Very Bad Things

by Susan McBride

  “Don’t lose me, okay?” she said, giving him her answer. She didn’t want to get stuck in the tunnels. She couldn’t imagine having to stay down there much longer. It felt like being buried alive.

  “I won’t lose you, I promise.”

  She caught a glimpse of a smile as he moved around her. Katie grabbed the back of his sweatshirt and held on as he navigated the passageway. Soon they were at the greenhouse grate.

  Mark offered her a leg up, and Katie reached for the edges of the hole.

  Then she pulled herself up and over, sprawling onto the greenhouse floor.

  She sighed with relief at the sight of the moonlight spilling in through the glass panels. The warm, damp air settled on her skin like dew, and sweat trickled down her back beneath her T-shirt.

  Mark emerged far more gracefully. He tucked his flashlight into the pocket of his hoodie as they walked through rows of plants. When he headed toward the far corner where the rosebushes bloomed, Katie didn’t follow.

  He turned around. “What’s wrong?”

  A prickle of fear raced up Katie’s spine. She told herself it had nothing to do with being alone with Mark. It was something else. She thought of the rose petal she’d found on the floor by her bed and all the times before when she’d smelled roses in her sleep. Did Tessa have something to do with that? Was Tessa trying to scare her? It didn’t make sense.

  “Sometimes I get the feeling someone’s watching me,” she said, because that was the only way she could explain it.

  “I feel that way, too, in the tunnels sometimes.” Mark glanced around, walking toward her. “But no one else is here now.”

  “How do you know?” She looked down the length of the greenhouse, at the rows of plants that seemed to go on forever; at the glass walls and ceiling that would be so easy to peer through. There was a muted shhh every time the mister went on, rustling leaves.

  “I just know,” he said, nodding toward a slim wooden bench. “C’mon, sit.”

  Katie wasn’t so sure. But she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and settled down beside him.

  “I’ve missed you,” Mark said softly. She saw the play of emotions on his face, made more dramatic by the shadows. “It’s been a rough week.”

  “How’re you holding up?” she asked.

  He gave her a sad half smile. “That’s what I should be asking you.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Katie. I’m sorry for everything.”

  Instinctively, she touched his hand. “You didn’t cause this.”

  “I feel like I did.” Mark stared off into the distance. He looked so serious. “Maybe it’s karma kicking me in the ass because I had it too good and I took it all for granted.”

  “No,” Katie said, remembering what Dr. Capello had told her. “You didn’t bring this on any more than I did. Someone out there is seriously sick.”

  “And not in a good way.”

  “I know you didn’t send me the hand,” she told him, something she’d believed from the start. Mark was a lot of things, but he wasn’t bat-shit crazy.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t cheat on me either, did you?” she said, wondering if he would hesitate before he answered. But he didn’t even pause.

  “No.” His voice was ragged. His eyes glistened as he turned to her. He looked so frustrated and so vulnerable, which wasn’t a word Katie had ever associated with him. “It’s like one night wrecked my whole life, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “Hey,” she said, and touched his cheek. “Don’t give up.”

  “I keep trying to remember what happened at the party. I feel like I know something more, but I’m not sure how to get it out.”

  “Give it time,” Katie whispered.

  “But I don’t have time! The police interviewed me for two hours the other day, Katie. Two freaking hours! They took my prints and swabbed my cheek for a DNA test. I hope they tested Steve, too.”

  “You honestly believe he hurt Rose? That he cut off her hand?” Katie shivered. Yeah, Steve Getty was a total douche. But lots of guys were, and it didn’t mean they could murder someone.

  “It wasn’t me,” Mark said, “it couldn’t have been.”

  “They’ll find whoever did it,” Katie told him, though it sounded lame even to her ears. “At least you have a lot of support.”

  “Really?” Mark let out a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “You’ve got Charlie,” Katie said, because he was Mark’s closest friend. Maybe Charlie was avoiding her, but he couldn’t possibly be avoiding Mark, too.

  Mark rubbed his hands together. “Charlie’s been acting strange.”

  “I heard Joelle defend you.”

  “No way.” He laughed. “Was she high?”

  “She was really upset,” Katie said, recalling the tears on Joelle’s cheeks. “She said you won’t listen to her but what you saw wasn’t how things happened.”

  “Oh, man. She’s even working you now, trying to convince me she didn’t cheat.” He rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head. “She’s wrong. I know what I saw. She had her skirt up and Getty was on top of her, going at it. He sent her roses the next day, or so I heard.”

  Roses.

  Katie shivered. “That doesn’t mean she wanted it, you know.”

  Mark sighed. “Joelle doesn’t take crap from anyone. She’s tough.”

  “But she’s a size two,” Katie reminded him. “Steve’s big, like you. Maybe he drugged her, too.”

  “You don’t really think—Aw, damn,” Mark started, then stopped and exhaled. “If he raped her, why didn’t she report it? Why would she keep her mouth shut?”

  Katie could think of a million reasons. “Maybe she was scared. Maybe she didn’t think anyone would believe her. You didn’t.”

  Mark pinched his eyes closed. “My father said something after I fought with Steve in the dining hall. Like, Steve’s dad wouldn’t argue because Steve was lucky to be at Whitney.”

  “What if he’s done it before?” Katie said, heart thumping. “What if he did it again?”

  “To Rose, you mean?” Mark let out a slow breath. “If I hadn’t passed out, if I could’ve stayed awake, maybe things would be different. Maybe Rose would be okay, and I wouldn’t be so alone in this.”

  “Hey.” Katie nudged him. “You’ve got me.”

  “Do I?” he whispered.

  He sounded so sad, it broke her heart.

  I’m sorry. It’ll be okay. Don’t give up, she wanted to say. But the words seemed too cliché.

  Katie didn’t know how to comfort him. She didn’t understand what was going on any more than he did. She wanted to trust him completely again, to go back to the way they were. God, but she was tired. She put her head on his shoulder, leaning into him as his arm came around her.

  They didn’t say much more, just sat like that until light crept across the inky sky and Katie realized they had to get moving.

  As she stood, she heard faint noises—voices and an occasional dog’s bark—from beyond the greenhouse, somewhere across the creek.

  “What is it?” Mark asked.

  “No clue.” She went up to the tempered-glass wall that dripped with condensation and rubbed a circle to see through. She peered ahead to where the woods began. The glow of flashlights bumped along as dark figures meandered through the trees. She wondered what they were doing. It was way too early for a leisurely stroll.

  Mark came up behind her, his breath soft in her hair.

  “Oh, man, it’s the search dogs. They’re looking for the body,” he said, and Katie felt her skin turn to goose bumps again. “They’re looking for Rose.”

  Mark barely made it to hockey practice that morning before his first class. He’d slept badly after leaving Katie at Amelia House and returning through the grate in his basement. Though he’d gone back to bed, he kept thinking he heard the search dogs barking and wondered if they’d found Rose’s body.

  When he saw his father at breakfast, he asked
if they’d turned up anything. His dad shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he said grimly.

  When Mark finally got to the rink, there wasn’t the usual trash talk in the locker room. In the days before a big game, the team could get pretty rowdy, banging pads, pounding lockers, making noise about kicking ass. “Eye of the tiger!” someone was always yelling. There was no game bigger for Whitney than the prep school state championship. But the locker room had turned into a library with everyone speaking in hushed voices, or at least they whispered whenever Mark came around. He felt less part of the team than odd man out.

  They looked at him with narrowed eyes, as though he’d done something wrong when all he’d tried to do was throw a party for his friends.

  “Summers,” someone called out as Mark reached into his locker for his helmet. “Yo, Mark, you deaf or what?”

  “Sorry, bro, just thinking,” he said as Charlie waddled over in his goalie’s gear. He had his helmet cocked back on his head so the cage covered his forehead but not his face. He wore a white practice jersey, while Mark wore black. Usually, they played together, but this morning they were on opposite sides in the scrimmage.

  “You ready?” his friend asked, leaning on his stick.

  “Almost,” Mark said, nodding down at his feet. “Just lacing up the skates.”

  “You doing all right?” Charlie asked, and shifted on his feet. “It’s got to be hard, everyone talking about you and Rose.”

  “It sucks.” Mark sighed, glancing up. “It’s like I’ve got dog crap on my shoes and no one wants to smell it.” Including you, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

  Charlie frowned. “That’s harsh.”

  “Getty loves it, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking of dog shit,” Charlie murmured. “You keeping a safe distance from him, outside the rink, I mean?”

  “As much as I can.” Mark had done his best to avoid Steve Getty since the fight. It sucked that he had to deal with the guy at practice.

  “I heard the cops are back on campus,” Charlie said, rubbing the bump on his nose. “Did they get a tip or something?”

  “They’ve got dogs sniffing for the body,” Mark told him.

  “The body,” Charlie repeated, and released a slow breath. “So she’s really dead?”

  “Hard to imagine her walking around without a hand, bro,” Mark said. “I just hope they find her soon and prove I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You didn’t do it, man. You didn’t mess her up,” Charlie said, and there was something in his voice that made Mark stop lacing his skates and look up.

  “Did you see something that night, Charlie? Did Steve hurt that girl? Did I do something?”

  “Whoa, what?” His friend’s eyes went wide. He shook his head. “I didn’t see squat, man.”

  Voices suddenly rose in the next aisle as lockers slammed, and Mark saw Steve and a couple of other guys in white clomping past the aisle toward the ice. Steve caught Mark’s eye for an instant and then looked past him.

  “Hey, Charlie!” he called. “You shouldn’t be hanging with the enemy. You’re on my side in this war, remember?”

  “Yeah, coming,” Charlie said, and Mark heard a catch in his voice.

  “I’ll be waiting.” Steve slapped his stick against the lockers, leaving the noise of clanging metal in his wake.

  Charlie stared after him and there was the flicker of something like fear in his face.

  “You’re afraid of him?” Mark said, because that was what it looked like.

  “C’mon, get real,” Charlie replied, but he had sweat on his upper lip. “Getty can be an ass, but he doesn’t scare me.” He rubbed a gloved hand across his mouth.

  “Are you sure? Did he warn you to keep quiet about something? About Rose?” Mark asked, and jerked the laces on his skates harder than he had to as he finished tying them.

  “Why would you say that?” Charlie looked green, like he was about to be sick.

  Mark had known the guy since they were eight, when Charlie had been one of the crop of grammar school newbies, teary-eyed and homesick. Mark could read him like a book. “You’re lying. You are afraid.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Let it go—”

  “You were there,” Mark cut him off. “You were the last one I talked to before I lost it.” He got up on his skates so he was eye to eye with Charlie. “I spilled beer on my shoes, I wanted air, but I passed out.”

  “Everyone was wasted.”

  “No,” Mark insisted. “I was barely even buzzed before Steve handed me a cup from the keg. All of a sudden, I was drooling. You don’t think it’s crazy that I went down after a few sips? You followed me upstairs, so you must’ve been worried. Did you see what happened to me? Do you know anything?”

  Charlie jiggled his stick, glancing up the aisle. “I can’t help you, man.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?” Mark asked.

  Charlie’s upper lip got slick again. “Did you tell the cops you were drugged?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did they buy it?”

  Mark shrugged and pulled off his blade guards. He tossed them into his locker before grabbing his gloves and slamming the metal door. “I’ve got no proof.” He looked right into Charlie’s face. “Unless someone knows something and isn’t saying.”

  Charlie didn’t reply, but his jaw started to twitch.

  “C’mon, bro,” Mark said, putting a glove on his friend’s shoulder and leaning in, lowering his voice. “Don’t let me take the fall. Is Getty behind this?”

  “You think he killed her?”

  “You tell me,” Mark replied, and secured the chin strap to his helmet. “Did he get a hard-on when he took that picture of Rose on top of me? Did she tell him to get lost, and he went ape-shit? ’Cause I doubt the dude knows how to take no for an answer.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what? Dig for the truth?” Mark kept his eyes on Charlie’s, but Charlie looked away.

  “If you leave it alone, pretty soon it’ll all just go away,” Charlie said, and pulled down his grille, covering his face. “Who was that girl anyway? A waitress? She was nothing.”

  Mark stared at him. “That’s not you talking, Charlie. That sounds like Getty.” What was going on? Mark’s pulse pounded in his veins. If his closest friend wasn’t talking, how could he ever find out the truth?

  Charlie muttered, “Better head out or Coach will wonder where we are.” He started to walk away, but halfway up the aisle, he stopped. “You coming or what?”

  “In a sec.”

  “See you on the ice.” Charlie nodded, then shuffled off toward the rink.

  Mark slowly got up from the bench, yanking on his gloves and picking up his stick. His shoulders felt tight. His whole body felt tight, full of pent-up frustration and fury so big he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Mark had never been thrown under the bus before, not by anyone. He’d always been well liked, admired even. And now …

  When the going got tough, it was amazing how quickly everyone bailed.

  Get your head in the game, he told himself, and plodded along the rubber-matted hallway to the rink. Playing hockey was all he had left. He had to forget about Rose Tatum. Couldn’t think about what was in the box sent to Katie, or that prick Getty. He needed to focus on the scrimmage, putting every ounce of his energy into ice time before the upcoming game against Briarcliff.

  But hard as he tried, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop thinking about the party and how wrong it had gone. He’d been on top of the world that Saturday night, wanting to kick back with his teammates and celebrate making it to state.

  Now everything had changed. Now his whole world depended on the cops finding a missing girl he barely remembered, on there being some kind of evidence that cleared him. Because he couldn’t seem to clear himself.

  The coach blew a warning whistle just as Mark pushed out onto the ice and skated around the rink, hugging the boards, getting used to the feel of the stick in his hands, the cold o
n his skin. He told himself not to look across the red line at Getty, clad in enemy white.

  The whistle shrilled again, and Mark forced his thoughts aside, skating to the nearest blue line and settling into a circle with his teammates in black jerseys for shooting drills.

  A larger-than-usual crowd filled the stands. Mark couldn’t help but wonder if they were there because the team had reached the prep school state championship or out of curiosity because of The Box and the missing girl. He felt like a freak-show attraction. He wondered how many of them had already decided he was guilty. Mark knew of the talk behind his back. It ranged from “he’s way too clean-cut to kill anybody” to “he thinks because his dad is headmaster he can get away with anything.”

  Focus on the ice. Watch the puck, he told himself as he skated to the center, a teammate passing to him from near the net.

  He heard a cry from the stands and glanced up. Two boys screamed, “Kill it, Summers! Kill it!” and banged on the Plexiglas. They had the hoods of their Soaring Eagle sweatshirts pulled over their heads, so he could barely see their faces.

  “Summers!” someone shouted from nearby, and Mark turned in time to catch the puck on the edge of his stick, whiffing the shot. It wobbled off to the right, bouncing against the skate of a teammate. “Jesus, dude, are you going blind?”

  A loud burst of laughter erupted from across the rink, followed by a smothered cry of “Loser!” Mark was sure it came from Getty.

  He took another skate around the circle, homing in on the puck that was pushed out to him. Heart pumping, he pulled back his stick and laid into the black disk, sending a fierce slap shot past Charlie and clear into the back of the net. He went around again and again, never missing a shot, until Coach Hart blew the whistle twice, setting the scrimmage in motion.

  “Summers and Getty!” the coach called, and gestured that the two should face off in the center of the ice.

  Mark skated over, clutching his stick, adrenaline pumping through him. He bent low, the foot of his stick on the ice. Across from him, Steve did the same.

  They were eye to eye, staring through the plastic guards on their helmets.