Broken Hearts (12 page)

She dropped the directory on the desk, then flipped quickly through the
B's
until she found Barron. Steve's phone number had been underlined in red ink, probably by Josie.

Keeping her finger on the number, Erica glanced up at the clock. She sighed and punched Steve's number, leaning against the old oak desk as she waited for the ring.

“Hello?” Steve answered halfway through the third ring, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“Steve?” Erica whispered.

“Uh-huh. Who's this?”

Erica started to reply, then heard a loud
clunk.

“Sorry,” Steve said after a few seconds. “Dropped the phone.”

“Were you asleep? It's Erica.”

“Huh? Erica?” Steve said the name as if he'd never heard it before. “Yeah. I was asleep. I . . . uh . . .”

“Steve, I'm so worried,” Erica told him, her voice revealing her fear. “Josie isn't home.”

The line was silent for a long moment. “Not home?” Steve finally replied, sounding alert. “What time is it?”

“It's after two,” Erica told him.

“It is?” He sounded very surprised. “But Josie should've been home hours ago.”

“I don't understand,” Erica said, starting to sound more than a little frantic. “Wasn't she with you? Didn't you bring her home?”

“We had a fight,” Steve replied, speaking rapidly in a low, steady voice.

“You
what?”

“We had a stupid argument,” Steve repeated. “It was really dumb. About skates or something. I don't even remember what started it.”

“And what happened?” Erica asked, lowering herself into her desk chair. Her hand gripped the receiver so tightly, it began to ache.

“Well, Josie left,” he told her reluctantly.

“By
herself?”
Erica cried in alarm.

“No, huh-uh,” Steve answered quickly, sounding very defensive. “She left with a whole bunch of kids.”

He cleared his throat loudly, then continued. “We were all at the rink together. After we had that dumb argument, Josie left with them. With the others.” He cleared his throat again. “But—but she should have been home hours ago, Erica.”

“I know,” Erica said unhappily.

“Do you think—?” Steve started.

“Oh. Wait!” Erica interrupted. “That's the front doorbell. That must be Josie. Bye.”

Erica hung up the receiver without waiting for Steve's reply. Then she hurriedly padded down the
front stairs in the darkness, her bare feet making the stairway groan and creak.

Eagerly, she turned the lock and, using both hands, pulled open the front door.

“Josie?” she cried.

E
rica uttered a silent gasp.

She blinked, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the harsh yellow porch light.

It wasn't Josie.

Standing grim faced on the other side of the glass storm door were two dark-uniformed police officers.

Erica recognized them immediately. They were the same men, the young-looking redhead and the older one, bald in front with a wide salt-and-pepper mustache, who had come to their house after Muggy had been killed.

They gazed in at her, their features set, their eyes narrowed.

Erica pushed open the storm door with a trembling hand. “Is—everything okay?” she asked haltingly.

She could tell by their expressions that everything
wasn't
okay.

“Are your mother and father home?” the older one asked somberly.

“My dad is away,” Erica told him, her voice trembling. “But I can call my mom.”

Suddenly chilled, she held the glass door open for them. The two police officers stepped inside quickly, silently. They seemed to bring the cold in with them. To Erica the room temperature dived to below zero.

The older one pulled the storm door shut. His partner removed his cap and nervously scratched his curly red hair.

Erica turned and was startled to see her mother already behind her in the hall. Mrs. McClain was struggling to tie the belt of her robe with trembling hands.

“Erica?” she asked, her voice still choked with sleep. “What's going on?”

“I'm afraid I have some very bad news,” the older police officer said softly.

Mrs. McClain gasped and reached out to grab the banister with her right hand to steady herself. “About Josie? Where is she? She isn't home?”

Erica shook her head no and shut her eyes.

“There's no other way to say this but to say it,” the officer said in a low steady voice. He took a deep breath. “Mrs. McClain, your daughter has been murdered.”

Mrs. McClain uttered a shrill shriek. Her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the floor of the hall.

“Nooooooooo!” As she landed, she let out a piercing wail that sounded more animal than human.

The two officers lunged forward to help her. She
landed hard, straight down on her knees, still wailing. “Not Josie. Please—
not Josie.”

“How did it happen? How do you know? How do you know it's Josie?” The questions poured out of Erica in a desperate voice she didn't recognize. “Who did it? How do you know? What if—”

The red-haired officer helped the sobbing Mrs. McClain to her feet. “Not Josie.
Please,
not Josie!” she kept repeating, enormous tears running down her quivering cheeks.

“We found your sister in the alley behind the ice rink,” the older police officer told Erica, speaking in a low, professional voice. “We identified her by her wallet. She hadn't been robbed. She was dead when we arrived. She had been stabbed in the back. With the blade of an ice skate. The skate was still in her back.”

“Ohhhhh.” Erica moaned. She stared wide-eyed at the grim-faced man for a long while. Then her eyes rolled up in her head. Her knees bent, and she crumpled in a heap to the floor.

The older officer bent quickly to help her.

“No! No! Please—no!” Mrs. McClain was still screaming.

“Ma'am, do you have a family doctor?” the red-haired officer asked, holding on to her shoulder. “Perhaps the doctor could come out and—”

He stopped in midsentence, startled as another figure floated down the stairway. Rachel emerged from the shadows, wearing a long, flowing white nightgown, her hair down over her shoulders.

“Somebody hates Josie,” Rachel declared in a
bright sing-song voice. She had an eerie smile on her face. “Somebody really hates you, Josie.”

Still leaning over the unconscious Erica, the older policeman's expression darkened. “What? What did you say?” he called suspiciously up to Rachel.

“Somebody hates Josie,” Rachel repeated, smiling, her green eyes sparkling in the hall light.

“Huh?” The two officers glanced quizzically at each other.

“Ignore poor Rachel,” Mrs. McClain told them through her tears, shaking her head sadly. “Just ignore her. She doesn't know what she's saying.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning, Sunday morning, Melissa had planned to sleep late. But she was startled awake by her mother's voice, calling from downstairs.

“Melissa, phone!”

“Huh?” Melissa muttered, slowly raising her head from the warmth of her pillow. “Phone, Melissa!”

Melissa pulled herself up and rubbed her eyes. She struggled to focus on the clock radio. Only eight-thirty.

“Hey, Mom, why'd you wake me?” she shouted irritably. “Why didn't you tell them to call back?”

“It's Dave,” Mrs. Davis shouted patiently. “I wouldn't have awakened you, but he said it was important.”

Dave?

What could Dave possibly want at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning?

This better be good, Melissa thought, yawning.

She picked up the phone extension on her bedside table. “Hello? Dave?”

“Hi, Melissa. I . . . uh . . .”

“Dave, what's the matter?” Melissa asked with concern. “You don't sound good.”

“Melissa, I've got to talk to you. Right away,” Dave said breathlessly. “I-I'm in terrible trouble.”

M
elissa pulled on jeans and a sweater and hurried to The Corner, the small coffee shop near Shadyside High.

Dave was already in a booth in the back when she arrived. He was wearing a faded, blue-denim work shirt with the collar turned up. He was tapping the tabletop nervously with a blade from his Swiss army knife.

He looked up as Melissa slid in across from him, but didn't smile. His small, dark eyes were red rimmed and tired looking, Melissa noticed. His long, black hair was unbrushed.

“Hi,” she said tentatively. “You look terrible! Did you hear about Josie?”

He folded up the knife and set it down on the white Formica tabletop. He nodded. “Yeah, I just heard it on the news.”

“I can't
believe
it!” Melissa exclaimed. “I mean, I just saw Josie on Friday. And now, this morning . . .”

The waitress, a short young woman with frizzy orange hair, stepped up to the table and set down two water glasses. “You need menus?”

They shook their heads and ordered omelets and fries.

“It's so horrible,” Melissa continued after the waitress had walked away. “I haven't been to their house yet, but my mom called over there, and they're all in shock.”

Dave shook his head, but didn't say anything. He slid the red-handled knife back and forth across the table from hand to hand. They sat in silence for a while.

“I mean,
murdered,”
Melissa said, shuddering at the thought of it. “It can't be.” She took a sip of water.

Dave remained silent, continuing to slide the knife, his eyes on the table.

Melissa sighed. “I heard the police are questioning Steve,” she said.

“That's what I have to talk to you about,” Dave said with sudden urgency. He closed his left hand over the knife and held it in place on the table.

“Huh?” Melissa stared at him, bewildered.

“I don't know how to say it,” Dave said uncomfortably, his dark eyes burning into hers.

“You—you know something about the murder?” Melissa stammered.

“Listen to me,” Dave said heatedly. “Just listen. I did a stupid thing. A very stupid thing.” He stopped to take a deep breath.

“Dave,” Melissa started reluctantly. “Did you—”

“Who gets the one with extra cheese?” the waitress interrupted, balancing the tray of dishes on her hip.

As the waitress set the omelets and fries down, talking all the while, Melissa stared across the table at Dave. She felt a heavy dread moving up from the pit of her stomach.

What was Dave starting to tell her?

He looked so guilty. So frightened.

How horrible was the secret he was about to reveal?

The waitress finally finished and, slapping the tray against the side of her uniform, headed up toward the front.

Dave stared down at his food but didn't begin to eat it. His eyes darted nervously around the small restaurant, as if making sure no one was listening.

“Dave, what were you trying to tell me?” Melissa asked.

The smell of the grease was starting to make her feel sick.

Or was it the tension?

Dave cleared his throat nervously. “I did a really stupid thing,” he repeated, avoiding her stare. “I sent Josie some valentines.”

Melissa's mouth dropped open.
Is that all?
she asked herself, feeling a little relieved.

“Valentines? To Josie?” she asked, her high-pitched voice revealing surprise. “But what's the big deal?”

“You don't get it,” Dave said, frowning. Melissa saw that beads of perspiration had broken out across his forehead. “I sent her special valentines. It was so stupid, I can't believe I did it.”

“I
knew
you were still hung up on her,” Melissa said, allowing some anger to creep into her voice.