Second Verse (9 page)

“Obviously. I don’t exactly read about brutal murders for fun.” He snorts, reaching over to brush the back of my hand with his, as if our hands touching is the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve been saying it since the séance. And I agree, it has to be all connected—the voice, the drawing, the visions. The murders. We agree it can’t be coincidence, right?”

He nods.

“Okay, so that’s what I’m asking. What’s next? Our purpose in all this? If someone or some
thing
did move through the barn or us that night, why? What purpose are we serving, digging into all this stuff?

“I don’t know,” he says, turning onto a narrow driveway that leads up a grassy hill. “I just keep thinking about those words.”

Sell. Her. Sweeney
.

Coolness washes through me, prickles on my arms. “Me too.”

“Honestly?” He wears a sad smile as he shifts the car into park. “I feel like we don’t have any other choice than to find out what they mean.”

For a moment, we sit in silence, looking up at the small cottage in front of us. It’s adorable, painted yellow with pale blue shutters, its porch stretching all the way across the house, yard landscaped with gorgeous mums in all the autumn colors and neatly trimmed bushes on either side of the steps.

“Ready?” He asks, his hand resting on the door handle.

“Sure. But for what?” I eye the house. Despite its innocent exterior, I’m afraid.

“Let’s find out.”

Outside, it’s quiet. There isn’t another house in sight. I’m overwhelmed by the space here. Sure, my house has land, but we’ve got neighbors. Vaughn and I walk up the front steps soundlessly and he opens the screen door. Just as he raises his hand to knock, the floor creaks, and we turn toward the sound.

At the far end of the porch is an old lady who’s no bigger than a middle schooler. She sits on a rocking chair with a red afghan tucked tightly across her lap. She smiles at us, a sweet but toothless smile.

“Hi there.” I step toward her with a small wave, Vaughn right at my side. I’m flooded with relief when his hand finds mine and squeezes.

“Mrs. McDermott?” Vaughn stoops to make eye contact. “I’m Vaughn, Aileen Broussard’s son? She’s friends with Eloise.”

She looks back and forth between us. Her eyes are milky, the film on them so thick I wonder if she can see us at all. Her hands rattle in her lap as if she’s cold. With that distant smile on her face, she beckons us with her fingers to come closer.

A tremble races through me, but I fight to keep it hidden. As if on cue, Vaughn squeezes my hand tighter, linking his fingers with mine. It’s enough to calm me. To give me courage.

She looks at Vaughn first, squinting to see him. “You’re friends with Eloise? But you’re so young! Does she teach you over at that there schoolhouse?”

Vaughn flashes his best winning smile, the one I’ve always been sure could charm the most miserable soul. “No ma’am. My mother knows your granddaughter. They teach together.”

“How is my granddaughter? Never visits me!” She barks out a coughing laugh.

“Oh. Um. Did she mention we were coming? She said she would. If not, I’m so sorry to take up your time and we can just—”

“Oh heck no! She mentioned it. She calls. Each Sunday, like clockwork. I’ll give her that, poor old spinster that she is.” She smiles, focusing on something over my shoulder. Or maybe not focusing at all. After a few seconds she looks at me, leaning closer, squinting the way she did with Vaughn. But then her eyes widen. And in her huge, blue-eyed stare, I can almost see the woman she was decades ago.

“Ginny?”

“Oh, no ma’am. My name is Lange Crawford. I’m a friend of Vaughn’s from school. We came out here because we thought we could talk to you. About Ginny, actually. About all the Chopains.”

But she’s shaking her head like a child who doesn’t want to listen.

Vaughn watches with huge eyes as Mrs. McDermott leans forward and grasps my shoulders. She may be small, but she’s got a strong grip, pulling me forward until our noses almost touch.

“Ginny!” Her toothless grin stretches into a wide jack-o-lantern smile. “Ginny Chopain it is you! I never thought I’d see the day! Oh blessed, blessed be. Ginny, my friend. My dear, dear Ginny.” She pulls me into such a tight hug. I can feel the rattle of her breaths against my chest.

“Mrs. McDermott,” I say, clenching my teeth and trying to wrench free from her grasp. When I finally do, I fall with a thud onto the floorboards.

“We’re very sorry, ma’am. We’ve obviously wasted your time and we shouldn’t have bothered you this way.” Vaughn talks fast, in a slick-as-a-car salesman voice. He flashes her another of his signature grins while helping me up. I lock my arm with his as if it’s a life preserver. When she looks up at him, her eyes widen again.

“Wait, is it you? It can’t be. Come closer.” She peers up at him, but we’ve already backed a few steps away from her. “It is, isn’t it? You’re her Beau. Oh Ginny, how you loved your dear Beau. On and on you always went about him. My Beau this and my Beau that. It was a bit obsessive really. The two of you. Oh I’m so happy you’re still together.”

Holy crap. She’s whacked.

“We have to get going! So sorry to cut the visit short!” I smile as big as I can, and wave wildly.

“Thanks for seeing us!” Vaughn adds, still doing his Ken doll impression.

We’re backpedaling to the car, but she’s standing now, leaning against the railing. “Everyone was jealous of you, Ginny. Everyone in town.”

And maybe I’m crazy too, but I stop when I’m almost at the car. Mrs. McDermott may be crazy and she may be delusional, but she did know Ginny Chopain. Even if she thinks I’m someone else, it can’t hurt to listen.

Our hesitation spurs her on. “The men of course admired your beauty, and the women, well, they looked upon you two like the luckiest people in the world. Women love watching real love, you know.” She winks one of her milky blue eyes. “Everyone wants to believe a deep, true love exists. And when they see you, they know it does. It makes them hope. But it makes them jealous. That’s why you have to watch out for the crazies, you know.” She nods knowingly and I step forward. My arm hooked through Vaughn’s gives me strength.

“Who are the crazies?” The words feel terrible when they leave my mouth. I’m leading this old woman on in the worst way, pretending the way I am.

“Everyone. I hear them talking. All the girls at Preston. The boys too. Even their mothers talk. They say he’s silly, painting your name on the side of a barn, proclaiming his love in a mown
field. The way he brings you things, twisting flowers into garlands for your hair. And at that one dance, that Sadie Hawkins senior year. Well, he didn’t look anywhere but your eyes. His whole world is invisible when you’re around, Ginny. There it is, just look at him now.” She motions to our clasped hands. Embarrassment creeps up my neck but I don’t move. I don’t want to break her train of thought. “But then, he’s always been that way, and you deserve it. Every girl does.”

She blinks again, looking directly into the afternoon sun.

We’re frozen in this ridiculous tableau and I feel like the world’s worst actor. I’m as motionless as the hills around me, my heart seeming to be the only thing moving. I shift, leaning deeper against Vaughn. Slipping his arm around my waist, he steers me toward the passenger side of the car.

“Well then,” Mrs. McDermott says brightly with a wave, acting like the normal old lady we saw when we first arrived. “Thanks for the visit. And please pass along word for my granddaughter to visit me.”

“We will.” My voice shakes as I force a smile.

She stays on the porch while we hurry into the car. Vaughn backs slowly down the driveway, leaning down with one last wave through the windshield as we finally pass the crest of the hill. We pull onto the main road and drive in silence.

“That lady was batshit,” he finally says.

“No kidding. I’ve never been mistaken for a dead person before.”

“We weren’t just mistaken. She was almost convinced. It’s like she was in a spell or something. Wait until I tell Mom this. Nice help she was.”

“Oh, I don’t know. She may be crazy or senile or whatever, but she did give us some information, even if she didn’t know who she was talking to.”

“I guess. But what did we really learn? That there was some intense love between Ginny and this Beau guy and people were jealous? Hardly seems helpful.” He frowns at the road and turns to me. “I’m shot. Want to stop for coffee?”

“I
would
kill for a latte right now.”

With a big grin, he slides a hand over mine and pretends to bow. “At your service.”

Staring out the window, I squeeze his fingers and try like crazy to push away the memory of Mrs. McDermott’s haunting words.

S
UNLIGHT SPILLS FROM
my bedroom into the hall and I’m humming Vaughn’s song as I step through my doorway, the steam from my shower following me.

The water in the ocean rolls, with restless waves, but truth be told, it will never silence me. Forever you will come to me
.

It’s weird being home when everyone’s in school. I towel dry my hair and get dressed quickly, shivering from the strong winds that rush through my open windows. I think about Vaughn and wonder what class he’s in. After the last two days with him, my life is quiet today. I miss him. It’s been nice having someone to talk to. About nothing, and everything.

Like how he listened when I told him about the first time my dad left. About how I waited up all night, and the next night too. How I wrote my dad a letter each night about what I’d done in school, about all the things I’d tell him when he came back. But then he wouldn’t come back, or if he did, he never cared what I’d been up to. And then we’d move again and he’d show up and then be gone again. Never caring. Never staying. But I still kept writing the letters, because I wanted to believe he cared. It sounded so stupid now. Lame. But it felt good to get it out, to tell Vaughn. To have someone know that deep down part of who I am. What I’ve been through.

Speaking of, as I should have seen coming, after Saturday’s attic freak-out, Mom’s insisting I go see some new shrink she found, despite my objections. After she dragged me through that
years ago, making me talk to them and her about my
feelings
every five seconds, I did not want to ever deal with that again. But here I am, home from school with a doctor appointment this afternoon. I can only hope he’s more qualified than the last doctor she took me to, when she was at the height of her brainwashed phase, who focused more on centering my spirit and harnessing my energy than actually working through my problems.

I stand at my dresser mirror, fingering the guitar pick Vaughn left behind the other night. I smile at the memory of him playing for me, swaying to the music in my mind. When I open my eyes, the reflection behind me stops me. My room is a complete mess. Papers have been blown across the floor, pens splayed on the desktop. The wind has whipped through the room, curtains twisted up in themselves. Even my sweaters have been tossed from the back of my chair to the floor.

I think of my drawing and panic. And where is Ginny’s picture?

Dropping to my knees, I frantically grab each paper, turning them over. Doodles, old drawings, tests and quizzes from school. My wet hair drips on the floor, soaking into the dull wood and saturating the papers.

I push them away from me, searching for the only two that matter, but I can’t find them. The wind pulls at my shirt, still soaked from my hair. I stomp over and shut the windows, ignoring how they rattle in their frames, trying to look everywhere at once, the sweat on my forehead at odds with the chill of my hair. A white square of paper under the bed catches my eye and I drop again to my knees. Other than dust and unworn flip flops, I find a handful of projects I started drawing this summer. Stupid things like praying mantis colonies and black and white rainbows.

I sit back on my feet. Where the hell could they be? I peer into the hallway. Nothing there.

Digging the heels of my hands in my eyes, I slowly count to ten. How would a drawing and a photo simply disappear? It’s not even possible.

Wait.

Through my open closet door, I see papers on top of my sea of shoes. I crawl over quickly, practically diving into the space. The first one I turn over is an old English quiz. I throw it behind me and it slides across the floor.

The second is my drawing. My dear, precious drawing. I fight the urge to hold it to my chest like a long lost friend. My eyes dart over the figures in the picture. Once I’m sure they’re okay, I dig for more pages. I’m halfway in the closet when I see the photo, the corner of Ginny’s dark dress. It’s all the way in the back, somehow stuck between the baseboard and the floor. I tug, but it doesn’t come free. It’s really stuck. Bracing against the wall, I pull harder.

Something gives. But it’s not the picture.

It’s the wall.

B
EHIND THE WALL,
the darkness seems to go on forever. The space is narrow, maybe three feet across and just as high, and from where I am, I can’t see where it ends. I shimmy onto my stomach, pushing shoes and boots to the side. I’m halfway in the space when I notice the smell. It’s musty and damp, like a basement. But there’s something else too. Something sour, like old milk, crusted over.

And it’s freezing. I look over my shoulder. From here, my room looks like a different universe. Bright and airy and colorful.

How far does it go? It’s barely wide enough for me, but I inch forward, reaching blindly into the dark. But I touch nothing.

Pushing back, I back out of the closet and tiptoe across the room, hoping Mom won’t hear me. She’ll really think I’m losing it if she finds me in here. I grab a flashlight from the table in the hall and make my way back to the closet, squirming on my stomach into the tight space.

Ow! What the hell? My finger burns. I turn on the flashlight and see the floor is unfinished plywood, the rough finish responsible for the huge splinter sticking out of my finger. Blood rolls down the fleshy part of my hand, tickling my wrist.