Kill Me Once, Kill Me Twice

by Clara Kensie

  “Yeah,” I say, bracing myself against the deathpain in my skull. When I recover, I ask, “Did you know Principal Duston back then too?”

  “Will Duston,” he says with a nod. “Yep. Nice guy. Still is.”

  “Do you remember anything specific about them? Other than they were both nice?”

  Mr. Stout takes a slurp from his coffee mug. “She was a generous tipper. Always appreciated that about her. Nice girl.” Specks of light brown coffee cling to the bottom of his thick mustache.

  “What about Principal Duston?” I ask.

  “Will? He tipped the standard fifteen percent, sometimes ten. That’s okay. Nice fella. Very polite. Respectful.”

  Mr. Stout probably isn’t the right person to ask about this. He’s never said a negative thing about anybody. “What do you remember about Vinnie Morrison?”

  That got him. He stiffens a little. “Now that guy was nothing but a troublemaker. He came in one night and swiped the tip a patron left for Bubbles right off the table. Just pocketed it and left. She saw him, and he didn’t care. He knew she was scared of him. She was pregnant too.” He shakes his head a little, as if clearing it of any bad thoughts, and smiles at me. “Keith said your interview went well yesterday. We could really use your help around here with the accounting. You hurry up and get that college education you want so bad.”

  “I will, Mr. Stout,” I say, then add, “I hope.”

  I join Joey at the booth. The Batter’s Box is decorated with local baseball paraphernalia, mostly from back when Ryland High won a bunch of state championships. Framed and faded newspaper clippings adorn the walls, displaying photos of the players in action, receiving their trophies, celebrating their victories. A younger Coach Nolan is in many of the photos, slim and muscular. He had hair back then, and he didn’t have a belly, but his eyes were just as kind as they are now. Hanging over the counter is an autographed poster of Brandon Lennox in his New York Yankees uniform, smiling with one side of his lips rising higher than the other. To The Batter’s Box, he’d scrawled. Couldn’t have done it without you. Keep batting 1000, Brandon Lennox.

  Mrs. Stout comes over in her green uniform. “Ever, Joey, hello!” she squeaks. Always happy to see us.

  “Pancakes, please!” Joey shouts before I can reply.

  She ruffles his hair and gives him a little packet of crayons and a baseball-themed placemat to color. Her white waitress shoes have soles so thick, they make her almost five feet tall. I’m short, but I’m a giant compared to her.

  I order an egg white omelet with mushrooms and broccoli and add a small fruit plate to Joey’s order. I consider asking her what she remembers about Lily Summerhays and Will Duston, but I don’t want to do it in front of Joey or with so many people around us.

  I have a fleeting thought that Lily may have sat in this exact booth many times. My head hurts.

  “Joey, let’s go wash our hands,” I say, then bring him to the restrooms in the back. He goes into the men’s room—he’s five now, he boasts, old enough to wash his hands by himself—and this time I don’t argue. Instead of going to the women’s room, I stop at the payphone that’s stationed between the two doors. The only payphone left in Ryland.

  I’m nervous suddenly. Heavy with a sense of dread and doom. Making this anonymous call will set things in motion, and once Vinnie Morrison is found innocent, the scholarship could go to Ash. But if I don’t call, then an innocent man will be executed, and the real killer will still be free, living in Ryland, working at my school. I can’t let that happen.

  With a shaking hand, I slip two quarters into the slot. The Ryland police station doesn’t have an anonymous tip line, only 911 and a non-emergency number. I dial the non-emergency number because I don’t want cops to come running over here from the station across the street.

  “Ryland police,” a chipper lady answers.

  “Um, I have—” I start, then stop when an elderly woman shuffles out of the restroom.

  “Do you need help, miss?” the woman on the phone asks.

  My heart is beating so fast it hurts. This is worse than the interview yesterday. “No, not me personally, not really.” I cup my hand around the receiver and lower my voice. “I’m calling because I have new information about the Lily Summerhays murder.”

  Silence. Then, “Okay, what is it?”

  I peek around the corner into the diner. People are eating, chatting, clinking utensils. Mr. Stout is frowning at his bank statement, Mrs. Stout is taking an order. No one is watching, no one is listening. Still, I make my voice even softer. “Vinnie Morrison didn’t kill her.”

  The lady sighs into the phone. “Honey, if you’re with another one of those anti-death penalty groups, you’ll need to contact the district attorney, not the police.”

  “I’m not with a group like that,” I say. My knuckles hurt from gripping the phone so tightly. “I just know he didn’t kill her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  If I tell her about my death-memory and the tattoo, she’ll hang up on me. “Because I know who the real killer is.”

  “And who would that be?”

  She’s humoring me, I know. An anonymous caller with no proof is not the most credible of informants. But once the cops investigate my tip, they’ll discover the truth.

  In almost a whisper, I say, “Will Duston.” When she doesn’t respond, I add, “He’s the principal at Ryland High School.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She clickety-clacks on a keyboard.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but you need to question him,” I say. “Investigate. You’ll see.”

  “Okay,” she says, then clickety-clacks some more. “Thank you for this information. I’ll pass along your tip to the proper authorities. Can I have your name and contact information so we can foll—?”

  I hang up before she can finish.

  When Mrs. Stout delivers our breakfasts, I eat my egg white omelet while keeping an eye on the front picture window, watching the police station across the street, half expecting a cop to come out and head down Main Street to go question Will Duston.

  None do.

  Chapter Ten

  Lily ~ Eighteen Years Ago

  Neal Mallick’s death weighed down on Ryland High that week, the solemn atmosphere making it easier to be on my best behavior. Getting another detention would not help my quest to change my parents’ minds about me. I wasn’t tardy to a single class, and I refrained from talking to my friends during the teacher’s lectures. But ever since The Batter's Box, all I could think about was Neal and why he was on that bridge.

  Thursday after school I hustled down the hallway with Diana, dodging the other students who were also rushing off to home or clubs or practice. Diana somehow ran gracefully in her skirt and high heels while I clomped along in my jeans and flowered boots. The baseball team had an away game that afternoon over in Eastfield, and I was hitching a ride with Diana because my parents still wouldn’t let me drive my car. I didn’t care about the game at all. The Ryland Warriors had won seven state championships in the last twelve years, but that didn’t change the fact that baseball is

  the

  most

  boring

  thing

  to

  ever

  happen

  in

  the

  history

  of

  the

  universe.

  Diana used to feel the same way until she started dating Brandon Lennox last year. He said what made him so good at the game were the kisses she blew to him whenever he was at bat. Gross. Now not only was she a huge fan of the game, she was president of the Batgirls, the pep squad that cheered on the players and made them homemade treats. Double gross.

  I sped up to catch her, but just before we reached the exit, I screeched to a halt. One of the maroon lockers lining the hallway caught my eye—Neal Mallick’s locker. Carnations and cards stuck out of the ventilation slots in a makeshift memorial.

  “Lily!”
Diana said, already halfway out the door. “You know I can’t be late.”

  “You go on without me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I forgot that I have something to do.”

  “Come on, Lily. I know you hate the game, but your friends are on the team. They need your support.”

  “They’ll do great whether I’m there or not.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she gave an impatient sigh. The door swung shut behind her as she rushed away.

  I ran my fingers over the gigantic R.I.P. Neal that someone had written on his locker with a black Sharpie.

  What had he been doing on that bridge?

  Wasted on drugs, suicide… those rumors, which had spread like weeds and wrapped themselves around my throat like a prickly vine, were ridiculous. An accident was the official cause of death, and the most believable. Even so, if his death was an accident, someone must have been with him. I couldn’t believe Neal would cross Railroad Bridge all by himself. Someone out there knew what had really happened that night on the bridge. And that person hadn’t come forward, which made me suspicious.

  One by one, I pulled the cards from the slots and read them. Maybe Neal had had a secret lover. Maybe they’d gone for a walk that night and he’d slipped off the bridge to his death.

  None of the cards seemed overly sappy or heartsick. Everyone had signed their cards with impersonal sentiments like You were so smart or Thanks for tutoring me. The flowers were mostly cheap carnations—nothing romantic like roses or baby’s breath. Almost all of the carnations were red and yellow, our school colors. No one even knew his favorite color. Not even me.

  Something fluttered out from one of the cards to the floor. A photograph! Maybe it was a picture of Neal with his secret lover.

  Oh. No. Just a page torn from the yearbook. The Mathletes. Neal was on the left end of the short row of Mathletes, slouched in his usual pose, eyes half-shut and clearly not ready for the camera. Someone had scrawled Rest in Peice Turtle on the photo. They hadn’t even spelled peace right. Or piece, for that matter.

  Frustrated, I returned the flowers and cards to the ventilation slots. They’d told me nothing except that no one had known anything about Neal at all, other than he’d been smart.

  Hmm. If the cards hadn’t told me anything, maybe something inside his locker would.

  I jiggled the chrome handle. It wiggled but didn’t open. The lockers at Ryland High were old, at least forty years or more, and they were never secure. I gave it a few staccato beats with my fist, right over the handle, which was how I got my own locker open whenever it jammed. It usually flew right open.

  Nothing.

  I took a few steps back, then rammed the locker with my shoulder.

  Nothing, except now my shoulder was sore.

  “Miss Summerhays,” someone called in a wheezy voice. “May I help you?”

  Principal Kimball came waddling down the hall, her brown, frizzy hair bouncing with each step. I’d spent many afternoons in detention with Principal Kimball.

  I plastered an innocent smile on my lips as my mind scrambled to think of an excuse for why I was breaking into Neal’s locker. “I thought someone should bring Neal’s things to his parents,” I said. “And, you know, the flowers and cards.”

  To my surprise, Principal Kimball smiled. “That’s a lovely idea, Lily. I’m sure his parents will be touched to see how many of his classmates left flowers for him.” She unlocked the locker with her master key and stood by while I opened it.

  Neat and organized. Several notebooks, arranged by color, and a zippered pencil case marked “EXTRA PENS” in small, precise block letters. Only one textbook, AP Physics. Apparently, Neal brought his books home to study on the weekends, even this late in his senior year. A gray jacket hanging on the hook. A Spanish-English dictionary. A mini dry-erase board attached by magnets to the inside door, a blue marker hanging next to it and an eraser next to that. All three were lined up perfectly straight. On the board he’d written “FRI MID” in his block letters and circled it.

  “Fri mid? What does that mean?” I asked aloud.

  “I don’t know, dear,” Principal Kimball said. I’d forgotten that she was there. She’d never called me dear before.

  I swept everything from the locker into my bookbag, hung his jacket over my arm, and carefully pulled the flowers and cards from the slots. “I’ll bring everything to the Mallicks right now.”

  She thanked me. “You’re a kind young woman, Lily. Neal was fortunate to have you as a friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ever ~ Present Day

  My dad has been gone since Wednesday on his truck haul, and now, finally, he’s due home any minute. I’ve spent the time after my anonymous call to the police at home, making sure it’s spotless and welcoming. I open all the curtains, give everything an extra dusting, and put lemons in a bowl on the kitchen counter the way Mom used to.

  Everything is clean, but something is missing. Something is always missing. When Mom was alive, our little house was alive too. I keep all of her craft fair finds exactly as she’d left them, and I display the historical romance I bought yesterday with the woman in the yellow dress who looks like her on the bookcase in the family room. But the house still feels hollow and lifeless.

  While Joey and I wait for Dad, I do my chemistry homework. Joey would normally want to go next door to play with his friend Hayden, whose mom runs the home daycare I send him to while I’m at school, but today he stays home and builds a racetrack for his Matchbox cars all around the family room. He lines up all of his vehicles, setting aside the new police car, reserving it for Dad to play with as soon as he gets home.

  The motor on the garage door whirs. “Daddy!” Joey dashes to the door, jumping up and down until our dad walks in. Joey leaps onto him like a monkey onto a tree.

  “Hey there, little guy,” he says. “Take it easy. I’m tired. I’ve been driving all night.”

  “Dad, that’s dangerous,” I said. “Over fifteen hundred people die every year because they fall asleep behind the wheel.”

  “I know, Ever. You’ve told me before.” He puts Joey down and kisses the top of my head. Whereas Joey takes after our mom—golden hair, a smattering of freckles across the nose, pale skin, and green eyes, I inherited Dad’s dark blond hair, olive complexion, and brown eyes. But today his hair is disheveled. He’s grown a beard in the years since Mom died, and it needs a trim. His clothes are wrinkled from driving the truck for so long. “How’d your scholarship interview go?” he asks as he walks past me.

  “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure you did great. I’m proud of you, hon. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  I cross my arms. “Yeah, I know.”

  Should I tell him about Principal Duston, how I know he killed Lily Summerhays? How I once was Lily Summerhays, and the last thing she saw was the hatchet tattoo on his wrist as he slammed a paperweight into her skull?

  “You left me no choice.”

  The killer’s words echo in my head as I rub the deathpain away.

  One…

  Two…

  Three.

  When I was little and spoke of my death-memories, my parents brought me to the pediatrician, who diagnosed me with an overactive imagination and non-clinical anxiety. The doctor gave me breathing exercises and told my parents to keep me away from the news. I learned two things:

  1. How to breathe away the deathpain, and

  2. Not to talk about my death-memories anymore.

  And I haven’t, until three years ago, when my mother was in agony and it was clear that the end was near. “Don’t be scared, Mom,” I whispered to her. “You’ll be reborn within seconds.” I reminded her of my death-memories. Even if it doesn’t happen for everybody, I told her, it happens for me, so it must happen for her too.

  “That’s comforting,” she said, her voice weak and whispery, her skin pale and paper-thin as she reached with a trembling hand to touch
my cheek. “But I don’t want to become someone else yet. I don’t want to leave you and Daddy and Joey alone.”

  One day later, she did.

  The first thing I did after her death, even before her funeral, was look up the birth announcements from the hospital in Eastfield. There were no babies born at that hospital the day my mother died. She was reborn somewhere else, and I would never be able to find her. But she was reborn and starting a new life. It was those she left behind who had a hard time moving on.

  Death is hardest on the living. My father is proof of that.

  He rubs his eyes as Joey drags him into the family room to show him the racetrack he built, chattering away about what happened at daycare that week and how Cheeks’s running wheel is getting squeaky.

  Dad pulls his hand from Joey’s and collapses onto his armchair. “I’ll fix the wheel later, okay? I need a nap.”

  “He wants to spend some time with you,” I say. “He missed you. And I need to talk to you.”

  “Ever. I said later.”

  “If you’re going to sleep, at least go to bed,” I say, knowing he won’t. He hasn’t slept in the bedroom he shared with Mom since she died.

  “I’m fine here.”

  Joey brings him the yellow afghan we keep on the couch, the one my mother crocheted herself. “No thanks, Joey,” Dad says. He pushes the chair back, then closes his eyes. He didn’t even take off his shoes. Probably so he can run out of here the second Seth Siegel calls him to go on another cross-country haul.

  Joey stands there, dejected, the afghan limp in his arms.

  “Come on, Joey,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s let him sleep. I’ll read you a story.” I take him to his bedroom, then give him kisses and cuddles and tickle him until he’s breathless from laughing so hard. He may not have a mother, and he may have a father who can’t stand to even look at him, but he will never feel unloved. I love him enough for two parents. It might be all he’ll ever get, but it’ll be all he’ll ever need.