The Creeping Page 12

  Sam moves to sit on the bed next to me; the mattress squeals under his weight. He’s serious all of a sudden, and it kills the laugh gurgling up from my throat. “Stella, about what I was saying before.” He turns to me, lips parted, the pulse in his neck beating steadier than my own. “I want you to know that—”

  “SAM!” Mrs. Worth yells from the foot of the stairs. “The police are here to speak with you.”

  “Oh crap.” I leap from the bed like it’s on fire and jam my feet into the ruined flats. “It’ll be Shane. I should have called him back.” I grab my bag and rush down the stairs. Sure enough, Detective Tim Shane fills the foyer with his broad shoulders and menacing frown.

  When I’m halfway down the stairs, he says, “In the car, please, Stella,” in his best cop voice.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Worth. Thank you so much for dinner. Bye, Sam!” I shout without turning to see if he’s followed. My cheeks and thoughts are feverish. I want out of here. I’m not prepared to hear what Sam wants to say. Mostly because I’m not sure how I’ll respond. I also can’t stomach being chewed out by Shane in front of him.

  I duck past Shane and through the door, jumping off the porch and jogging to his idling sedan. Heavy droplets of rain plop from the sky, and I hurry into the car’s cloth interior. It reeks of cigarettes and greasy fast food. After another minute, Shane joins me, silently backing the car out of the driveway. Mrs. Worth stands on the porch waving, her back-lit silhouette somehow warm and inviting. Traveling away from her sends a pang deep into my chest.

  We drive without speaking. I crack my window, hoping that some fresh air will vanquish the nausea rising in my stomach. When it doesn’t work, I try apologizing.

  I twist to face him, hands imploring. “Look, I know today was bad. I understand you had those cops follow to keep me safe. But I was totally fine with Sam. And there was something we needed to do without them.”

  Shane grits his teeth and growls, “Stop calling them cops. It’s disrespectful. They’re police officers who would risk their lives to keep you safe.” I clasp my hands in my lap, trying to look remorseful. “You scared the shit out of me. I’ve been looking for you for hours. The DNA results came back on the finger bone.” I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for him to hiss Jeanie’s name. Waiting for all the strangely shaped jigsaw pieces to snap together as something obvious—horrible, yes, but instantly recognizable, like a kiddie-porn pervert. “It’s not Jeanie’s,” Shane says instead. The words are raw, screechy. My head droops to the seat.

  “The lab says the bone is old—older than Jeanie’s would be. They called a bone-dating specialist in to give us an exact age. Techs combed through the graves disrupted by the mudslide, and it didn’t come from any of them.”

  For a block there’s only the beat of rain as I imagine techs counting the toes and fingers of skeletons, humming this little piggy went to market, as part of some deranged lullaby.

  “We’ve got something really ugly on our hands, and then you go and ditch my officers like that. What were you thinking?” Shane’s volume builds. “Or is that the problem, you weren’t? You wanted to run off with your boyfriend, everyone else be damned.”

  This ignites my temper. Yes, anger is easier than fear, so I grasp at it. “He’s not my boyfriend, and I’m trying to do everything I can to figure out what happened to Jeanie and the poor little girl in the cemetery and whoever she had a piece of.” I jab my finger into his shoulder. “You’re the one wasting time with Jeanie’s dad. Do you understand that?” I glare at him accusingly. “You’ve got an innocent man while the real perv is free.”

  Shane brakes hard at a red light; the tires shriek on the wet pavement. “What are you talking about? Kent Talcott is a likely suspect. What do you mean he’s innocent?” His baritone booms in the confined cab like we’re inside a beating drum. Anger must be easier for him too.

  “I’d know if it was him. Don’t you get that?” I clutch my hands to my chest. “I’d feel it here when I look at him, and I don’t. He’s a good dad who’s never done anything wrong. Like mine. You’ve taken the only family Daniel has left.” My voice cracks as I clamp my mouth shut. OHMYGOD. Why did I bring up Daniel?

  “Daniel? Have you seen him? We reached his aunt in Portland, and he hasn’t been there in months.” Shane’s like a zombie scenting blood. “Stella, if he’s in town, he’s a suspect. We’ve been operating under the assumption that he’s estranged from his family.” A car behind us at the stoplight honks. The rain is heavier now, almost hail.

  I avoid looking at Shane. “Obviously I haven’t seen him. You know I’ve always felt bad for him. I just mean that his dad is all he has left, and I get that.” Desperate to change the subject, I rush on. “Why didn’t you include Mrs. Griever’s statement in the case file you gave me? She was home the day Jeanie was taken, and not just that, she says there are others.”

  Shane pulls the car into my driveway. Only two news vans remain, their reporters huddled under a tarp strung up between trees. “Griever? That old drunk who lives down the Talcotts’ lane? She was barely coherent when we interviewed her. So old that she probably couldn’t make it out of her yard. She said she didn’t see either of you. Stella, she’s just an old woman who tells tales. There haven’t been any other child abductions in Savage in the last sixty years. Whoever the bone belongs to, they aren’t from here.”

  The fury drained out of him, he pats his pockets, looking for a pack of cigarettes. “I don’t blame you for looking for answers, but Old Lady Griever will fill your head with nonsense. I’m the police. I can’t solve a disappearance that there’s no record of.” He leans forward and adds in a gentler tone, “Maybe . . . maybe you should talk to your dad about staying at your mom’s during all of this? It could be good to remove yourself from it. This town is only just beginning to react. You see all the vigils.”

  It takes all my willpower not to slug Shane in his globe-shaped face. Go stay with my mom? That’s literally the only thing worse than all this Jeanie Talcott gruesomeness. I kick the car door open. There’s nothing else to say tonight. He doesn’t believe Mrs. Griever, but I do. “You shouldn’t smoke or eat fast food,” I yell right before I slam the door in his face. I sprint to the house and jam the key into the door’s deadbolt. Inside I flick all the light switches on and trudge up to my bedroom.

  Safely stowed in my bed after showering, I curl beneath my comforter, twining my fingers in the sheets. My insides buzz. I lie awake for a long time with my eyes wide open, too electrified for sleep to find me. I didn’t act like me today. I didn’t do the things I was supposed to. Nothing happened as it should have. Everything that makes sense is dissolving. And yet, somehow, even with the visions of amputated fingers and missing children on a carousel loop in my head, I feel more me than I have in forever. As if I haven’t been me in ages, and I’m just remembering how.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wake up, my sleeping angel.” There’s a Zoey-sized heap straddling me. I try to push her off, worming my head under my pillow, refusing to open my eyes. She wrestles the covers from me and tosses the pillow on the floor. “Get up. I miss you,” she whines, squeezing my ribs with her knees.

  It was only yesterday that I hiked into the woods with Sam, but it seems more like a century ago. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, mouth dry and sticky from sleep.

  “Open your eyes and look at me, Stella!” She pinches my cheeks until I give up and peer into the light. She throws her head back, laughing, as she slides off me.

  I push myself to a sitting position, rubbing the sore spots where her knees dug into my sides. Zoey’s turned on the overhead, and it’s blinding me. “What is it, Zoey?” She’s probably mistaking my glare for squinting at the light, so I cross my arms against my chest to make certain she knows how annoyed I am with her. She didn’t call or text me yesterday. Cole texted a couple of times—granted, the texts were begging me to meet her and Zoey at a house party.

  “Haven’t you missed my adorable face?
” Zoey asks, batting her long lashes and framing her cheeks with her hands.

  I roll my half-lidded eyes. “You’re the one who hung up on me. You’re the one acting pissed.”

  “You know how hard it is for me to admit when I’m wrong,” she says. “But . . . I was at least fifty percent wrong in hanging up on you.” Her blue eyes are wide and solemn.

  “So you’re saying we’re both to blame?” I struggle not to laugh at the half-assed apology she’s delivering. It is actually half an ass more than she usually gives.

  “No, I mean yes. That’s what I’m saying. That I’m responsible too. Let’s just move on.” She buries her head in my comforter. I sigh loudly.

  “Okay, I’m sorry too.”

  She pops up, smile bright and victorious. She really is a manipulative heathen. “Get your skinny ass out of bed then, because we’re overdue for a cove day.” I let her haul me from the covers and watch patiently as she digs through the closet in search of a swimsuit she approves of, discarding every other article of clothing on the floor.

  “What about the police?” I peek through the blind slats but can’t see the cruiser on the street. “I don’t think they’ll want me going out to the middle of nowhere.”

  “What cops?” She scowls at a pink floral one-piece like it’s mortally offended her. “There wasn’t anyone outside when I got here, and your dad didn’t say anything about them.” She drops the suit and smiles angelically at me. “I even told him where we’d be going. He thought that taking your mind off all this dead-people mumbo jumbo was a good idea.” Only Zoey could make something so serious sound sooo insignificant. And what’s with my police escort being gone? Is Shane really that furious with me?

  Zoey babbles on, “I had the most awetastic night ever. I got totally wasted at Scott’s house, and we hooked up.” She tosses her hair and smirks. “Can you effing believe me? And I thought there wasn’t enough vodka in the world.” She drops the lavender frumpy number I wore the other day and kicks it across the room. It lands precariously on the seat of my desk chair.

  There’s a pinch between my eyebrows as I try to catch up with what she’s telling me. “Wait, Scott Townsend?”

  She speaks in a lousy Russian accent. “Yessss, your ex-lover.” Then normally, “That’s okay, right? I’d usually classify girls who do other girls’ exes as leeches or barnacles, but since it is Scott Townsend and all, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  As she turns back to the closet, I try to decipher what exactly I do think about it. If I’m being honest, I only went out with Scott because I missed having Sam around. Minding isn’t the issue; it’s just too bizarre for words. “Are you running out of guys? Are you going to have to start recycling?”

  “HA! You know it.” She winks over her shoulder. “We’re in desperate need of new blood. I think a trip to U of M is in order once school starts.” She tosses me my white halter bikini. “Change and we’ll head out. Michaela and Cole are meeting us there, and we have a surprise for you.”

  As I change, Zoey goes on and on about how psycho the whole town is acting. It becomes evident on the drive to the lake that for once she isn’t exaggerating. Overnight the crosses, rosaries, vigils, and charms have multiplied. Downtown a crowd of adults wave signs with doomsday slogans like REPENT or BURN IN HELL, BEHOLD SATAN, and FEAR GOD’S WRATH inked on them. One displays a blown-up picture of Mr. Talcott from the newspaper, and pasted above it are the words DEVIL WORSHIPPER.

  “Sheesh. Has everyone lost their mind?” Zoey says, flipping off one of the picketers as he steps into traffic, furiously waving his sign. “Whack-job Jesus thumpers who should be locked up. Leave it to this hick town to go all medieval. Next they’ll be burning witches.”

  I grip my seat’s edge tightly. “Has it been on the news that they took Jeanie’s dad into custody?” I ask.

  “Yep.” She flips her mirror down at the next stop sign and purses her lips, checking her gloss. “My mom said they were forced to release him because there wasn’t any . . . um, what is it called when the perp leaves spit and junk on his victims?” She snaps her fingers.

  “Forensic evidence,” I supply.

  “Yeah, there wasn’t any forensic evidence proving he attacked his wife or Jane Doe. The cops had to set him free.”

  I watch the mob scene fading in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t seem safe for him with the whole town having already made up their minds that he’s guilty,” I say. Unease spreads in my stomach like I’ve got a handful of creepy-crawly worms wriggling around down there. I hope that Daniel made it to Sam’s last night and that he doesn’t see or hear what these people are saying about his dad. I know I’d go nuts if people accused mine of something so horrible. I slide my phone from my pocket and angle it so I can text between my seat and the car door.

  “Who ya texting?” Zoey asks. Nothing gets by her.

  “Ummm . . . Sam, actually.”

  She taps the steering wheel to the pop song turned on low. “Sam who?”

  I roll my eyes. She knows who. “Sam Worth.”

  She turns to me in mock horror. “I leave you to your own devices for one day and you’re texting the King of Loserdom, Sam Worth? Random,” she sings. “What gives?”

  I was hoping to avoid this. I hardly know “what gives” myself. “He helped me out yesterday. I wanted you to help me remember Jeanie, but you were giving me the silent treatment, and he was the only other person I could ask. And please don’t call him names.”

  “Wait . . . you actually went somewhere with him?” Zoey sounds appalled. “Like outside, and people could have seen you?” Her eyes are saucers of disbelief as they click to me. “I know you’re going through some messy shit right now, but do you have to eff with Sam Worth mere months before senior year? What if Taylor had spotted you guys together?” she laments.

  “So what if anyone saw us together? Us being seniors is the point. Aren’t we a little old for all this peasant stuff? Isn’t being friends with whoever you want the point of being popular?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air.

  Zoey’s eyelids drop like hoods, making crescent moons of her eyeballs. That’s the surest way to tell that you’re in for it with Zoey. She brakes on the side of the road where we usually park to hike to the cove. She twists the keys from the ignition and turns to face me, slow and mechanical. “Please. Stop. Don’t ruin our last year of high school. If you want to screw losers in college, it’s all you, but can you just give me the senior year we’ve been working for? This is our time.” She leans forward, cupping my face with her hands. “This is our year to be the best at everything. The last year we’ll be together before college. Please.”

  Her pleading makes me doubly guilty. Zoey’s been a good friend. No, better than that. The best. “I’m not screwing anyone. He’s only helping me figure this whole Jeanie thing out, ’kay? We’re friends.”

  “That’s all? You swear?” she whines. She pouts and makes her eyes wide. I dread this expression of hers almost as much as I do the last. It makes her look like a frightened child. For some reason it works on most people. Especially guys. Kind of pervy, if you think about it.

  I open my mouth to answer. I have no idea what I’m going to tell her, but by the grace of a shooting star or a unicorn or whatever saved my butt I never get the chance to say anything, because someone’s blaring horn interrupts us. It’s like a shade snaps down on Zoey’s face. She’s sad one second and then all at once has a flirty smirk painted on her mouth. Michaela, Cole, and four guys pile out of Cole’s SUV, whooping and cheering that they’ve arrived. Taylor is obviously one of them. My surprise.

  “Ste-lor is back on.” Zoey winks at me. “Get it? Stella and Taylor: Ste-lor.” When I don’t smile, she rolls her eyes. “Kidding! As if I’d be that stale. Laugh much?” She hops straight from the car into the arms of one of Taylor’s lacrosse minions, either Drew or Dean, I can’t tell which. It gives me the thirty seconds I need to text Sam, asking him if he’s with Daniel and telling him I’
ll call later.

  “Hey, babe,” Taylor says, throwing the car door open so I almost fall out from leaning on it. He’s wearing blue board shorts that match his eyes perfectly—definitely no accident—and is shirtless.

  “Hey.” I steady myself and grab my things, shoving the cell into the pocket of my jean shorts. Suddenly, I wish I was wearing more than just my white halter bikini top. His gaze flicks over me and he grins, practically licking his lips. Usually, I like this kind of attention; today it makes me queasy.

  “I called you last night,” he says.

  “Yeah, I saw. You didn’t leave a message.”

  “We were all headed to Townsend’s. His parents are in Chicago. Total rager. We had a sick beer pong tournament. Too bad you missed it.” I shrug in response and try to focus on the gap between his two front teeth rather than his defined abs. I imagine all the spinach or broccoli that could wedge itself in there. His mouth moves to add something else dazzling, when someone pinches the crook of my elbow hard.

  I turn, ready to lay into one of the Ds. Caleb, Zoey’s brother, stands there, smiling a Cheshire cat’s grin at me.

  “Oh my God, why didn’t you text you were coming home?” I squeal, throwing my arms around his neck.

  “I just drove up last night,” he says, squeezing me. “Are you okay?”

  He pulls back and studies me. He definitely isn’t checking me out; this is Caleb. Caleb, who’s the closest thing to a brother I have; who taught me how to ride a two-wheeler; who beat up Mike Walt in the sixth grade when he called me an abomination for surviving what I did; and who saved my life in Chicago last winter, by springing me from the mind-sucking awkwardness of Mom giving me the silent treatment and her husband drilling me on Dad details. I slept in Caleb’s dorm room from the day after Christmas to New Year’s Day, when my flight left for Minneapolis. Mom never even called looking for me or told Dad I was MIA. I guess she felt the unscalable wall between us as much as I did and figured I’d booked it home.