The Creeping Page 21

  Zoey’s SUV waits idling under a mammoth oak. The lowest branches have the look of arthritic skeleton hands reaching greedily toward the cab. Zoey’s already popping gummy bear after gummy bear into her mouth.

  “A little early for gelatinous sugar, don’t you think?” I say, climbing into the front seat.

  She taps the lid of an extra-large coffee in the cup holder. “This is breakfast, and these”—she waggles the candy bag in my face—“are dessert.”

  “Oh well, in that case.” I hold my hands up in surrender.

  She tosses me the bag. “And don’t eat all my green ones this time, Secret Agent Slut.”

  Mouth full, I raise an eyebrow.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I liked the old Stella, but I’m in looove with this new badass Stella who scales fences and ditches cops.” She throws the car into drive, and the wheels spin taking off.

  Zoey doesn’t usually have a lead foot; she told me once that looking eager equals looking desperate. Today she must not care. I hastily snap my seat belt on as we careen sharp around a corner. It’s supposed to storm this afternoon, but you wouldn’t know it by the blissed-out sun rays making everything glow.

  “I’m thinking the sun wants us to have a cove day,” Zoey says. I squirm under the seat belt at the thought of heading back to our spot after everything that’s happened there.

  I open my mouth to protest; Zoey shoots me a warning glare. Usually, I wouldn’t give in so quickly, but I don’t want to piss her off, especially before I confess and ruin her chirpy mood.

  “The girls are already there waiting for us, and I brought an extra bikini for you,” she adds.

  “ ’Kay, sounds fun.” I muster a teaspoon of enthusiasm. “Zo, I have something to tell you.” I pause, trying to work my words out. How do you tell your bestie you’re shacking up with a guy she calls the King of Loserdom?

  Before I take a stab at it, she says, “We’re making a quick stop. We have to meet Drew’s older cousin by the garbage bin at the back of the drugstore.”

  I’m grateful for the momentary reprieve. “What kind of back-alley deal are you dragging me to?” I ask.

  She pantomimes tipping a bottle to her lips. “He’s hooking us up with hard lemonades and a bunch of pink wine so we can have fun this summer.” I give her a sideways look. She flaps her hand at me. “Spare me. I mean, after all this Jeanie stuff blows over, obviously.”

  The loaded way she articulates “stuff” inflames me. I can hear her insinuating Sam’s name, as though he is only Jeanie blowback and I’ll move on once the killer is caught. “I asked Sam to be my boyfriend,” I blurt.

  Zoey slams on the brakes. The car screeches bloody murder, almost turning sideways in the middle of a deserted residential street.

  “Tell me this is a really effed-up joke, Stella!” she shouts.

  I shake my head. “We made out last night.” I don’t add that the kissing continued this morning, because I’m not suicidal.

  She stares at me, mouth agape like a dead person, lips stained from candy. “Then tell me that you just wanted to mess around with someone who wasn’t a total skeeze and that you were only using Sam because he’s a peasant and therefore STD free.”

  My arms cross against my chest to shield myself from Zoey: from her judgment, her anger, her biting words. A car honks and then drives around us, the driver shooting us a dirty look before speeding up. Zoey flips him off until he disappears around a street corner.

  She takes her foot off the brake and we continue toward downtown, where the alley behind the drugstore waits, bearing gifts.

  “Well,” she snaps, “say something.”

  “Why’d you do it?” I watch her profile change as she puzzles out what I mean. “Why did you make me choose, and why would you tell him? My mom had just left and you thought that was a good time to make me pick between my best friends?” I fight to keep control; all the sticky resentment finally gushing out.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically, flipping her hair from her eyes. “Did you want high school to blow? Did you want to be stepped on by girls less pretty but more popular than you? Did you want to beg for a dribble of attention from some guy who stank of BO and couldn’t remember your name? I didn’t realize that Stella Cambren wanted to be a desperate freak. Because let’s be honest, people think you’re a freak for surviving what you did. And without me, without being popular”—she checks to see that I’m looking at her before she smiles wickedly—“people wouldn’t be too afraid to tell you so.”

  Bleary-eyed, I stare at my best friend, the urge to punch her bitchy upturned nose so strong I form a fist. I’ve never heard Zoey say anything half as mean to one of her so-called peasants. I take a shaky breath, fighting the vomit washing up my throat. “What you did was shitty, Zoey. It was fucked up. To me. To Sam. We were his best friends.”

  She runs her tongue over her shimmery bottom lip. “Whatever, Stella. Tell yourself what you need to. But I made you choose because you were too much of a coward to do it on your own. You needed me to make you.” She presses her finger to my forehead right between my eyes. “Just like you need me to be the pusher. If I’m the pusher, then you can do whatever you want without feeling bad about it. Without ever taking responsibility for what you are. Ohhh, poor me”—her lip juts out and she whines in a baby voice—“Zoey makes me treat people like crap to be more popular. Now I have the hottest guys wanting me. Every girl wants to be me. Poor Stella.” She spits my name out.

  Zoey’s words resonate in me. They bounce around in all the dark corners. I try to resist them; I don’t want them to stick; once they stick, I won’t be able to ignore them. “Being popular was never important to me,” I whisper.

  “Sure, Stella.” She laughs cruelly. “Who would you be if I hadn’t pushed you? Who the hell do you think you’d be without me? You’d finally have to accept that you’re not a nice girl.” We come to a stop sign in front of the massive white building that Savage’s city hall and courthouse share. We’re a block away from Drew’s cousin. Vaguely, I’m aware of a large crowd on the courthouse steps and the faint roar of them chanting. Men and women, shoulder to shoulder, pumping their fists in the air.

  Zoey leans across the emergency brake so she’s a few inches from me. Her face softens, and she takes my hand like she’s breaking really horrible news. “I made you choose once. But you chose over and over again. Every time Sam came around with some sappy bullshit corsage, or valentine, or playlist, or pathetic excuse to be near you, you chose all on your own.” She catches my wrist as I pull away. Her skin is porcelain and flawless this close; her voice becomes full-throated and velvety. “And if it wasn’t for me, you’d have to face it. You’re a fucking monster, Stella. You’re just like me.”

  At that moment I make sense of what the mob is chanting, a single word decipherable from their bloodthirsty howls.

  “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” they chant. I tear my eyes away from Zoey to see Mr. Talcott, in shackles, escorted by a dozen cops up the courthouse steps.

  “What the . . . ?” I mutter. Before I think better of it, I swing the SUV’s door open.

  When I look back to Zoey, her expression has changed, its control melted away, her head wagging at what she knows I’m about to do. She grabs hold of my seat belt just as I’m unbuckling it. “No, no, no.” Her voice goes shrill, losing the venom that laced it a moment ago. “It’s a shit-show out there!” She tries to shove the buckle fastened, but I slip out from under it.

  “I have to help him,” I shout, jumping out onto the sidewalk.

  “Stella Cambren, you get back in this car,” she cries after me.

  I push forward into the mob, trying to get to its core, where Mr. Talcott is handcuffed like a criminal. Fragments of Zoey’s voice follow behind me, cursing and shouting, trying to keep at my heels. I don’t have a plan, and by the time I realize that this was a horrible idea—like pounding-a-strawberry-milk-shake-before-you-get-on-a-roller-coaster brainless—the people aroun
d me have started to recognize me. One by one, pairs of eyes attach to me. Some strangers murmur condolences, others scream, “Guilty!” louder, like it’s my battle cry. Everyone smiles this brainwashed fiend’s grin at me, like I’m no longer a seventeen-year-old girl but the main attraction in their circus of horrors.

  All the reporters must communicate through some insect-y silent sixth sense, because as soon as one reporter notices me, the whole army turns to torpedo me with questions. I try to spot Shane as I fight forward. If I can find him, explain to him what’s really going on in Savage, they’ll have to let Mr. Talcott go.

  The blond reporter with the shellacked helmet of curls is nearest to me. “How does it feel to know that the man who victimized you and your childhood friend will finally be behind bars?” she yells above the chaos.

  My stomach thrashes. This is my fault. Doubly so. If I’d been able to tell the cops what happened that day, this wouldn’t have gone on for years. If I had told Shane about the other missing girls, they’d know that there’s no way Mr. Talcott is involved. Instead I was selfish, spoiled, stubborn. Too worried that I’d be sent off to Chicago. Now Mr. Talcott is being sent off to prison.

  Hands reach out, palms petting me, patting me, squeezing me. Everyone trying to console me, not giving me any room to breathe. I can’t wade through the crowd any farther. A wall of reporters has formed—at least they won’t be hassling Mr. Talcott now—and I can’t get past their swarm of cameras. The blonde sticks her microphone in my face again and says, “Any comment on the judge moving Kent Talcott’s trial to today?”

  Mr. Talcott and his police escort reach the top of the stairs, and the beast of the mob cries louder, working itself into a tizzy. Jeanie’s dad’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s being careful not to look anywhere but at his shoes. Someone in the crowd throws a full soda can at him; it thuds loudly between his shoulder blades. Zoey comes out of nowhere, elbowing and kicking to make her way to my side. Her hand slips into mine; her bony fingers make me braver. The crowd writhes and cackles as Mr. Talcott stumbles to regain his balance.

  In that faltered step, in the instant I see the yellow and violet stains on his face from where people—probably neighbors he’s shared meals and laughs with—attacked him, it hits me. There’s only one thing I can do.

  I grab for the blond reporter’s microphone, wrenching it from her faux orange grip, and yell at the top of my lungs, “I remember what happened. It wasn’t Jeanie’s dad. Jeanie’s dad is innocent.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s amazing how quickly the fury drains out of the crowd. One minute the mob is an angry beast, and the next they’re sheepish adults looking nervously around like they hope no one will remember that they were here.

  Once I scream the lie I look to Zoey, for I don’t know what. She inclines her head almost imperceptibly, and I know that I did the only thing I could have, the thing she would have done. The police find us, and we’re propelled forward through the now docile crowd. I gulp one last breath of fresh air before being ushered into the courthouse.

  Mr. Talcott sits against the far wall, slumped on a wooden bench, red hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, still flanked by cops. The officers turn toward me, mouths twisted as they watch me, noses scrunched like my lie reeks. And then I spot Daniel.

  Daniel’s dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a button-down shirt, like he’s going to homecoming or a funeral. He’s nodding, arms crossed against his chest and speaking under his breath to a paunchy older guy clad in a suit and the kind of spectacles my father wears. A wash of relief and I sink back onto my heels. He’s probably already told the police everything Sam told him. They know about the generations of missing redheads, and they’ve likely sent a patrol car out to Mrs. Griever. She’ll give a statement, an official one this time, and Mr. Talcott will be home for dinner.

  I step forward, lips forming Daniel’s name. But then Shane, who pushes through the crowd of uniforms, comes to rest at Daniel’s side, clapping a hand on his shoulder. I hang back uneasily, struck dumb. The thinly veiled distrust that Shane has always had for Daniel—my restraining order against Daniel had even been Shane’s idea—is gone. In its place is a fatherly smile, an encouraging bob of his head, and a thumbs-up. Gradually, I recognize the man in the suit as a lawyer with the courthouse, one who prosecutes criminals rather than defends them. But ultimately it’s the fact that Mr. Talcott is in shackles and Daniel is getting a pat on the back that sets off a keening siren in my head.

  Shane starts toward me. “Stella, what’s going on?” he asks tersely. “This is serious,” he adds just in case I’m a total moron and the least observant person on earth.

  “I think she gets that,” Zoey says saucily, hands on her hips.

  “What is Daniel doing here?” I ask, craning my neck to catch his eye. We’re fifteen feet apart, but I can’t seem to snag his attention.

  “Not here, Stella,” Shane warns.

  I look from Shane to Daniel, the earth abruptly tilting under my feet. Shane protecting Daniel from me rather than me from Daniel. “I said, what is Daniel doing here?” I raise my voice.

  Shane frowns down at me. “That’s official police business.”

  I toss my hair over my shoulders and glare at him until his resolve falters. He lets out a puff of air. “Daniel’s giving us a statement. As you can see, his father’s been taken into custody, and Daniel’s corroborated our evidence.”

  Shane’s words are like the shriek and hiss of a machine seizing right before it breaks down. I shake my head. “Corroborate? Daniel knows his dad didn’t do anything. Daniel went to the police station to tell you guys that, right? To tell you what’s really going on.”

  Shane crosses his arms in a lousy attempt to look official. “The details of his testimony are confidential.”

  I move to go around Shane, but he catches my arm. “Daniel,” I shout, struggling against his grasp. Through gritted teeth Shane pleads under his breath for me not to make a scene. Finally, Daniel looks up, features sharp, clean-shaven chin set. “Sam found a picture of all of us in the woods before Jeanie went missing,” I call. “We were out there looking for something.” He keeps his eyes on me. His irises are usually the same tie-dye of green and brown as mine, but today they’re darker. He tilts his head. For a brief, half-confused moment I think he’s glaring at me. But I’m wrong, because why would he be angry with me? “Griever was right. Your dad has nothing to do with this. There’s something bigger going on.”

  Daniel takes a step forward. “The only thing going on is that my dad killed my mom and sister,” he says, his voice dead, features slack. But the Daniel I know is a rabid animal: boundlessly suspicious, quicker to bite than bark, and definitely too feral for the lavender shirt he’s wearing and the close shave.

  I’m hot-faced as more and more sets of eyes focus on me. “Don’t you remember what we were doing in the woods?” I try.

  The lawyer with the pillowy middle rests his hand at Daniel’s elbow and begins to usher him away, giving me a sideways look of disapproval. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Daniel says, hushed.

  Desperate, I yell at his back, “We were hunting monsters. You told Jeanie it could leave the woods, remember?” The gentle hum of conversation in the hall goes quiet. I lunge forward to go after Daniel, but Shane holds me in place.

  “Not here,” Shane whispers harshly in my ear. I reluctantly look away from Daniel’s retreating figure. “We need to speak in private.”

  Shane’s hand is replaced by Zoey’s arm looped in mine. “Stella isn’t giving her statement until her father, her lawyer, is here,” she says icily.

  Shane’s face deepens a few shades, and he opens his mouth—probably to have Zoey arrested. I cut him off. “She’s right.” I try hard not to flinch at the hurt obvious in his eyes.

  He takes a long breath and says, “You’re a minor, so I can’t question you without your dad’s permission anyway. But we can speak, just me and you, off the
record. Anything you say will stay between us.”

  Zoey shakes her head adamantly, but I nod. After five minutes of her protesting, she finally relents and slouches against the wall, dropping to the ground, letting loose a string of curse words that make the nearby police blush.

  I follow Shane down a beige corridor, carpets and walls the same drab color, fluorescent lights sighing like they’re alive, until we find an empty office.

  “Start talking,” he orders after I sit. And I do. I tell him everything—minus my plan to trespass tonight on Old Lady Griever’s land—and he listens.

  When I’m finished, I fold my hands neatly in my lap and try to look as sane and believable as possible.

  He leans forward, elbows resting on knees, blue bags bulging under his eyes. “I understand why you think there’s something else going on here. What you’ve recounted for me are a lot of strange occurrences, and I agree that it seems too much to be coincidence. But Stella, this is me. I know you. If you told this story to any of the department’s other detectives, they’d think you were on drugs or a kid looking for attention. They’ll call the memories hallucinations from stress or dismiss them as the products of an active imagination.”

  “What about Daniel? Whatever he said, he’s confused. It’s this town. Everyone convinced that his dad did it. It got to him. He’s been helping us figure out what happened. He’s been searching for Jeanie’s body. I know he’ll remember hunting in the woods. If you would just talk to him again.”

  Shane sits back in his chair and eyes his wristwatch. “Set aside the fact that you lied to me—to the police—about knowing Daniel was back in town. There’s nothing I can do to stop this. Kent Talcott confessed, and he’s going before a judge in fifteen minutes.”

  “N-no,” I stammer. “Your officers are wrong. He wouldn’t have confessed to something he didn’t do.”

  He tilts forward, sticking his face right in mine. “I’m the one who took his confession.” He thumps his fist to his chest. “Me. Late last night. He pled guilty to all three charges. Jeanie, Bev Talcott, and Jane Doe. He says she was a runaway in the park. We still haven’t identified her. But he knew about the finger bone. There are numerous Indian burial grounds in Blackdog. It’s something he came across; nothing more than a little misdirection to throw us off his trail.”