The Creeping (11 page)

“Sam, this is . . . amazing.” He shrugs the compliment off and turns to start into the woods. I follow after a moment's hesitation, watching him go. From behind I wouldn't recognize him. His shoulders are broad and his arms less lanky and more muscular than they used to be. He isn't wearing a shoelace as a belt today, although a UFO is centered on the back of his T-shirt, and there are patches ironed on its front with words in Latin. Hanging off his jean's waistband is a pair of suspenders.

He doesn't look like the little boy I kissed at the cove the summer before fifth grade. All knocking knees and front teeth big as white Chiclets. We'd had
sex ed earlier that spring, and ever since then I'd felt some weird buzzing down deep in me. Gag me, but it's true. I was curious. And Sam was my guinea pig, since he was basically the only boy I talked to—other than Caleb, who's too brotherly to think of like that. The kiss was all teeth-clattering awkwardness, Sam leaning in most of the way, me pulling him the rest. It was sweet.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam calls. I look around, having totally spaced out. He waits for me to catch up so we're walking side by side.

“Yeah, sorry.” I'm horrified by what I'm going to say but totally unable to stop myself. “I was just thinking about our first kiss.”

Sam's steps falter. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, then opens it again. He raises an eyebrow and prods softly, “I thought your first real kiss was with Scott Townsend.” Somehow the fact that he doesn't sound bitter or angry or pissed makes it sting worse.

“I don't think you could call any of my kisses with Scott Townsend
real
,” I admit. After that, I try not to hear the familiar rhythm of Sam's steps as I watch a blue-winged sparrow with iridescent feathers swoop low overhead. I try not to see the droplets of sweat pooling at the base of his neck as the heat of the sun burns through the canopy of branches. I inhale deeply the scent of decaying leaves as enchanted bits of light play on Sam's shoulders.

In the back of my mind I never stop searching for anything to bridge the divide between us. Or at least to distract him from it. “I remembered something the other night at Blackdog.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself to admit it out loud. “I saw Jeanie. I mean, I didn't actually see her there, but I remembered what she looked
like that day, and then I imagined her standing by the bonfire.”

Sam adjusts his pace so we're walking abreast. “That might not be a memory. Even I can think of what Jeanie looked like the day she disappeared from hearing about it on the news.”

“But I remembered things that no one knows. Like that Jeanie was afraid, really afraid, and that she wet her pants.” I lower my voice. “Something, I'm not sure what, had hit her in the head, and there was blood dripping from her scalp.”

He catches my eye. “You didn't tell anyone?” he asks.

“No. You're it,” I say, a little jitter in my voice as I look away. “Something happened to Jane Doe's head, too. It looked like her whole scalp was torn off,” I finish in a whisper.

“I'm sorry you saw that,” he says.

I bob my head and try to concentrate on pleasanter things. Sam swings his arms as he walks. Each step is animated and alive with energy. His hand nearest to me looks really empty, and I wish I had the courage to reach for it. What a joke. After all, he doesn't think there's any of
me
left. He'd pull away, reject me. And what the hell is wrong with me anyway? There are about a trillion reasons why Sam Worth is not the kind of guy I flirt with.

We walk without speaking for thirty more minutes. Every few paces I cave to paranoia and glance over my shoulder. But nothing's following us. Shane is going to be furious when his officers tell him we ditched them. If Dad actually comes home from the office tonight, he'll be angry too. Although Dad's anger won't last. By the time he's done baking a batch of his snickerdoodles, he'll forget he's not speaking to me.

As we near Jeanie's, the wood grows denser with birch, the trunks covered in thin, peeling white bark like the shedding skin of a snake. There are rogue flashes of rust-colored brick walls and white picket fences through the slim trunks. We're close to neighborhoods now. Belts of forest crisscross the town of Savage, a patchwork of trees cutting up the roads and houses. It's possible to travel from one end of town to the other completely sheltered by woods. If we turned northeast rather than northwest, we'd end up in Zoey's backyard.

“Hey, I didn't realize that Zoey's and Jeanie's were so close,” I say. Sam ignores me. I try again. “Do you like working at BigBox?”

He answers without sparing me a glance. “It's not exactly my dream job, but it does pay enough for me to save.”

“Save for what?”

“College tuition.”

“But won't your parents . . .” I let the question trail off, because it sounds ruder than I expected.

“They would if they could. Not everyone has money to go to whatever school they want.” There it is again. I know I'm lucky. But it's not like Sam to be sour about anything.

“Sorry,” he says, half turning to me as he smiles hesitantly, “That was unfair. It's been worse over the past year since Dad was laid off. He picks up odd jobs, but it's not really enough.” I haven't thought about Sam's parents in forever. Now I remember his mom telling jokes and his dad working long hours at Halper's Cannery, where he managed the warehouse. Sam's dad is a large, burly man; although
Sam has his size, they were never anything alike. His dad was gruff and quiet, kind of frightening to a kid.

I catch up to Sam, pushing myself to twice my comfortable speed, bumping over the mush of pine needles and moss, dabbing sweat from my forehead. “I didn't know.”

“I know you didn't. Why would you?”

I fall quiet. Again, Sam's right. Why would I know? He's asked me stuff almost every chance he gets, and I've repaid him by never asking back. I've shrugged off all the little thoughtful things Sam's done for me over the years. I frown at the perky yellow dandelions sprouting from the forest floor. They look smug; they make me feel like an abominable snowgirl. For a few paces I go out of my way to stomp on the little blossoms. I chose Zoey five years ago, but here I am, hiking through the woods with Sam, the only friend who has my back.

He takes off in an easy jog. “It's just up ahead.”

I can't run without losing my shoes and pant, “Wait up!” I'm so busy watching where I step that I emerge from the trees without really noticing. There's compact dirt under my feet and the warmth of the sun on my head. I turn slowly in a circle. It didn't occur to me that bursting upon Jeanie's house after so many years would unsettle me, but seeing it makes my throat close. I have the sense that the house and the drive snuck up on me, rather than the other way around.

If it's possible for a place to look sinister, it does. The house's facade is warped and decaying as though turned rotten by Jeanie's
disappearance. Maybe it saw what happened to her? It has its own dark memories. The paint is discolored and chipped, flaking onto the dirt lot. Shutters hang by single nails. The front windows are shattered, with the look of gaping eye sockets. A small aged vigil of candles and rank stuffed toys lines the porch steps. I can practically smell the mold poisoning the air inside its walls.

Sam appears at my side. “Hard to imagine why her parents stayed here after she was gone. I'd want to get as far away as possible. They only moved away three years ago.”

“I haven't been here since it happened,” I say, standing in the shadow the roof casts. “It looks like it's been abandoned forever.”

Sam leaps over a puddle of sludge and onto a crumbling footpath leading to the house's ramshackle side gate. “I heard it got bad the last year they were here. Mr. Talcott's drinking was worse; he'd go into town drunk, get kicked out of bars. The state park fired him. They couldn't pay for the house. It's why they ended up in a trailer across town.”

My bottom lip quivers, listening to what became of Jeanie's family. I can't reconcile the memory of Sunday-dress-wearing ladies fresh from church waddling from door to door taking up collections for the Talcotts in the few years after Jeanie disappeared with what Sam is saying. I guess people got sick of their tragedy. “I was happy when I stopped seeing Mr. and Mrs. Talcott,” I admit, face heating up. “I didn't think about why they stopped coming out.”

Sam pauses just before the rusty hinged gate. “I saw Mrs. Talcott a couple of times. She always looked like she'd been crying.”

The gate swings open with a loud creak, narrowly missing Sam. “That's because she
was
always crying,” Daniel growls, shouldering through the gate into the front yard. Before I can scream for him to stop, he swings his broad fist through the air and sinks his knuckles into Sam's face.

T
he force of the punch knocks Sam back a step.

“Daniel! Stop!” I shoot toward them, my shoes lost along the way. I make a mad grab for Daniel's arm as it swoops through the air for a second strike. “We want to help you,” I shout. I throw all my weight into hanging on his arm. I foul him up long enough for Sam to regain his balance.

“I never pegged you for rabid,” Sam says, rubbing his beet-red cheek. Daniel shakes me off, staggers back, stares at us a bit dazed. He looks as stunned by his reaction as Sam. Daniel's surprise doesn't last.

I stand between them, aware of a stinging sensation in my heel from where something sharp punctured the skin. I'll probably die of encephalitis or scabies or whatever it is you catch from rusty metal.

“Have you been staying here?” I ask Daniel, waving toward the house.

Daniel sets his jaw belligerently and crosses his arms. When he
scowls, his bushy brows dip so low they almost cover his green eyes. “Yeah, so what? You going to call the cops and have me sent away again? Maybe if you're lucky they'll lock me up just like my dad.”

Sam works his bruised jaw from side to side. “We didn't even know you were here,” he says. Daniel snorts scornfully.

Even in grief he wants to pick a fight. But I won't let him, and I won't run scared. I sigh, shake my head, and hobble to where my shoes lay discarded. The violet suede is totally ruined. I free them from the mud and give them a futile shake. Zoey has matching ones, and we try to wear them on the same days. I brush my feet off as much as possible and jam them into the ruined flats.

“Whether you believe me or not, I'm so sorry about your mom.” I approach him like you would a feral animal. “I didn't tell the cops you're in Savage, and for what it's worth, I know that your dad didn't do any of this. That's why we're here. I want to remember so that they can arrest who's really responsible.”

Daniel tilts his head skeptically. It takes him a minute to respond, as if he's been caught off guard. “What the fuck is he doing here then?” He jerks his thumb at Sam. “I remember what a snitch you were, running off to Stella's dad every time I was in town.” He takes another threatening step toward Sam.

“Enough, Daniel. Sam's helping me.” I try to look too severe to cross. “He's the only one willing to.”

Sam pushes his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “C'mon, man, it wasn't as if I ever meant you harm, but you were really intense with Stella.”

Daniel whips his head back and forth. I cut him off before he can argue. “Is this where you came after the bonfire?”

“That's great.” He scrubs his hands over his sneering face. “Rub it in that if I'd gone home to that rat-infested trailer, my mom might still be alive. I could have stopped whoever hurt her.” He groans, and his arms drop limp and heavy at his sides. “I didn't want to be with them, okay? Not after you found that kid . . . not after I saw how much she looked like Jeanie. I needed to be in our old house.”

If he were someone less volatile, I'd throw my arms around him. Daniel didn't go home to his parents' after the bonfire because he wanted to be where Jeanie had been alive. If Daniel had driven across town to the trailer instead, would he have arrived before his mom went for a walk? He might have gone with her, and Mrs. Talcott would be alive.

“What's your plan?” I ask. “You just going to camp out in your old abandoned house while your dad goes to jail for crimes he didn't commit?” I sweep my arms, indicating his outfit. “Or a neighbor calls the cops on you for looking like a homeless squatter?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he mulls over his answer. There's something he's holding back, unsure about trusting us with.

“Let us help,” I plead.

Finally, he groans in surrender. “I was about to go talk to someone who was a witness the day Jeanie was taken.”

I shake my head. “I was the only witness. Me.” I touch my chest for extra measure just so there's zero confusion. “The case file says so.”

He clears his throat and spits a fat wad on the ground between
his dusty Vans. “Yeah, 'cause cops never lie.” If it's possible, his expression becomes even surlier. “A neighbor was home, and those pigs interviewed her but decided she wasn't credible. They left her statement out of their reports.”

I prop my hands on my hips. “Shane and Berry wouldn't do anything dishonest. You don't know them. Berry died a few weeks ago because he was such a stress-ball. And Shane . . . he would never.”

Daniel laughs an acidic-sounding laugh. “You think you're the only one Detectives Douchebag and Dickless check on? I know all about them. And I know that they interviewed Mrs. Griever that day. If you two junior detectives actually want to help, let's go.” Daniel's expression isn't exactly welcoming as he stomps across the marshy front yard, but what else can we do other than follow? What other option do I have? We trail after him down the drive bordered by strawberry plants. Wait.
Strawberry plants?