Never Gonna Tell (11 page)

“You scared the pants off me!” My hand covers my chest, feeling my heart pounding.

Marco grins wickedly. “Mmm. Is that so?” He’s standing strangely, with his body angled away from me. “How loud do I need to say ‘boo’ to scare the rest off you?”

I want to be offended, but his voice is low and husky, warming my body without trying. Damn my hormones!
Wait, what was I going to ask him?
He turns, giving me a perfect view of his ass.
Good Lord…

“That’s…” I clear my throat. “That’s not what I meant.” I’m staring at him, imagining things I have no business thinking about. Imagining him doing things…

No!
I shake my head to get rid of the inappropriate thoughts and distract myself by straightening the papers on my desk. “What are you doing here? How did you even find me?”

He takes a few steps inside the office, moving slowly around the room, starting at the opposite corner. “Wasn’t easy,” he replies vaguely. “What is this place?” I have to stand on my tip-toes to see over his shoulder what he’s referring to. It’s one of my old newspaper articles I wrote in Baltimore. I had hung it on the wall for inspiration when I first found this room.

I want to grab the paper from him, uneasy about someone reading my work, but I don’t. “It’s the newspaper office. Or, at least it was.”

“You wrote this?”

I nod nervously, hoping he doesn’t look too closely at all the notes I have on his family scattered around the room.

He picks up another one, skimming it. “So this is why I can never find you at lunch. You’re always down here?”

“You look for me at lunch?”

Marco takes a few more steps toward me, fixing his blue eyes on me. “You … intrigue me.”

My mouth dries, his words toying with my sense of reason. Being near him is like standing near a black hole. You know it’ll suck you in. You know it’s dangerous and will only hurt you in the end, but you can’t help wanting to peek closer inside.

I so want to peek closer inside. He always does this to me. Why do I let him do this to me?

I start to ask him a question but pause when I notice the rest of his face.

“Marco, what happened?” A dark bruise covers most of his cheek and right eye, which is swollen so bad he can barely open it. His lip is also swollen, the skin broken and starting to scab over. In the two years I’ve been at this school, Marco has been in several fights, and never once has he taken this big of a beating. He’s usually the one delving it out.

He turns away. “It’s nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.” I stand, taking a step toward him. He hesitates, his muscles tensing, but he doesn’t move. “You were in a fight?”

“Something like that,” he whispers, tensing even more as I come closer. His eyes are heavy, emotion swirling through them.

“Does it hurt?” I whisper, reaching my hand forward. I gently brush his bruised cheek with the pad of my thumb. He closes his eyes as my hand makes contact. His breath is warm on my hand, and I step even closer, only a few inches separating us now.

“Not anymore,” he answers, the air around us growing thicker.

My thumb traces the bruise, inching down his cheek before landing on his soft lip. His breath sucks in, just a little, at my contact.

Staring into his eyes, all hope of keeping my distance from him is lost. I forget every logical reason I have to fear him, to fear what he can do. All that matters is that he keeps looking at me like he is right now. Like I’m Christmas and his birthday and the Fourth of July all wrapped in one. It’s intoxicating.

“Marco,” I breathe.

A buzzing in his pocket yanks us from the moment. He reels back, like I shocked him with an electric bolt. His walls go immediately back up as his face takes on his “don’t mess with me” glare that he’s famous for. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out his phone and scowls at whatever it says.

“Marco?”

He takes several steps backward, his jaw tense. “What?”

“Is … is everything okay?”

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and faces me, but this time his eyes are cold. Hard. “I want you to listen very closely, Reagan. You cannot, under any circumstances, go to the police with what you saw. Do you understand me?”

“I wasn’t … I thought … Why are you saying this to me?” My eyebrows furrow, and I shake my head.
What the hell just happened?

His entire body is rigid, like a predator about to attack. I shrink back, sitting in the chair, biting my lip to keep it from quivering.
Marco wouldn’t hurt me, would he?

There’s a war brewing in his eyes. So much emotion is swirling around, and I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. All at once, he pulls me against him, his hands cupping my face. Our noses are so close I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “Reagan,” he breathes before moving even closer still.

My eyes slide shut, waiting for him to kiss me. Wanting him to kiss me. Begging him to kiss me.

His phone buzzes again in his pocket.

“Fuck!” he yells, letting go of me before turning and punching the wall opposite me.

I jump at his outburst, my hands now trembling. He turns away from me, heading for the door. “If you value your life or the lives of your family, you’ll listen to me and do as I say. No. Cops. Just go about your life like you’ve never met me or any of my family, and everything will be fine, got it?”

I blink away the tears trying to escape. “Got it. Say nothing. Do nothing. Know nothing. I understand now.”

Marco balls his hands into fists, but doesn’t speak for several moments. After what seems like hours have passed, he turns and he faces me again. For a split second, his eyes soften, but only for a second. “My family won’t hesitate to make an example out of you, Reagan. Just forget you ever went out that night. And forget you ever met me. I mean it.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before storming out, leaving me in a haze of confusion. Every time I see him, I become more confused on exactly what he’s thinking. But his words today leave little room for interpretation. If the Calottas ever find out what I saw—what I know—Marco’s threat will become my reality.

A feeling of dread washes over me as a morose thought enters my mind. I won’t write this headline. I’ll become one.

BY THE TIME Dad comes strolling in with a supreme pizza minus anchovies for dinner, I’ve made a decision.

Dad plops the pizza down on the island counter and kisses me on the forehead. “Did you have a good day at school, sweetie?”

“You know what, Daddy? I did.” I reach into the cupboard to grab some paper plates as he fills two glasses with ice.

“That’s great. And you’re feeling better now? Your mom was really concerned about you yesterday. She heard you crying out in your sleep again last night. It’s been years since you had a night terror. Did the fever bring it on?”

I pale, praying I didn’t involuntarily say too much, and try to keep it from showing. “Must have. But I’ll be okay. Where’s Mom? Working late today?”

He pulls slices out of the box and places them onto the paper plates as I fill my cup with Diet Mountain Dew. “Yeah, she called me a bit ago to tell us to eat without her. I guess the DA’s office got a big case, so she’s working with the police on part of their investigation.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I fight to keep my face neutral, but I’m not fast enough. Daddy knows me too well. “What is it, Reagan?”

Ugh. I really hate lying to my dad. “It’s nothing.”

“Reagan Margaret, don’t lie to me. It’s something. And if you’re trying to pretend it’s not, then it’s something big enough to worry me.”

I sigh deeply. “Dad, I promise. It’s nothing. I think it was just the smell of the pizza. It didn’t quite agree with me and kind of turned my stomach.”

Daddy presses his hand on my forehead and cheeks before replying. “If you’re still fighting a bug, then you shouldn’t eat pizza. I’ll make you some soft scrambled eggs and toast. Why don’t you go lay on the couch?”

I do as he asks, kicking myself for giving such a lame response. I was really looking forward to that pizza.

“Want me to add anything to the eggs? Let’s see, I’ve got…” The refrigerator door opens as dad roots around for ingredients.

“No! Just plain eggs, Dad.” Good gravy, my stomach really might be upset if he tries to doctor up the eggs.

After bringing me my eggs—plain, thank God—Dad and I veg on the couch for the rest of the night, watching bad reality TV and laughing at the stupid things people will do to get their fifteen minutes of fame. But every time the clock chimes indicating another hour has passed and my mom still isn’t home, the more worried I become.

My mom is an assistant district attorney. When we lived in Baltimore, she worked in the financial crimes unit and she spent most of her days either in a courtroom or staring at a computer screen. She was getting burnt out quick and began applying for jobs in smaller areas. When the chief of DAs called and offered her a position in major crimes for the entire county, rather than one section of one small division, she was thrilled. It was her dream job, and she jumped at the chance. Luckily Daddy’s job is flexible, and his boss allowed him to transfer to their Chattanooga location. Life’s a lot different for both of them in this rural county. Dad hates the commute into the city but was thankful they let him transfer at all. Mom doesn’t see a lot of craziness like on
Law and Order
; instead, she mostly deals with prosecuting drug charges and DUIs. If work was keeping her occupied until after nine o’clock, it would have to be for something big—like a murder.

Dad’s snoring away in his recliner, so I begin to make my way up to bed, tiptoeing so as not to wake him. I click off the lamp in the den before ambling across the room to close the curtains. Glancing out the window, something catches my eye. I squint, unsure what I really saw, but it’s gone.

A cold shiver runs up my spine. I could have sworn I saw someone looking in my direction, right in my window. Is someone stalking me? Do the Calottas know? Are they keeping tabs on me? Is Marco? A thousand other thoughts race through my head, each more terrifying than the last.

I scramble to the front door, locking both the knob and the deadbolt before peering out the peephole. Still nothing, but I
know
I saw something. I’m certain of it.

As I climb the stairs to my room, I try to convince myself that it was just Mr. Slater walking his dog. Thinking that allows me to settle down a little, but I still can’t fall asleep. I am just finally dozing off when I hear the garage door open. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s nearly eleven. As much as I just want to ask my mom about whatever kept her at work so late, I know better. She’s tightlipped about work stuff, both because of attorney/client privilege and because she’s always afraid whatever horrible thing she’s working on will scar me. If she only knew …

I wait until I hear my parents go to bed before I sneak downstairs as quietly as possible, cursing the creaky floorboards on the old house. I find Mom’s briefcase slung over a chair and take it into the downstairs bathroom, locking the door behind me. I pull out the files and weed through each one, looking for anything that involves the murder I witnessed.

I find it at the bottom of the stack. The file is pretty thin, and I’m disappointed they don’t have more information yet. I comb through every word, trying to make sense of it all. Thirty-six-year-old male victim found floating on the banks of the Tennessee River early yesterday morning by a fisherman. The body was bloated and had been scavenged by animals making his corpse unrecognizable, but fingerprints identified him as Daniel Everett. I close the file, thanking all that is holy that there is no picture of the body. I do not need that mental image.

I read the name again, trying to figure out why it sounds so familiar. The Everetts are a large family in the area, with lots of second, third, and fourth cousins spread around the state, so I can’t place which one Daniel was. A relative of Hunter’s I assume, but which one? With no picture in the file, and my laptop in my room, I can’t Google it right now. I’ll have to wait until later.

I continue reading, looking for more clues. Mom has a few handwritten notes scrawled in the margins of the file. I turn it sideways, attempting to read her chicken scratch. “Corn noon Thurs. CoD poss GSW? Pull & send to balls”

I deduce that the autopsy is scheduled for Thursday at noon, and the victim was shot. This pretty much confirms for me that Daniel Everett is the man I saw last night. They dumped him in the river after they killed him. Unfortunately, the police have little to go on so far, which only fuels my urge to tell my mom what I know. I have always been a seeker of the truth, and holding in this secret is rotting a hole in my soul. Fear is the only thing keeping me quiet.

A creaking on the stairs startles me. I hastily close the file and shove it back in the briefcase. I sit and listen for a second before opening the door but hear nothing. I flip the light to off before slowly creeping out.

I barely make it back to the dining room to replace the bag where I found it when I hear my mom in the den. “Reagan? Why are you up, sweetie?”