Broken Hearts (13 page)

“No—wait—I wrote things on the valentines I sent to her,” Dave confessed, blushing.

“What kind of things?” Melissa demanded, feeling sick. She shoved the french fries away from under her nose.

“Well . . . uh . . .” Dave hesitated. Then he let it all out in a burst of words. “I wrote rhymes on the cards. I crossed out the words that were there and wrote my own rhymes. I said—I said she was going to die on Valentine's Day.”

“Huh?”

Again Dave glanced quickly, nervously, around the restaurant. It was deserted except for an elderly couple having scrambled eggs at the counter.

“It was supposed to be a joke. I was so angry at Josie. I hated her so much,” Dave said, struggling to explain, searching for every word, his face still bright red. “I don't know why I did it, really. It was stupid.”

Tapping his fingers nervously on the tabletop, he looked away.

Melissa took a deep breath. His words seemed to be swimming around in her mind, bobbing around, not making any sense. “You sent her death threats?” she asked.

“No,” Dave answered heatedly. “Well, yes. I mean, not
real
ones. It was a joke. I wasn't serious, but—”

“Is everything okay?” the waitress asked, appearing beside the table once again. “Can I bring you anything else?”

“We—uh—haven't started yet,” Melissa told her, glancing down at the untouched food.

“Well, I can't
eat
it for you!” the waitress joked, and headed back toward the kitchen, laughing uproariously.

“So you sent Josie cards saying she was going to die on Valentine's Day?” Melissa asked, still trying to comprehend what had happened. “Did you sign them?”

“No,” Dave snapped. “No way. But, don't you see, Melissa? I sent the cards, and then she was killed on Valentine's Day. I—”

“Oh, no!” Melissa gasped. “When the police see the cards, they'll think you killed Josie.”

Dave nodded in agreement, but didn't speak.

Staring across the table at him, sick and frightened and confused all at once, Melissa felt a sudden chill, a chill of suspicion.

“Dave,” she said, staring hard at him, her voice a low whisper. “Dave, tell me. You didn't kill her, did you?”

D
ave stared back intently at Melissa. He didn't reply.

As she waited for him to say something, she studied his eyes. His eyes, she knew, would reveal the answer more truthfully than his words.

What did she see in them?

Guilt? Anger? Fear?

“I didn't kill Josie,” Dave said finally in a flat, exasperated tone. “How can you ask me a question like that?”

“I had to ask,” Melissa told him, still searching for the answer in his dark, narrowed eyes.

“Listen, I hated her enough to send the threatening cards,” Dave said, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. “But I didn't hate her enough to kill her.”

Are you lying? Melissa wondered, studying him. No. No, you're telling the truth—aren't you?

Aren't you?

She wanted so desperately for him to be telling the truth.

“I—I got the idea last winter,” Dave started to explain. “When Josie's dad suddenly called and said I couldn't work in his store over Christmas vacation. I knew Josie was behind it. My Christmas was ruined. I was so angry. I wanted to pay her back. I got the idea to send her a Christmas card with some kind of warning on it.”

Melissa shook her head. “I don't believe this. You were going out with me, but you were still hung up on Josie.” She struggled to keep her jealous feelings down. Josie was dead, even though she couldn't believe it.

“No, no way,” Dave insisted. “Don't say I was hung up on Josie. I hated her. Really.”

“So you sent a threatening Christmas card?”

“No. I—I didn't get it together to send the Christmas card. I got busy and forgot about it. Then when Josie didn't get off my case, I—I don't know. I guess I just lost it. I sent her two threatening valentines. Then, after the cheating thing happened in math class, I sent more. And now Josie's dead, and my writing is all over the cards, and the police are going to think . . .” His voice trailed off.

Melissa stared down at the food on the table, probably cold by now. Her mind whirred without focusing. She wanted to yell and scream at Dave and tell him how stupid he'd been. But she also wanted to say something helpful, something encouraging.

He was terrified. He needed her help.

But what could she do?

“I just wanted to scare her a little. That's all,” Dave said, tapping the fork rapidly against the side of his plate. “It was just a dumb joke.”

“Where did you go after you left my house last night?” Melissa asked. “Did you go straight home? Were your parents up? Did they see you?”

Dave shook his head, frowning. “I left your house a little after ten, right? Then I just cruised around for a couple of hours. I guess I was feeling restless. I don't know. I just drove around. I didn't get home till nearly one. My parents were asleep.”

“So you have no alibi?” Melissa asked, swallowing hard, her throat dry and tight.

“You're starting to sound like some kind of cop show on TV,” Dave snapped.

“I'm just trying to help!” Melissa cried.

Dave poked the omelet with his fork. Some cheese oozed out. He kept tapping the plate, avoiding her stare.

Raising her eyes to the front of the small coffee shop, Melissa saw two kids she knew from school enter. She watched them, hoping they wouldn't take a nearby booth. She breathed a sigh of relief when they took the booth closest to the front window, out of hearing range.

“Hey, what makes you think Josie kept those valentines?” Melissa asked, brightening a bit.

“Huh?” Dave dropped the fork to the table.

“Yeah,” Melissa said with growing enthusiasm for the idea. “I bet she threw them out. Why would she keep them? I don't think I'd keep them if
I
got them.”

Dave thought about it for a moment. “I'll bet she
showed them to Erica,” he said glumly. He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “I'll bet Erica saw them all. She'll tell the police.”

“But, Dave—”

“Maybe Erica's already shown them to the police,” he muttered. “Maybe the police are already looking for me.”

“Erica hasn't talked to the police,” Melissa told him. “Erica is in shock or something. I told you my mom called over there this morning. Their doctor answered—he said that Erica and Mrs. McClain both had to have medication. You know, to help them sleep. I guess Erica fainted. Then, when they revived her, she went totally ballistic.”

“Then maybe I have a chance,” Dave said, picking up his head, his expression thoughtful.

“What do you mean?” Melissa asked. “A chance?”

He didn't answer. She could see that he was thinking hard, concentrating.

“What are you thinking?” she demanded impatiently.

“Maybe I can get the cards back,” Dave told her.

“What? How?”

“I'll sneak into the McClains' house and get them.”

Melissa stared at him, frowning in disbelief. “Are you crazy? How are you going to get in? What are you going to tell them when they see you pawing through Josie's things? I really don't think—”

“No, no. Wait a minute,” Dave said, putting a hand over Melissa's. “I'm not going to do it while they're home.”

“But I just
told
you,” Melissa insisted. “Erica and her mother are both—”

“The funeral will be tomorrow, right?” Dave interrupted, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, they'll all be at the funeral,” Dave explained. “The house will be empty. I'll sneak into the house, grab the valentines, and get out.”

Melissa locked her eyes on his. “Do you really think you can?”

“Sure,” Dave assured her. “What could go wrong?”

D
ave parked his car at the corner and sat staring down Fear Street, the engine still running.

Even though it was just past eleven in the morning, the sky was black. Large raindrops, one every few seconds, splattered on the windshield. The low, dark clouds promised a heavy storm.

The old oaks and maples and birches that bordered the street bent low, as if cowering from the storm. Their bare branches shivered in the swooping wind.

Dave cut the car engine. He reached for the door handle.

Now or never, he thought.

He took a deep breath and pushed the car door open.

Dead brown leaves swirled at his feet as if trying to push him back into the car. But he stood up, slammed the car door, and hurried quickly toward the tall hedge just beyond the curb.

A large raindrop hit his forehead, and the cold water ran down his nose.

Keeping low against the hedge, he made his way toward the McClains' house in the middle of the block.

This was supposed to be easy, he thought, ducking behind a tall evergreen shrub as a red van slowly passed, its headlights cutting through the morning darkness.

It was supposed to be easy. So why was his heart pounding like a bass drum? And why were his legs so weak he could barely walk?

Another raindrop splattered the shoulder of his leather jacket. He bent low, eyes to the street, and moved past another yard, trying to jog, but slipping on some wet leaves.

He stopped near the McClains' driveway. The house loomed in front of him like a giant, dark creature. Two upstairs windows stared down at him like unfriendly eyes.

No cars in the drive, he saw. No lights on in the house.

They were all at the funeral.

Half of Shadyside was probably at the funeral. Dave thought. Even the school had been closed so that Josie's friends could attend.

Dave turned his gaze across the street. Melissa's house was dark too.

Darkness everywhere.

He took a deep breath and held it, trying to slow his racing heart. Then, shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets, he leaned forward into the cold wind
and made his way quickly up the rain-spattered asphalt drive.

I'll be in and out of there in no time, he told himself. I'll grab the valentines and split. Piece of cake.

He knew he was giving himself a pep talk. He didn't care.

He needed all the encouragement he could get, even if it came from himself.

He was only a few yards from the house now, approaching the flagstone walk that led to the front porch.

A loud crash at the side of the house made him cry out and leap into the air. He spun around, prepared to run.

Then he saw the metal garbage can roll on its side across the driveway.

The wind had toppled it.

“Wow!” He exhaled loudly, shaking his head.

This was supposed to be easy.
Easy!

The rain started to come down harder. Squinting through the large drops, he examined the house.

A small rectangular basement window at ground level was partway open. If worse came to worst, he figured, he could probably squeeze through it.

But he wanted to try the doors first. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe the McClains had left one of them unlocked.

Should he try the front or the back?

He hestitated, a heavy sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't eaten any breakfast. He'd been too nervous. Maybe that had been a mistake.

His stomach growled as if warning him away.

Despite the rain and the cold swirling winds, he realized he was sweating. His hands were cold and wet.

Which door—front or back?

Don't just stand here in the driveway waiting for someone to come by and see you! he scolded himself.

He decided to try the front door. He was so close to it, after all.

He climbed the wooden steps. His legs felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds.