Made for You (18 page)

“I will.”

Another woman is coming over to talk to the Adamses, so Nate wheels me away as they turn their attention to the other mourners. Once we’re a little farther away from them, Nate says, “Let’s get you home.”

As we near the car, I see Grace standing next to Detective Grant. The look of fear on Grace’s face tells me far more than the impassive expression the detective wears. Something has changed, and for a moment, I’m terrified to find out what it is. My fears increase as Detective Grant says, “I’m here to see you home, Eva.”

“What happened?” Nate asks.

“And you are . . . ?”

“Nathaniel Bouchet, a friend,” I supply for him.

“And caretaker,” he adds. “Mrs. Tilling hired me.” He reaches past the detective to open the car door. “Grace, grab the crutches from the trunk.”

It’s almost funny how quickly Grace goes to do as he asks. I don’t need the crutches, but she needs a focus in the midst of whatever panic is riding her right now. I’m not sure if it’s the detective’s presence or if something was said before we reached them.

Detective Grant stares at Nate appraisingly for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything. She simply stands near us. I realize, though, that her attention is not on us directly. She’s scanning the area, studying the lingering mourners, and I know that whatever she’s going to tell me includes confirmation that the accident wasn’t really an accident.

Once Detective Grant elicits Nate’s assurances that he will drive us straight to my house, she adds, “I’ll follow you. Give me a minute to get in the car.”

Grace and Nate are silent as she walks away. Whatever she knows now is obviously reason enough for her to decide that I need to be escorted to my home. Of course, talking about an ongoing investigation in a cemetery would be strange and awkward. More so because the funeral that just ended was probably for a victim of the same criminal.

“Did she say anything to you, Grace?”

“She just asked where you were, who you were with, and that was it really.” Grace twists so she’s able to look over the seat at me. “She relaxed when she spotted you. Something has to have happened.”

“It could be that she was just not wanting to talk at the graveside. Bad taste and all.” I flip my veil up finally. I’d become so comfortable with it that I’d almost forgotten about it.

Nate looks into the rearview mirror, and I meet his gaze. “Don’t play stupid, Eva. Not with us.”

Immediately, Grace opens her mouth to object, but I say, “Sorry.”

He’s right. I do that. I pretend to be a little less smart, a little less observant. It lets me blend better. I take a breath and say, “Fine, I’m betting that they got their lab results back or a witness or some sort of proof that my accident wasn’t an accident. She is escorting us home. That’s a little bit of a clue that there’s more going on than worrying about bad manners.”

We’re quiet again. I lean forward a little to touch Grace’s hair, and she reaches back to close her hand over mine. I’m a little surprised at how quickly she’s adjusted to my “let me touch you first” rule, but she’s my closest friend. She trusts me even when I seem a little crazy.

When we reach my house, my father immediately comes outside. The trepidation I was already feeling spikes. Unlike the detective, his face is very readable right now. He’s at the car door almost before the engine is off. I look past him to see Mrs. Yeung standing with my mother on the porch, too.

“The General’s here,” Grace says from the front seat. “This is worse than we thought.”

Dad opens the door. “Slide over here. I’m going to carry you inside.”

“I can—”

“No.” He motions me forward with his hand, and there’s something in his expression that makes me decide not to argue further. He turns his head to the side and says, “Grace, go inside now.”

The Southern male attitude that says girls need protecting is in full force right now, and I realize that my father is afraid. It’s not a familiar look on him. “It’s going to be okay,” I whisper as he scoops me up. “Whatever it is. It’ll be okay.”

He says nothing, but his lips press together tightly like he doesn’t believe me.

As soon as we’re inside, Mrs. Yeung grabs Grace into a fierce hug.

My mother and Mrs. Yeung both look like they’ve seen something horrible, and my mother is reaching out toward me. I quickly put my hand on her arm before she can touch me. I think it’s that first contact that matters, and I cannot bear seeing her death, especially right now when everyone is so tense. My falling apart like I seem to when I have those visions would be the last thing they all need.

Nate walks in behind my father, and Detective Grant follows him. I hear a click, and look back to see that, oddly, my father has thrown the bolt on the door. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to do that during the day.

“If you let me know what time to come tomorrow, I can get out of the way,” Nate tells my mother in a low voice.

“You need to stay, Nathaniel.” My father is using his no-nonsense voice now, and I’m getting more freaked out by the moment.

Detective Grant must realize it because she interjects, “Let’s all sit down.”

Mom leads the way, and then she immediately slips into her hostess mode. She fusses over me first, and once she’s sure I’m comfortable, she turns to the others and offers to fix refreshments.

“Lizzy,” my father murmurs.

When she looks at him, he suggests, “Why don’t you bring everyone some of that lemonade you fixed earlier.”

She nods and flees to the kitchen, and my father relaxes a little. He catches my eye and says, “She’s not sure what to do.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Mrs. Yeung pronounces, and I’m struck by the differences. The General looks likely to attack someone. My father is trying to manage everything, and my mother wants to look after all of us.

“Eva, we have reason to believe that the accident was an attempt on your life,” Detective Grant says baldly. “I’ve discussed the particulars with your parents, but what you need to know is that we will do everything in our power to find the perpetrator and keep you safe.”

“Is this because of Micki?”

“We believe her death was also connected,” the detective answers. Her words confirm my theory, but they don’t actually answer the question I just asked.

When we say nothing, Detective Grants says, “Let’s talk about flowers.”

“Flowers?”

She nods once. “What about in the hospital? What flowers did you get? I remember seeing a bouquet. Who sent it?”

“My parents. They sent orchids.”

She watches me with a concentration that seemed less daunting in our first conversation. “Anyone else?”

“The newspaper, some teachers, a few people from church, people from the winery . . . I didn’t really keep a list of names. After the first few, I just asked the nurses to give them to other people.”

“Did you keep the cards?”

“No. I wasn’t thinking.” I feel guilty, but I just didn’t want the flowers. Quietly, I tell my mother, “I’m sorry. I should’ve kept names, so we could send thank-you cards. I was just sick of all the reminders that I was hurt, and there were other people that might enjoy them, so I asked the nurses to give them away.”

“I’ll need you to write down every name you remember.”

“Okay.”

Detective Grant’s gaze settles on all of us in turn as she asks, “What can you tell me about Amy Crowne?”

No one speaks, but both Grace and Nate look at me.

“She didn’t send flowers,” I say warily.

“Did you get along with her?”

I realize from her carefully blank expression and follow-up question that Detective Grant didn’t think Amy sent flowers, which could mean then that the detective thought Amy was somehow involved. I might not like her, but I can’t believe that she could do this.

“She’s not a killer,” I say. “There’s no way she could’ve killed Micki. She doesn’t like me, but I don’t think she’d have run over me either.”

I think about the death visions of Grace and Nate. My impression was that the killer was a man. I’m not sure of height or race or anything. The more I think about it, the less sure I am about gender.

My mother walks back into the room with a tray of drinks. She looks calmer now, and I wonder whether it was having a moment to compose herself or having a focus. Either way, I am glad she’s less tense. My father stands and gives her his seat next to the detective. He stays behind her chair, much as Mrs. Yeung does with Grace. Grace and I sit facing the detective. Nate stands with a hand on the back of my chair, so he can look at the detective too.

“Miss Crowne is not a suspect,” Detective Grant tells us. “What is your relationship with her? All of you.” Her attention shifts from me to Grace and Nate now.

Grace says, “We aren’t friends. She spread some . . . stories about Eva earlier this year, and I told her to stop.”

“I think she’s in my fourth-period class,” Nate offers. “I’ve talked to her at parties, but not alone.” He looks at me somewhat awkwardly, and I feel bad that my parents are in the room, especially as he adds, “I’ve never been alone with her.”

“She was promiscuous,” Grace clarifies the unspoken things for the adults. “A lot of guys
were
alone with her.”

The detective nods. “Eva? What about your relationship with Miss Crowne?”

“She slept with my boyfriend . . . 
ex
-boyfriend. He was with her the night of my accident, so she couldn’t have been involved.” I feel myself blushing. “Robert just told me. His parents don’t know because she’s not, umm, the sort of girl he’d be allowed to date.”

“Do other people know about Robert’s relationship with her?”

I think about it, and I have no real answer. “Maybe Reid and Jamie. Probably Grayson. They’re his closest friends, and they probably would’ve hidden it from me. Amy would have a better idea who knew. Robert said she was angry that he wasn’t going to date her openly.” I look at my mother. “Don’t say anything to the Baucoms. Please?” Then I look back at the detective. “They were fighting about it the night he didn’t show up to get me. That’s where he was when I got hit.”

“I’m with Eva on this. Amy’s a gossip, but she wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Grace shakes her head. “What did Amy say?”

The detective shakes her head. “Nothing. We think she was the latest victim.”

“Is she . . . where is she?” I ask. The waver in my voice says the part I don’t want to say aloud: something about the detective’s tone makes me suddenly sure that Amy isn’t okay.

The detective ignores my question and opens up the case on her iPad. “I need you to look at some things, Eva.” She turns the tablet so I can see a strange flower. “Can you tell me what this is?”

I shake my head. She moves to a picture of another flower. This one looks sort of like a lily, but not quite. “No,” I whisper.

“Asphodel and amaryllis. Do they mean anything to you personally? Are there any secret clubs at school or anything at all that would tie to these that you know?”

I want to laugh at the idea of secret clubs, but I can’t, not with the growing fear that something awful happened to yet another of my classmates. I look away from the iPad and meet Detective Grant’s gaze. “They’re pretty, but that’s all. They don’t mean anything to me, and there are no secret societies at Jessup.”

“Are you familiar with the idea of flowers being a language?”

Grace says, “Like in Hamlet.”

“English class last year,” Nate adds helpfully.

At this, the detective perks up a little. “Did the whole grade level read it or just your section?”

“All of us, and they’re doing it this year, and they did it the year before us. Maybe before that, too.”

“So whoever did this goes to Jessup High?” Grace interjects, and I shiver at the realization that my attacker—the killer—is at my school. I can’t imagine anyone I know being this sick.

“It’s possible, or they know someone who does.”

“Which is pretty much all of Jessup,” Nate says.

I am a little relieved by his point. The thought that someone I know is responsible makes me feel even worse. I’m extra comforted that it’s summer. I don’t know how I could sit in class thinking that someone in the room tried to kill me and Amy and
had
killed Micki.

Detective Grant draws my attention back to her by asking, “Do these words or anything about them mean something more to you?”

She opens up her tablet and turns it so I can see a close-up of three words in an odd red font on a kind of beige paper: F
OR
E
VA
. J
UDGE
.

I stare at them as the reality of what I’m looking at comes clear.

It’s not a font.

It’s not paper.

“That’s skin,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“
Amy’s
skin?”

She nods.

Grace makes a choking noise. Nate reaches out, and I take his hand. I’m not sure when he moved closer to me, but I’m immeasurably grateful that he did. He feels like an anchor holding me steady, keeping me from sinking into the sickness that threatens to engulf me.

“Someone wrote that on Amy’s body?” I can’t force myself to say the correct words. They
cut
it into her body.

“Yes.”

I reach out and flip the tablet cover closed. I can’t look at it. No one should look at it. Ever.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I swallow before I can continue. “Whoever killed Micki and Amy did it because of me? They’re trying to say they did this for
me
? How does that even make sense? Someone tried to kill me, and now he’s killing my classmates, and saying it’s
for me
?” My voice grows shriller as I speak. “What am I to even do? How do I even—”

“Nothing,” she says. “You do nothing. You’re to stay safe and tell me when you think of anything, anything at all, that you think of about your relationship with or related to Amy Crowne or Michelle Adams.”

I nod because I don’t know how to speak around the sudden tightness in my throat. It hurts to think that someone did this because of me. It hurts to imagine Amy or Micki suffering.

“Does the ‘Judge’ part mean anything to you?” Detective Grant asks.