Frayed (2 page)

Trouble followed Rafe right into Circling Pines.

Circling Pines hasn’t changed much since you died. The streets are as quiet as they’ve always been, despite the tourists that filter through the town on their way to visit the national parks. The mountains still rise on either side of us, and the pine forests continue to grow. I half expected the mountains to come crumbling down when you died or the forests to shrivel up and die.

Rafe and his parents had moved in only a few streets from where we lived with our foster mother, and we spent most of our time together.

Remember when we were seven and eight, and we’d race down the empty streets on our bicycles, leaves scattering in our wakes? Or when we were nine and ten, and we’d fly our kites along the high overlook just east of town?

Or when Rafe and I were twelve, and you were thirteen, and we were beginning to notice things we hadn’t before. Like the shape of his jaw and mouth and how he was quickly becoming taller than us, voice deepening.

One moment stuck out like a red petal in snow.

It was the beginning of high school. I was nervous, terrified, and alone. You’d told me you’d meet me at the gates for my first day. You weren’t there, but Rafe was.

Rafe looked at me, saw my expression, and said, “You don’t always need her, you know. You’re smart. And capable. And one day, Kesley might not be there to help you.”

I never realized how right he was. Because you never know how much you’re relying on someone until they’re gone. Until they’re swept away without warning, and in a heartbeat, you’re alone and left floundering.

I’ve felt a lot like that after you died.

I didn’t just lose a sister and a friend—but a protector too. You were always there for me through thick and thin and everything in between. In third grade when Stacey Miller threw my glasses down the toilet because they looked funny, you made her go out and buy a new pair. That memory was still sharp, and I’ve been wearing contacts for the past few years. And just a few years later when Amanda Dawson stuck a “Kick Me” sign on my back, you slapped her across the face.

Now that you’re gone, Kesley, I have no big sister to protect me…

Ten minutes later, Rafe and I were seated in the one of the many cafés in town, my fingers curled around the hot edges of a coffee cup. The scent of coffee filled the room, and the warm glow from the fire that crackled in the fireplace sent dancing rays of light across our faces.

We hadn’t said much on the trip here. Rafe seemed different than I remembered. Some of the cool confidence that used to ooze from every pore had evaporated, leaving a quieter boy behind. Still, that didn’t stop him from catching the eye of the pretty waitress and winking at her.

“So you just came back from Vancouver today?” I asked.

“Yesterday, actually. I figured it would be best—”

“You missed my sister’s funeral,” I said. My grip tightened involuntarily around the hot cup; it scorched my skin, but I hardly noticed. “It was a month ago.”

“I know. I… How was it?” he asked quietly.

“Painful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” But my tone suggested otherwise. In a way, I was absurdly jealous. How was it fair that he’d skipped past all the pain and the tears and the sleepless nights leading up to the funeral? And then there was the funeral itself. I don’t remember much of it. It’s all just a blur of tears and words.

I fixed my gaze on the swirling contents of my cup, remembering all the times I’d ditched first period with Kesley to have coffee. That would never happen again. It felt wrong somehow to be sitting here with her former best friend, talking and having a cup of coffee. An awkward silence had descended, and Rafe broke it first.

“Do you ever wonder…” He paused, cleared his throat, and started again. “Ava, she was murdered—”

“Do I ever wonder who killed her?” I finished for him.

He nodded.

“I wonder that every second of every goddamn day.”

“Do they have any idea?”

“No,” I said, cutting him off. “They don’t know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Am I
okay
with that?” My mouth popped open in surprise. “Of course I’m not. But what can I do about it? I’m no detective. They told Mom and me they would do their best to find out who…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Neither could Rafe. He dropped his blue gaze to his own cup. He still hadn’t touched it. I stared out the windows at the cars zooming past on the main street and wished I could be anywhere but here. Silence fell between us, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses by the couple at the table next to us and the chiming of the bell every time someone entered or exited the shop.

I stood up abruptly. “I should go—”

“Okay,” Rafe agreed, and he rose to his feet too. There was nothing more to say here, I realized. He had only wanted to talk to me because I was
that poor girl whose sister was murdered
. I wondered just how much he cared about me. About Kesley. I was on the verge of asking, but Rafe was already flagging down the waitress to pay for the coffees.

He flipped open his wallet just as the bell chimed and a few more customers walked through the doors, bringing with them a strong, harsh wind. A piece of paper was blown from his wallet and fluttered onto the table. Before Rafe could reach down to pick it up, I did. My curious gaze skimmed across the paper, and I realized a moment later that it was a plane ticket from Vancouver to Calgary. The date read:
September 9
.

Only two days before Kesley died.

I visited your grave every day, even though you wouldn’t have wanted me to.

You’d shake back your hair and say, “Gosh, Ava, don’t be so morbid!” And a smile would appear on your lips—a sweet, playful smile. Then you’d roll your eyes and saunter away, trying to flip your hair behind you like all the bitchy girls do at school.

The day Rafe came back to school was no exception. The overwhelming need to be close to you, or where you were buried, drove me to the cemetery in an attempt to ease the knot of anxiety in my chest.

I had the way to your grave memorized from the first time I’d come alone.

Your headstone is the prettiest. It’s made from white marble that reflects the glistening afternoon sun, with golden, curvy letters marking your date of birth and date of death, and the words “You Will Always Be Loved” carved into the marble.

That day, I reached inside my pocket and placed a rose there that I’d taken from someone’s garden on the way. Even though I knew the rose would wither and die in just a few days, seeing it on your headstone made me feel better.

Most days, I didn’t know what else to do. So I talked.

I talked about how things have changed, how much Mom and I miss you, how much I’ve cried when I can’t sleep at night. I told you every small, insignificant detail of my school day—what sort of designer bag Lia had brought with her to school and how unfair it was that I received after-school detention. I wondered aloud what you would have said, how you would have reacted.

I told you how Rafe had come back to see me, about how he had enrolled in Circling Pines High School again. Would you have been happy? Upset? Sad? Confused? And finally, I told you about the plane ticket. About the date that was written there. About how I thought…how I thought that maybe he could have been involved with…

It wasn’t fair. Any of it.

I stood at your grave, actually considering that your best friend might have killed you and wondering why you were the one who had been killed.

Why not me…

For a place that held so many terrible things, the cemetery was devastatingly beautiful at this time of the afternoon. I couldn’t help but think the lighting was perfect for painting.

“Ava?”

I glanced around. A familiar-looking figure appeared from the trees to my right, silhouetted against the withering light from the sky.

“I’m here,” I said, knowing he’d want a reply. My boyfriend, Jackson Palmer, emerged from the darkness and came to stand next to me. I wondered briefly whether he knew about my meeting with Rafe.

“Your mother called me, said she was worried when you didn’t come home after school.” Jackson moved forward and put his arms around my waist, brushing his mouth against my neck. It felt nice to be able to lean into something solid, something warm and so, so alive.

I sighed. That sounded
exactly
like my foster mother.

Ever since Kesley died, she’d been particularly protective. Not that I blamed her.

“Right, yeah.” I pressed a hand to my forehead where a dull ache had started up. “Sorry, I forgot to call her and tell her I’d be here.”

Jackson frowned.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing. You just look upset. Would you rather be alone?” I thought I detected a hint of bitterness to his voice, as if he thought I didn’t need him, but maybe I was imagining it. Jackson was all the boyfriend I needed and wanted, and I was sure he knew that.

I turned farther into the circle of his arms and placed one of my hands on either side of his face, forcing a smile. “No…I just…wanted to see
her
.” I felt stupid as soon as the words slipped from my mouth. Was it morbid to find comfort in sitting beside a grave every day?

Maybe Jackson thought so too, because he didn’t say anything. To cover the slightly awkward moment, I looped my arm in his and started back up the path of the cemetery. Not exactly a prime location for a romantic stroll.

“How did you even know I come here every afternoon?” I asked.

“I followed you,” he said simply.

I felt a slight flicker of irritation, but I pushed it back. He was concerned about me—that was all. Emotion tightened my throat so much that I couldn’t speak. I sometimes wondered why Jackson was still with me. Wouldn’t it be easier to walk away than deal with the troubled girl who had just lost her sister?

I’d quickly learned not to question my blessings.

We reached the edge of the cemetery, and I stopped to look back. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and a blue-purple gloom had settled over the headstones, reflecting my mood perfectly.

Jackson, who seemed to realize my mood was declining rapidly, said, “Remember that first time we met?”

Almost against my will, I felt a small smile curve my lips.

I said, “How can I forget?”

He laughed, and the sound broke through the eerie silence of the falling night. “You’re right. Seventh-grade camping trip. We hiked up in the middle of nowhere that spring, though it was still pretty cold at night.”

“You lent me your jacket,” I said. “You said that if I got any colder, I’d turn blue and my toes would fall off.”

I turned to face him and saw his hazel eyes crinkle as he smiled. If the truth was told, I had been in love with Jackson from that moment on, but I had been too afraid to show it. We hadn’t gotten together until he asked me to the end-of-school-year dance two summers ago.

And we’d been a couple ever since.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand and leading me down the street. “Your mother will be sick with worry by now.”

• • •

He was right about that. My mother yanked me into a tight hug as soon as I unlocked the door, refusing to let me go until I told her I was fine at least five times. Then she pulled away and wiped her eyes. Tears. Guilt tugged at my insides as I realized I wasn’t the only one suffering.

We stood in the brightly lit hallway, the white light gleaming off the immaculately cleaned surfaces of the modern house. There was a lot of glass and metal and white tiles that were scrubbed clean as soon as a speck of dirt was visible. The hallway was cavernous, and from where I stood facing the arched doors of the kitchen, the bitter scent of cleaning agents burned my nostrils. Whenever she was under pressure, Mom thought she could just clean the stress away. It rarely worked.

The only room she hadn’t touched was Kesley’s. Every time I walked down the hallway to my room, I still caught a whiff of jasmine perfume. The scent of sorrow still clung to her room.

“Did Jackson tell you where I was?” I asked.

“I—”

“Mom?”

“Well, he said he had an idea…”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“Oh, sweetie,” my mother whispered. “He said you would be at Kesley’s grave.”

I flinched. I wished he hadn’t told her that. I wished he’d just dropped me at home and I’d made up a story about my cell phone dying while I was studying at the library like a normal person. I felt my mother’s hand touch my face. Warm, gentle.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice tender. “Maybe you should see someone about this…”

My face heated, and I shook my head vehemently. I stretched a smile across my face, but it felt fake.

“I have homework I need to do,” I whispered, heading up the carpeted stairs. I made sure I looked at the woven material beneath my feet as I walked down the hall to my room. Family pictures of Diana, Kesley, and I hung on the wall, pictures that depicted happy people, pictures that showed a family full of light, where the darkness couldn’t touch them.

A family that no longer existed.

A family that had broken apart when Kesley was murdered.

• • •

If I had inherited one trait from my birth mother, it was my love of painting. Kesley found her solace in piano, and I found mine in the slashes of paint against an empty canvas.

I’d sit in my room overlooking the road and set up my mother’s easel. It was one of the few things I still had left of her—not a memory but a real, tangible object. I’d run my fingers along the wooden edges, thinking,
This is where my mother painted. Drew. Did she think of me when she put paint to canvas?
Since Kesley’s death, I hadn’t touched the easel. It lay gathering dust in the attic. But today—today was different. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter. The fall leaves looked a little more colorful.

After bringing the easel and paint into my room from the attic, I stared out the window and closed my eyes. Inspiration was a tricky thing. It came and went, just as day and night did. I breathed out a slow, careful sigh.

All I had to do was put paint to canvas. Simple.

I raised the paintbrush, dripping with black paint. And then I started painting.

I lost time as I painted. There was nothing but me and the strokes of paint splashing against the stark white of the canvas. Outside, the sky turned from the pale gray of dusk to the deep blue of twilight. I heard the sounds of my mother downstairs and the hiss of the kettle being turned on. I was completely, utterly tuned in to what was before me—so much so that I didn’t even
realize
night had fallen until I couldn’t see my own work. I finally rose from where I worked and flicked the light on, sending light across the canvas.

The painting was a tangle of lines. Black, red, dark green. It was hard to make out any defining images, but if I looked hard enough, I could see the outline of tall pine trees touching the very tips of the canvas. My stomach plummeted. And there, I thought, I could see a lake. The gravel road that usually led to the lake was twistier than in real life, and I had painted it into a texture that resembled rope.

The lake where she was killed, the rope that had strangled her…

What was I
doing
, drawing pictures of Kesley’s death scene? Was I becoming like my mother, whose artwork became darker and darker before her end?

My stomach twisted, my throat tight and painful. I snatched a pair of scissors from my desk and tore at the canvas until it became shreds. I didn’t want to paint. Never again.