Slide (17 page)

I
stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. A party? At Samantha’s house? I haven’t been there in over a year.

I get a bad case of déjà vu as I find myself wondering what shade of lip gloss I should wear. Instead, I flop down on my bed, pulling out the astronomy book. The Gin Blossoms serenade me as I read about stellar evolution.

Someone pounds on my door, and then my dad sticks his head in. “Rollins is here. Should I send him up?”

Panicking, I drop my book. I don’t feel ready to confront Rollins at all. I need more time to figure out what’s going on, what he was doing with those pictures of Sophie and Amber. Then again, maybe this is the perfect time to grill him. I mean, if he
is
the killer, he wouldn’t dare murder me in my own bedroom with my dad right down the hall. Right? Except for the fact that the killer murdered Sophie with her parents right down the hall. Shit.

Another knock. “Come in,” I yell, turning down the music.

Rollins pushes my door open, raking discarded T-shirts and music magazines across the floor. His cheeks are flaming, his hair disheveled.

“Hey,” he says, a bit uncertainly. “Long time, no see.”

I remember ducking down in the kitchen when he stopped by the other day. Did he catch me doing that?

“I know. Sorry. I’ve just been . . . busy.”

The response seems inadequate. What am I supposed to say, though?
I slid into your body when you were meeting a girl who turned up dead the next day? Then I watched you give your mom a bath and found out that you have a stash of dead-girl pictures?

“With Zane?” Rollins asks. “Yeah, I heard you two have been hanging out a lot.” His brown eyes seem to darken a bit, or maybe the room just darkened a little—I can’t be sure.

“Well, with Zane, but also—you know, Mattie’s been going through a lot. I’m trying to be there for her.” I notice he’s carrying a pamphlet. Is that what he’s been doing the past few days—working on a zine?

“Here,” he says, holding out the booklet. “I brought this for you. Hot off the press.”

I take the zine and examine it. On the cover, there’s a black-and-white photograph of Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott in their cheerleading outfits. I recognize the picture from the pile in Rollins’s room. He’d gathered pictures of Sophie and Amber for a
zine
? That’s what he must have been doing with Amber on the football field that night. I remember Amber passing something to him—it must have been pictures of her and Sophie together.

Across the top, in Sharpie:
Fear and Loathing in High School No. 8: The Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott Special Edition
. I flip through the zine. The first section contains memories about the girls from damn near everyone at City High. Next is a list of songs people dedicated to Sophie and Amber. Mattie even got in on the action, dedicating “Stand by Me” to her two dead friends. Why didn’t she tell me what Rollins was doing?

Relief bubbles up inside me, and I realize just how much it would have killed me if it turned out that Rollins was the murderer. I grab him by the shoulders and pull him into a bear hug, squeezing him so hard my poor muscles ache.

“Uh, so you like it?”

“This is so beautiful, Rollins. Really.” I step back and look him in the face. He seems embarrassed and pulls on his lip ring.

“I wanted to do something. How’s Mattie?” He draws a Sharpie out of the pocket of his leather jacket and starts twirling it absentmindedly.

“Not that great. But tonight I’m taking her to this thing at Samantha’s house—surprise birthday party. It’s going to suck, but at least it’ll get Mattie out of the house.”

Rollins makes a face. “At
Samantha’s
?”

“I know,” I say, grimacing. And then I’m overcome with this intense desire to hug Rollins again, the person who knows what happened to me sophomore year, the one who’s always been there. How silly I’d been to doubt him.

“I’m sorry for being a bitch to you,” I say.

He shrugs. “Tough time for everyone. I get it. Hey, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He passes the Sharpie from one hand to the other, anxiety radiating off him.

“Sure,” I say, and I pull him over to my bed and sit next to him. “What’s up?”

He taps the Sharpie on his thigh nervously. “The other night . . .” He pauses, starts over again. “The night that Amber died?”

“Yes?” I urge him to keep going.

“I saw her.” His eyes never leave the Sharpie. “I’d asked her for some pictures of Sophie for my zine. She said she’d give them to me, but she wanted me to meet her on the football field. She was acting pretty weird.”

I exhale, reassured that my hypothesis about their meeting that night was true. Unfortunately for Amber, she didn’t realize she was also providing pictures for her own memorial zine.

“Weird how?” I prompt.

“Well, she told me I should tell Mattie she was sorry and that everything was her fault. And she started crying and said everyone thought she was a whore and that her whole life was a joke. I tried to tell her that wasn’t true— but she got mad at me and told me to leave. I thought she was just being a drama queen, so I left her there. I never thought she’d . . .”

His hands are shaking now. “I know I should have called the cops when I heard she was dead, but I was just so scared. I thought they’d blame me or something.”

I grab one of his hands and try to keep them still. “Rollins. Trust me. It’s going to be okay. But you definitely need to tell the police what you know.”

“I know. You’re right. I have to tell them.” It’s like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Hey, I’ll come with you,” I say. “It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, because I’ve got to do this thing for my sister tonight.”

“Vee?” He traces a finger on the palm of my hand. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I whisper. We sit there for a long moment, electricity flowing from his fingers to mine and then back again.

A knock on my door startles us both, and then my dad calls out, his voice strange. “Vee? You’ve got another visitor.”

I pull my hands away and stand up. “Come in,” I reply. Zane enters the room, confusion clouding his eyes. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel like I have.

“Hey,” I say too loudly. “Um, Rollins, I don’t think you’ve officially met Zane. Zane, this is my best friend, Rollins.”

Rollins stands. The two eye each other suspiciously. Finally, Zane moves closer and holds out a hand, which Rollins takes grudgingly.

“Rollins was just going,” I say abruptly, realizing a second too late how rude it sounds. I want to take the words back, invite Rollins to stay, but he’s already moving toward the doorway. He pauses to stand before Zane.

“Be good to her,” he says, an undercurrent of threat beneath his words. Before Zane can respond, Rollins disappears out the door. A sadness takes root in my belly. I’m not sure things can ever be the same between Rollins and me—not when Zane’s around.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Zane, even though I’m not really sure what I’m apologizing for. I just know the scene probably looked pretty fishy to him, and I don’t want him to think I have romantic feelings for Rollins. He’s just a friend. My best friend in the whole world.

“Don’t worry about it,” Zane says, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling my hair. “He’s protective. I get it. I would be, too.”

His lips graze mine.

“Just a second,” I say, pulling away and holding up one finger. I push the door closed and then melt into his arms.

Tilting my head toward my alarm clock, I see that it’s nearly six. I groan, remembering that Samantha Phillips will be here to pick me up in an hour. It almost makes me laugh, to think of myself attending a cheerleader party after all this time.

Zane touches my lips. “What’s so funny?”

“Ugh. I have to go this party tonight. It’s for my sister. It’s her birthday.”

A shadow crosses his face. “I thought you said you were worried about Mattie. We were just going to stay home and watch movies.”

“I know,” I say. “But it’s really for the best. She needs to get out of the house. I’ll be with her. Nothing will happen. You can come, too, if you want.”

He pauses before speaking. “Sure. I’ll come. But first could you drop by my house? There’s something I want to show you.”

“You could show me right now,” I say teasingly, but his face remains serious. “Of course I’ll come over. I’ll have Samantha drop me off, okay? Then you can drive us to the party later.”

Zane’s face breaks into a smile. He leans over and presses his lips to mine. I sink back against my pillow, getting lost in the moment.

Just then, my door swings open. Startled, Zane and I pull apart. My dad stands in the doorway, looking partly embarrassed but mostly pissed. He clears his throat.

“Sylvia, I think it’s about time for your friend to go home.”

“God, Dad, how about knocking next time?” I tuck my hair behind my ear and give Zane an
I’m sorry
look.

“It’s cool,” Zane says, standing quickly, smoothing his clothes. “I should be going anyway.” He nods at my father, muttering something about it being nice to meet him, while edging his way out of the room. “See you tonight, Vee.”

My father gives me a stern look. “Five minutes. Downstairs.”

I groan.

As I stand, I notice a red stain on the carpet near my bed. I kneel down to examine the spot. Unable to rub it out, I realize it’s paint. Red paint.

Huh. That’s weird.

Before I go down to talk to my father, I get a wet wash-cloth and scrub at the paint. The stain refuses to come out. Vanessa’s going to have a shit fit.

Whenever we get in trouble, my father summons us to his office. Maybe he thinks this gives him a psychological advantage because it’s his turf or something.

I hover in the doorway while he finishes typing. He makes me wait a little bit before acknowledging my presence. Then he gestures for me to sit across from him.

“I guess I haven’t made a rule about boys in your bedroom,” he says after a long minute. “I haven’t really needed to before today.”

“You were fine with Rollins coming into my room,” I point out.

“Yeah, well, that’s Rollins. This boy, Zane—you’ve never even told me about him. Then he shows up one day out of the blue and I find you two on top of each other?”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, what
is
it like, Sylvia?”

I look away from him. Under his desk, the crumpled photograph of the white-haired woman still sits at the bottom of his trash can. I clench my fists.

“How dare you lecture me about not telling you every little detail in my life? Between you and me, I think you’re the one with the most secrets.”

His glare falters, just a little, but it’s enough for me to see the crack in his armor. I’ve found his Achilles’ heel, the thing he’s been keeping from us all along. Bending down, I retrieve the picture and smooth it out on his desk.

“Would you mind telling me who
this
is?”

His face grows paler by degrees. He stares at the picture beneath my hands like it’s something alive, something about to attack him, a wild animal.

“That’s—that’s all in the past,” he says finally.

“
What
is all in the past?”

He squeezes his eyes closed, as if trying to block something out. “My affair.” His voice is so small, I have to strain to hear it.

“Your affair? Who’d you have an affair with? This lady?”

He sighs. “Yes. But, Vee, it ended long ago.”

I pick up the picture and stare at the white-haired lady in astonishment. This woman was my father’s lover?

“When exactly were you with her?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“When you were little,” he says softly, confirming what I’d dreaded.

“When Mom was still alive?”

He nods and reaches out, tries to take my hand, but all I see in my head is my mother at home, cancer silently eating her from inside, and him shacking up with the white-haired lady. I stand, still clutching the photograph in my hand. Scrutinizing the picture, I’m struck by the need to know the name of the woman.

“Who is she?”

“Does it matter? It’s over now.”

“If you’ve got her picture in your office, it’s not over. If she’s calling you, it’s not over.”

He looks baffled. “How did you know she called me?”

“Never mind,” I say stubbornly. “What. Is. Her. Name?”

We are in a staring contest. Finally, he looks away. “Evelyn. Evelyn Morrow.”

Morrow
. I know that name. The name from the tomb-stone. The name of the little girl who died under my father’s knife. He slept with Allison’s mother? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he sleep with the mother of one of his patients? To ask him, though, I’d have to explain how I broke into his bottom drawer and looked through his personal papers.

Instead, I say, “Why?” I hate the way my voice sounds, like it’s breaking. I hate the weakness, the hurt that coats the simple question.