Broken Hearts (19 page)

They didn't have any time to discuss it further. A loud knocking on the front door startled them all.

Melissa got to the front door first. “Who is it?” she called timidly.

“Police,” replied a deep voice on the other side of the door.

Melissa pulled the door open to reveal two solemn-faced police officers. She stared at them in the harsh porch light. One was heavy, bald, and paunchy with an enormous, lumpy nose that resembled a potato. His partner was young and blond.

Melissa pushed open the storm door. The two officers stepped past her into the hallway.

“I called you because—” Mr. Davis started, stepping between Melissa and her mother.

“When did you discover the body?” the older policeman interrupted.

“What?” Mr. Davis asked, terribly confused.

“When did you discover the body?” the policeman repeated patiently, in a low, steady voice.

“What body?” Mrs. Davis asked, as bewildered as her husband.

“The body of the teenage boy on your driveway,” the officer replied.

“No!”
The scream burst from Melissa, more a shriek of horror than a word.
“No! Not Luke! Please, don't let it be Luke!”

E
rica yawned loudly as she pulled back the bedcovers. She glanced at the clock beside her bed.

I'm so tired. It's so late, she thought. I'll never be able to get up in time for school tomorrow.

Straightening the hem of her nightshirt, she eased herself into bed. The sheets felt cool. She knew she'd be able to fall asleep quickly.

She had nearly drifted off when the crackling of the intercom on the wall startled her awake. She sat up, immediately alert.

“Erica? Erica?” Rachel's voice broke through the late-night silence.

Rachel sounds wide awake, Erica thought.

What is she doing up at this hour?

“Erica, please come brush my hair.”

Doesn't she have any idea how late it is? Erica wondered, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

No, of course she doesn't.

But why is she awake?

“Erica, please come brush my hair,” Rachel repeated.

Erica groaned and climbed to her feet. “I'm coming, Rachel,” she called into the intercom.

Yawning, she wearily made her way down the narrow hall to Rachel's room. Rachel was sitting up in bed, the bedside lamp on. She smiled as Erica entered. The soft light made Rachel's hair gleam.

“Brush out my hair?” Rachel asked.

“Rachel, it's so late,” Erica moaned, yawning into her hand.

“I'm not sleepy,” Rachel replied.

“But
I
am,” Erica protested.

“Brush my hair. Just for a short while.”

Erica moaned again, but picked up the hairbrush and climbed onto the bed on her knees beside Rachel. “Why aren't you sleepy?” she asked as she started to brush with long, slow strokes.

“I'm just not,” Rachel replied brightly. “I'm wide awake.”

“You may be wide awake now, but you're going to be exhausted tomorrow,” Erica said wearily. She was so tired, it took a supreme effort to raise the hairbrush to Rachel's hair.

The front doorbell rang.

“Huh?” Erica cried out in surprise, dropping the brush.

“More,” Rachel urged. “Brush some more.”

“I can't. I'll be right back,” Erica said, climbing off the bed. “There's someone at the door.”

“Hurry back,” Rachel instructed.

Erica's mother, wrapping a heavy wool sweater around her nightgown, was already at the front door when Erica got downstairs. “Who can it be at this hour?” she asked, hesitating with her hand on the doorknob.

Erica shrugged. “Rachel is awake,” she told her mother. “Strange night, huh?”

“Oh,” Mrs. McClain uttered a soft cry of surprise as she pulled the door open and saw the two police officers.

“Mrs. McClain?” the older, heavyset one asked, narrowing his eyes to peer into the entryway.

“Yes?” Mrs. McClain replied, her expression changing from surprise to fear. She pulled the sweater tighter around her shoulders.

“We need to speak to your daughter,” he said.

“She's right here,” Mrs. McClain said, flashing Erica a bewildered glance. She opened the glass storm door to allow the men to enter.

They ducked their heads as they came into the entryway even though the ceiling was high. “Are you Rachel McClain?” the older officer asked Erica.

“Huh? No,” Erica replied, surprised. “Rachel is my sister.” She motioned up the stairs.

“We need to talk to your sister Rachel,” the officer said softly, raising his eyes to the stairway.

“But why?” Mrs. McClain demanded, pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead.

“Well . . .” The officer hesitated and glanced at his partner. The younger man cleared his throat but didn't say anything. “Well,” the older one started
again, “we need to talk to Rachel in connection with the death this evening of a young man named”—he checked his notepad—“Dave Kinley.”

“Dave?” Erica cried. “Dead? How? I don't
believe
it!” She covered her face with her hands and slumped down to sit on the bottom step.

“Are you okay, miss?” the younger officer asked, bending over her.

“Dave?” Erica cried. “Dave is
dead?”

“I'm sorry,” the older man said softly. “I didn't mean to shock you. I didn't know how else to tell you.”

“How awful,” Mrs. McClain said, shaking her head, her voice a hushed whisper. “How awful.”

Slumped on the bottom stair, Erica's hands remained over her face. “How?” she asked weakly. “What happened?”

“We found him across the street,” the policeman offered. “In the Davises' driveway. Beside the front porch.” He glanced at his pad. “The victim was stabbed to death. Very recently, we think. Our investigators are on their way.”

“Stabbed?” Erica let out a terrified cry. She lowered her hands. Her face was bright red. “Stabbed? Just like my sister Josie? Just like me?”

Her mother leaned over and placed both hands comfortingly on her shoulders.

“May we talk to your daughter Rachel?” the younger officer, shifting his weight uncomfortably, asked Mrs. McClain.

“Rachel? Why Rachel?” Mrs. McClain demanded,
holding on to Erica, who was trembling and shaking her head.

“Someone fitting her description was observed fleeing the Davises' yard.”

“That's impossible!” Erica cried.

Mrs. McClain's expression hardened. She clenched her jaw. “You've made a mistake,” she said firmly. “My daughter could not have been the one.”

“We need to talk to her for just a minute,” the officer said, returning Mrs. McClain's stare.

“My daughter was in an accident,” Mrs. McClain told them, her voice quivering. “Her brain was—damaged. She cannot leave the house by herself. She must always be watched.”

“I'm sorry to insist,” the older officer said softly. “But we have to talk to Rachel. We'll keep it very brief. Could you wake her for us?”

“She's awake,” Erica said, climbing to her feet.

“You're wasting your time,” Mrs. McClain insisted. “Rachel was not out of this house. Rachel couldn't stab anyone.”

“I'm sure it's a misunderstanding,” the man said.

Erica started up the stairs, followed by her mother, followed by the two officers. The stairs creaked noisily under all the weight.

Rachel was still sitting up in her bed, the covers up to her waist, her red hair falling softly against the headboard. “Hi,” she said brightly as the officers stepped into the room.

“This is my daughter Rachel,” Mrs. McClain told them, hurrying to Rachel's side and putting a hand on her slender shoulder.

“My sister has to be watched,” Erica said, walking to the opposite side of the bed. “She cannot go out by herself.”

“Yes, I
can!”
Rachel protested, smiling at the two police. “I go out all the time!”

“E
rica, hi. How are you feeling?”

Erica made her way around a group of laughing kids and walked over to Melissa's locker. It was a few days later, Friday after school, and the hall was clearing out quickly.

“I'm better,” Erica said, adjusting her backpack. “I—I had a couple of bad days,” she admitted, lowering her eyes to the floor. “The doctor made me stay home. It was all such a shock. The news about Dave. The police suspecting Rachel. It was all so upsetting.”

“Have the police come up with a lead?” Melissa asked, leaning back against a locker. “Anything at all?”

“I don't think so,” Erica told her, sighing. “Of course, after they talked to Rachel for a few minutes, they realized that she couldn't have killed Dave. They
realized immediately . . .” Her voice trailed off sadly. She chewed hard on her bubble gum.

“I can't believe they haven't turned up anything,” Melissa said, tugging nervously at a strand of her hair. “It—it's so horrible. Right in my driveway. I—I just don't know what to think.” She took a deep breath and lowered her hand. “Where you headed?”

“Guys and Dolls
rehearsal,” Erica replied. “I tried out for Adelaide, but I didn't get it.” She sighed. “But at least I'm in the chorus. Are you going to the skating party on the lake Sunday night?”

“Yeah.” Melissa nodded. “I don't really feel in a partying mood. But Luke is insisting we go. He says otherwise we'll just sit around and be morbid.”

“Morbid.”
Erica repeated the word, frowning. “Yeah. Morbid. I'm going too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Melissa replied, pushing herself away from the locker, standing up straight. “Who's your date?”

Erica made a face. “I don't have one. I just thought I'd go to get out of the house. It's pretty
morbid
at my house too, you know.” A dry, mirthless laugh escaped her lips. “Got to run. I'm already late.”

Melissa watched Erica hurry down the long corridor.

Poor kid. She doesn't have it easy, Melissa thought.

Josie's face flashed into her mind. It would be so
horrible
to lose a sister, Melissa thought with a shudder.

So horrible to have a sister murdered.

One sister murdered. One sister stabbed. One sister's life ruined forever by a stupid accident.

The McClains don't have it easy, Melissa realized. Poor Erica.

She turned to her locker and began to spin the lock. Finishing the combination, she lifted up on the handle and pulled the door open.

And uttered a startled cry.

“Oh no!”

On the inside of the locker door, someone had painted a large, broken valentine heart. Smeared dots of bright red blood dripped from the heart. Scrawled in thick red paint at the bottom were the words:
YOU'RE DEAD.