The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “I wasn’t going anyway.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Are you mad because I was with Patch at the Z last night? Because he doesn’t mean anything to me. We’re just having fun. It’s nothing serious.”

  “Yeah, it really looked that way,” I said, letting just enough cynicism seep into my tone.

  “Don’t be jealous, Nora. Patch and I are just really, really good friends. But in case you’re interested, my mom knows a really good relationship therapist. Let me know if you need a referral. On second thought, she’s pretty pricey. I mean, I know your mom has this stellar job and all—”

  “Question for you, Marcie.” My voice was a cool warning, but my hands were shaking in my lap. “What would you do if you woke up tomorrow to find your dad had been murdered? Do you think your mom’s part-time job at JC Penney would pay the bills? Next time, before you bring up my family situation, put yourself in my shoes for a minute. One teeny tiny minute.”

  She held my gaze a long moment, but her expression was so impassive I doubted I’d made her think twice. The only person Marcie could ever empathize with was herself.

  After class, I found Vee in the parking lot. She was splayed across the hood of the Neon, sleeves rolled above her shoulders, tanning. “We need to talk,” she said as I approached. She pulled herself up to sitting and lowered her sunglasses down her nose far enough to make eye contact. “You and Patch are Splitsville, aren’t you?”

  I climbed onto the hood beside her. “Who told?”

  “Rixon. For the record, that hurt. I’m your best friend, and I shouldn’t have to find these things out through the friend of a friend. Or through the friend of an ex-boyfriend,” she added, after thinking it all through. She laid a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “How are you holding up?”

  Not especially well. But it was one of those things I was trying to bury at the bottom of my heart, and I couldn’t keep it buried if I talked about it. I eased back against the windshield, raising my notebook to shield the sun. “You know what the worst part is?”

  “That I was right all along and now you have to suffer through hearing me say, ‘I told you so’?”

  “Funny.”

  “It’s no secret Patch is trouble. He’s got the whole bad-boy-in-need-of-redemption thing going on, but the catch is, most bad boys don’t want redemption. They like being bad. They like the power they get from striking fear and panic into the hearts of mothers everywhere.”

  “That was . . . insightful.”

  “Anytime, babe. And what’s more—”

  “Vee.”

  She flapped her arms. “Hear me out. I’m saving the best for last. I think this is the time to rethink your priorities when it comes to guys. What we need is to find you a nice Boy Scout who’ll make you appreciate the value of having a good man in your life. Take Rixon, for example.”

  I nailed her with a You’ve got to be kidding look.

  “I resent that look,” Vee said. “Rixon happens to be a really decent guy.”

  We stared at each other for three more counts.

  “Okay, so maybe Boy Scout is stretching it,” Vee said. “But the point of all this is that you could benefit from a nice guy, a guy whose closet isn’t solely black. What’s up with that, anyway? Does Patch think he’s a commando?”

  “I saw Marcie and Patch together last night,” I said on a sigh. There. It was out.

  Vee blinked a few times, digesting this. “What?” she said, her jaw going slack.

  I nodded. “I saw them. She had her arms wrapped around him. They were together at a pool hall in Springvale.”

  “You followed them?”

  I wanted to say, Give me some credit, but managed only a flat, “Scott invited me to play pool. I went with him, and we ran into them there.” I wanted to tell Vee everything that had happened after that moment, but as with Marcie, there were some things I couldn’t explain to her. How was I supposed to tell her about the Nephil in the red shirt, or how he’d rammed a pool stick through the table?

  Vee looked like she was scrambling for a response. “Well. Like I was saying, once you see the light, you’ll never turn back. Maybe Rixon has a friend. Other than Patch, that is . . .” She trailed off awkwardly.

  “I don’t need a boyfriend. I need a job.”

  Vee did a full-on grimace. “More job talk, ugh. I just don’t get the allure.”

  “I need a car, and in order to get one, I need money. Hence the job.” I had a running list of reasons to buy the Volkswagen Cabriolet lined up in my mind: The car was small, and therefore easy to park, and it was fuel efficient—a bonus, considering I wasn’t going to have much money for gas after forking over a thousand dollars for the car itself. And while I knew it was ridiculous to feel a connection to something as inanimate and practical as a car, I was beginning to view it as a metaphor of change in my life. Freedom to go wherever I wanted, whenever. Freedom to start fresh. Freedom from Patch, and all the memories we shared that I hadn’t yet figured out how to slam the door on.

  “My mom is friends with one of the night managers at Enzo’s, and they’re looking for baristas,” Vee suggested.

  “I don’t know anything about being a barista.”

  Vee shrugged. “You make coffee. You pour it. You carry it to the eager little customers. How hard could it be?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Vee and I were at the shore, walking the boardwalk, putting off our homework and noncommittally glancing in storefront windows. Since neither of us had a job, and consequently no money, we were brushing up on our window-shopping skills. We reached the end of the walk and our eyes fell on a bakery. I could practically hear Vee’s mouth watering as she pressed her face to the glass and gazed in at the doughnut case.

  “I think it’s been a whole hour since I last ate,” she said. “Glazed doughnuts, here we come, my treat.” She was four steps ahead, tugging on the doors.

  “I thought you were trying to lose weight for swimsuit season. I thought you were big-boned and wanted to even things out with Rixon.”

  “You sure know how to ruin the mood. Anyway, how’s one little doughnut going to hurt?”

  I had never seen Vee eat just one doughnut, but I kept my mouth shut.

  We placed an order for a half-dozen glazed and had just taken a seat at a table near the windows, when I saw Scott on the other side of the glass. He had his forehead mashed against the window and he was smiling. At me. Startled, I jumped an inch. He crooked a finger, beckoning me outside.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Vee.

  She followed my gaze. “Isn’t that Scotty the Hottie?”

  “Stop calling him that. What happened to Scotty the Potty?”

  “He grew up. What does he want to talk to you for?” Something of a revelation crossed her face. “Oh, no you don’t. You are not allowed to play rebound with him. He’s trouble—you said so yourself. We’re going to find you a nice Boy Scout, remember?”

  I hooked my handbag over my shoulder. “I’m not playing rebound. What?” I said in response to the look she was giving me. “You expect me to just sit here and ignore him?”

  She flipped her palms up. “Just hurry up or your doughnut is going to make the endangered species list.”

  Outside, I rounded the corner and walked back to where I’d last seen Scott. He was lounging against the seat back of a sidewalk bench, thumbs slung in his pockets. “You survive last night?” he asked.

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  He smiled. “A little more excitement than you’re used to?”

  I didn’t remind him that he was the one who’d been stretched out on the pool table with a pool stick drilled one inch from his ear.

  “Sorry I left you hanging,” Scott said. “Looks like you found your own ride home?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said testily, not going to the trouble of hiding my annoyance. “It just taught me never to go out with you again.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. Got time for a q
uick bite?” He hitched his thumb toward a touristy restaurant down the boardwalk. Alfeo’s. I’d eaten there years ago with my dad and remembered the menu as pricey. The only thing I was going to get for under five dollars was water. A Coke if I was lucky. Taking into consideration the exorbitant prices and the company—after all, my last memory of Scott was of him trying to tease my shirt up with a pool stick—I wanted nothing more than to go finish my doughnut.

  “Can’t. I’m here with Vee,” I told Scott. “What happened at the Z last night? After I left.”

  “I got my money back.” Something about the way he said it left me thinking it hadn’t been quite that simple.

  “Our money,” I corrected.

  “I’ve got your half at home,” he said vaguely. “I’ll drop it by tonight.”

  Yeah, right. I had a feeling he’d already blown all the money, and then some.

  “And the guy in the red shirt?” I asked.

  “He got away.”

  “He seemed really strong. Did he seem that way to you? Something about him was . . . different.”

  I was testing him, trying to figure out how much he knew, but his only comment was a distracted, “Yeah, I guess. So, my mom keeps harping on me to get out there and make new friends. No offense, Grey, but you’re not one of the guys. Sooner or later I’m going to have to branch out. Aw, don’t cry. Just remember all the happy moments we’ve shared together, and I’m sure you’ll be comforted.”

  “You dragged me out here to break off our friendship? How did I get so lucky?”

  Scott laughed. “I thought I’d start with your boyfriend. He got a name? I’m beginning to think he’s your imaginary friend. I mean, I never see the two of you together.”

  “We broke up.”

  Something that resembled a twisted smile crept over his face. “Yeah, that’s what I heard, but I wanted to see if you’d cop to it.”

  “You heard about me and Patch?”

  “Some hot chick named Marcie told me. I ran into her at the gas station, and she made sure to come over and introduce herself. By the way, she said you’re a loser.”

  “Marcie told you about me and Patch?” My spine stiffened.

  “Want some advice? Some genuine guy-to-girl advice? Forget Patch. Move on. Find some guy who’s into the same stuff you are. Studying, chess, collecting and classifying dead bugs . . . and give some serious thought to dying your hair.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Scott coughed into his fist, but I didn’t miss that it was to cover up a smile. “Let’s be honest. Redheads are a liability.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t have red hair.”

  He was full-on grinning. “Could be worse. Could be orange. Wicked-witch orange.”

  “Are you this big of a jerk to everyone? Because this is why you don’t have friends.”

  “A little rough around the edges is all.”

  I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and made direct eye contact. “For the record, I don’t play chess and I don’t collect insects.”

  “But you study. I know you do. I know the type. The hallmark of your entire persona is defined by two words. Anal retentive. You’re just another standard OCD case.”

  My mouth fell open. “Okay, so maybe I study a little. But I’m not boring—not that boring.” At least, I hoped not. “Obviously you don’t know me at all.”

  “Riiiiight.”

  “Fine,” I said defensively. “What’s something you’re interested in that you think I’d never go for? Stop laughing. I’m serious. Name one thing.”

  Scott scratched his ear. “Ever gone to battle of the bands? Loud, unrehearsed music. Loud, unruly crowds. Lots of scandalous sex in the bathrooms. Ten times more adrenaline than the Z.”

  “No,” I said a little hesitantly.

  “I’ll pick you up Sunday night. Bring fake ID.” His eyebrows arched, and he graced me with an egotistical, mocking smile.

  “No problem,” I said, trying to keep my expression ho-hum. Technically, I’d be eating my words if I went out with Scott again, but I wasn’t going to stand here and let him call me boring. And I definitely wasn’t going to let him call me a redhead. “What should I wear?”

  “As little as legally allowable.”

  I nearly choked. “I didn’t know you were big into bands,” I said, once I’d recovered my breath.

  “I played bass back in Portland for a band called Geezer. I’m hoping to get picked up by someone local. The plan is to scout talent Sunday night.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I lied. “Count me in.” I could always back out later. A quick text would take care of it. All I cared about currently was not allowing Scott to call me an anal-retentive wimp to my face.

  Scott and I parted ways, and I found Vee waiting at our table, half my doughnut eaten.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, watching my eyes travel to my doughnut. “What did Scotty want?”

  “He invited me to battle of the bands.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “For the last time, I’m not on the rebound.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Nora Grey?”

  Vee and I looked up to find one of the bakery employees standing over our table. Her work uniform consisted of a lavender polo and a matching lavender name tag that read MADELINE. “Excuse me, are you Nora Grey?” she asked me a second time.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to figure out how she knew my name.

  She was clutching a manila envelope to her chest, and now she held it out to me. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?” I asked, accepting the envelope.

  She shrugged. “A guy just came in and asked me to give it to you.”

  “What guy?” Vee asked, craning her neck around the bakery.

  “He already left. He said it was important that Nora get the envelope. I thought maybe he was your boyfriend. One time a guy had flowers delivered here and told us to give them to his girlfriend. She was at the table in the back corner.” She pointed and smiled. “I still remember.”

  I slid my finger under the seal and glanced inside. There was a sheet of paper, along with a large ring. Nothing else.

  I looked up at Madeline, who had a dusting of flour smeared across her cheek. “Are you sure this is for me?”

  “The guy pointed right at you and said, ‘Give this to Nora Grey.’ You’re Nora Grey, aren’t you?”

  I started to reach inside the envelope, but Vee put her hand on mine. “No offense,” she told Madeline, “but we’d like a little privacy.”

  “Who do you think it’s from?” I asked Vee, once Madeline was out of earshot.

  “I don’t know, but I got goose bumps when she gave it to you.”

  At Vee’s words, cold fingers walked down my spine too. “Do you think it was Scott?”

  “I don’t know. What’s inside the envelope?” She slid into the chair directly beside mine for a closer look.

  I pulled the ring out, and we inspected it in silence. I could tell just by looking at it that it would be loose on my thumb—definitely a man’s ring. It was made of iron, and the crown of the ring, where the stone typically sat, had a raised stamp of a hand. The hand was squeezed into a tight, menacing fist. The crown of the ring was charred black and appeared to have been lit on fire at some point.

  “What the—,” Vee began.

  She stopped when I pulled out the paper. Scrawled in black Sharpie was a note:

  THIS RING BELONGS TO THE BLACK HAND. HE KILLED YOUR DAD.

  CHAPTER

  8

  VEE WAS OUT OF HER CHAIR FIRST.

  I chased her to the bakery doors, where we rushed out to blinding sunshine. Shielding our eyes, we looked both ways down the boardwalk. We jogged down to the sand and did the same thing. People were scattered all over the beach, but I didn’t see one familiar face.

  My heart was pounding, and I asked Vee, “Do you think it was a joke?”

  “I’m not laughing.”

&
nbsp; “Was it Scott?”

  “Maybe. He was just here, after all.”

  “Or Marcie?” Marcie was the only other person I could think of who might be thoughtless enough to carry this out.

  Vee looked sharply at me. “As a prank? Maybe.”

  But was Marcie that cruel? And would she even go to the trouble? This was a lot more involved than a hurtful comment in passing. The note, the ring—even the delivery. That took planning. Marcie seemed like the kind of person who got bored after five minutes of planning.

  “Let’s get to the bottom of this,” Vee said, walking back toward the bakery doors. Once inside, she singled out Madeline. “We need to talk. What did the guy look like? Short? Tall? Brown hair? Blond?”

  “He was wearing a hat and sunglasses,” Madeline answered, casting furtive glances at the other bakery workers, who were beginning to pay Vee some attention. “Why? What was in the envelope?”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” Vee said. “What exactly was he wearing? Was there a team logo on his hat? Did he have facial hair?”

  “I don’t remember,” Madeline stammered. “A black hat. Or maybe brown. I think he was wearing jeans.”

  “You think?”

  “Come on,” I said, tugging Vee’s arm. “She doesn’t remember.” I flicked my eyes to Madeline’s. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Help?” Vee said. “She wasn’t helpful. She can’t go accepting envelopes from strange guys and not remember what they look like!”

  “She thought he was my boyfriend,” I said.

  Madeline nodded vigorously. “I did! I’m so sorry! I thought it was a present! Was something bad in the envelope? Do you want me to call the police?”

  “We want you to remember what the psychopath looked like,” Vee shot back.

  “Black jeans!” Madeline blurted suddenly. “I remember he was wearing black jeans. I mean, I’m almost positive he was.”

  “Almost positive?” Vee said.

  I hauled her outside and down the boardwalk. After she’d had enough time to cool down, she said, “Babe, I’m so sorry about that. I should have looked in the envelope first. People are stupid. And whoever gave you that envelope is the stupidest of all. I’d happily ninja-star them, if I could.”