The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Okay!” I practically shouted. “Where to next?”

  “And can I just say if a guy ever kisses me like that, I will start dry heaving. Repulsive doesn’t begin to describe what was going on with his mouth. That was makeup, right? I mean, nobody actually has a mouth like that in real life—”

  “My review is due by midnight,” I said, cutting across her.

  “Oh. Right. To the library, then?” Vee unlocked the doors to her 1995 purple Dodge Neon. “You’re being awfully touchy, you know.”

  I slid into the passenger seat. “Blame the movie.” Blame the Peeping Tom at my window last night.

  “I’m not talking about just tonight. I’ve noticed,” she said with a mischievous curve of her mouth, “that you’ve been unusually crabby for a good half hour at the end of bio the past two days.”

  “Also easy. Blame Patch.”

  Vee’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. She adjusted it for a better look at her teeth. She licked them, giving a practiced smile. “I have to admit, his dark side calls to me.”

  I had no desire to admit it, but Vee wasn’t alone. I felt drawn to Patch in a way I’d never felt drawn to anyone. There was a dark magnetism between us. Around him, I felt lured to the edge of danger. At any moment, it felt like he could push me over the edge.

  “Hearing you say that makes me want to—” I paused, trying to think of exactly what our attraction to Patch did make me want to do. Something unpleasant.

  “Tell me you don’t think he’s good-looking,” Vee said, “and I promise I’ll never bring up his name again.”

  I reached to turn on the radio. Of all things, there had to be something better to do than ruin our evening by inviting Patch, albeit abstractly, into it. Sitting beside him for one hour every day, five days a week, was plenty more than I could take. I wasn’t giving him my evenings, too.

  “Well?” Vee pressed.

  “He could be good-looking. But I’d be the last to know. I’m a tainted juror on this one, sorry.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I can’t get beyond his personality. No amount of beauty could make up for it.”

  “Not beauty. He’s . . . hard-edged. Sexy.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Vee honked and tapped her brake as a car pulled in front of her. “What? You disagree, or rough-and-roguish isn’t your type?”

  “I don’t have a type,” I said. “I’m not that narrow.”

  Vee laughed. “You, babe, are more than narrow—you’re confined. Cramped. Your spectrum is about as wide as one of Coach’s microorganisms. There are very few, if any, boys at school you would fall for.”

  “That’s not true.” I said the words automatically. It wasn’t until I’d spoken them that I wondered how accurate they were. I had never been seriously interested in anyone. How weird was I? “It isn’t about the boys, it’s about . . . love. I haven’t found it.”

  “It isn’t about love,” Vee said. “It’s about fun.”

  I lifted my eyebrows, doubtful. “Kissing a guy I don’t know—I don’t care about—is fun?”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention in bio? It’s about a lot more than kissing.”

  “Oh,” I said in an enlightened voice. “The gene pool is warped enough without me contributing to it.”

  “Want to know who I think would be really good?”

  “Good?”

  “Good,” she repeated with an indecent smile.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Your partner.”

  “Don’t call him that,” I said. “‘Partner’ has a positive connotation.”

  Vee squeezed into a parking space near the library doors and killed the engine. “Have you ever fantasized about kissing him? Have you ever stolen a peek sideways and imagined flinging yourself at Patch and crushing your mouth to his?”

  I stared at her with a look I hoped spoke appalled shock. “Have you?”

  Vee grinned.

  I tried to imagine what Patch would do if presented with this information. As little as I knew about him, I sensed his aversion to Vee as if it were concrete enough to touch.

  “He’s not good enough for you,” I said.

  She moaned. “Careful, you’ll only make me want him more.”

  Inside the library we took a table on the main level, near adult fiction. I opened my laptop and typed: The Sacrifice, two and a half stars. Two and a half was probably on the low side. But I had a lot on my mind and wasn’t feeling particularly equitable.

  Vee opened a bag of dried apple chips. “Want some?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She peered into the bag. “If you’re not going to eat them, I’ll have to. And I really don’t want to.”

  Vee was on the color-wheel fruit diet. Three red fruits a day, two blue, a handful of green . . .

  She held up an apple chip, examining it front to back.

  “What color?” I asked.

  “Make-me-gag-Granny-Smith-green. I think.”

  Just then Marcie Millar, the only sophomore to make varsity cheerleading in the history of Coldwater High, took a seat on the edge of our table. Her strawberry blond hair was combed into low pigtails, and like always, her skin was concealed under half a bottle of foundation. I was fairly certain I’d guessed the right amount, since there wasn’t a trace of her freckles in sight. I hadn’t seen any of Marcie’s freckles since seventh grade, the same year she discovered Mary Kay. There was three-quarters of an inch between the hem of her skirt and the start of her underwear . . . if she was even wearing any.

  “Hi, Supersize,” Marcie said to Vee.

  “Hi, Freakshow,” Vee said back.

  “My mom is looking for models this weekend. The pay is nine dollars an hour. I thought you’d be interested.”

  Marcie’s mom manages the local JCPenney, and on weekends she has Marcie and the rest of the cheerleaders model bikinis in the store’s street-facing display windows.

  “She’s having a really hard time finding plus-size lingerie models,” said Marcie.

  “You’ve got food stuck in your teeth,” Vee told Marcie. “In the crack between your two front teeth. Looks like chocolate Ex-Lax . . .”

  Marcie licked her teeth and slid off the table. As she sashayed off, Vee stuck her finger in her mouth and made gagging gestures at Marcie’s back.

  “She’s lucky we’re at the library,” Vee told me. “She’s lucky we didn’t cross paths in a dark alley. Last chance—any chips?”

  “Pass.”

  Vee wandered off to discard the chips. A few minutes later she returned with a romance novel. She took the seat next to me and, displaying the novel’s cover, said, “Someday this is going to be us. Ravished by half-dressed cowboys. I wonder what it’s like to kiss a pair of sunbaked, mud-crusted lips?”

  “Dirty,” I murmured, typing away.

  “Speaking of dirty.” There was an unexpected rise in her voice. “There’s our guy.”

  I stopped typing long enough to peer over my laptop, and my heart skipped a beat. Patch stood across the room in the checkout line. As if he sensed me watching, he turned. Our eyes locked for one, two, three counts. I broke away first, but not before receiving a slow grin.

  My heartbeat turned erratic, and I told myself to pull it together. I was not going down this path. Not with Patch. Not unless I was out of my mind.

  “Let’s go,” I told Vee. Shutting my laptop, I zipped it inside its carrying case. I pushed my books inside my backpack, dropping a few on the floor as I did.

  Vee said, “I’m trying to read the title he’s holding . . . hang on . . . How to Be a Stalker.”

  “He is not checking out a book with that title.” But I wasn’t sure.

  “It’s either that or How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.”

  “Shh!” I hissed.

  “Calm down, he can’t hear. He’s talking to the librarian. He’s checking out.”

  Confirming this with a quick glance
over, I realized that if we left now, we’d probably meet him at the exit doors. And then I would be expected to say something to him. I ordered myself back into my chair and searched diligently through my pockets for nothing whatsoever while he finished checking out.

  “Do you think it’s creepy he’s here at the same time we are?” Vee asked.

  “Do you?”

  “I think he’s following you.”

  “I think it’s a coincidence.” This wasn’t entirely true. If I had to make a list of the top ten places I would expect to find Patch on any given night, the public library wouldn’t make it. The library wouldn’t make the top hundred places. So what was he doing here?

  The question was particularly disturbing after what had happened last night. I hadn’t mentioned it to Vee because I was hoping it would shrink and shrivel in my memory until it ceased to have happened. Period.

  “Patch!” Vee stage-whispered. “Are you stalking Nora?”

  I clamped my hand over her mouth. “Stop it. I mean it.” I put on a severe face.

  “I bet he is following you,” said Vee, prying my hand away. “I bet he has a history of it too. I bet he has restraining orders. We should sneak into the front office. It would all be in his student file.”

  “We are not sneaking into the front office.”

  “I could create a diversion. I’m good at diversions. No one would see you go in. We could be like spies.”

  “We are not spies.”

  “Do you know his last name?” Vee asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Oh, come on. You love a good mystery, and it doesn’t get better than this.”

  “The best mysteries involve a dead body. We don’t have a dead body.”

  Vee squealed. “Not yet!”

  Shaking two iron pills from the bottle in my backpack, I swallowed them together.

  Vee bounced the Neon into her driveway just after nine thirty. She killed the engine and dangled the keys in front of me.

  “You’re not going to drive me home?” I asked. A waste of breath, since I knew her answer.

  “There’s fog.”

  “Patchy fog.”

  Vee grinned. “Oh, boy. He is so on your mind. Not that I blame you. Personally, I’m hoping I dream about him tonight.”

  Ugh.

  “And the fog always gets worse near your house,” Vee continued. “It freaks me out after dark.”

  I grabbed the keys. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t blame me. Tell your mom to move closer. Tell her there’s this new club called civilization and you guys should join.”

  “I suppose you expect me to pick you up before school tomorrow?”

  “Seven thirty would be nice. Breakfast is on me.”

  “It better be good.”

  “Be nice to my baby.” She patted the Neon’s dash. “But not too nice. Can’t have her thinking there’s better out there.”

  On the drive home I allowed my thoughts a brief trip to Patch. Vee was right—something about him was incredibly alluring. And incredibly creepy. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced something about him was . . . off. The fact that he liked to antagonize me wasn’t exactly a news flash, but there was a difference between getting under my skin in class and possibly going as far as following me to the library to accomplish it. Not many people would go to that much trouble . . . unless they had a very good reason.

  Halfway home a pattering rain flushed out the wispy clouds of fog hovering above the road. Dividing my attention between the road and the controls on the steering wheel, I tried to locate the windshield wipers.

  The streetlights flickered overhead, and I wondered if a heavier storm was blowing in. This close to the ocean the weather changed constantly, and a rainstorm could quickly escalate into a flash flood. I fed the Neon more gas.

  The outside lights flickered again. A cold feeling prickled up the back of my neck, and the hairs on my arms tingled. My sixth sense graduated to high alert. I asked myself if I thought I was being followed. There were no headlights in the rearview mirror. No cars ahead, either. I was all alone. It wasn’t a very comforting thought. I pushed the car to forty-five.

  I found the wipers, but even at top speed they couldn’t keep up with the hammering rain. The stoplight ahead turned yellow. I rolled to a stop, checked to see that traffic was clear, then pulled into the intersection.

  I heard the impact before I registered the dark silhouette skidding across the hood of the car.

  I screamed and stomped on the brake. The silhouette thumped into the windshield with a splintering crack.

  On impulse, I jerked the steering wheel a hard right. The back end of the Neon fishtailed, sending me spinning across the intersection. The silhouette rolled and disappeared over the edge of the hood.

  I was holding my breath, squeezing the steering wheel between white-knuckled hands. I lifted my feet off the pedals. The car bucked and stalled out.

  He was crouched a few feet away, watching me. He didn’t look at all . . . injured.

  He was dressed in total black and blended with the night, making it hard to tell what he looked like. At first I couldn’t distinguish any facial features, and then I realized he was wearing a ski mask.

  He rose to his feet, closing the distance between us. He flattened his palms to the driver’s-side window. Our eyes connected through the holes in the mask. A lethal smile seemed to rise in his.

  He gave another pound, the glass vibrating between us.

  I started the car. I tried to synchronize shoving it into first gear, pushing on the gas pedal, and releasing the clutch. The engine revved, but the car bucked again and died.

  I turned the engine over once more, but was distracted by an off-key metallic groan. I watched with horror as the door began to bow. He was tearing—it—off.

  I rammed the car into first. My shoes slipped over the pedals. The engine roared, the RPM needle on the dash spiking into the red zone.

  His fist came through the window in an explosion of glass. His hand fumbled over my shoulder, clamping around my arm. I gave a hoarse cry, stomped the gas pedal, and released the clutch. The Neon screeched into motion. He hung on, gripping my arm, running beside the car several feet before dropping away.

  I sped forward with the force of adrenaline. I checked the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t chasing me, then shoved the mirror to face away. I had to press my lips together to keep from sobbing.

  CHAPTER

  4

  FLYING DOWN HAWTHORNE, I DROVE PAST MY house, circled back, cut over to Beech, and headed back toward the center of Coldwater. I speed-dialed Vee. “Something happened—I—he—it—out of nowhere—the Neon—” “You’re breaking up. What?”

  I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. I was trembling down to my toes. “He came out of nowhere.”

  “Who?”

  “He—” I tried to net my thoughts and funnel them into words. “He jumped in front of the car!”

  “Oh, man. Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man. You hit a deer? Are you okay? What about Bambi?” She half wailed, half groaned. “The Neon?”

  I opened my mouth, but Vee cut me off.

  “Forget it. I’ve got insurance. Just tell me there aren’t deer parts all over my baby. . . . No deer parts, right?”

  Whatever answer I was about to give faded into the background. My mind was two steps ahead. A deer. Maybe I could pass the whole thing off as hitting a deer. I wanted to confide in Vee, but I didn’t want to sound crazy, either. How was I going to explain watching the guy I hit rise to his feet and begin tearing off the car door? I stretched my collar down past my shoulder. No red marks where he’d gripped me that I could see . . .

  I came to myself with a start. Was I actually considering denying it had happened? I knew what I’d seen. It was not my imagination.

  “Holy freak show,” Vee said. “You’re not an
swering. The deer is lodged in my headlights, isn’t he? You’re driving around with him stuck to the front of the car like a snowplow.”

  “Can I sleep at your place?” I wanted to get off the streets. Out of the dark. With a sudden intake of air, I realized to get to Vee’s, I’d have to drive back through the intersection where I’d hit him.

  “I’m down in my room,” said Vee. “Let yourself in. See you in a few.”

  With my hands tight on the steering wheel, I pushed the Neon through the rain, praying the light at Hawthorne would be green in my favor. It was, and I floored it through the intersection, keeping my eyes straight ahead, but at the same time, stealing glimpses into the shadows along the side of the road. There was no sign of the guy in the ski mask.

  Ten minutes later I parked the Neon in Vee’s driveway. The damage to the door was extensive, and I had to put my foot to it and kick my way out. Then I jogged to the front door, bolted myself inside, and hurried down the basement stairs.

  Vee was sitting cross-legged on her bed, notebook propped between her knees, earbuds plugged in, iPod turned up all the way. “Do I want to see the damage tonight, or should I wait until I’ve had at least seven hours of sleep?” she called over the music.

  “Maybe option number two.”

  Vee snapped the notebook shut and tugged out the earbuds. “Let’s get it over with.”

  When we got outside, I stared at the Neon for a long moment. It wasn’t a warm night, but the weather wasn’t the cause of the goose bumps rippling over my arms. No smashed driver’s-side window. No bend in the door.

  “Something’s not right,” I said. But Vee wasn’t listening. She was busy inspecting every square inch of the Neon.

  I stepped forward and poked the driver’s-side window. Solid glass. I closed my eyes. When I reopened them, the window was still intact.

  I walked around the back of the car. I’d completed almost a full circle when I came up short.

  A fine crack bisected the windshield.

  Vee saw it at the same time. “Are you sure it wasn’t a squirrel?”

  My mind flashed back to the lethal eyes behind the ski mask. They were so black I couldn’t distinguish the pupils from the irises. Black like . . . Patch’s.