Never Gonna Tell (9 page)

Hoping that’ll be enough to appease them, I bounce over to Dad, who is reclining on his Lazyboy, drop the keys in his awaiting hand, and give him a kiss on the cheek.

“I don’t think the burger agreed with me, so I’m going to take a shower and head to bed, if that’s okay. I don’t have much homework left and I have study hall before it’s due anyway.” I give Mom a quick hug and turn to leave. “Love you. Goodnight.”

I don’t even make it out of the family room before I hear, “Reagan Margaret, get back here.”

Cringing, I wipe my face of emotion and turn around to face my parents. “Yes, Daddy?”

He stares at me inquisitively for a moment, and I know he’s attempting to read what I’m trying to hide. I make a conscious effort to not think about the events of earlier tonight. Everything depends on it.
Puppies. I think of puppies. Happy puppies!

He opens his mouth, but says nothing and after a moment seems satisfied. He shakes his head slightly and points to the dining room. “Some mail came for you today. I think it’s the letter of recommendation you asked for from your old journalism teacher in Baltimore.”

My cheeks hurt from feigning this happy routine for so long, but I’m almost in the clear. “That’s great! Thanks!”

I’m halfway up the stairs when Mom yells up, “And we’ll talk about how long you’re grounded for tomorrow.”

I don’t bother to reply. Instead I head straight for my bathroom, locking the door behind me before peeling off my clothes. I set the water to scalding and step inside, sinking to the floor as the tears come flooding back. I don’t let myself worry about the consequences or attempt to think of a plan or what to do next. Instead, I grieve. I grieve for the man who lost his life and grieve for the future I’ll probably never have.

I stay in the shower until no hot water remains, and only when I begin to shiver from the cold do I decide it’s probably time to get out. As much as I’d like to, I can’t hide in here forever. I step out of the shower and wipe the mirror clear of the steam. I look like crap, which is fitting since I feel like it too. I dry off before donning a big fluffy robe, and, scooping up my clothes, I head for my bed. I just want to crawl under the covers and drift off, pretending this night never happened.

A soft knock on my door brings me back to the present. “Honey? You still up?”

I tighten the belt on my robe and pick up my brush, running it through my hair. “Yeah, Mom. Come on in.”

Mom sits precariously at the foot of my bed, crossing her legs. Whatever she came to tell me, it’s not going to be quick. She only sits on my bed when she plans on staying a while. “You had a visitor while you were in the shower.”

Now that is not what I expected. It’s going to take Charlie at least ten hours to drive here, so it can’t be him, and Kally is still out of town. “Huh? Who would come over this late?”

“He said his name was Marco. Didn’t give a last name.”

My heart stops.
Sweet mother of God, this is sooo not good.
“Oh?” It’s the only sound I can get my vocal cords to make.

“Listen, Reagan. I know you’re seventeen now, and your father and I don’t mind if a gentleman comes over, but after ten on a school night is not an appropriate time. Especially without calling first or without prior permission.”

The irony makes me want to choke out a laugh. My mom thinks Marco is here to date me, when he’s really probably here to threaten my life or something equally nefarious.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Marco’s … just a friend, and we’re in a few classes together. He probably had a question about an assignment and didn’t realize how late it was. I’ll talk to him and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Yeah, this lying through my teeth is getting easier.

Mom nods before scooping my wet towel off the floor and coming over to where I’m sitting at my vanity. “You sure you’re feeling okay, sweetie? You look pale.” She runs her hand over my forehead and down to my cheek.

“Not really. If I don’t feel better in the morning, can I stay home? I think I’m coming down with something.” Like a case of I’m-in-deep-shit-itis.

She leans in and kisses my forehead before standing up straight, folding the wet towel that she’s just going to throw in the laundry anyway. Force of habit, I guess. “Do you want to take something? Some NyQuil or Tylenol? You feel a little warm, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“No, I just want to sleep. I’ll take something in the morning if I’m worse, okay?”

“All right, sleep well. I’ll put some Tylenol PM on the counter in your bathroom if you change your mind in the night.”

I smile. I’m going to really miss my mom after I’m whacked. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she whispers, closing the door behind her.

Sliding into bed, I turn off my bedroom light. The darkness and silence envelope me, but I can’t enjoy it. Every time I close my eyes I picture the bloody bat and hear the gunshot like it’s on repeat.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Over and over until I drift off into a fitful sleep.

I WAKE UP to the sound of the doorbell, which will not stop ringing. I bury my head in the pillow and snuggle deeper into my blankets to try and block it out, but the noise is incessant.

“Ugh! MOM, get the door!” I roll over, hoping the noise will stop. I’ve barely slept, and want—no need—at least another hour. Maybe two. Okay, I can sleep through the entire day and not feel an ounce of guilt.

The doorbell continues to ring, leaving me no choice but to crawl out of bed. I glance at my phone to see the time, praying I have at least twenty more minutes before I absolutely have to get up and get ready for school.

“Nine forty-five? That can’t be right.” I stumble out of bed half asleep and totally confused. I need to find out who is at my door and why they won’t go away. I stumble down the stairs and throw the latch open on the door, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “Someone better be dead. Why the—”

The words drown out as my brain processes the face standing in front of me. “Marco? What the hell are you doing here?”

And then it hits me. Everything from last night comes flooding back. My hands begin to shake as my anxiety ratchets up seeing him on my doorstep. I close my eyes in mortification as my last words replay in my head and sink in.
Yeah, someone is dead all right. Holy shit! I witnessed a murder and now Marco is at my door. This is bad. Very, very bad.
I bite my lip to keep any other gems from slipping out and digging me a deeper hole. Like a six-foot-deep hole.

Marco smirks slightly, a brief fire igniting in his eyes before he douses it and clears his throat. “Um, you weren’t in school, so I took a guess that you might have stayed home today. I have to talk to you about last night.”

Did his family send him here to threaten me? I glance behind and around him, but he doesn’t appear to have any weapons, and I don’t see anyone with him. That relaxes me a bit. I don’t believe he personally would hurt me.
Would he?
He forms a half-smile, and the fire in his eyes is back. My throat dries out, and I can’t look away from the heat in his gaze.

No, I can’t let him pull me in.
I look away and focus on what he said. His tone isn’t angry or concerned. He seems … indifferent. Neutral even. What does that mean?

It doesn’t matter. His current tone, fake smile, or smoldering stare don’t change what happened last night or the danger I’m now in. I need to assure him I’m not looking for any trouble. I do my best to assuage him, putting on my own bright, forced smile. “What about last night? I went to the library and came straight home. That’s it. End of story.”

Marco sighs. “Look, we don’t need to pretend that—”

“Really, Marco,” I interrupt. “Nothing. Happened. Got it? That’s my story, and you can tell your family that I’m stickin’ to it.”

He’s irritated by my answer, scrubbing his hair out of his face. “I’m not here to hurt you or threaten you or anything. I just want to talk. Explain. Make you see—”

I scoff in disgust. “You want to
talk
? Explain what? There’s nothing you can say that will make any of that okay or justified in my mind.”

I’m yelling now, my “play it cool” act gone as my temper rises. I can’t believe he has the nerve to come here and try to rationalize—
calmly
rationalize, no less—the murder of a man. Have he and his family done this so often that he thinks it’s okay? No, I don’t want the answer to that. I shudder at the thought.

Mr. Slater, my neighbor, stares at me from across the street as he walks his dog, Coco. Marco steps in front of me, glancing around nervously. “Um, can we go inside and talk?” The question is more of a statement, and as he steps around me to get inside, his jeans brush up against my legs, causing me to glance down.

Sweet. Jesus.

I’m not wearing any pants. I only have an oversized “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” tee shirt on. That’s it. All the blood drains from my face and now I’m sorta wishing I was dead too. Or at least that this is some horrible nightmare.

I dare to glance up at Marco and am further mortified to see him staring down at my legs appreciatively. The small smirk is back at the corner of his mouth, and suddenly the fiery look he was giving me makes sense. Great, he’s a pervert to boot.

“I’ll be right back.” I don’t offer any additional explanation as I rush for the stairs, taking them two at a time to get to my room and away from the look in Marco’s eyes.

I take my time while I’m upstairs, not really in a hurry to go back down and face Marco. The first thing I do is search for my phone to see how close Charlie is. He texted me five times.

“My mom flipped when I tried to leave. She took the keys. U Ok?”

“Ugh. This sux. I h8 being stuck here.”

“Tell me UR ok. Do I need to get a bus ticket? U know I will. She’ll get over it. It’s not like she hasn’t left me before.”

“Worried about you! Call me!”

“I swear Rea if I don’t hear soon from U I am calling UR mom”

The last text was forty-five minutes ago. I can’t call Charlie now, not with Marco downstairs. I just need to get rid of him. I type out a quick text telling Charlie that I overreacted and I’ll call him later to explain everything—my watered-down, lying-out-of-my-ass version of everything anyway. I throw on some jeans and a bra (
great googly moogly, I hope I wasn’t flaunting any nippage when we were outside. That’s worse than no pants!).
I brush my teeth and hair before deciding I’ve wasted enough time and Lord knows what he’s doing alone in my house.

The smell of coffee permeates the downstairs, and I follow it into the kitchen like it’s the Pied Piper. Marco stands at my kitchen counter, tapping his fingers impatiently as the Keurig works its magic. A second, already-brewed cup of coffee sits next to him. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I just left it black.” He holds the steaming mug out to me.

“Um, black is fine. Thanks.”

“Ahh, a true connoisseur, I see. Girl after my own heart.”

I’m not exactly sure how to respond, so I don’t, sipping my coffee instead. We stand in an awkward silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure how to start this conversation. What am I supposed to say?
“So, about that murder…”
Yeah, unlikely.

“Um, here. I found this on the counter.” Marco hands me a piece of paper folded in half.

I take it and read it. “Reagan, I hope you’re feeling better this morning. I didn’t want to wake you as I heard you tossing and turning all night. I left some medicine on the counter in the bathroom if you need it. Take it easy and I’ll check in on your periodically throughout the day. Love, Mom.”

I fold the note and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans before making my way to the couch in the family room. If we were going to discuss my fate as a witness to a mob hit, I wanted to at least be comfortable.

Marco follows and chooses a seat across from me and props his ankle up on his knee, coffee firmly in hand. “So you’re an only child?” he asks, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“You were snooping around my house while I was upstairs?”

His face turns from mildly worried to irritated. “I wasn’t snooping. The family photos sort of give it away. I was just trying to make polite conversation.”

“Polite conversation? And then what, somehow segue from my childhood memories to the guy who got offed last night?” I know I’m playing with fire, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. My brain is telling me to shut the eff up, but my mouth doesn’t seem to care. What is wrong with me?

Marco sighs, scrubbing his forehead with his hand and pushing his hair out of his face. It’s only then do I even notice that his hair isn’t tied back like it usually is; instead his raven locks are loose, slightly tucked behind his ears with a few stray pieces brushing his face. If he was hot with it tied back, this look is downright panty dropping. Thank God I put on pants already. I take a sip of my coffee, hoping both that it’ll scald my tongue as punishment for misbehaving and serve as an excuse if drool starts appearing at the corners of my mouth.

I need to get him out of here before I do or say something I’ll regret. “There’s bound to be DNA evidence everywhere. The police are going to catch your uncle.” Like that, for example. I cringe at my outburst.