Deadly Little Secret (23 page)

“They think you’re next.”

“
What?
” My heart clenches, and my head fuzzes over.

“Camelia?” Matt takes a step closer and touches my forearm. “Do you need to sit down?”

I shake my head, trying to get a grip.

“You can’t honestly tell me you’re surprised, can you?” he asks.

“I just don’t understand.”

“This is all just what I heard,” he assures me. “But the police are questioning him now.”

“Him, as in Ben?”

“Well . . . yeah.” He bites the inside of his cheek, like he can see how bothered I am—and like that bothers him, too.

“How do they know it was a motorcycle?” I ask. “Did anyone see it happen?”

“She told the police it was a motorcycle,” Kimmie says, inserting herself into our conversation. “She also said Ben’s name right before she fell into the coma.”

“What was she doing walking around by herself at that hour?” I ask.

“People are saying she was supposed to be sleeping at her friend Manda’s house,” Matt explains. “But apparently there was some drama, and so Debbie decided to walk home, since her house is only five minutes away.”

I shake my head again, completely confused. “It just doesn’t make sense. How did this happen?”

“I think the question we should be asking ourselves is: what are
you
going to do about it?” Kimmie asks.

“Me?”

“Well, um, hello, he’s stalking you, too.”

“We’re just worried about you,” Matt says. He exchanges a look with Kimmie, like they’ve obviously discussed my welfare.

“Ben’s not the one stalking me.”

“Oh, yeah, and who told you that?” Kimmie asks.
“Ben?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her.

“No,” she snaps. “You don’t. I’m just trying to be a good friend—unlike you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

While Matt excuses himself, promising to talk to me later, Kimmie digs her fists deeper into the pockets of her dress.

“When was the last time you asked me about what
I’m
feeling, or what’s going on in
my
life?” She continues by pointing out that I never inquired about the workshop she’s applying to at the Fashion Institute, and that I haven’t shown even a speck of concern about what’s going on inside her house.

“You mean with your dad?” I ask, noticing the letter
K
patched at the hem of her dress, along with a black lipstick smudge—her trademark logo.

“Well, yeah, with my dad,” she snaps. “I mean, he’s been acting all twenty-something-frat-boy lately, and you haven’t even asked me about it. And it’s not just me,” she continues, without missing a breath. “You haven’t been supportive of Wes, either.”

“Wes?”

She nods. “How come you never offered to play girlfriend in front of his dad?”

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling my chin shake.

“I don’t know, either.” She sighs. “And I really don’t feel like fighting with you anymore, especially about Ben.”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” I say in my own defense.

“Which is why I’ve been so patient with you. It’s also why I’ve indulged you with all your Ben talk.”

“You don’t understand about Ben,” I say. “He was able to sense that time I got lost in the second grade. Remember . . . at recess?”

“Are you seriously kidding me?” She rolls her eyes. “
Everybody
at that school knew you were lost—they announced it over the loudspeaker. You think it would be totally unheard of for him to find out? This is a small town, Camelia. People talk.”

I take a deep breath, my head spinning. It feels like I’ve been socked in the gut.

“Look,” she continues, taking a step closer to meet my gaze, “I’m only going to say this once: I don’t trust Ben. I don’t trust the stories he’s been feeding you. And neither does anyone else. One girl is dead, another is in a coma. What’s going to happen to you?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, feeling my eyes fill up, suddenly more afraid than ever.

“You need to talk to the police,” she demands, handing me a tissue from the front of her dress. “Have you told your parents yet?”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“Of course not.” Another eye roll.

“No,” I say, blotting my eyes with the tissue, “you don’t understand. I’m talking to my father tonight.”

“Well, if you don’t, I will—and that’s a promise. You have until eight tonight to spill it.”

“Kimmie, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she says, finally cutting me an inch of slack. “If it were up to me, all boys would come with a label:
Failure to take in small doses may result in irrational behavior, poor judgment, and estrangement from one’s friends.
” And with that she turns on her heel and heads off to homeroom. The zigzag hem of her baby-doll dress flaps out behind her with posh precision, reminding me how truly talented she is.

And how completely out of the loop I’ve been.

46

I got called into the guidance office today.

Ms. Beady acted as if it were just a routine check-in, but then she started probing—asking me if everything was okay, if I had a boyfriend, if I felt safe here at school.

I didn’t give her an inch, even though a part of me wanted to. A part of me wanted to unload everything, just to get it off my shoulders.

Word is Ben came to school today. But no sooner did he step off his bike than a bunch of boys jumped him. It’s all very vague as to whom the culprits were, but apparently he ended up with his lip split open and a bruise under his eye. The administration called his aunt and had him sent home for the day, but they honestly don’t seem too concerned about his welfare. Their main concern right now is poor Debbie.

And poor me.

Teachers I never even had in class, kids I never even talk to—all have gone out of their way to offer a listening ear. And so all throughout the day, with each second look in my direction and every word of warning, I can’t help wondering if I’m being like one of those ditzy girls you see in horror flicks—the girl who keeps tripping over her own stiletto heels as she flees from her perpetrator.

But I’m not like that. I’m going with my gut—with the tiny voice inside me, telling me to trust Ben, to hear him out, and that letting the school in on what’s happening now will only get him taken away, when what I need right now is to talk to him.

It’s after school, and I’m standing across the street from his house, having just walked from the bus stop down the road.

His bike is parked in the driveway. I cross the street to have a look at it, searching for any scratches, dents, or chipped paint—anything that might indicate whether or not he was in an accident last night. But, aside from a six-inch scratch on the gas tank, the bike appears perfectly fine.

A moment later I hear a creaking noise coming from next door. I peer in that direction. There’s an elderly woman looking down at me from her porch swing. When she sees I’ve spotted her, she stops swinging—the whining of the hinges ceases—but still, she continues to stare.

“Finding everything okay?” a voice says from just behind me.

I startle and whirl around.

Ben is there. His lip is puffed out, a trace of blood lingers in the corner of his mouth, and the area under his eye is a dark shade of purple.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his face completely solemn.

“I wanted to see you.” I take a step closer to inspect his wounds. There’s also a crescent-shaped cut on his chin. “Are you okay? I heard about what happened.”

“Which part—the fight, or the fact that I’m the one who supposedly put Debbie Marcus in a coma?”

I glance over my shoulder. The woman is still on her porch, still looking in this direction.

“Don’t worry about her,” he says, motioning toward the woman. “People have been watching me and calling the house all day.”

“What people?”

“Reporters, angry parents, people on the school board, people who don’t even know me . . .”

“And the police?” I ask, remembering what Matt said.

He nods. “It’s like what happened with Julie all over again—except this time I didn’t do anything.”

“This time?”

He nods again, but he doesn’t address it. “I don’t need this crap. My aunt doesn’t need it, either. The principal called and told her I should take a few weeks off.”

“They can’t do that.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“And so what can
I
do?”

“Tell me why you’re here?”

“I wanted to see you,” I repeat.

“Which is why you were inspecting my bike?”

My heart tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. I look back at his bike, at the scratch on the gas tank.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

“I just noticed the scratch,” I say, gesturing to it.

“And where do you think I got it?”

“I don’t know. Where
did
you get it?”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” But it’s more of a statement than a question.

“I just have some questions,” I say, to clarify things. “I mean, they say Debbie was hit around one thirty or two, on Columbus. That’s right near my house. That’s right around the time you dropped me off.”

“But I didn’t hit her,” he assures me.

“Were you on Columbus?”

“What if I said yes?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What answer do you want?”

“The truth,” I insist. “Just tell me the truth, and make me understand. Debbie seems to think it was you—at least that’s what she told the police.”

“She said my name,” Ben says, correcting me. “And she said a motorcycle hit her. But she didn’t say I was the one who was driving that motorcycle.” He stares at me for my response—like what he’s saying is supposed to make things right.

But it’s actually making things worse.

I glance back at the motorcycle, wondering if the scratch was there before, fearing I would have noticed if it had been.

“I got the scratch today,” he says. “Some kids kicked my bike over.”

“Really?”

“Is it so hard to believe?” He motions to his banged-up face. “So, what now?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches out to take my hand. “I still need to help you.”

I hesitate, looking down at his palm, not ready for him to touch me yet—and to know what I’m thinking.

But he takes my hand anyway.

His fingers close around mine. It’s tender at first, almost comforting, but then he starts to squeeze.

“Ben,” I plead, trying to pull away.

He draws me closer. His other hand cinches my wrist.

“Let go,” I say, louder this time.

But it’s like he doesn’t even hear me. His eyes are wild. His mouth is a straight, tense line. He grips harder, causing my joints to ache. My body turns cold. My head starts to spin.

Ben’s face is pale and furious—no doubt from what he’s sensing. I look up again at the woman on the porch. She gets up from her swing and hurries inside. Maybe she’s going to call for help.

After several moments of more pleading and pulling, I jab the wooden heel of my shoe into his shin. It catches him off guard, and I’m able to yank free. I take several steps back, all out of breath. A look of horror is frozen on my face—I can feel it there. “What just happened?” I ask.

Ben’s trembling, too. He bites his lip, to stop the shaking maybe. “I lost control,” he whispers.

“But I’m okay,” I assure him.

“Maybe now, but what about next time? All it takes is one slipup.”

“But there’s no cliff here,” I say, trying to make light of it, even though my insides are completely rattled.

Ben shakes his head, like he doesn’t want to hear anymore, like he can’t even face me now. “You’re right not to trust me.”

“But I want to trust you. That’s why I’m here. It’s why I chose to come here instead of telling the police everything.”

I reach out to take his hand, but Ben pulls away before I can even touch him.

“I need you,” I continue. “I need you to help me figure everything out.”

Still shaking his head, he turns away and goes back inside the house.