Deadly Little Secret Read online

  “Then what?”

  “You know what. So, maybe the questions we need to ask ourselves are who and why.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I’m a little confused.” I glance over at Kimmie and Wes. Kimmie licks down the length of her shovel, trying to get me to laugh.

  “I make you nervous, don’t I?” His eyes draw an invisible line down the center of my face, lingering on my neck as I swallow.

  “Just tell me,” I say. “What do you want?”

  “To help you,” he reminds me.

  “Help me with what? I don’t need any help.”

  “Look,” he begins, “I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t let me help you, something really bad is going to happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not here,” he says, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one’s listening in. Let’s go someplace and talk about it.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Please,” he insists.

  I glance back at Kimmie and Wes. Wes, clearly aware that I’m upset, looks ready to pounce. Kimmie’s practically sitting in his lap trying to hold him back.

  “What do you say?” Ben continues. “Will you come with me now?”

  “And then you’ll leave me alone?”

  “I can’t promise you that. But I can try and make things more clear.”

  I shake my head, telling myself this isn’t a good idea.

  But I decide to go with him anyway.

  29

  I tell Kimmie and Wes to wait for me at Brain Freeze while I give Ben exactly fifteen minutes to state his case.

  They’re not crazy about my going, but since the beach is only at the end of the street, and since I make them promise to come and look for me if I’m not back in twenty minutes flat, they finally agree.

  And I go—part of me relieved to get this over with, another part scared to death of what Ben has to say.

  We walk in silence down the main drag, until the ocean begins to come into view. Just as I expected, there are plenty of people sprinkled about—a throng of fishermen casting their lines out on the pier, a few dog-walkers along the shore, and a handful of kids playing on the swings.

  Ben leads us to a spot up on the rocks, where we can look out at the ocean and still hear the rush of cars speeding by on the road behind us. We sit down facing one another, but Ben keeps looking out at the water, as if seeing me now is even harder for him to deal with than whatever he has to say.

  “So, we’re here,” I venture, giving a nervous tug to my ponytail.

  Ben nods and looks at me finally, his expression changed—less frantic, a mixture of resolution and sullenness, maybe.

  “What is it?” I ask, noticing how his eyes are liquid gray.

  “It happened at a place like this,” he says.

  “What did?”

  He palms a polished rock and squeezes it hard, as though it gives him the courage to speak. “I know you’ve heard stuff about me.”

  “Are you talking about your girlfriend?”

  “Julie,” he whispers, his voice all scratchy, as if speaking her name were like glass in his throat. “I know what people say. But I didn’t kill her. What happened was an accident. It’s important to me that you know that.” His eyes bear down on mine, as he checks to see if I do believe him. But I avoid his gaze.

  “We were hiking up on a cliff that day,” he continues. “There was a beach below and lots of rocks. We had just gotten into an argument.”

  I nod, remembering how Matt said he’d heard Ben had a temper.

  “I grabbed her arm,” he says. “But she pulled away, toward the edge of the cliff. I tried to lunge at her, to stop her from moving back, but it was too late.” He looks back out over the water, his voice barely above a whisper now. “She fell.”

  I glance at his forearm, where his long-sleeved T-shirt covers the scar, wondering where the gash came from—if maybe the argument got physical and Julie put up a fight. Or if maybe he climbed down after her and tried to save her life.

  “Why were you grabbing on to her?” I ask. “Why was she backing away from you?”

  “Because I’m different than most people.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He puts on his sunglasses, so I can’t see how upset he is—how his eyes have reddened and the skin around them has gotten blotchy. “Remember that day in the parking lot, when I pushed you out of the way of that car?”

  I nod.

  “I touched you that day—on your stomach. And I got this weird sensation—like something bad was going to happen. It was the same thing in chemistry—when I touched your hand—only the feeling was stronger.”

  “Wait,” I say, my face bunching up in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “I sense things,” he explains, “when I touch people. Sometimes I see things, too. It’s why I took off in the parking lot after I knew you were okay. I didn’t want to deal with what I was sensing. I wanted to pretend like it never even happened—like I never even saw you.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re some kind of psychic?”

  “Just think about it,” he says, ignoring the question. “Why do you think I’ve been touching you so much lately? I had to be sure.”

  “Sure about what?”

  “That your life is at stake,” he reminds me.

  I take a deep breath, my mind spinning with questions.

  “I felt something that day with Julie, too,” he continues. “Not danger, though. I sensed she was lying. When I touched her, I could picture how she was seeing somebody else, how she had cheated on me that very same day. I asked her about it, too, and she confessed to the whole thing. Only, I wouldn’t let it go there. I had to know with whom and for how long. And so I gripped her harder, the picture becoming clearer. I could see my best friend. I could picture the two of them together—lying in the sand, kissing by the shore . . .” He takes a deep breath and lets it filter out slowly. “No matter what anybody says, I never meant to hurt her. The thing is, I gripped too hard. And that scared her.”

  “Which is why she backed away,” I say, putting the pieces together.

  “It’s called psychometry,” he explains. “The ability to sense things through touch. People who have it practice it differently—for some, it’s about placing an object up to their foreheads and getting a picture; for others it’s about hearing sounds or smelling scents when they touch something. For me, there’s a fine line between touching someone and hurting them—and I can’t let myself cross it.” He swallows hard and looks down at his hands.

  “Once I reach that point, and get too close,” he continues, “something inside me switches gears, and I lose control. I even lose the ability to reason. It’s like my body’s there, but my mind isn’t.”

  “So, what do you do?” I ask.

  “I try to counter it with stuff, like with meditation and tae kwon do—stuff that helps keep me in the moment— but it’s still hard. And still scary. It’s why I stay away from everybody. It’s why I was so standoffish with you. After what happened with Julie, I didn’t want to know anyone else’s fate or picture anyone else’s secrets.”

  “And so you expected to live a life completely free of touching people.”

  “It was working for me up until a few months ago.”

  “When you touched me.”

  He nods and clenches his teeth. The angles of his face grow sharp. “At first I wanted to ignore what I felt, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. I mean, what if something bad happened to you because I did nothing to stop it?”

  “I guess that explains a lot,” I say, thinking how he’s always late to class—to avoid careening into people in the hallways—and how that first time, when I approached him at his locker, he didn’t want to admit to ever having seen me before. “So, what does all this mean for me?” I ask. “You touch me and sense stuff?”

  He nods and slides his sunglasses back on top of his head to reveal his eyes, all puffy and raw. “That’
s how I know you’re in danger.”

  “And so, what’s supposed to happen?”

  He stares at me for several moments, not saying anything, as though memorizing the contours of my face.

  “Just tell me,” I insist, sensing his hesitation.

  “I can see your body,” he whispers, finally.

  “My body? As in my dead body?”

  He nods, and my stomach lurches, like I’m going to be sick.

  “At first I wasn’t sure,” he says. “It was just a feeling. But, then, on our picnic date, when you kissed me . . . that’s when I knew.”

  I take a deep breath, unable to ask him anything more.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, suddenly needing some air, even though we’re outside. I glance down at my watch, suspecting it’s been way more than fifteen minutes.

  “Please don’t tell anyone about any of this,” he says. “It’s private.”

  “My being in danger is private?”

  “Well, no, not that, but this touch thing with me is. And I’d kind of like to keep it that way—at least for now.”

  “As in our little secret?”

  “I guess it is.” He nods, and I study his face, searching for some knowing glare or pointed look—something to indicate that he’s the one who left that gift—but I just can’t tell.

  “Can we maybe talk later?” he asks. “Can I call you?”

  “I need to go,” I say, tripping over the words.

  He mutters something about promising to help me— about being determined to get to the bottom of this—but I’m not really listening.

  I get up from the rock, suddenly feeling like I’m being watched. I turn to look over my shoulder and spot Kimmie and Wes, sitting over by the swings, watching me from afar.

  30

  She just won’t listen. And so I’ve started a plan. I just hope she appreciates all my efforts—all my work to make her happy. Once and for all.

  31

  After my talk with Ben, Wes and Kimmie are all twenty-questions-times-a-hundred about what he had to say.

  But I just don’t feel like talking about it.

  Instead, I stare out the window as Wes drives us home, watching the swirl of colors, of houses mixed with buildings and trees, all blending together into one big blur.

  “Come on,” Kimmie begs. “If you’re not going to give us the full story, then how about just the CliffsNotes version?”

  I shake my head, still unnerved by my conversation with Ben, by the image of his girlfriend as she fell over the cliff that day, and the look of horror that must have covered her face when she saw him lunge for her.

  “Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Wes says, cupping his mouth and speaking through his makeshift megaphone.

  “Maybe she needs some water splashed on her face,” Kimmie suggests.

  “All I’ve got is a day-old Big Gulp,” he says, jiggling a supersize soda cup. He peers at me in his rearview mirror, but I look back toward the street, suddenly very anxious to get home.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” Kimmie asks, once we pull up in front of my house.

  “No, thanks,” I say, managing a smile. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  She nods, and I go up the front steps and straight inside to the kitchen, part of me relieved to find a note from my mom saying that one of the teachers at the yoga studio called in sick and she’s covering for her, and another part scared to death to be alone.

  In my room, I pull down my shades and make sure both windows are closed and locked, unable to shake Ben’s words.

  It’s barely even five o’clock. I have at least another hour until my dad gets home. And so I camp out at my computer desk and google the term psychometry, half hoping it’s just some made-up word, that Ben doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  But it pops up right away.

  Psychometry: the ability to “see” through touch: to learn about an object’s history or read into a person’s future by touching it or him.

  I sit down on the corner of my bed and snuggle against my stuffed polar bear, trying to figure out what all of this means—what it’ll mean if I choose to believe him. I stare back at my reflection in the dresser mirror—hair pulled back, heart-shaped face, eyes set wide apart—wondering what Ben really sees when he touches me.

  And what I would look like dead.

  A moment later the phone rings, startling me. I stare at it, debating whether or not to pick it up—if whoever left me that gift knows I’m alone.

  Four rings. Five.

  I finally pick it up, but it’s a dial tone before I can even speak. I take a deep breath, trying to exhale away the knot in my chest, wishing I had taken Kimmie up on her offer to come in.

  Instead of clicking the phone back off, I leave it on and head downstairs to the basement, where I’ve got a pottery studio set up in the corner, complete with table, sculpting tools, and potter’s wheel. I take the tie off a bag of clay, cut myself a nice, thick slice, and then thwack it down against my board. The clay is smooth and moist beneath my fingertips. I roll it out between my palms, resisting the urge to think too much or plan anything out, and instead I take notice of the texture of the clay and how it shapes in my hands.

  “What does this sculpture want to be?” I ask, taking Spencer’s words to heart about letting the work guide me for a change.

  I continue to punch, prod, and pull at my clay for at least another hour, but somehow all I have to show for it in the end is a long, stringy piece with handles at both ends, like a jump rope. Pretty much as pulseless as you can get.

  I’m just about to roll it up into a ball and begin again when I hear something—a banging noise coming from upstairs.

  “Dad?” I call.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  I resume my work, chalking the noise up to a door slamming outside or a truck driving by. But then I hear it again. Only it’s louder this time.

  Slowly, I approach the stairwell, catching a glimpse of how dark it is outside through the windows of our basement. I glance at my watch. It’s already nearing eight o’clock.

  So, where is my dad? And why isn’t Mom home yet?

  The banging sound continues as I make my way upstairs and click on the kitchen light. But then the noise stops completely.

  “Dad?” I call again, wondering if maybe he forgot his house key. I move into the living room to look out the front window, but the driveway’s still empty. No one’s home yet.

  My pulse races as I approach the door. I look out the peephole, but there’s no one standing out there. I tell myself it must have been a door-to-door salesperson and that he or she must have moved on already.

  A moment later, I hear a pelting noise coming from down the hall.

  I take a deep breath, wishing we had an alarm system, then grab the phone to dial my dad’s cell—but it won’t click on, and I can’t get a dial tone. Meanwhile, my cell phone’s in my bedroom.

  The pelting sound continues. It’s followed by a loud crashing sound, like glass shattering.

  Like someone’s trying to break in.

  My hands shaking, I snag an umbrella from the holder by the door and grip it in my hand, the tip pointed, ready for a fight. I start down the hallway, debating whether I should go to a neighbor’s house instead, but I’m too afraid to go outside.

  A second later, I hear a noise at the front door. I move back in that direction, noticing how the doorknob is jiggling. The screen door opens, and the doorbell rings.

  My heart hammers hard inside my chest. I peer through the peephole, almost collapsing in relief when I see who’s out there.

  I unlock the door and whisk it open. Kimmie’s standing there, a plateful of brownies in her hands.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I blurt out, pulling her inside.

  “No, the question is what are you doing? I called your cell phone—no answer. I called your home phone—the line is busy.”

  “I left it off the hook,
” I say, remembering.

  “Exactly,” she huffs, thrusting the plate of brownies at me. “That’s what the operator said, too.”

  “You called the operator?”

  “Well, yeah. The whole thing smelled like fish, after all. I mean, I know you guys have call-waiting.”

  “Fishy or not, you scared me to bits.” I look toward the hallway. The pelting sound has stopped.

  “I broke your window, by the way,” she says, prying the umbrella from my grip. “When you wouldn’t answer the door, I thought that maybe you were taking one of your marathon baths, and so I decided to throw rocks at the bathroom window. But apparently, I got a little too aggressive, because the glass broke. Brownie?” She lifts off the plastic wrap and helps herself to one. “I hope you don’t mind if a couple got smooshy. They were crammed in the basket of my bike.”

  “You rode here on your bike?”

  “Hauled ass is more like it,” she says. “Do you know how many potholes this cheapskate town has?”

  “Why didn’t your mom drop you off?”

  “Mom’s too busy trying to appease my dad, by shopping for miniskirts and thigh-high boots.”

  “Okay, so wait.” I shake my head, my mind whirling with questions. “Why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?”

  “Um, yeah, hello! I rang it for, like, ten minutes straight.”

  “I was in the basement.”

  “Which is probably why you didn’t hear it, Nancy Drew.”

  I smile, grateful for her persistence. “Well, at least you got to take out some of your aggression on the window . . . not to mention the door.”

  “The door?” she says, her mouth full of brownie.

  “Yeah, you practically beat the door down.”

  “Um, no I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t pound on the door?”

  “I may have rapped a couple times, but not hard. I could hear the doorbell ringing from the outside, so I knew it was working.”

  “Wait,” I say, feeling my heart speed up again. “You didn’t bang at the door? You didn’t knock real hard?”