The Creeping (8 page)

I try to blink the tears away, but a few escape. I didn't even realize how scared I was. It could be anyone. Forever ago the police ruled out local suspects, but what the hell do they know? It could be red-faced Mr. Robins working in the office of Wildwood Elementary; or leering Jeremy Rangle filling up your gas tank at the Chevron station;
or the silver-haired mailman who waves at every single kid he passes. The only way I ever felt safe in Savage was that I believed that the man who took Jeanie was gone.

Shane leans his head back against the recliner and rubs his temples. He blinks up at the light fixture on the ceiling. “I don't know for sure, but we may be close to making a connection with Jeanie. The little girl, she had something tucked in her fist.” I picture a scrap of fabric torn from her attacker's clothing, the mildewy arm of a teddy bear, a fistful of smashed ladybugs that were dancing on her palm the moment she was attacked. “It's a finger bone.”

The words meld in my head. I stare at the seat cushion next to me. A ripple runs through the birds. It crimps their spines, twists their necks until they're deformed, broken, dead. My breath is uneven, unpredictable. “Whose?” I wheeze. But why do I even ask? I know who it must belong to.

“We're working to identify it. But unless their DNA is in the system, we won't be able to find a match.” If I thought he looked ancient before, he looks like he's aged about a hundred years in my living room.

My brain works slow and clunky. “Do you have Jeanie's DNA?”

He averts his eyes. “Yes, we saved a hair sample when she disappeared. If it's hers, we'll know.”

I gather up a throw pillow and hug it to my chest. It occurs to me that I can't decide which would be worse: the finger being Jeanie's or a stranger's. “Could it belong to whoever took Jane Doe?” I have the fleeting sense that my own appendages could be stolen away, and I make fists to keep them safe.

He shakes his head. “It's picked clean. Whoever it belonged to has been dead for at least eight years. That's how long it takes for skin and tissue to decompose.”

The finger of someone who has been dead for years.
Someone like Jeanie
. I shrink back into the cushions. It's not that I ever thought we'd find her alive. Now, sitting in my living room, it seems weird that I don't do a double take whenever I spot a redhead my age. I don't search the bleachers at away football games,
just in case
. I know Jeanie's not somewhere, seventeen and sunburned, laughing so hard soda's gushing from her nose. But I never thought we'd find her dead, either. Maybe it was easier to think of Jeanie like vapor, as though eleven years ago, she turned to dust and blew away.

I catch the tail end of what Shane's saying. “What I can tell you,
promise you
, is that we will keep you safe. Whether there is a connection or not, I will keep you safe.”

I nod, believing him, but not comforted. “It was crazy last night. What happened to her scalp . . . it was like a nightmare. Is that how she died?”

He rubs his forehead and averts his gaze. “The medical examiner confirmed it was trauma to the head. It's too early to speculate on what caused it, but he believes the scalping was postmortem.” I can tell he doesn't want to elaborate. I rub my arms, the hair standing on end. I don't really want him to anyway.

With one last heaved sigh, he stands from the recliner, then tilts his head, studying me. “You never called about what you found in your case file. I worried I made the wrong decision giving it to you.”

My eyes trail to his in a roundabout way.
If you hunt for monsters, you'll find them.
“It was the right thing to do,” I say. “I needed to know.” He doesn't look convinced, and I don't sound certain.

He runs his hand over his jaw. “And it didn't jog a memory?”

Is that why he gave it to me? Was he hoping it would knock something loose in my mind? “I didn't suddenly remember that Jeanie was taken by a giant purple monster, if that's what you mean,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “What you said . . . it was probably nothing.”

I stare at my bare knees; faint white lines crisscross them from skinning them as a kid. My gaze shifts to Shane's face. “But I repeated it over and over. It must have been important.”

“Kids see monsters everywhere,” he says automatically, his tone dismissing it as nothing. His eyes stay focused on mine, though. “With everything being dredged up in the news, it might make it harder for you to . . . you know . . . move on, keep getting over it.”

“I was the one who wasn't taken, remember? I'm the lucky one,” I say softly. The echo of the newscaster calling me a victim ping-pongs in my head.

“I tell myself that every time I walk onto a new crime scene.” He strides toward the front door. “Don't dwell. You're lucky this wasn't you. Be grateful.” He glances over his shoulder. “It never makes the fucked-up shit I see any easier to handle. Call me if you want to talk,” he says gruffly. I stand rooted to the spot as he lets himself out. The rumble of his unmarked sedan comes to life in the driveway, and his tires squeal as he reverses too quickly.

I focus on my cell to stop the room from spinning. It's already quarter after nine. Zoey will be here by ten. I pour myself a glass of water to settle my stomach. The doorbell chimes as I take a sip, and I hurry to the door. Maybe Zoey skipped giving herself a morning facial to get here sooner? I peer through the peephole. Rather than Zoey, Sam stands uncertainly on my doorstep.

“Hey,” I say, throwing open the door, probably looking like a grinning jack-o'-lantern, I'm so relieved for the distraction. His eyes go round for a second, surprised. The constellation of freckles on the bridge of his nose shows bright in the pale morning. There's a corner of red vest poking from under his black hoodie. “You on your way to work?”

“Yeah.” He bobs his head, eyes narrowing. “Some of us don't have rich lawyer parents.” I can't help but wince. He takes a deep, struggling breath and jams his hands into his pockets. “Look, I heard about last night and just wanted to make sure you were okay. You're obviously in one piece. So I'll go now.” He steps backward off the porch.

“Oh,” I say dumbly. He's leaving. My throat tightens. I don't want to be alone with thoughts of dead little girls. “You want to come in?”

He stops, one foot suspended in air, eyebrows drawing together for a confused half moment, like he thinks he's missed the punch line of a joke. When he realizes that I'm not messing with him, he shrugs cautiously. Slipping past me, he says, “This place looks exactly the same.” He scans our living room, a slow smile warming his expression as he turns back to me, staring a beat. I fidget, self-conscious. Why did I invite him in again? “Some furniture's been moved around, but other than that, it hasn't changed in years.”

“Other than the broken-home part,” I say.

“Well, yeah, other than the fact your mom is gone.” It doesn't sting when he says it. It's matter-of-fact. “You talk to her a lot?” I shake my head. The thing is, Mom didn't just leave Dad when she went, she left me, too. I visit at Christmas every couple of years, but it's like visiting a stranger's house, where you recognize nothing and sleep in a nondescript guest bedroom that smells of potpourri. She's not even the kind of divorced parent who attempts to buy my love; last Christmas she gave me a turtleneck sweater. I repeat:
a turtleneck sweater
.

I try not to be obvious keeping an eye on the mantel clock; pleeeaase let Zoey arrive after Sam is gone. He shrugs off the black hoodie like he means to stay awhile, and I confirm that he really is using a white shoelace as a belt. He catches me looking. “What? You're not up on this trend? Just give it a month, Hella Stella, and you'll be begging to know where I bought this stylish shoelace.” His laugh is full at his own joke. “You still play the violin?” He jerks his head at a studio portrait of me hanging above the mantel, violin in hand, smiling in the orange glow of pillar candles. It's a melodramatic pose for a twelve-year-old; my tight-lipped smile was forced. Mom insisted. It was taken a few months before she left us. I haven't touched my violin or sheet music since she stopped making me practice.

“God, no,” I answer. I suspect he's attempting to make casual conversation and already knows I wouldn't be caught dead in the school band room. I eye the throw draped over the love seat. I want to tunnel under it and disappear. Something about Sam being here
dredges up things I don't want to think about. Instead I let out a puff of air and push on. “Listen, Sam, I tried to find you after . . . after I was such a bitch last night. Some guy said you left with some girl.” I can't remember names, but he should really be appreciative that I went to the trouble of searching for him at all. “I only said what I said because . . .
you know
.” The lame excuse spills from my nasty mouth; it's hollow-sounding, and I end up flicking my wrist like Zoey does when she can't be bothered to elaborate.

His eyes dart over my face like he's searching for hidden meaning. “I received about a hundred messages from the guys, saying you asked about me. You almost gave Harry an asthma attack.” Of course Sweater-Vest and company relayed my excursion into social Siberia to Sam. My stomach flips thinking about this Harry guy hunched over his inhaler, wheezing about it at the bonfire, and Janey Bear getting wind. Sam blinks at me with a serious expression. “But I don't understand why you said what you did or why you wanted to find me after.”

I try diffusing the situation by shrugging and allowing him to interpret it how he wants. It isn't enough to end the most awkward staring contest ever, though. I wish I hadn't invited him in. I wish that I could actually disappear under the blanket. “I mean, Janey and Kate were
right there
,” I say finally.

“So?”

I fidget, uncomfortable with totally having to spell it out. “Us sitting there in the dark . . . and you with your nickname that no one calls me anymore.” He still shakes his head, not getting it. “I just . . . I was
worried what they'd think. Because of what they would tell people.” I cover my mouth, trying to muffle the confession that I care what someone like Janey thinks or says. “And I was worried what you thought. I mean, I have my own group of friends and you . . . you have your own stuff.” I motion at his vest. “And besides, I don't really date anyway. You're just sooo nice to me, and I don't want you to get the wrong idea.”

He's quiet for a long time. I perch on the love seat's arm, waiting for the hurt feelings to erupt out of him like a PMSing volcano. His eyes are glued to the framed pictures displayed on the marble mantel. Most likely he's considering the irony that there's still a photo of us from an apple-picking field trip during the fourth grade tucked into a papier-mâché frame he made for me.

“I'm too nice to you?” he asks, turning to study my face. “You'd rather I pretend to forget your name? How about if I hit on your friends in front of you? Or if I said I'd text and then didn't?” There's nothing biting in his voice; it's thoughtful, like his eyes searching mine. I try to stop the shock I feel from reaching them. His jaw is relaxed, his brown irises cool as they figure me out. “I know what the guys you hang out with are like. I think you deserve better than that.”

I don't know if I want to scream or cry at what he says. It wasn't what I was expecting. Instead I smirk and vomit up a “Whatever.”

With that one little word he stiffens, and his head jerks back like I hit him. Three long steps to the front door, and he pauses at the threshold. Anger makes his whole body rigid. “You want to play nothing but games with guys who don't give a shit about you, who don't even know
you
. And that ‘stuff' you're talking about
that I have—friends who don't choose who I talk to, who are my friends regardless of who my other friends are—you'd be lucky to have stuff like that. You had a friend like that until a minute ago, despite how little of
you
there is left.” He leaves, closing the door so quietly I don't hear the latch click. Somehow that's worse than if he'd slammed it.

I'm speechless. I've never ever seen Sam angry before. I was trying to make things better. How did he end up even more pissed?
I'd be lucky to have friends like his? Despite how little of me there is left?
He doesn't know anything about me anymore. He doesn't have an inkling as to what kind of guys I like or how much they care about me. I haven't even had an actual boyfriend in years. And it's not like it's not my choice. Loads of guys are interested—
Taylor
is interested. But being interested in dating is different from sticking your hand in the fire and expecting not to get burned. I don't do the “feelings” that the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing involves. What's the point? I'm seventeen, and it's not like things will last. Someone always ends it. I don't need to experience that for myself to know it's true. I've seen too many girls hoovering up whole cans of Funfetti frosting to know that's not for me.

And the bit about my friends? Okay, so it's not total BS. At twelve, Zoey told me that I'd have to choose: her or Sam. It was the summer before seventh grade, and Zoey had plans for us. It was a hard choice to make, but in the end it was always going to be Zoey. Zoey is savagely tempered, but she's my best friend. Mom used to laugh at Zoey's antics. She said that if the devil existed, he was a teenage
girl. Well, Zoey is
my
devil, and I love her. If Sam's so effing smart, why can't he see that?

I pound my fist in the soft stuffing of the love seat, pretending it's Sam's face. It doesn't help nearly as much as it should. I'm doing him a favor. I'm sure there are tons of perky little band geek or show choir or auto shop—or whatever it is that Sam's into—girls who'd be all over him. Girls who he actually has a shot with. Girls like this Anna whatever-her-last-name-is he left the bonfire with last night.