I nod, slipping my arm around her fragile fairy wings. I guide her out of the room and look for Jay. I thought he’d be waiting somewhere. But when I look outside, his truck is gone.
Jay ditched me.
Collette does all the talking when Sheriff Hart shows up, and I’m in no position to argue. I brace myself for criminal accusations and am relieved when Collette apologizes for reporting a break-in. She says she didn’t realize Amerie and I were friends of Philippe’s. She doesn’t mention anything about Jay.
To my shock, Collette brings up the topic of the baby’s grave. I guess she would rather give her version of the story before anyone else can say anything. She tells Sheriff Hart she just heard about the baby’s grave being found and can explain what really happened, but convinces him to wait until tomorrow and take her statement at his office. “It’s been half a year already, so one more night won’t hurt, right?” she asks, with a flirtatious charm that’s more effective than a loaded weapon for getting what she wants.
Sheriff Hart agrees. They set up a time to meet and I suspect Collette will have a story all prepared for the meeting. The press will surely be there to hear her tragic version of the tale, in which instead of sounding like a lying manipulator, she’ll come off as the heroine protecting her famous client from a disturbed fan. Philippe will be the tragic figure, who lost love and a baby he never got to see.
Justice will be served sideways—not all truth, but not all lies. And ironically, it works out for me.
But not for Amerie.
Philippe offers to drive us home, but I glare at him and shake my head. He’s not getting near Amerie again if I can help it. I’ve noticed how kind and almost human Sheriff Hart is being to Amerie. He’s not so friendly to me, but he’s not hostile, either, which is an improvement. So I ask him for a ride home and he readily agrees. He helps me guide Amerie, who is sobbing, to his patrol car.
“May I borrow you phone, Sheriff Hart?” I ask in my most polite, minister’s daughter tone. “My family will be worried.”
“Of course,” he says, unclipping a phone from his belt. “Here.”
When the phone flashes on, I see a photo of a girl about my age with a black braid and gap in her toothy grin. Her dark skin contrasts with her very pale blue eyes. Immediately, I get a finding connection to her … an image of a map showing central California by the ocean. And there’s a girl kneeling on the beach—the same girl as in this photo.
“Your daughter,” I hear myself saying to the sheriff, but part of me is still far away on a beach. “She’s living by the ocean in a green trailer.”
“What!” He jerks toward me like I’ve zapped him with a Taser gun. “What do you know about my daughter?”
My head is still in a fog and something compels me to say, “I know she misses you.”
“What the hell!” He leads me over to the sidewalk, lowering his voice. “Who told you about Leannah?”
I consider lying, but have a strong feeling I need to be honest. “When I touch things, sometimes I get images about people and places. Weird, I know, so forget about it. I don’t expect you to believe in psychic abilities.”
“But I do believe,” he says quietly. “I’ve worked with psychics a few times in my career. I wondered if you might be like that, too. Once I ruled out the logical scenarios for how you found the grave, it seemed like a possibility.”
Now I’m the one who’s shocked … and impressed.
“You really saw my Leannah by a beach?” he continues in a pained voice.
I nod. “You can call her and ask her yourself.”
“No, I can’t.” He glances down at the photo on the phone. “She ran away from home four years ago. She never called or left any kind of message. I haven’t heard anything from or about her … until now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He lifts his head. “For the first time in years, you’ve given me hope. And once all this drama”—he gestures back toward Philippe’s house—“settles down, I’d like to ask you more about her.”
“Sure,” I say, then climb into the car beside Amerie.
It’s not until I’m walking Amerie up to her house that I remember the Singing Star finals. “Amerie, who won the contest?”
“The contest? Oh, yeah.” Her lashes flicker and a spark of her usual self returns. “Third place went to your group.”
“My former group,” I say with no regret.
“Priscilla played too loud, but they were still great. Although they would have done better with you.”
“Thanks, but third is good. I’m glad for them.”
“Second place went to the nerdy guy with the big voice.”
“And first place?”
“Ruby Rodriquez.” Amerie pauses on her doorstep and I’m relieved she’s coming out of her zombie trance. “She sang this amazing song that blew the audience away. She said it was written by an unknown but very talented local songwriter. I can’t get it out of my head. It goes like this.”
Amerie sings words I’ve never heard before to a melody I know by heart.
It’s my song. Only Ruby has added beautiful words to go with my music.
I think of Opal’s prediction—that I’d “achieve the highest success.”
Not me, but my song.
And I smile.
Twenty-Five
I sleep in the next morning and wake up to my little brothers playing Frisbee over my bed. And I know everything is back to normal—which is a good thing.
But it doesn’t last long.
First Amerie calls, hyper-excited and not sounding heartbroken as she tells me to turn on the news. When I click on the TV, there’s Collette’s tragically sad face spilling her story, twisting the facts exactly as I expected. Philippe is destined to be even more famous after this scandal. When he starts to talk about his “tragic loss,” I click off the TV. What a phoney-baloney jerk.
Then Rune sweeps in and drags me off for breakfast at The Hole Truth, because she wants the “whole truth.” And I tell her as much as I can. Afterward, we go thrifting and I find some wicked black shoes with skull-shaped buckles for only seventy-five cents.
As I’m paying, I think about how even though I still miss my old friends from California, I’ve made some cool new friends here. My soul sister Rune is always amusing me with her wonderfully shocking weird facts, and Amerie is turning out to be made of sterner stuff than fairy wings. Nevada is starting to feel like … well … home.
On Monday morning, it’s back to school. I wear my skull shoes and accessorize with skull hair clips and my black-blue wig. I put on blue lipstick and a temporary tattoo of a skull on my cheek. I leave the house feeling gothtastic.
Everyone at NB High is talking about Philippe and the contest, of course. Ruby isn’t at school, and I hear she’s gotten an entertainment manager and is planning her trip to Las Vegas. I find an envelope from her, though, in my locker. When I open it, there’s a sheet of lyrics to our song with Ruby Rodriquez credited as lyricist and Thorn Matthews as songwriter.
Me. A songwriter. Cool.
As I’m reading the lyrics a second time, there’s a tap on my shoulder.
I turn and find Jay.
I can’t decide whether to slap his face or stomp away.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, blocking my way.
“You left me!” I accuse.
“Would you rather I’d waited around for someone to rip off my mask? Then the Grin Reaper would be done. I wouldn’t be able to help people anymore.”
“You didn’t help me or Amerie.”
“I would have, if you’d needed help. When I snuck out, I planned to come back and tackle Collette. But then Philippe took her gun away and I realized you weren’t in danger. I hid outside until the sheriff arrived. If you’d nee
ded me, I would have been there for you. Still, I’m really sorry.”
“You should be … but I guess I understand why you left.” I want to hold on to my anger, but finding out he didn’t really leave means a lot. “Did you give the record to Wiley?”
Jay nods. “That big tough snake-tattooed dude cried when I placed it in his hands. He never thought he’d see it again.”
“But you made it happen,” I say, gazing into his face.
“I told you the Grin Reaper is a good guy.” Jay clears his throat. “There’s something else I want to tell you.”
“What?” I ask softly.
“You aren’t bound by your promise anymore. Now that everyone knows the truth about the grave, there’s no reason for you to keep my secret.”
“Oh, there’s a reason,” I say casually, like my heart isn’t suddenly racing. “I kind of like having the Grin Reaper around.”
“You do?” He gives me a slow smile.
“He’s not such a bad dude when you get to know him.”
“Want to know him even better?” Jay leans close so that our faces are inches apart. “If you can handle it, Goth Girl.”
“I can handle anything or anyone, Reaper.”
We look at each other for what seems like a long time, and I have a strong feeling that Jay and I are going to be something more than friends.
I’m not exactly sure what will happen.
But I can’t wait to find out.
The End.
About the Author
Linda Joy Singleton lives in northern California. She has two grown children and a wonderfully supportive husband who loves to travel with her in search of unusual stories.
She is the author of more than thirty books, including the Seer series, the Dead Girl series, and the Strange Encounters series (all from Llewellyn/Flux). She is also the author of the Regeneration, My Sister the Ghost, and Cheer Squad series. Visit her online at www.LindaJoySingleton.com.
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