Gilt Hollow (21 page)

Isaiah's head whipped around, his dark eyes wide. “Dude! You scared me!”

“Sorry, man.” Ashton pulled a chair over, spun it around, and straddled it backward, hoping the barrier would keep him from throttling answers out of the kid. “How've you been? We haven't had much time to talk since I got back.”

“I'm fine. How about you?”

“Not so good, actually. And I was hoping you could help me.”

Isaiah closed his laptop and began to gather his things. “Um . . . well, sure.”

“We used to be friends once, right?”

Isaiah gave a stiff nod.

“I could really use someone on my side right now.” Ashton reached over and set the warning note on the table. “Would you happen to know anything about this?”

Isaiah blinked at it.

“Willow Lamott's also been receiving warning messages that have become increasingly threatening. Have you heard anything? Anyone talking about my friendship with Willow? Or anyone wishing I would leave town?”

Isaiah shoved his laptop into his bag, and he stiffened his shoulders, his whole demeanor changing. “Could be anyone. I've heard tons of people talking about how their parents don't think you should be allowed back at the school.” He met Ashton's gaze unflinchingly. “Why put yourself through it? Why come back here when you could start fresh somewhere else?”

Isaiah sounded so much like his father, the self-righteous police chief, that Ashton had to clench his fists to keep from slamming his old friend against the wall. Instead, he took a deep breath and answered Isaiah with a question of his own. “Do you think Cory's death was an accident?”

The color leached from Isaiah's tawny complexion, and he looped his bag over his shoulder. “I've got to go. My dad's picking me up out front.” He shot to his feet and darted toward the exit.

Ashton stood and grabbed Isaiah's arm. “Wait . . .”

Isaiah turned, his brows slanting over his nose. “Cory was my
best
friend.” His eyes shifted past Ashton and then back. When he spoke again, his voice shook. “Just before Daniel's accident, Cory told me that Colin and Brayden had gotten into big trouble for something. Something illegal. You might want to start there.” He jerked his arm out of Ashton's grasp and jogged out of the library.

Ashton watched him go; no way could he risk pursuing him with the police chief waiting outside. But clearly the kid was still lying. Either that or he'd just told a selective truth—or perhaps the perfect distraction to throw Ashton off his trail.

Willow decided to stop in town before going home. She needed time to think. Plus, Lisa's mom had picked her up after school for a mother-daughter shopping trip to a mall in the next town. Lisa had invited Willow, but she'd declined. Perusing clothes she couldn't afford was not her idea of fun. She'd drained the rest of her spending cash on the short
leather boots she was wearing, an essential part of her current look. She'd taken extra care with her appearance that morning, agonizing over her hair and makeup. But did all of that really matter? When she and Ashton had kissed, he couldn't even see her.

Her lips buzzed at the memory, and she bit the inside of her cheek against a full-blown grin. Of course, walking down the street and smiling to herself was hardly the strangest thing going on in downtown Gilt Hollow.

As she turned onto Main, she passed a group of college kids knitting a sweater around a tree. It was called yarn bombing, and people had been doing it in Gilt Hollow for as long as Willow could remember. Some claimed it was a statement of rebellion against “the system” or a way to reclaim and personalize sterile or cold public places. Others saw it as art, a form of nondamaging graffiti.

The multicolored stitches appeared on everything from street signs to parking meters to an abandoned bicycle chained to a stand, but Willow's all-time favorite were the fuchsia leg warmers someone knitted onto the statue of the Annherst College founder, Deke Willis. She laughed every time she thought about the statue's dignified pose—chin lifted high, one hand on his hip, the other clutching a diploma like a sword—and fluffy leg warmers circling his boots.
That
was a statement she could get behind.

A guy wearing more makeup than Willow and with knitting needles stuck in his aqua Mohawk called out to her as she passed. “Come join us in vandalizing commercialism!”

Willow would hardly consider pastel rainbow yarn a tool for vandalism or a tree as commercial, even if it was in the business district. But whatever, it looked cool. “No, thanks. But keep up the good work!”

“Will do!” he shouted as she crossed the street and then opened the door of Gino's.

The scent of roasting coffee beans made her mouth water, but she was already hyped up enough. After ordering a hot cinnamon cider, she found a quiet table and pulled out her neglected homework, starting with biology—which used to be her best subject. She'd always gotten good grades, but they didn't come easy; she had to work for every A. Unlike some people who showed up for class, didn't crack a book, and still made the honor roll. Like Ashton.

And that was all it took for her to relive every delicious, mind-numbing detail of the kiss. She sighed and set down her notebook. Her neck and cheeks heated, which was the exact reason she'd forced it out of her mind all afternoon. Well, that and the guilt niggling at her gut. She'd kissed one boy and agreed to go out with another in the same day. And even though she'd decided to stay close to Brayden to see what he knew, she was beginning to have doubts.

She really liked Brayden. He was funny and thoughtful, and she enjoyed being with him. But her relationship with Ashton felt like something else entirely. As Lisa had so eloquently summarized it—there's always one who's good for you and one you can't resist. Brayden was like her favorite blanket, nice and cozy. But Ashton challenged her, lit a fire in her heart and soul. No matter what obstacles were thrown at them, they always found their way back to one another. Maybe that was fate or destiny. Or . . . what did Pastor Justin call it?
Providence.

Willow cradled the warm mug in her palms and stared out the window at the blustery afternoon. On the surface, Brayden may seem good for her, but he'd been at the falls. And although she had a hard time believing he'd been the
one to kill Daniel and point the finger at Ashton, he'd still lied and likely knew more than he was saying. She needed to find out what. But she would have to tread carefully.

“Hello, dear.” An old lady slipped into the seat across the table. “You're looking much livelier than the last time we met.”

Willow smiled, remembering the sweet, if slightly senile woman who'd helped her the day she was fired from CC's. “Oh! Hi, Mrs. McMenamin. How are you?”

A discreet glance beneath the table told Willow that Mrs. M wore her usual flannel nightgown and cowboy boots, but at least this time she wore a long wool coat on top.

“I hear you're dating my nephew.” Mrs. M lifted a cup to her lips, steam wafting across her face.

“I am?” Willow tilted her head in confusion.

“Yes, dear, Brayden is my great-nephew.” She blew on the hot liquid and then took a sip, making a satisfied noise after she swallowed. “And Colin too, of course.”

“Oh, I didn't know.” Willow took a drink of her own beverage, unsure what to say. “Um . . . Brayden and I, well, it's not serious . . . but we're going out. I guess.”

“Well, he certainly thinks the world of you. Wouldn't stop talking about you at dinner the other night.”

Willow had no idea what to say to that, so she took another sip of cider.

Mrs. M seemed to have no trouble filling the silence. “Are you doing okay with Ashton Keller being back?”

Willow blinked but realized everyone in town likely knew their history. “Yes . . .”

“Nice boy, that one. Did you know he used to mow my lawn for free?”

“No, I didn't.” But it didn't surprise her one bit.

“It never sat well with me, what happened.”

Willow set her cup down. “How do you mean?”

Mrs. M's gaze wandered out the window, and her eyes grew dreamy. Then she began to sway and hum as if she were listening to music that only she could hear.

“Mrs. M?” Willow reached across the table and took the woman's hand, the bones and skin fragile like papier-mâché. “What were you going to say?”

Her wistful gaze returned to Willow. “About what, dear?”

“About what happened to Ashton Keller.”

“Oh yes. I just never trusted those Martin boys.” She shook her head, her gaze focusing again. “When they'd come to my house as children, they were always getting into trouble and then lying to cover for each other. Mr. McMenamin and I called them the Trouble Twins, even though they were just cousins. As individuals they were fine, but put them together and havoc ensued.”

Willow just stared.

Mrs. M chuckled. “Boys will be boys, I guess.”

“I guess,” Willow muttered, but her brain was spinning. What if Isaiah wasn't guilty at all? What if the Martins had convinced him to cover up their crime?

B
ass pounded in Ashton's chest as he unloaded a box of new vinyl. He cut the packing tape and opened the flaps, breathing in the unique scents of cardboard, plastic, and history. A fresh shipment was like opening a treasure chest. Jeff never paid him for his help, unless you counted buying the occasional album at top dollar—like the 1969 Stones record Ashton had sold him that day. Jeff claimed he had a buyer lined up in the UK, but Ashton suspected that was bull. His old friend still felt guilty for the robbery fiasco—that he hadn't been able to convince the chief of Ashton's innocence.

Ashton slipped Metallica's
Master of Puppets
into a clear plastic sleeve, thumbed through the
M
section, and filed it between Metal Church and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Jeff couldn't keep Metallica in stock for long. But offering a minimal supply of each band made his clientele feel like they'd found something special and prompted them to buy.

Seeking a bit of peace, Ashton had opted to hang around after their transaction. Twisted Beauty had been his refuge since he could ride a bike to town by himself, but today every song seemed to claw at his heart. Even the act of filing reminded him of
her
.

He pulled another LP out of the box as the turntable in the corner dropped a new record with a soft plunk, followed by the anticipatory scratch of the needle. It was an old '80s tune, one of Jeff's favorites. Piano, haunting and sweet, wove through the shop before it melded into a throbbing rhythm
that seeped into Ashton's blood and pulled him back into that closet with Willow—the curves of her face, the taste of her lips, the feel of her skin. Kissing her had blown his expectations out of the water. But with them it was more than physical. He knew her heart and she knew his. Willow was his rock, and he was her spark. She balanced him, reminded him of who he was. But more than that, she inspired him to become better—a person worthy of her.

Ashton would totally walk the world, as the song vowed, if it would make her fall for him. He had no clue if their make-out session had been an impulsive thing for her or something she'd been dreaming about . . . like him.

Suddenly he had to know. He picked up the box and carried it to the counter. “I gotta run, Jeff.”

“That's cool, kid. Everything okay?”

Ashton felt a stupid grin spread across his face. “More than.”

Outside he glanced down the street at a new tree sweater in progress and smiled. Only in Gilt Hollow. His phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and felt a rush of disappointment that the text was from Penelope.

Need to talk.

That situation was getting tricky. The girl had a one-track mind. He'd kissed her a few times, but it had become more like an obligation than a joy. Her connection to Colin made her a valuable resource, and not just to make Colin jealous—which he couldn't deny had its benefits.

Before he could reply, the phone buzzed again.

Meet me at the barn in 30.

Penelope's father owned an eighty-acre farm on the outskirts of town. They'd “hung out” a few times in an abandoned barn on the back forty. But Ashton had no desire to “hang out” with her at the moment.

He typed:

Can't. Rain check?

It's important. Overheard something that could help u.

Ashton had talked to Pen about the fact that someone was setting him up and trying to get him thrown back in jail. He'd kept his theories about who and why to himself. She didn't seem capable of connecting the dots, which was fine by him. But he'd asked her to keep her ears open to anything that sounded suspicious.

He hit the call icon. But the phone went directly to voice mail.

When he glanced back at the screen, she'd typed:

Sorry, need to tell you in person.

With a sigh, he replied:

Alright. C u soon.

■ ■ ■

The sun had begun to set, casting half of the barn in shadow. Ashton turned off his bike, lowered the kickstand, and dismounted. The place felt deserted. No sign of Penelope or the golf cart she usually drove around the property. Ashton ducked through the rotted-out door, and a flock of blackbirds exploded through a hole in the roof, setting his pulse racing.

A single ray of glistening sunlight bisected the dark interior. Ashton walked toward it and called out, “Penelope?”

A blur of movement to Ashton's right caused him to tense and raise his fists. Penelope jumped and threw herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around him with a giggle. “It's just me, silly. Were you going to punch me?”

“You startled me.” Fighting annoyance, he walked forward, peeled her limbs from around him, and set her on the
bed of an old hay wagon. Her feet were bare and filthy, making him wonder why she never wore shoes outside of school. “What did you want to tell me?”

Penelope grabbed his hand and tugged him closer. “Don't be in such a hurry.” She blinked up at him, eyes wide, lips in a perfect pout.

“Sorry.” Ashton swiped a hand over his hair. “It's just kind of important.”

She dropped his hand and leaned back, sticking her chest out.

Ashton resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She had no idea how unattractive he found her pushiness. He crossed his arms and waited. Wind whipped outside, causing loose boards to clank together all over the barn. They might as well have been in a house made of Tinker Toys.

“Okay,” she huffed as she slouched forward. “It's not even a big deal. I overheard Yolanda say Cory was at the falls when Daniel died. You knew that, right?”

“Cory Martin? Colin's brother?”

She nodded, and everything inside Ashton came to a grinding halt. He had to force air into his lungs before he could speak. “Cory wasn't there. He went on a food run with his dad.”

Penelope shook her head. “Yo said something about him following you guys and hiding in the woods.”

“Who was she talking to? What was the conversation about?”

Twisting a length of platinum hair around her finger, she sighed. “She was talking to Ona. And I don't know. I walked up halfway through the conversation.”

“You didn't think to ask?” Ashton barked.

Her face crumbled, her chin quivering. “I . . . I didn't think it mattered . . . since Cory's gone anyway.”

Ashton ran a hand over his face and took three deep breaths. The girl was either dumber than a box of pet rocks or she was pretending . . . feeding him information to set him up. Baiting him into doing something rash. When he'd asked her about the Martin cousins getting into trouble with the law just before Daniel died, she'd hedged and looked away, refusing to give him a straight answer. Could she be working for the other side? Playing him just like he was playing her? Either way, this information strengthened his suspicion that Cory's death wasn't an accident—established a possible motive. But he couldn't afford to let them know what he suspected, so he rummaged up a smile and took Penelope's hand. “I'm sorry. You're right, it doesn't really matter.” She looked up, and he brushed the hair off her shoulder. “But I appreciate you telling me.”

She leaned in for a kiss, but he pulled away. “We should go. This place is about to fall down around us.” In confirmation, a gust pushed against the barn, whining through the rafters. The entire structure quivered.

Penelope hopped off the wagon and linked her fingers through his. “Come to the house? We can hang out in the basement.” She leaned into him and lifted her chin, batting tawny lashes in flirtation. She was attractive, no doubt. And she was a nice girl. But now when he looked at her, he could only see Willow's dark, mysterious gaze, glittering with intelligence and fire. “Sorry, I have somewhere I need to be.”

Her face fell, and guilt pinched Ashton's gut. How could he think she was working for the other side? There just wasn't enough going on in her pretty head to deceive him. Ashton squeezed her fingers and quirked a half smile. “See you tomorrow?”

“Fine.” She stomped over to where she'd hidden her golf cart at the side entrance of the barn.

Ashton strode outside, anxious to get home and tell Willow what he'd learned. It didn't bring them any closer to finding out who was behind the two tragic deaths, but it did point to a more sinister plot than he'd dared imagine.

As he mounted his bike, a light rain began to fall. He twisted and stared at the helmet strapped to the back. Something inside tugged at him to wear it. He grabbed it and pulled it over his head. Wil would be proud of him for taking the proper safety measures, for once. He fastened the strap under his chin, started the engine, and took off.

Two minutes later he was forced to throttle down. The velocity of the bike turned every raindrop into a tiny bullet pounding his chest and stinging the exposed skin of his hands and neck. It didn't help that he had to wipe the liquid off of his face shield every few minutes. So he didn't notice the vehicle on his butt until it was too late.

He rounded the first turn in a sharp S-curve as an engine revved behind him. Ashton whipped around just as the car accelerated and smacked into his back tire. The impact shot him forward and his heart slammed into his throat as the front wheel wobbled, weaving back and forth. He gripped the handles with all his strength, trying to compensate, but the frame began to shudder out of control.

As the car sped past, it clipped the left handlebar, jerking it out of his grip. Ashton sent up a quick prayer as the bike tilted into a sideways skid. Steel sparked across wet blacktop, and then the bike rocketed off the side of the road. He let go and flew clear of the screaming machine before smacking hard into a ditch.

He gasped, realizing two things at once—he was still alive and he couldn't breathe. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy as his lungs caught fire. He tore his helmet off
and arched back. Nothing. Panicked, he sat up and pounded a fist against his diaphragm. His torso felt like ice. He gave his ribs another jab. With a sharp wheeze, his chest expanded, beautiful air inflating his lungs.

For several long minutes, Ashton lifted his face to the rain and relished the luxury of oxygen. But then a shiver wracked through him and he noticed he sat in water up to his waist, was soaked to the skin, and was likely going into shock. Hands trembling, he unzipped his jacket pocket, extracted his phone, and dialed 911.

So much for staying off Chief Kagawa's radar.

Willow walked faster and tried to stay under the trees. The rain had begun while she was still warmly ensconced inside Gino's. Now it was dark and the gentle showers had turned into a downpour. Since they didn't own a car, she couldn't call her mom to come get her, so she lifted her hood and marched on. But soon the protective material lay wet and soggy around her ears and she was chilled to the bone.

A gust of wind twisted through the branches overhead, dropping heavy leaves on her head and shoulders. She plucked at the slick foliage and resisted the urge to glance behind her. The hood muffled her hearing against the night—against the warning of someone approaching. A finger of panic traced down her spine and she picked up her pace. She never used to be afraid to walk the streets of Gilt Hollow alone. How quickly that had changed. After her conversation with Mrs. M, she didn't know who she could trust anymore.

The rev of an engine sounded behind her and she
whipped around with a smile, anticipating a black Indian Scout motorcycle. But the dark-colored Toyota that pulled to a stop at the curb didn't look familiar. The window whirred down and a voice called her name. She stopped and bent down to find Isaiah Kagawa.

“Can I give you a ride?”

The back of her neck tingled in apprehension and she started to decline, but then realized this was an opportunity to talk to him alone. With a fortifying breath, she strode over to the car. Isaiah pushed the door open for her from the driver's seat, and she ducked inside.

“Thanks.” She lowered her hood, a cascade of water falling around her shoulders. “Sorry, I'm soaking your car.”

Isaiah pushed a button and raised the passenger window, muffling the rush of rain. “No worries. This thing is prehistoric.” He shifted the car into gear, which automatically threw the locks.

When he didn't press the gas, Willow swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Um . . . you can take me to Keller House.”

“That's right. I forgot you were living there now.” Isaiah hooked his left arm on the steering wheel and turned toward her.

The car felt small and Willow resisted the urge to lean away. “Yeah, my mom's the new caretaker there.”

“Does Ashton stay there now too?”

It was a legitimate question, so why had Willow's throat closed? Maybe because Isaiah felt too close. Or because rain reflected in streaky shadows across his face like tears . . . or blood.

Willow took a breath and reminded herself of what she'd learned from Mrs. M. Her assumptions about Isaiah could be
totally off base. “No, well . . . Ash comes to pick stuff up once in a while.” Wow, lying was really not her thing.