Slide (15 page)

“I’m so worried about Mattie,” I continue. “She’s depressed. Her two best friends are gone. What if . . . What if she tries to . . . ?”

Zane puts a finger to my lips. “It’ll be okay. We’ll stay with her this weekend. Watch movies. Make sure she doesn’t even leave the house.”

He’s right
, I think.
I’ll keep her safe by getting to the bottom of all this. I’ll figure out how to make myself slide and find out who the killer is. And, somehow, I will make them pay.

“Vee?” Zane says.

“Yes?” I reply, my mind somewhere else—on sliding and killers and blood. But when he leans in and kisses me, he has my full attention.

He whispers, “I think I’m falling for you.”

For some reason, I can’t make my mouth work; I can’t voice the words that are carved into my heart. Instead of speaking, I wrap my arms around him and hold tight.

S
itting on my bed, I clamp my hand over my mouth and stifle a yawn. I haven’t had any caffeine in approximately nine hours—since before I left for school. Bad things happen to me when I don’t get my caffeine. Headache, major grouchiness, nausea.

It’ll all be worth it if I can find out what happened to Sophie and Amber before the killer strikes again
, I think as I rub my temples.

When my eyelids feel like lead weights, I decide it is time. I hold Scotch’s glove in my bare hands. I rub the material, the coarseness making my skin crawl.

I wait.

Nothing happens.

I wait some more.

Nothing.

This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be
, I think, slapping the glove against my thigh. I suppose it’s possible Scotch never imprinted on the glove. He doesn’t seem like the most emotional person in the world.

What will I do if it doesn’t work? I picture myself sneaking into Scotch’s house late at night and grabbing something I know he cares about. Something like a football or a girlie magazine. I’m just fooling myself, though. It would be stupid to break into a possible killer’s house. This
has
to work.

Beside me, my phone rings. Rollins again. He’s been calling all afternoon. Each time, I let it go to voicemail. At first, he left messages for me to call him back. Now he just hangs up when I don’t answer.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him. I do. I want him to explain exactly what he was doing with Amber on that field moments before her death. The thing is, I can’t ask him that question. I can’t explain how I know he was there. And until I know for sure who killed Sophie, I can’t risk letting him get close to me—and more importantly, to Mattie.

The phone goes silent.

Good.

I return to my task. Rubbing the glove against my cheek, I inhale the scent of Scotch. Of sweat, of orange shampoo. Of that night so long ago. My stomach turns over.

The seconds slip by. Soon I start to feel sleepy.

The room goes dark, and I lose my grip on the present.

I slide.

A dark room materializes around me, lit only by a football game on the television. Faux wood paneling stretches from one wall to the next. There are several framed posters featuring football players I don’t recognize. I’m lounging in a leather chair, a can of something cold in my hand. Scotch lifts the drink and takes a sip. Expecting something sweet, I’m surprised at the bitter taste that fills my mouth.

Beer.

What is Scotch doing drinking beer in the den in the middle of the afternoon?

He opens his mouth, and a deep voice—much deeper than Scotch’s—calls out, “Tricia? Trish! I thought I told you to make me a damn sandwich.”

A petite woman enters my line of vision, holding another beer in one hand and a plate in the other.

“Sorry, Hank. I was just finishing up some laundry.”

Hank.

Not Scotch.

I’ve slid into his father.

Damn.

I wake up on my bed, pillow cushioning my head.

Someone thumps on my door and then opens it without waiting for an answer.

“Vee?” My father looks in. “Did you bring home Mattie’s books?”

“Um, yeah,” I say, sitting up. I point to a pile of books sitting on my mother’s rocking chair. Each of them has a trace of red paint left, even though I tried to clean them off. “Unfortunately, I set them down in the hall while I went to the bathroom, and the custodian was walking by with a can of paint. And he tripped . . .”

I look at my father’s face to gauge whether he’s buying any of this at all. He drifts into the room, nodding distractedly. I don’t think he’s even paying attention.

“So that assembly you went to today—was it helpful? They talked to you about the warning signs of suicide, right?” My father ruffles his hands through his hair.

“Right,” I say, even though I didn’t sit through the whole thing.

He sits down heavily on my bed. “Did Sophie or Amber exhibit any of those signs?”

His question catches me off guard. I try to remember the warning signs. I know the counselors told us all about them when we were in middle school. The only one I recall is giving away personal belongings. I shiver when I remember Sophie giving me the bracelet to give to Mattie. But that was a gift . . . It doesn’t count, does it?

“I don’t know. They weren’t exactly
my
friends.”

“I think I’m going to call Dr. Moran. Mattie should have someone to talk to. Someone who knows about these things.”

Hearing the name of my old psychiatrist irritates me. She’s the cold, unsympathetic woman my father sent me to when he thought I was lying about sliding. The one who accused me of making up stories for attention. I know Mattie probably needs professional help, but I hate the thought of sending her to that robot.

“Whatever,” I mutter, but my father has already risen and is crossing to the door.

For once, I wish he’d realize that what Mattie needs is
him
.

After dinner, I have an idea. A breakthrough.

I fling open my closet door and stand there for a moment, my heart pounding. Then I push my clothes aside until I come to the one garment I know Scotch had his hands on—the purple dress I wore to homecoming.

My hands shaking, I carry the dress over to my bed and carefully spread it out. I smooth my hands over it. The fabric sparkles as it moves. As I stare at the dress, I’m filled with certainty that this will work. The dress will put me in Scotch’s head. I’ve been going about it all wrong. Clearly, Scotch never imprinted on the glove. But this dress—I know he felt something strong when he touched this dress.

I kneel at the side of my bed and rest my hands lightly on the material. And, just as I knew it would, the room fades away.

Tombstones. Everywhere.

Scotch is in the cemetery. The sun has sunk low in the sky. It also seems several degrees colder than it did when I was outside, but then I realize it must be because Scotch only has one glove. He raises his bare hand to his mouth and blows into it, the hot air warming it only slightly.

A huge, gnarled tree looms over us. When Scotch passes it, I see a woman in a red coat stooped in front of a tiny gravestone, clutching a fistful of daisies. She kneels down and brushes away some leaves, and I’m able to read the inscription.

allison morrow

october 17, 1998–october 19, 1998

Sadness squeezes my heart. The baby died after only two days of life. If the child had lived, she’d be in my sister’s grade.

The woman at the grave turns toward Scotch and brushes her white hair out of her face. Her eyes are black as coal and filled with sadness, and I wonder what losing a child that young does to you. I’m reminded of the passage on black holes in my astronomy book, how they suck everything in until no light remains. That’s what seeing your kid die would feel like.

Scotch must feel the pull of her misery, too, but he looks away and continues walking. We pass by the nine-foot statue of an angel that used to be bronze. Years of harsh weather have turned it black. Rumor has it, if you kiss the angel, you will drop dead within one year.

Scotch keeps going until he comes to a delicate, white, brand-new tombstone.

sophie jacobs

Scotch just stands there, staring at the piece of stone that marks the grave of a girl who might have carried his child. Again, I wish I could know his thoughts. Why would he come here? To gloat that he got away with murder? To make amends? To mourn?

He reaches out his naked hand and traces Sophie’s name with his fingers. “I wish it could have been different, Soph. I really do.” He retrieves his hand and pushes it into his pocket. “I guess God just really wanted me to go on and use that football scholarship.”

A terrible rage rises within me. The fury is energy, begging to be used. Gathering all my strength, I form Scotch’s hand into a fist and slam it into his balls. The pain is beyond belief, but I know it’s so much worse for him.

He screams, and it’s the last thing I hear as I’m pulled away from his body.

I
toss and turn, trying to turn my mind off, trying to will myself to fall asleep, but I’m not tired at all. Actually, I’ve never felt so alive, so energized. When I guided Scotch’s muscles, it was like I was inside him, only not. It was like a video game, like I was pushing buttons with my mind, and he did what I told him. It was invigorating.

For so long, I’ve been out of control, popping in and out of people’s heads, prisoner to their choices and actions. Now there is a sliver of light, of hope, that I can
choose
.

If I slide into a teacher making out with a bus driver during school hours, I can choose to push him and his disgusting mustache away.

If I slide into Scotch when he’s putting his hands all over some clueless cheerleader, I can
choose
to neuter him. Oh, and don’t think I won’t.

If I slide into someone standing in a dark room and there’s the smell of blood and I see a body on the bed, I can . . .

I can . . .

I can’t do anything about that.

I can’t do anything about Sophie.

And I can’t do anything about Amber, either.

But
now
. Now that I have some control, maybe I can keep any more girls from dying. Maybe I can protect my sister.

I jump onto my bed and start doing ninja kicks and punching the air. I am Buffy, ready to kick some bad-guy ass. Laughter erupts from my throat, and I flop down onto my bed and stare at the planet and star stickers on my ceiling.

This feeling of being in charge of my own life is intoxicating. I feel drunk or high or something. I want to use my new power, want to experiment.

I slip out of my bedroom and tiptoe down the hall. I peer down the stairs and see light coming from my father’s office. He’s probably busy with his online forum, comforting cancer survivors, saying just the right things to them because he doesn’t have to sit across from them at dinner.

I continue down the hall, to his bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. I push it the rest of the way open and look around. His room is perfectly neat. The bed is made, and— unlike my room—there are no clothes on the floor. There’s nothing on top of the chest of drawers except an old picture of my mother.

My father keeps his and my mother’s wedding rings in a velvet box in the top right drawer of the bureau. For years after her death, he kept wearing his ring, until an old lady on the cancer survivors’ forum told him he should take it off. For once, he took someone else’s advice instead of dishing it out. When I noticed he wasn’t wearing it anymore, I asked him about it. He assured me he was keeping it safe, but it was painful to keep looking down at his hand and missing Mom all day long. Sometimes I go and open the drawer and open the box—not to touch the rings, but just to look at them. This time, I carefully pull my father’s ring out of the box.

I’ve slid into my father before—accidentally, when I tried on his watch or flipped through an old photo album. Once I slid into him in the middle of an operation, and that pretty much scarred me for life. But since I know he’s downstairs right now, messing around on the computer, I figure he’s the perfect target for my little test.

Back in my room, I hop onto my bed and cup the ring in my palm.

I sit there for a long time, waiting for something— anything—to happen. The minutes pass by slowly. After a while, I start to get paranoid that my father will come upstairs and look in his drawer. There’s no reason for him to, but I guess that’s the nature of paranoia.

I slip the ring onto my finger and lie back on my pillow. My headache from earlier returns, and it seems like the caffeine pills in my backpack are actually calling out to me, begging me to swallow a few of them. Ignoring the pain, I close my eyes.

And feel myself go.

I find myself in my father’s office, sitting before his computer. He’s reading an email from some lady who lost her son to cancer last year. For a moment he stares at the screen, probably thinking of how to phrase his response. Then he hits Reply and types a few sentences expressing his condolences and recommending a book that will help her manage her grief.

After sending that email, he minimizes the page with the cancer survivor forum and pulls up an online medical journal. He clicks through a couple of articles, reading about recent surgeries. It’s pretty boring. I wonder if I should make him pick his nose or something, just to see if I can do it.

I concentrate all my energy into his right pointer finger.
Come on, finger
, I think.
Pick Dad’s nose.
But the finger just keeps floating around the trackpad on my dad’s computer, navigating him through article after boring article.

Frustrated, I try to figure out why I can’t control my father like I controlled Scotch in the cemetery. The only thing I can come up with is the rage I felt when Scotch said he thought Sophie’s death was for the best. Maybe adrenaline has something to do with it.

The phone rings, and my dad jumps a little. He brings the phone to his ear and says hello, but all I hear is heavy breathing.

“Hello? Hello?” my father repeats, annoyance edging his voice. No one replies. “Goddamn it, this is the last straw. If you call here again, I’m going to call the police.” Whoever is on the other end hangs up the phone.

I wonder who was on the other end. I’m filled with apprehension as I remember the phone call I overheard the other day when he was telling someone it was over. Could my father have a stalker?

He sits quietly for a second before hanging up, staring at the wedding picture of my mother. He takes it in his hands.

I expect him to caress my mother’s image or kiss it or something, but instead he flips it over and unhooks the back. To my surprise, he reveals a tiny silver key taped to the underside of the photograph. Carefully, he unpeels the tape and takes the key into his hand. Then he reassembles the frame and returns the picture to his desk.

I watch in astonishment as he takes the little key and guides it into the lock on the bottom drawer of the desk.

My parents bought the desk from a flea market ages ago. When we were little, my sister and I used it to play teacher. We tried to pull the drawer open, but it never budged. Dad said the previous owner of the desk had lost the key, but it was so beautiful he just had to have it anyway.

He lied.

He pulls the drawer open and shoves his hand inside, searching roughly for something. Finally he pulls out a manila folder. Across the front, written in my father’s messy handwriting, is the name Allison. He flips it open, revealing a thick sheaf of papers. On the very top is a photograph of a gorgeous woman with white-blond hair.

The realization is sudden—I have seen that woman before. In the cemetery, when I slid into Scotch. She was standing before a tombstone. A tombstone marked “
Allison Morrow
”. Trying to piece it all together, I wonder who exactly that woman was. And who the hell is Allison?

My father’s hands shake as he puts the folder back in the drawer, minus the picture of the white-haired woman. He stares at the picture for a moment longer, before crinkling it up in his fist. He tosses the picture into the wastebasket beneath his desk.

“Leave. Me. Alone,” he whispers.

He then locks the drawer back up and puts the key back in its hiding place, behind my mother’s picture.

Slowly, I feel myself being pulled away, back into my own body.

I wait half an hour after I hear my father go into his room and then open my door silently. Down the hall, my father’s room is quiet, no light peeking beneath the door. I pray that he’s asleep. I tiptoe down the stairs, the cold wood freezing my bare feet.

My father’s office is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through the window. It really is a dreary place, now that I think about it. When my mother was alive, she decorated every room to her taste, bringing in paintings and floral prints and pretty mirrors. But my dad never let her touch this room. He doesn’t even let Vanessa clean in here. There’s a layer of sludge on the windows. This room is full of his things, his dusty secrets.

I dash across the room and snatch up the picture of my mother. Removing the back of the frame, I find the key just where my father left it, shining so brightly it seems as though it’s daring me to use it.

I stare at it for a moment. What will it lead me to? I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready to know, but I don’t know if I’ll ever really be ready, so I carefully peel away the tape and weigh the key in the palm of my hand. So light, yet so heavy at the same time.

Kneeling down, I position the key by the lock. For a split second, I chicken out. This is my dad, the guy who cooks us chocolate-chip pancakes every Sunday morning. He has to have a good reason for keeping whatever it is locked up in there.

Doesn’t he?

My eyes flicker involuntarily to the trash can, willing the picture of the white-haired woman to be gone. Maybe it was all in my head. All my imagination. But there it still is.

I’m tired of secrets.

I’m ready for truth.

I force the key into the lock and twist until I hear a little click release somewhere inside the wooden desk. I set the key on top of the desk and pull open the drawer. The manila folder sits on top of a bunch of old medical journals. I snatch the folder up and rifle through the papers within. They’re some kind of records.

I pull out a paper and examine it.

Name: Allison Annette Morrow

Allison. The name from the tombstone. The girl who died after only a couple of days. Why would my father be keeping her medical records?

I continue reading. There’s a bunch of gibberish I don’t understand. She was born prematurely with an anorectal malformation and required immediate surgery. I flip a page. Numbers. Jargon.

I turn to the last page in the folder.

Date of death: October 19, 1998

October 19. Allison Annette Morrow died in surgery just over fourteen years ago under my father’s knife. And he keeps her medical records in a drawer, never to forget. I feel sick.

Why her?

I know he’s lost babies before.

Why hold on to this one failure?

My hands shaking, I replace the folder on top of the magazines. I lock the drawer and return the key to its hiding place.

It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep.