The Confession (13 page)

I finally pulled up the driveway, my tires crunching heavily over the wet gravel—and saw Mom's
car in the garage. She's home early, I realized. I hoped nothing was wrong.

I found her in the kitchen. “Mom?” Even with her back turned to me, I could see instantly that she was crying.

“Mom? Mom? What's wrong?”

“I'm chopping onions,” she replied, turning to me with a smile. “Everyone says to hold your breath or close your eyes. But nothing works. I cannot chop onions without crying.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I was sure Mom had had some horrible news.

I thought about Hillary at Sandy's. “Did Hillary call?” I asked my mother.

She wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of one hand. “No. You just got out of school. Why would Hillary call?”

“No reason,” I replied. Rain pattered on the kitchen window. It sounded like someone knocking. I gasped and turned to the window.

“Wow. You're jumpy today,” Mom commented.

“It's … uh … just the rain,” I said. “How come you're home early?”

She started to chop another onion. “I had a dentist appointment at three-thirty. So I decided there wasn't really time to go back to the office.”

“What are you making for dinner?” I asked, taking a Mountain Dew from the refrigerator.

“Meat loaf. Your father should be home in an hour. I thought I'd surprise him by actually cooking dinner for once.”

The onions started to burn my eyes. “Can I help?” I asked, thinking about Hillary again.

“No. Not really. You can set the table later, if you want.”

“Okay,” I told her, blinking away onion tears. “I'm going up to my room. Maybe I'll try to do my French before dinner.”

I hurried up to my room. But I didn't do my French homework.

I sat on my bed and stared at the phone beside me on the nightstand. “Come on—ring,” I ordered it.

The phone didn't obey.

Where is Hillary? I wondered, feeling all my muscles knot with tension. What is taking her so long?

I glanced at the clock radio every two minutes. Five-thirty. Five thirty-two. Five thirty-four.

She should be home by now, I told myself.

I stood up. My legs felt rubbery. Weak. I started to pace back and forth, turning sharply. Not much room to pace in my little room.

Where is she? Where is she?

I started to feel guilty. I dropped Hillary off and then drove away.

What kind of friend am I?

I should have gone in with her. I shouldn't have listened to her. I should have insisted. The two of us should have confronted Sandy.

Not Hillary alone.

My stomach started to churn. My hands felt cold as ice.

I dropped back down on the bed. And stared at the phone.

Come on
—
RING!

The phone rang.

“Ohh!” I uttered a startled cry. I nearly jumped to the ceiling!

I grabbed the receiver before the first ring ended. “Hello?” I called breathlessly.

“Julie?”

“Yes?”

“Hi. This is Hillary's mom. How are you?”

“Uh … fine, Mrs. Walker. Is Hillary—”

“Do you know where Hillary is?” Mrs. Walker asked. “I told her this morning we were having dinner at six sharp tonight because her father and I have a meeting at seven. Is she at your house?”

I swallowed hard. My mouth suddenly felt dry as sand. “No. No, she isn't here,” I replied softly.

A chill tightened the back of my neck.
Where is she? Where IS she?

“Did she stay late at school?” Mrs. Walker asked. “I know she had a problem about some transcripts.”

“I … I don't know,” I lied. “I don't know where she is, Mrs. Walker. If I see her … ”

“She's probably caught in traffic. Because of the rain,” Hillary's mother said. “Did you ever see such a downpour?”

“It's pretty bad,” I murmured, thinking about Hillary. Hillary and Sandy.

“Well, see you soon, Julie. Bye.” Mrs. Walker hung up.

I replaced the receiver. Shut my eyes. “Please be okay, Hillary,” I whispered.

I dropped her off at Sandy's.

I dropped her off at a
murderer's
house.

And then I left her there to confront him. To tell him he had to turn himself in to the police.

What have I done?
I asked myself, feeling the panic rise up from my stomach. Feeling the cold terror sweep over my body, freezing me in place.

I left Hillary alone with a murderer.

Have I sent her to her death?

Has Sandy murdered her, too?

“Dinner!” Mom's voice from downstairs broke into my frightening thoughts. “Dinner, Julie! Can't you hear me? How many times do I have to call?”

“Sorry, Mom. I'm coming now,” I shouted down.

I shook my head hard as if trying to toss out the terrifying thoughts. “Julie, you're getting crazy,” I scolded myself, climbing to my feet.

I was letting my imagination run away with me. Letting my wildest fears take over my mind.

No way Sandy would hurt Hillary, I assured myself.

No way. No way.

He isn't a killer. He killed Al. But that was different.

I took a deep breath and stepped over to the mirror above my dresser. I stared back at myself, pale, my eyes troubled, my dark hair disheveled.

“Julie—where are you? Dinner is getting cold!” Dad's impatient call came from downstairs.

“Com—ing!” I ran a brush quickly through my hair. Then I hurried down the stairs to dinner.

I tried to eat Mom's meat loaf and mashed potatoes. It was one of my favorite dinners. But tonight I had to choke it down.

I talked about graduation and school stuff, and tried to sound calm and normal.

But I couldn't stop thinking about Hillary. Hillary at Sandy's house. Hillary telling Sandy she planned to turn him in unless he turned himself in.

She didn't call until dinner was over and the table had been cleared.

I glanced at the clock as I ran to answer the phone. Seven-fifteen.

When I picked it up, Hillary's voice sounded tiny and troubled in my ear. “Julie—?”

“Yes. Hi. What happened, Hillary? What's the story?” I demanded breathlessly.

“Julie—?” she repeated. She sounded so strange. So … frightened.

“Yes? What, Hillary? What?”

“Can you come over? Right now?” she asked, her voice tight, trembling.

“Huh? Come over?” I gasped. “Why? What's wrong, Hillary? What happened?”

“Something terrible,” Hillary replied, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Something terrible, Julie.”

Silence. I waited for her to continue.

“What's wrong?” I choked out. “What?”

“I killed him,” Hillary whispered. So soft I wasn't sure I heard correctly. “I killed him,” she repeated. “I killed Sandy.”

part

3

Chapter

23

H
ow did I ever drive to Hillary's house? I don't remember being in the car. I don't remember if the rain had stopped or not. I don't remember anything about the drive.

Except my fear. And the sick feeling I kept swallowing down. And my cold, damp hands sliding over the steering wheel.

What excuse did I give my parents for rushing out on a school night?

What did I think about as I obediently hurried to Hillary's house? What did I
tell
myself?

I don't remember
anything
. My mind is a blank.

I think I wanted it to be a blank. I think I wanted to forget everything, to start my life all over again.

I didn't want to know that Al was dead. That Sandy had murdered him, strangled him in the alley with a pair of skates.

And I didn't want to know that another one of my friends had been murdered tonight. That Sandy was dead now, killed by my best friend.

Hillary, I didn't want to know.

I didn't want to remember.

But you can't keep your mind a blank forever. And as I stepped into Hillary's house, wiping my wet shoes on the welcome mat, it all burst back on me—like a high ocean wave that sweeps over you and leaves you dizzy and gasping for air.

And I uttered a choked cry. And threw my arms around Hillary's shoulders. And pressed my cold cheek against her face, startled by how burning hot her skin felt.

“I—I haven't told them yet,” Hillary whispered.

“Huh?” I let go. Backed up, feeling shaky, feeling as if I could start to cry—and cry forever. Forcing down the sobs that made my chest heave.

And I saw Taylor and Vincent, standing awkwardly in the center of the living room.

A white flash of lightning at the big front window made their shadows jump. But they didn't move. Taylor wore a loose, red tank top over black pants. Her white-blond hair fell over her shoulders. She had her arms crossed over her chest.

Beside her, Vincent brushed back his rust-colored hair. I saw that it was wet, as if he'd been out in the rain a long time. He appeared even more uncomfortable than usual. He pulled his big hands from his jeans pockets, then didn't seem to know what to do with them.

He flashed me a strange look—half-smile, half-question.
As if to say, what's going on here? Do you know why we're here tonight?

Of course I knew.

It was Hillary's turn to make a frightening, painful confession. Hillary's turn to throw us all into panic, into sorrow.

“How's it going?” Vincent murmured to me, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I—I'm not sure,” I stammered, glancing at Hillary.

She appeared surprisingly calm. But I could see that she'd been crying. When she caught me staring at her, she lowered her gaze to the floor, as if turning me away, shutting me out.

“Sit down, guys,” she said softly. She motioned with both hands, toward the couch and chairs across from the fireplace.

A roar of thunder made me jump. I accidentally bit my lower lip. I could taste the bitter tang of blood on my tongue.

More lightning flickered, making our shadows dance. Vincent and Taylor dropped onto the couch. I sat on the edge of an armchair.

Hillary stood facing us. Lightning flashed in her glasses. She tugged nervously at her braid, rolling her hand over it, twisting it between her fingers.

“I … killed … Sandy.”

She spoke the words flatly, slowly, without any emotion at all. Kept her eyes on the window.

Lightning flashed again in her glasses. As if shielding her, hiding her gaze from us.

Taylor gasped and shot up from the couch. She
stumbled forward, hands raised as if to attack Hillary.

I jumped to my feet too. I'm not sure why. Did I plan to protect Hillary from Taylor?

I saw Vincent's eyes bulge as he stood behind Taylor. He didn't say a word. I don't think he believed it.

I'm not sure I believed it, either.

So Hillary repeated it. “I killed Sandy. I didn't mean to. But I killed him.”

“Noooooo!” A shrill animal wail escaped Taylor's lips. She dove forward and grabbed Hillary roughly by the shoulders. “Nooooo!”

I tensed and moved toward them. Was Taylor about to lose it again? Would she start another fight?

“Let me explain!” Hillary cried, raising her voice for the first time.

Startled, Taylor let go of her and stepped back.

“Sit down!” Hillary instructed sharply. “Let me explain. At least, give me a chance to explain what happened. It—it was so
horrible!”

I dropped back onto the edge of my chair. Taylor, trembling now, glaring at Hillary, backed away. She stood in front of the couch, refusing to sit down.

Vincent uttered a sigh. Then he propped his head in his hands, leaning forward tensely, his eyes locked on Hillary.

Hillary rubbed the red, angry-looking scratches on her throat. Then she clasped her hands behind her and paced back and forth as she told us what had happened.