The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

“Then who?” My voice was a little shrill.

  “I don’t know. Where are you now?”

  “Slaughterville.”

  “What? Get out of there before you get mugged! Come over. Stay the night here. We’ll work this out. We’ll figure out what happened.” But the words felt like an empty consolation. Vee was just as perplexed as I was.

  I stayed hidden in the garage for what must have been another twenty minutes before I felt brave enough to go back on the streets. My nerves were frayed, my mind reeling. I opted against taking Walnut, thinking the SUV might be cruising up and down it right now, waiting to pick up my tail. Sticking to side streets, I ignored the speed limit and drove in a reckless hurry to Vee’s.

  I wasn’t far from her house when I noticed blue and red lights in the rearview mirror.

  Stopping the Neon at the side of the road, I planted my head against the steering wheel. I knew I’d been speeding, and I was frustrated at myself for doing it, but of all the nights to get pulled over.

  A moment later, knuckles rapped the window. I pushed the button to lower it.

  “Well, well,” Detective Basso said. “Long time no see.”

  Any other cop, I thought. Any other.

  He flashed his ticket pad. “License and registration, you know the drill.”

  Since I knew there was no talking my way around a ticket, not with Detective Basso, I didn’t see the point in putting on any pretense of contrition. “I didn’t know detective work included filling out speeding tickets.”

  He gave a razor-thin smile. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Can I just get my ticket and go home?”

  “Any alcohol in the car?”

  “Have a look around,” I said, spreading my hands.

  He opened the door for me. “Get out.”

  “Why?”

  “Get out”—he pointed at the dashed line bisecting the road—“and walk the line.”

  “You think I’m drunk?”

  “I think you’re crazy, but I’m checking your sobriety while I’ve got you here.”

  I swung out and slammed the door shut behind me. “How far?”

  “Until I tell you to stop.”

  I concentrated on planting my feet on the line, but every time I looked down, my vision slanted. I could still feel the effects of the drug pecking away at my coordination, and the harder I concentrated on keeping my feet on the line, the more I felt myself swaying off into the road. “Can’t you just give me the ticket, slap my wrist, and send me home?” My tone was insubordinate, but I’d gone cold on the inside. If I couldn’t walk the line, Detective Basso might throw me in jail. I was already shaken, and I didn’t think I could handle a night behind bars. What if the man from the library came after me again?

  “A lot of small-town cops would let you off the hook like that, sure. Some would even take a bribe. I’m not one of them.”

  “Does it matter that I was drugged?”

  He laughed darkly. “Drugged.”

  “My ex-boyfriend gave me a card laced with perfume earlier tonight. I opened the card, and the next thing I knew, I passed out.”

  When Detective Basso didn’t interrupt me, I pressed forward. “I slept for more than two hours. When I woke up, the library was closed. I was locked in the media lab. Someone had tied the doorknob . . . .” I trailed off, closing my mouth.

  He gestured for more. “Come on, now. Don’t leave me at that cliffhanger.”

  I realized a moment too late that I’d just incriminated myself. I’d put myself at the library, tonight, in the media lab. First thing tomorrow, when the library opened, they were going to report the broken window to the police. And I had no doubt who Detective Basso would come looking for first.

  “You were in the media lab,” he prompted. “What happened next?”

  Too late to back out now. I’d have to finish and hope for the best. Maybe something I said would convince Detective Basso it wasn’t my fault—that everything I’d done was justified. “Someone had tied the door to the media lab shut. I threw a computer through the window to get out.”

  He tipped his head back and laughed. “There’s a name for girls like you, Nora Grey. Crazy makers. You’re like the fly that nobody can shoo away.” He walked back to his patrol car and stretched the radio out the open driver’s-side door. Radioing dispatch, he said, “I need someone to swing by the library and check out the media lab. Let me know what you find.”

  He leaned back against his car, eyes flicking to his watch. “How many minutes do you think it’ll take for them to get back to me? I’ve got your confession, Nora. I could book you for trespassing and vandalism.”

  “Trespassing would imply I wasn’t tied inside the library against my will.” I sounded nervous.

  “If someone drugged you and trapped you in the lab, what are you doing here now, roaring down Hickory at fifty-five miles an hour?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to get away. I broke out of the room while he was coming up the elevator to get me.”

  “He? You saw him? Let’s have a description.”

  “I didn’t see him, but it was a guy. His footsteps were heavy when he came down the stairwell after me. Too heavy for a girl.”

  “You’re stammering. Usually that means you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. I was tied in the lab, and someone was coming up the elevator to get me.”

  “Right.”

  “Who else would have been in the building that late?” I snapped.

  “A janitor?” he offered easily.

  “He wasn’t dressed like a janitor. When I looked up in the stairwell, I saw dark pants and dark tennis shoes.”

  “So when I take you to court, you’re going to tell the judge you’re an expert on janitorial apparel?”

  “The guy followed me out of the library, got into his car, and chased me. A janitor wouldn’t do that.”

  The radio popped with static, and Detective Basso leaned inside for the receiver.

  “Finished walking through the library,” a man’s voice crackled through the radio. “Nothing.”

  Detective Basso cut cool, suspicious eyes to me. “Nothing? You sure?”

  “I repeat: nothing.”

  Nothing? Instead of relief, I felt panic. I’d smashed the lab window. I had. It was real. It wasn’t my imagination. It—wasn’t.

  Calm down! I ordered myself. This had happened before. It wasn’t new. In the past, it was always a mind game. It was someone working behind the scenes, trying to manipulate my mind. Was it happening all over again? But . . . why? I needed to think this through. I shook my head, ridiculously wishing the gesture would shake out an answer.

  Detective Basso ripped the top sheet off his ticket pad and slapped it into my hand.

  My eyes brushed over the balance at the bottom. “Two hundred and twenty-nine dollars?!”

  “You were going thirty over and driving a car that doesn’t belong to you. Pay the fine, or I’ll see you in court.”

  “I—I don’t have this kind of money.”

  “Get a job. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

  “Please don’t do this,” I said, injecting all the pleading that I possessed into my voice.

  Detective Basso studied me. “Two months ago a kid with no ID, no family, and no traceable past wound up dead in the high school gym.”

  “Jules’s death was ruled a suicide,” I said automatically, but sweat tingled the back of my neck. What did this have to do with my ticket?

  “The same night he disappeared, the high school counselor lit your house on fire, then did her own disappearing act. There’s a link between these two bizarre incidents.” His dark brown eyes pinned me in place. “You.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Tell me what really happened that night, and I can make your ticket go away.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I lied, because there was no alternative. Telling the truth would leave me worse off than having to pay the ticket. I couldn
’t tell Detective Basso about fallen angels and Nephilim. He’d never believe my story if I confessed that Dabria was an angel of death. Or that Jules was a descendant of a fallen angel.

  “Your call,” Detective Basso said, flicking his business card at me before folding himself inside his car. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

  I glanced at the card as he roared off. DETECTIVE ECANUS BASSO. 207-555-3333.

  The ticket felt heavy in my hand. Heavy, and hot. How was I going to come up with two hundred dollars? I couldn’t borrow the money from my mom—she could barely afford groceries. Patch had the money, but I’d told him I could take care of myself. I’d told him to get out of my life. What did it say about me if I ran back to him the moment I hit trouble? It was admitting he’d been right all along.

  It was admitting I needed him.

  CHAPTER

  12

  TUESDAY AFTER CLASS, I WAS ON MY WAY OUT OF the building to meet Vee, who’d skipped class to hang out with Rixon but promised to swing back by school at noon to chauffeur me home, when my cell phone chirped. I opened the text message just as Vee hollered my name from the street.

  “Yo, babe! Over here!”

  I walked to where she was parallel parked at the curb and folded my arms on the open window frame. “Well? Was it worth it?”

  “Skipping class? Heck, yeah. Rixon and I spent the morning playing Xbox at his place. Halo Two.” She reached over and unlatched the passenger door.

  “Sounds romantic,” I said, climbing in.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Violence really puts guys in the mood.”

  “In the mood? Is there something I should know about?”

  Vee flashed a hundred-watt grin. “We kissed. Oh man, it was good. It started out all slow and gentle, and then Rixon really started getting into it—”

  “Okay!” I cut in loudly. Had I been this sappy when Patch and I were together and Vee was odd man out? I prayed not. “Where to now?”

  She scooted back into traffic. “I’m tired of studying. I need to inject a little excitement into my life, and that ain’t gonna happen with my nose in a book.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Old Orchard Beach. I’m in the mood for some sun and sand. Plus, my tan could use a base coat.”

  Old Orchard Beach sounded perfect. It had a long pier that stretched out over the water, an on-the-beach amusement park, and fireworks and dancing after dark. Unfortunately, the beach would have to wait.

  I jiggled my cell phone. “We already have plans tonight.”

  Vee leaned sideways to read the text message and grimaced. “Marcie’s party reminder? For real? I didn’t realize you guys were new BFFs.”

  “I was told that missing her party is the surest way to sabotage my social life.”

  “She’s such a ho. Missing her party is the surest way to make my life complete.”

  “Might want to rethink your attitude, because I’m going—and you’re coming with me.”

  Vee pressed back against her seat, her arms going rigid on the steering wheel. “What’s her angle, anyway? Why’d she invite you?”

  “We’re chemistry partners.”

  “Seems to me like you’re forgiving her for that black eye awfully fast.”

  “I owe it to her to at least show up for an hour. As her chemistry partner,” I added.

  “So you’re saying the reason we’re dragging ourselves to Marcie’s party tonight is because you sit beside her every morning in chemistry.” Vee gave me the look of someone who knows better.

  I knew it was a lame excuse, but not as lame as the truth. I needed to make absolutely certain Patch had moved on to Marcie. When I’d touched his scars two nights ago and been transported into his memory, he’d seemed reserved with Marcie. Up until their kiss, he’d even been short with her. I hadn’t made up my mind how he felt about her. But if he’d moved on, it would make it that much easier for me to do likewise. A confirmed relationship between Patch and Marcie would make it easy to hate him. And I wanted to hate him. For both our sakes.

  “Your breath smells like liar, liar pants on fire,” Vee said. “This isn’t about you and Marcie. This is about Patch and Marcie. You want to find out what’s going on between them.”

  I tossed my hands in the air. “Fine! Is that so wrong?”

  “Man,” she said, wagging her head, “you really are a glutton for punishment.”

  “I thought maybe we could look in her bedroom. See if we find anything that proves they’re together.”

  “Like used condoms?”

  Suddenly my breakfast was rising up my esophagus. I hadn’t thought of that. Were they sleeping together? No. I didn’t believe it. Patch wouldn’t do that to me. Not with Marcie.

  “I know!” Vee said. “We could steal her diary!”

  “The one she’s been carrying around since freshman year?”

  “The one she swears would make the National Enquirer look tame,” she said, sounding strangely gleeful. “If something is going on between her and Patch, it’ll be in the diary.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on. We’ll give it back after we’re done. No harm, no foul.”

  “How? Toss it on her porch and run? She’ll kill us if she finds out we took it.”

  “Sure. Toss it on her porch, or take it during the party, read it somewhere, and put it back before we leave.”

  “It just seems wrong.”

  “We won’t tell anyone what we read. It’ll be our secret. It’s not wrong if nobody gets hurt.”

  I wasn’t sold on stealing Marcie’s diary, but I could tell Vee wasn’t going to let it drop. The most important thing was getting her to agree to come to the party with me. I wasn’t sure I was courageous enough to go on my own. Especially since I couldn’t count on having a single friend there. So I said, “You’ll pick me up tonight, then?”

  “Count on it. Hey, can we light her bedroom on fire before we leave?”

  “No. She can’t know we were snooping in it.”

  “Yeah, but subtle really isn’t my style.”

  I looked sideways, eyebrows peaked. “No kidding?”

  It was just after nine when Vee and I climbed the hill leading up to Marcie’s neighborhood. Coldwater’s socioeconomic map is easily determined by a simple test: Drop a marble on any street in town. If the marble rolls downhill, you’re upper class. If the marble doesn’t roll at all, you’re middle class. And if you lose the marble in a vapor of fog before you have a chance to find out if it rolls, you’re . . . well, you live in my neighborhood. The backwoods.

  Vee pushed the Neon uphill. Marcie’s neighborhood was older, with mature trees that spilled above the street, blocking all moonlight. The homes had professionally landscaped yards and half circles for driveways. The architecture was Georgian colonial; every house was white with black trim. Vee had the Neon’s windows rolled down, and in the distance, we heard the steady pulse of blaring hip-hop.

  “What’s her address again?” Vee asked, squinting through the windshield. “These houses are so far off the road I can’t read the numbers over the garages.”

  “Twelve-twenty Brenchley Street.”

  We came to an intersection and Vee turned onto Brenchley. The music intensified as we cruised down the block, and I assumed it meant we were headed in the right direction. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper down both sides of the street. As we passed an elegantly remodeled carriage house, the music reached an all-time high, vibrating the car. Flocks of people were cutting across the lawn, streaming inside the house. Marcie’s house. One look at it, and I had to wonder why she shoplifted. For the thrill of it? To escape her parents’ carefully and perfectly crafted image?

  I didn’t dwell on it longer. A deep ache swirled in my stomach. Parked in the driveway was Patch’s black Jeep Commander. Obviously he’d been one of the first to arrive. He’d probably been inside alone with Marcie hours before the party started. Doing what,
I didn’t want to know. I sucked in a deep breath and I told myself I could handle this. And wasn’t this the evidence I’d come looking for?

  “What are you thinking?” Vee asked, her gaze also glued to the Commander as we rolled past.

  “That I want to throw up.”

  “All over Marcie’s foyer would be nice. But seriously. Are you okay with Patch being here?”

  I set my jaw, tilting my chin up slightly. “Marcie invited me tonight. I have the same right to be here as Patch. I’m not going to let him dictate where I go and what I do.” Funny, because that’s exactly what I was doing.

  Marcie’s front door was open, leading into a dark marble hall crammed with bodies gyrating to Jay-Z. The foyer merged into a large sitting room with a high ceiling and dark Victorian furniture. All of the furniture, including the coffee table, was being used for seating. Vee hesitated in the doorway.

  “Just taking a moment to mentally prepare for this,” she called to me over the music. “I mean, the place is going to be infested with Marcie. Marcie portraits, Marcie furniture, Marcie odors. Speaking of portraits, we should try to find some old family pictures. I’d like to see what Marcie’s dad looked like ten years ago. When his dealership commercials come on TV, I can’t decide if it’s plastic surgery that makes him look so young, or just massive amounts of makeup.”

  I gripped her elbow and yanked her flush against me. “You are not ditching me now.”

  Vee peered inside, frowning. “All right, but I’m warning you, if I see a single pair of panties, I’m out of here. Same goes for used condoms.”

  I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. The chances of seeing both were fairly high, and it was in my best interest not to officially accept her terms.

  I was saved from further discussion by Marcie, who sashayed out of the darkness holding a punch bowl. She divided a critical glance between us. “I invited you,” she told me, “but I didn’t invite her.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Vee said.

  Marcie scrutinized Vee slowly, head to toe. “Didn’t you used to be on some stupid color diet? Looks to me like you gave up before you even started.” She turned her attention to me. “And you. Nice black eye.”