Deadly Little Lessons (20 page)

W
HEN I WAKE UP
, Ben is still here, lying beside me watching me sleep.

“How long have you been awake?” I ask him.

It’s nighttime now, and the moonlight shines in through the window, casting a soft glow over his face, highlighting the paleness of his lips.

He moves a strand of hair from in front of my eyes. I want to reach out and touch him, too.

“I’ve been up for a little over an hour,” he says.

“An hour,” I repeat, nervous that I might have spoken in my sleep, or drooled on my pillow, or snored extra loud.

“How are you feeling about everything?” he asks.

“About Adam?” I say, untwisting the bedsheet from around my leg.

“For starters.”

“Good and bad, I guess. I mean, Adam’s a great guy, but I don’t think that we belong together.”

“And how do you feel about me?” he continues. “Being here, I mean?”

The question catches me by surprise and sends tingles straight down my spine. “I’m happy you’re here,” I tell him. “I wish you always would be—that you wouldn’t always run off.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” His face is completely serious.

“Adam told me the truth,” I say. “About Jack…about how you’re the one who saved my life.”

He nods and studies my face, perhaps trying to gauge if I’m upset that he lied. “Well, you saved my life, too,” he says, finally. “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching these past few months, and you saved me in more ways than you’ll ever know.”

“How?”

He takes a deep breath; I watch the motion of his chest. “You helped me believe that I could actually have a somewhat normal life again.”

“Because I trusted you.”

“I hope you still
can
trust me, even though I haven’t always given you reason to. I know I haven’t been the most open, but it’s only because I wanted to protect you.”

I reach out to touch his face. The stubble is prickly against my fingers. I want to feel it against my cheek.

“I thought that Adam was better for you,” he explains. “Safer, kinder, a lot less complex.”

“Adam
is
all of that,” I say, venturing to run my thumb over his lip. “But he’s not the one I want.”

Ben’s lips part and his eyes widen, as if he can’t quite believe my words. And so I kiss the truth right into him. His breath is hot and sweet against my mouth. At last I feel the scruff of his face against my cheek.

I feel the heat of his body as it pushes against mine.

I feel. Every. Single. Inch. Of my body. As he kisses me longer, deeper, and more intensely than ever before.

Lying beneath him, I slide my hands up the back of his shirt. His skin is warm to the touch.

“Camelia,” he whispers, pulling away, and pausing to steady his breath. His whole body’s sweating.

“You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.

“Well, I’d die if I ever did.”

I lie beside him, resisting the urge to touch him again.

After several moments, he sits up, seemingly composed, as if having mentally splashed water onto his face. “You need to give yourself time,” he says. “You just broke up with Adam.”

“Is this really about Adam?”

“It really
should
be.”

I know he’s right, but I also know how I feel, how long I’ve waited, how he’s the one I’ve been dreaming about.

“I don’t want you to do something—in the heat of a rebound moment—that you might regret,” he continues.

“Except you’re hardly rebound material.”

He shakes his head, refusing to argue, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. But I refuse to argue, too. I take his hand.

“Camelia…” He looks back at me.

“I know what I want,” I tell him.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Really sure.” I move closer to kiss him again.

“Camelia,” he repeats. I can tell he’s conflicted by the look in his eyes and by the tense grip he has on the bed.

I slide my palm over his thigh, where he has the chameleon tattoo; I’m reminded of how he got it before we even met—how everything about us seems to point to the fact that we belong together. “You could never hurt me,” I tell him again.

“I love you,” he whispers into my ear. The first time he’s ever said it.

“I love you, too,” I whisper back.

I pull his T-shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. He closes the window shade and then allows me to run my palms over his bare chest, to kiss his skin all over, and to pull him beneath the covers.

B
EN GREETS ME
the following morning with a cup of coffee and an array of pastries to choose from. Still lying in bed, I feel deliciously warm under the blankets.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting up, feeling more awake than I have in a long time.

Ben grabs a sketch pad off my desk and uses it as a tray. “How are you doing this morning?” His tiny grin makes my face heat up.

“Okay.” I grin back. “And you?”

“Pretty fantastic,” he says, joining me on the bed.

Still tingling all over, I replay in my mind how he told me he loved me, noticing that my tank top smells like him.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.

I shake my head. “This is perfect,” I say, grabbing a cinnamon scone.

“So, we should probably talk about the missing girl.”

“Way to blow a perfectly romantic breakfast.”

Ben leans across the tray of treats to kiss me. “Now can we talk about the missing girl?”

“Her name is Sasha Beckerman. Are you familiar with the case?”

“Vaguely, but I don’t get too much news, being out on the road.”

“Which brings me back to the question: what are you even doing here? I mean, I’m glad you came, but—”

“
You’re
here,” he says, interrupting me. “And when you called—when you left me that message—it sounded like you needed a friend.”

“Okay, but you could’ve simply called me back. Did Adam tell you where I was?”

“You mentioned in your message that you were at a college in Peachtree. For the record, there’s only one.”

“When was the last time that you and Adam spoke?”

“Last week, but he never said anything about your going away. And sadly, neither did you.”

“You know why I didn’t.”

“And
you
know why I couldn’t stay away.” His eyes lock on mine, making my heart swell, making every nerve in my body stand on end.

I’m half tempted to throw the tray to the side and crawl right into his lap. But instead, I lean over to kiss him again. He tastes like lemon pastry.

“Were you far away?” I ask.

“Not far at all,” he says, leading me to assume that he was indeed on his way back to Freetown. “We have so much to talk about.”

“I know,” I admit. And so I proceed to fill him in on all my Sasha research and what I’ve been sculpting.

“Do you have any idea where she is or who she’s with?”

“No, but I can hear her crying.” I close my eyes and concentrate on her voice. “It’s always in my ear, reminding me that she’s still missing.”

“And that she’s still alive.”

I nod, relieved that he wants to help.

“Well, for starters I think you should go back to the Beckerman house,” he says. “See if you can get inside Sasha’s room. Being in her space, among all her things, might help you sense more.”

“You’re right,” I say, thinking about how simply researching Sasha’s case enabled me to sculpt clues about her. I take a sip of coffee, on the verge of telling him about the money clip, but as soon as the idea pops into my mind, Ben gets up, moves the tray to my desk, and pitches his empty coffee cup.

“What’s the rush?” I ask.

“No rush. But it might make sense to go to the Beckermans’ place sooner rather than later.”

“Did you sense something that I should know about?”

“I sensed a few things,” he says, sitting back down. His forearm grazes my hip. “Mostly, the connection between you and Sasha. It’s really strong.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

“I also sensed the responsibility you feel for Sasha’s safety, and how disappointed you are that your parents kept your adoption a secret.” He edges a little closer, his hip pressed against my thigh now. “But perhaps deep down you always knew there was something special between you and your aunt.”

I nod, feeling a chill dance down my spine, amazed—once again—by how well he seems to know me. “Will you come with me to the Beckermans’?”

“I would, but I think it’s better if you go alone, not even with Wes. I mean, think about it: you’re asking to go into her daughter’s room—a daughter that’s been missing. That’s sacred space. More than one person would be a party.”

“Good point. And then what?”

“And then sculpt,” he says, as if the answer were completely obvious.

“Except, I haven’t exactly been welcome in the studio here.” I look at the clock. The class started almost an hour ago. I’m already too late. “It’s sort of a long story, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a picture of me outside the studio with a giant slash mark over my face.”

“I know what you want, Camelia.… To be this amazing sculptor who has her own shop and whose works get commissioned all over the country. But you’re already incredibly talented.”

I swallow hard; my mouth feels parched even after the coffee. I think about how Spencer, who subbed once for Ms. Mazur, singled me out in class. He said he’d never worked with anyone as young and talented as me.

“That talent won’t ever change,” he continues.

“But it already
has
changed. I’m no longer able to simply sit down and make a bowl. Now all of this other stuff gets in the way.”

“Would you change it?” he asks. “When you really stop to consider the question…”

“I’m not sure,” I say, thinking how I’ve already been able to help people with this power. What if I didn’t have it?

Ben skims my hand and wrist with his fingertips. The hair on his forearm tickles my skin, sending heat straight to my thighs. “Sometimes we get this picture in our heads of the way things are supposed to be,” he says. “But what if things
don’t
turn out that way? What if they actually turn out better?”

Am I indeed better off with this power?

“It’s a part of who you are,” he reminds me, still touching my skin. “So what if you can’t sculpt a bowl today? But what if you save a girl’s life?”

I sit up and rest my head against his shoulder, remembering how Dr. Tylyn told me that I needed to embrace my power. How else am I going to live with it? How else am I going to accept myself? I may not always be able to control what I sculpt. But maybe I’m not supposed to.

“And what will you do while I’m at the Beckermans’?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He smirks. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something to keep myself occupied. But can I drive you?”

“No, thanks. I want to take a shower first, and I need to plan a strategy. I’ll call Wes for a ride.” I start to get up from the bed.

“Not so fast,” Ben says, leaning in for one more kiss—a kiss that morphs into a full-on embrace. An embrace in which we end up melting against the bed, unable to resist each other’s touch.

I
FINALLY EMERGE
from my room after what feels like days. To my surprise, Wes is at my door.

“Hey, stranger. I thought I might steal you away for lunch.” He pauses to give me the once-over.

After Ben left, I took a shower and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. My hair is swooped up in a ponytail.

“Don’t you look particularly radiant today?” He grins. “Anything scandalous you want to tell me about?” He lowers his John Lennon glasses to inspect me over the rims (the gesture reminds me of Kimmie). “Might Adam have paid you another recent visit?”

“Yes, he did. But, no, it’s not what you’re thinking.” At least, not exactly. “I’ll fill you in, but first, can you give me a ride?”

“Hold on.” He starts sniffing the air. “Ben was here, wasn’t he?”

“You can smell him?”

“Okay, I might’ve also spotted his motorcycle in the parking lot. Care to dish?”

“What do you want me to say?” I can feel the embarrassment burning on my face.

“How, where, and for how long, for starters.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Judging from your resistance to making eye contact and your lightbulbworthy glow, I’d have to guess that it was a pretty good night. Am I right?”

“
Amazing
might be a better word. And how about you?” I ask, eager to change the subject as I take note of his spiffy attire. His T-shirt clings to his chest and the sleeves are tight around his biceps (I didn’t even know that he had any). “Anything new with you and your band of photography buddies?”

“Just one buddy,” he says with a wink. “And you’re seriously going to have to drug me and then drag me from this campus if you think I’m going to willingly head back to Freetown. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually be me. Do you have any idea how liberating that feels?”

“I’m starting to,” I tell him. “And I’m excited for you,” I add, grateful to have been a part of his newfound happiness.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today—aside from skipping your classes, that is?”

“How did you know I skipped?”

“That Ingrid girl in your class—the one with ginormous yellow teeth. Honestly, what is up with them?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice them.”

“Are you kidding? They’re like a flashing neon advertisement for teeth whitening. Anyway, she was looking for you and knows we’re friends.…”

“Ingrid?” I ask, surprised to hear that she would’ve acknowledged my existence. “What did
she
want?”

“A really talented dental team; at least that’s what she
should
want. Beyond that, she’s a mystery to me, as are her gaucho pants and suspenders.”

“Okay,
now
you sound like Kimmie.”

“Who’s doing phenomenally well, by the way. She loves her internship and they love her back. She’s working on a fashion show and even collaborating on the design of a new pair of sunglasses. I told her it’s all about polarization and blue-tinted lenses. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sure…and that’s great,” I say, happy that my two best friends are doing so well, and that things are starting to look up for me, too, despite the fact that Sasha is still missing. “So, care to drive me to the Beckerman residence?”

“Is that all I’m good for? A cheap ride to a missing-person’s-mother-of-a-could-be-slasher-victim’s house? I thought we weren’t going to tap that lead.”

“We need to tap every lead we’ve got,” I say, linking my arm through his, eager to get inside Sasha’s room.

Per my request, Wes drops me off in front of the Beckerman house and agrees to pick me up as soon as I call him.

Mrs. Beckerman is working out in the front yard, pulling weeds from the flower beds that border the porch. She stands up when she sees me.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“Do you know something?” Her eyes widen with hope. “Did you find another clue?”

“I did.” I nod, noticing the grass stains on the knees of her jeans. “But perhaps Detective Tanner already told you about some of them. I know you’ve been in touch.”

“I assume she came to question you.”

“Yes,” I say, wondering what Tanner found out—if any of the clues proved helpful.

“Well, you can’t blame me for telling her about you. You’d have done the same if it were your daughter missing.”

“You’re right. I would’ve. I’d do anything I could to find her, including telling one of her friends about my visit to you.”

“What are you talking about?” She takes a step closer. A smear of dirt lingers on her cheek.

“A girl called me,” I say, proceeding to fill her in about how Mailbox Girl sent me to find the money clip, and how I then learned about a guy by the name of Tommy, with a
W
-shaped scar on his wrist. “Apparently, he used to work at the Blue Raven Pub. It’s in the next town over. Do you know the place?”

“I know
of
it,” she says. “But my husband and I don’t frequent it, and neither did my daughter.”

“That you know of,” I remind her. “We can’t make any assumptions. Do you know who the mystery girl was who called me? And how she might’ve gotten my number?”

“Aside from Detective Tanner, I didn’t tell anyone about your visit,” she says a little too quickly, making me skeptical.

I look back toward the street, wondering if Mailbox Girl might’ve indeed been the one in the dark green Buick. But, then, how would she have gotten my phone number? “Do you suspect that any of Sasha’s friends were involved in her disappearance?”

“I suspect everyone.” Her jaw tightens. “I can’t go anywhere anymore without thinking that the guy at the grocery store might have my daughter, that the teller at the bank could have locked her up in his basement, that the old man pumping gas might’ve already…” She covers her mouth, unable to finish the sentence.

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I know.” She forces a polite smile and then takes a sip from her bottle of water. “I wish my husband were here to meet you, but he’s been working around the clock, putting in all kinds of overtime to keep himself busy. We all have our vices, I suppose.” She nods toward her manicured garden. “Anyway, as for Sasha’s so-called friends, the dregs she started spending all her time with after she found out the truth…I don’t trust any one of them.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask. “At least enough to go into Sasha’s bedroom?”

“The police have already been through it,” she says. “Numerous times.”

“Yes, but maybe I’ll be able to sense something.”

Mrs. Beckerman studies my face as if trying to decide. “I think I should check with my husband first.”

“We don’t really have time.”

“Do you know something more?”

“I know that Sasha’s still missing, that the police have yet to find her, and that I can still hear Sasha’s tears.”

“Follow me,” she says, leading me inside. She locks the door behind us and then takes me up the stairs.