Thicker Than Water (22 page)

Read Thicker Than Water Online

Authors: Brigid Kemmerer

Tags: #Romance, #Mystery

BOOK: Thicker Than Water
9.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
A big screen television is mounted on one wall of the living room, over the top of what looks like a gas fireplace. His couch is a large, beige L-shaped sectional, and his dining room table is a solid slab of stone mounted on a wrought iron base.
He’s not a slob, but the place looks lived-in.
“I ordered a pizza,” he calls from near the living room. Must be the kitchen—it’s the only room I can’t see from here.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You want to come sit down and talk, or are you going to keep hiding in the bathroom?”
I ease my way out of the shadowed hallway and find him sitting in the one chair of the stone table that was hidden from view.
“I wasn’t hiding.”
He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. “You want a soda?”
“Okay.”
He uncurls from the chair and goes to the refrigerator. He’s lost the gun and the vest, but he’s no less intimidating.
I still can’t quite believe that this man is my brother. My brain keeps thinking that he’s just some guy who knows a little bit about me.
When he comes back to the table, I haven’t left the corner of the hallway, but he sets the soda in front of the seat opposite him, then drops back into his chair.
I clear my throat. “How do you know about me, when I don’t know anything about you?”
“Because I remember when you were born.” He pauses, and his eyes narrow just a little. “You must know something about me. You came looking for me.”
I swallow. “I found your letters.” Now I pause, considering what he just said. “You remember when I was born?”
“Yeah. I knew you for one year before she ran.” He traces a line in the stone surface of the table. “She kept my letters?”
“Yeah.” The apartment is so quiet in between our words. “She ran?”
“You know she ran.”
He’s right. I do know she ran. But she ran when I was
five
, not when I was a baby. I shake my head, trying to make the timeline work in my head. “This doesn’t make any sense. I remember her leaving Dad—” I stop short and look at him. “Do we have the same father?”
He nods.
“Is he—is he still alive?”
“Yes.” He grimaces. “Probably. It’s been a few years. I haven’t seen him since I enlisted.”
“So you
did
join the military!”
“Yes.” His dark eyes flick to the soda. “You going to sit down and drink that?”
I slide into the chair, but I don’t touch the soda. We’re on eye level now, and neither of us looks away.
“How’d you know about the army?” he asks. “I stopped writing to your mom before that.”
“I went to the old address. Talked to a neighbor.”
“You detective, you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Those letters probably sounded nuts. I was an . . . an
emotional
kid. Needy. I can’t believe she kept them.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t believe she never told me about them.” I pause, considering how he’d said
your mother
again. “Wait. We do have the same mother, right?”
His expression goes still. “You think I’d write those letters to someone else?”
“No! I just—I’m trying to understand.”
“You’re asking the wrong questions. This really has nothing to do with your mother.”
I frown. “Why do you keep saying that?”
He raises his eyebrows, looking for clarification.
“
Your
mother.”
He leans in against the table. “It’s been too long. She doesn’t feel like my mother anymore, Tommy.” He shakes his head, and he seems almost wistful. “I thought I’d feel something at the funeral, but it was like a stranger.”
I almost fall out of my chair. “You were at the funeral!”
He gives me a look. “You saw me.”
I rack my brain. There have been so many new faces over the last month, but my time at the funeral was short lived. I remember the car ride with Stan. The stifling heat. The cops in dress uniforms standing in clusters. Charlotte.
And then I remember: the guy in the parking lot on the cell phone.
“That was you,” I whisper.
“That was me.” He comes halfway out of his chair to grab the soda I haven’t touched, and he takes a long sip. “For a minute, I thought you knew. You looked right at me. Then the cutie with the curls walked over, and I knew I couldn’t compete with that.”
“Charlotte.” My brain is still spinning. “I hit her brother. Danny. The cop. You saw me get arrested.”
“Yeah. That.” His eyes sharpen. “We need to talk about that. Why the hell did you let that cop take you out of there?”
“Why did I let the
policeman
that I’d just
hit
take me out of there?”
“Yes.”
“Um. Because I was in handcuffs?”
“Wrong answer.”
A buzzer rings, and he stands to go to the door. He pushes a button, then stays by the door to wait for the pizza guy to climb the stairs. He turns to look at me. “You could have changed the trajectory of that whole interaction. Don’t you know that?”
I scowl. “It was a shitty day. I didn’t want to be there. I know I should have gotten myself together—”
“That’s not what I mean. How the hell could your mother have let you get this far without telling you . . .
anything
?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m telling you that you could have convinced that cop to
bawk
like a chicken if you wanted to. You could have told him to pull out his gun and shoot himself. You could have done
anything
besides letting him handcuff you and put your ass in a patrol car.”
“How?”
A knock sounds at the door, and JB—Jonathan? I still don’t know what to call him—swings it wide. A delivery guy stands there with two pizza boxes.
“That’ll be twenty-six fifty,” he says apathetically.
My brother pulls cash from his pocket and holds it out. When the guy reaches for it, JB doesn’t let go.
“Why don’t you come in and have some with us,” he says.
I frown.
The pizza guy snorts. “Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m serious. Summer day? You probably haven’t even gotten a break yet, I’d bet.”
What is he
doing
?
The delivery boy takes his red and blue cap off and pushes damp hair back off his forehead. “I’ll get in a load of trouble.”
“Nah. Just have a slice and go. They won’t even notice. I used to deliver pizzas, and it’s not like they’ve got a GPS in your hat. You can always say that a customer hassled you over toppings or something. You look like you’re starving.”
A short laugh. “I am pretty hungry.”
JB stands back and holds an arm out. “Then come on in. My brother and I are just hanging out.”
I stand up. I don’t know what this is—but I don’t like it.
The pizzas slide onto the table, and I step back until I hit the wall.
JB gives me a look. “Stop being weird.”
He wants
me
to stop being weird. Hilarious. Or it would be if this weren’t all so unsettling. I swallow hard.
The delivery guy gives me an odd look and holds out a hand. “Hey, man. I’m Liam. Thanks for sharing lunch.”
I glance at his hand, then back at his face. He’s my age, maybe a little older. Reddish blond hair, skinny build. Jeans that are tighter than I’d ever wear, but hey, I was wearing a prison shirt two hours ago, so I’m not in a place to judge.
“Don’t worry about him,” says JB. “He just got out of jail.”
Liam blinks. “No shit?”
“No shit,” I croak. My throat feels dry.
JB goes into the kitchen and returns with plates. They make a grinding noise as they slide across the slate surface of the table. “Yeah,” he says. He throws two slices of pizza on a plate and pushes it in front of Liam. “Tommy and I were just catching up.”
“Nice,” says Liam. He picks up the pizza and takes a bite. “My brother and I don’t get along at all.”
Why am I the only one finding this whole scenario bizarre? Who invites a pizza guy inside? In the middle of a conversation?
I don’t move from the wall.
“What was jail like?” Liam asks.
“Empty,” I said. It’s the first word to come to mind.
His brow furrows, and I add, “Small town. I was the only one in the cell.”
“Poor guy,” says JB. He takes a bite. “All by himself.”
Liam clears his throat. His eyes look concerned. “Must have been lonely.”
“I guess.”
“Scary?”
This guy doesn’t even know me. I glance at JB, but he’s eating pizza like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Kind of.”
“Why don’t you welcome him back to the land of the free?” says JB.
My head whips around. “What?”
Liam blushes. “I don’t think so.”
“Go ahead,” says my brother. “Give him a hug. He
really
needs one.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss, like Liam isn’t sitting right there, rising from a chair not five feet away from me.
“Proving a point.”
“What point?” I take a step back, sliding along the wall toward the corner. “That you set up some guy to trick me?”
Liam has come around the table, but he stops and frowns. “I’m not tricking you.” He glances back at his pizza and blushes again. “Maybe I’m getting mixed signals here.”
“Yes,” I say. “You are.”
“It’s okay,” says my brother. “He’s just playing hard to get. He wants you to come after him.”
Liam takes a step forward. His eyes are a very dark blue, close and intent on mine. For some reason I expect him to look dreamy, disoriented, but he doesn’t. He looks perfectly lucid.
That makes it more creepy.
“Stop it.” I take another step back.
“It’s okay,” Liam says softly. “I get it. No one needs to know.”
“You get what?” He takes another step, so I fall back again, but I hit the corner.
“Are you really running from a hug?” says JB.
Liam smiles and glances at him. It’s a conspiratorial look. When his eyes return to mine, they’re almost mocking. “Yeah. Seriously.”
“I’m not running from a hug,” I say. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Liam gets closer, and now his expression is vaguely teasing. “You’re even cuter when you’re angry.”
His hands find my waist, and I inhale sharply, sucking myself back against the wall. He’s slight, and I’m not afraid of him—I’m more afraid of this
feeling
about him, like someone else is pulling the strings.
In a way, that makes it both less and more uncomfortable.
“You’re so tense,” Liam whispers. He shifts closer.
I glance at my brother, who isn’t even watching us, he’s eating pizza and looking at his phone. “Did you slip him something?”
“No.” He sounds offended.
Liam breathes against my neck. He smells like sweat and sunlight and pizza sauce. His hands haven’t moved, but if I took a deep breath, our chests would touch. I’ve never been this close to another guy.
“Are you making him do this somehow?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Well,
stop.
”
JB’s voice is amused. “Don’t you want to see how far he’ll go?”
Liam whispers against my neck. “How far do you
want
to go?”
His hands begin to shift, and I grab his wrists, squeezing until he freezes. I hear his indrawn breath of pain.
“Stop it,” I say.
“Tom.” For the first time, my brother’s tone isn’t amused. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Then get him off me.”
JB puts his pizza down. “Liam. I think he’s had enough.”
The delivery boy takes a step back. He looks flushed. Confused. Longing. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not usually that forward.”
My heart is pounding. I can’t make sense of anything. I look at JB. “Did you slip
me
something?”
“No. Jesus, Tommy. You didn’t even drink the soda. Sit down.” He pulls another twenty out of his pocket and hands it to Liam. “Get out of here, kid. Take another slice of pizza if you’re still hungry.”
I rub my hands over my face. I wonder if this is how people feel when they try drugs for the first time.
The door slams, and I jerk my hands down.
Liam is gone. JB is putting a slice of pizza on a plate and sliding it toward me. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
“You did that.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He was attracted to you. I just gave him a push.”
I swallow. “How?”
“Easy. I’m an empath.”
I feel like I’m free falling. My head is buzzing. “You’re an empath.”
“Yeah.” He smiles and picks up his soda, then tips it toward me. “Just like you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHARLOTTE
B
y late afternoon, I’m home and in bed. I’ve been surrounded by my family since two o’clock in the morning, but that wasn’t a bad thing. I felt safe. Protected. No one could get to me.
Now, I’m home, and I’m alone. I’m in bed, but I’m not sure I want to be here. I’m exhausted, but I can’t close my eyes without thinking of Thomas looming over me. The memories are tangled in my brain: the reverence in his voice when he called me brave, superimposed by the dark, intense eyes that bored into mine while his hands wrapped around my throat.
It takes hours—and some drugs—for sleep to find me.
One moment, I’m curled up under my quilt, watching the afternoon sun trace shadows on my wall, and the next, I’m dreaming.
I’m not in my bed this time.
I’m in Lilly Mauta’s.
I’ve never been to her house, and it’s been years since she died, but the proof is everywhere. The block letters that spell out
LILLY
over her bed. The used pairs of well-worn ballet pointe shoes tacked along the walls. Stuffed animals line the top of her bookcase, abandoned relics of childhood but not yet thrown away.
I’m sitting cross-legged on her bed with an older model laptop in my lap. Chipped red nail polish decorates my dusky nails.
These aren’t my hands. These are Lilly’s.
I’m not just in her room. I’m in her body.
She’s—we’re—typing an email.
I can’t wait to meet you. I’ve been dreaming of your words, imagining the sound of your voice. I might force you to read some of your emails out loud, just so I can see if the voice in my head is anything like the real thing.
She’s swooning a little bit when she presses SEND. I feel her chest rise and fall with a happy sigh.
Almost immediately, her inbox lights with a new message. We click to read it.
I’ll read you every word.
Only a few hours. Can you wait a few hours?
I’m not sure I can.
Her—our—heartbeat accelerates, and she quickly types back.
You have to wait. My housemates won’t be gone for hours.
Housemates. My brain spins, trying to remember Lilly sharing a house with someone else. She was an only child. Wouldn’t she say “parents” or “family”? I don’t call Danny my housemate.
Regardless, he writes back just as quickly.
I feel like you’re hiding something from me.
She
is
hiding something, but I’m not sure what. All I can feel is her panic about being found out. Our hands freeze over the keyboard. Then we type back.
I’ve never met someone on the Internet before. Too much pressure for our first real date. I want it to be just us.
Stupid. She’s fifteen years old—she has to be, because that’s how old she was when she died. Doesn’t she read the news? I want to smack her. Especially since I know how this ends.
Unfortunately, I’m just along for the ride. I can’t even force her eyes to flick up, to read the name of the sender.
The bedroom door opens, and we slam the laptop lid closed. It’s Lilly’s mother—I recognize her from ballet class. The last time I saw her was the funeral. Her face was lined and sad, no light at all.
This is a different woman. Her smile brightens the room. Dark, shiny hair makes her look younger than she is. “Lilly-bear, it’s almost time for dinner. Are you done with your homework?”
We smile back at her. “Almost, Mom.”
“We need to eat quickly so your father and I can get on the road.” Her smile wavers. “Are you sure you’re not anxious about spending the night by yourself?”
We shake our head. “Nope. I’m going to make popcorn and watch a Channing Tatum movie.”
“My little girl, spending the night with a hot guy,” she teases. “Maybe I should stay home and keep you out of trouble.”
We roll our eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Famous last words. This would be a cliché if it weren’t so sad.
When Mom is gone, we open the laptop again. Another message is waiting.
Just you and me. I like the sound of that.
Lilly likes the sound of that, too. Her heart flutters. I wonder if she’s seen a picture of this guy. I wonder if she knows anything about him.
The dream shifts, and we’re standing in front of a dressing table with a large mirror. Lilly has put on a slinky green dress that I just
know
has come out of her mom’s closet. It might as well be a nightgown. Or a slip. My grandmother would have a heart attack.
We’re penciling Lilly’s eyes with dark eyeliner, followed by gold shadow. Red lipstick makes her lips pop. The innocent girl from ballet class is gone, replaced by a stunning young woman. The right bouncer would let her into a nightclub, no problem.
She chooses a diamond pendant from the dressing table, and as I catch sight of the array of jewelry, I realize she’s in her mother’s room. The necklace adds another year to her age. The diamond sparks with inner fire as it shifts in the light. Obviously real. Obviously expensive.
She stands back from the dressing table, lifts her cell phone, and takes a selfie.
She examines it for a moment, scowls, and deletes it.
Six more pictures before she’s satisfied. I can’t disagree: it’s a good one. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes wide, like she’s just been surprised. She held the phone above her head, so you can see the shadow between her breasts, and the flare of the dress is just a bit blurred. The diamond at her neck sparkles.
She starts a text.
LM: Ready and waiting.
Then she sends the picture.
A text comes back in seconds.
AS: I almost drove off the road.
AS
. I don’t know anyone with those initials. I wish she’d look at the top of the screen. I wish I could see his name.
Then I realize it doesn’t matter. Whatever name he gave her has to be a fake. I’ve already discussed this case with Ben. They found her emails. They would have searched her phone.
She writes back.
LM: Send me a picture.
I don’t think he will, but to my surprise, a photo appears. Obviously a photo taken while driving, because we don’t get his whole face. It’s pitch black outside, but the flash lights him up like a Christmas tree. A gray Henley. The edge of a jacket zipper is visible. He needs a shave, because stubble lines his jaw.
My stomach clenches. I don’t know any fifteen-year-olds with that much facial hair, and I’ve grown up with three older brothers. Not to mention, he’s driving. He’d have to be almost seventeen to be driving without supervision.
Seventeen and fifteen isn’t
that
big a gap. Senior-sophomore romance?
But she said
housemates
. Why would she say housemates to someone who would also presumably live with parents?
I’m not an idiot. I’m rationalizing, but I already know this guy isn’t in high school.
The highest the photo captures is just the side of his eye. The flare makes his skin look stark white in places, but in the sides of the photo, he looks less Caucasian. Maybe Hispanic. Maybe Indian, like Lilly herself.
The dream shifts again, and someone is knocking on the door. Lilly is standing in her foyer—in her
parents’
foyer—with a pounding heart. She wants to open the door so badly, but common sense is sending up a hardcore warning.
Don’t do it
, I think. I beg. I plead.
I can’t affect the past, and I certainly can’t affect this dream.
She opens the door.
And I wake up.
 
Metal clicks near my head. The noise is so out of place in my bedroom, and the spinning anxiety from the dream still clouds my consciousness. I fling myself upright before I’m fully awake.
My grandmother is sitting in my bedroom armchair, hands flying as she works on the baby blanket.
As much as she annoys me, I’m glad I’m not waking up alone.
My phone is blinking with a text message, so I press a button to wake the screen. For a fractured instant, I’m worried that something from Thomas will be sitting there, taunting me, but it’s not. There’s a message from Nicole.
NK: Can’t believe it. Be over as soon as I get off work. LMK if you need anything. XOXOXO
My grandmother’s knitting needles continue clicking. “Thanks for sitting with me,” I say. My voice sounds rough.
She doesn’t break the rhythm. “You don’t need to thank me for that, dear.”
I touch my neck, hoping for a moment that the time with Thomas had all been a dream, just like the time I spent in Lilly’s body.
My neck aches as my fingers find the scratches that the nurses at the hospital cleaned and bandaged. My arms are still sore from struggling against him.
That wasn’t a dream.
I feel so weak. So stupid. They all warned me. My grandmother shouldn’t be kind—she should be doing her usual pursed-lips-berate-Charlotte-for-living routine. Right now I actually
deserve
it.
In my sleep, I was judging Lilly. Now that I’m awake, I realize I was no different. Thomas wasn’t a stranger from the Internet. He was worse. He was a real boy, and his crimes were splashed across the front page last week.
Tears burn my eyes, and I try to sniff them back. “How could I be so stupid?”
“Mistakes are a part of life, Charlotte. You should count your blessings that this one didn’t come with a higher cost.”
The words are harsh, but her voice isn’t. It might be the first time I’ve heard my grandmother speak to me with something close to kindness.
“Does everyone hate me?” I whisper.
Her hands go still, and she looks at me. “Hate you? You dear child, we love you.”
I can’t remember my grandmother
ever
saying she loved me. Fresh emotion wells in my chest, and I burst into tears.
True to form, she doesn’t comfort me. She resumes her knitting. “I can see how it would be exciting, spending time with a dangerous young man. You girls today can’t seem to separate your fact from your fiction. Life is not a movie.”
Her practicality causes my tears to dry up. “That wasn’t it.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. He was different. I thought he was different.”
She sighs. “Of course you did.”
“I don’t understand it. He never hurt me. He never treated me badly. He had plenty of opportunities to hurt me, but he didn’t.” The corner of my sheet makes a good makeshift handkerchief. I wish I could stop crying.
“He had plenty of opportunities to hurt his mother, too, I’d bet. We can’t understand the motivations of people who are emotionally disturbed.”
I think about that pencil drawing of Thomas’s mother. He loved her. Respected her. There was no rage there. No anger. Had something changed? Had he given me clues that I blindly ignored?
He’d been unable to draw her after the murder. Was he afraid he’d give himself away?
My grandmother lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Your father and your brothers warned you to keep your distance from that one. You should have listened.”
“I know, I know. All the men in the family know what’s best for poor, defenseless Charlotte.”
“Obviously.”
Obviously.
I flop back against my pillow.
Lilly thought she had everything under control, and look what that got her.
Have I been just as stupid?
Knuckles rap on my doorframe, and I look up to find Ben there in the doorway. He must have just gotten off work because he’s still in uniform. He glances at Grandma, then back at me. “I thought maybe I could take the next shift.”
I want to launch myself at him and scream,
YES, BEN. SAVE ME FROM THIS TORTURE.
Instead, I’m more subtle. I clutch my hands together in prayer and mouth it.
My grandmother stashes her knitting in her bag. “I’m not blind, Charlotte.”
“Sorry,” I say, but I’m not really sorry. She’s leaving, and Ben is coming in, and that’s all that really matters.
He sits on the bed, and I scoot over, giving him room. He takes the invitation and sits up against the headboard beside me.
After a moment, he puts out his hand, and I hold it.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” he says quietly.
“Grandma said she loved me.”
“And you cried? I’m surprised you didn’t faint from shock.”
I bump him with my shoulder.
Then emotion overtakes me, and I’m crying again. I lean against his shoulder, and he puts an arm around me. I can’t believe he didn’t take time to change out of his uniform.
“Why didn’t I listen to you?” Tears burn my eyes, and I try to sniff them back. “How could I be so stupid?”
“You’re not stupid.” He pulls my hands down and brushes the tears away. “You’re not stupid at all.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re still feeling sorry for me. Trust me, tomorrow you’ll be thinking I’m stupid. I got the memo from Grandma, loud and clear.”
“Nah. I’ll leave that to her and Danny.”
I smile through my tears. “I can’t even be mad at him. You know I’m screwed up when I’m not mad at Danny.”
His bedroom door must be open, because he yells down the hall, “I love you too, Char.”
I laugh under my breath and swipe my eyes. Danny carried me downstairs last night. He rode in the ambulance with me. He held my hand at the hospital and told the doctor that I needed to be attended by a female physician.

Other books

Wonder by Dominique Fortier
The Bodyguard's Return by Carla Cassidy
Shelter by Susan Palwick
Must the Maiden Die by Miriam Grace Monfredo
Down The Hatch by John Winton
The Hundred Years War by Desmond Seward