nothing here.”

I hadn't even realized that my breath had gotten shaky. That I was struggling to bottle up tears of frustration and anger, both for me and for my dad—who was obviously very wrong, because moments after he assured me that there was nothing to be found in our yard, one of the uniformed officers, who was digging like a gopher, announced loudly, “Found it.”

My dad was clearly stunned. His arms around me locked up, like he had rigor mortis. Releasing me, he stepped woodenly back, handing me over to Ms. Parkins, who had arrived at some point and must've been waiting in the wings for the proper time to help. She didn't cradle me like my father had, but she did rest a small but strong hand on my shoulder. Meeting her eyes for a second, I saw that she was grim but calm.

At least this, between me and Ms. Parkins . 
.
 . This really is going to be okay.

Then I turned back to the disaster unfolding in the garden, just in time to see the gopher cop hand a plastic bag to Detective Lohser, who brandished it like a trophy, holding it up for inspection. Which was kind of bizarre, because—even in that pretty dark yard—it was quite obvious that the object he held was, indeed, a . . .
trophy.
One of those big, weighty ones with a guy holding a victory torch. An object that, if wielded in anger, might be heavy enough to bash in a skull.

“Oh, hell,” Dad muttered. He turned to me and Ms. Parkins and, for the first time I could remember, seemed genuinely shaken, admitting quietly, just to us, “That
is
from my desk . . .” He amended that statement uneasily. “Well, the desk I took over from Hank.”

“Jack . . . ?” Ms. Parkins didn't seem to know what to say. But there was no doubt in the question. Just confusion over who would try to frame the guy she loved. “But who . . . ?” she finally managed.

Thank you,
I wanted to tell her.
Thank you for believing he's innocent.