Wicked Charm

by Amber Hart

  “Told you a hundred times, didn’t I? I’m no murderer.”

  “But you’re the one who was sleeping with the enemy,” Charlotte says. “Oh, no, wait. That was Samantha. She was the one sleeping with the enemy.”

  Cruel of her to make jokes about a dead girl who isn’t here to defend herself. Even crueler of her to think of me as the enemy, a murderer. After all we’ve been through, and owing to the fact that she is my sister, you’d think she’d give me more credit. I’m not that evil.

  “I might not have liked her anymore, but I didn’t kill her,” I argue.

  Some people say Charlotte and I argue too much, but they don’t understand our way of communicating.

  “’Course you didn’t,” she purrs. “You don’t have it in you.”

  “And you do?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  From the moment the news broke of Samantha’s death, reporters have labeled it the “Mangroves Murder.” Since that’s technically where they found Samantha, slumped over a mangrove like a play prop. Body bruised, especially her neck.

  “Did you kill Samantha, Charlotte?”

  I look at her long fingers and wonder if they could possibly choke the life out of someone. That’s not the official report, of course. Cause of death requires a detailed autopsy, and a toxicology will take weeks. I say it only because that’s the word around town.

  Strangled.

  Charlotte crosses her legs and frowns at the sky. “Would I be on this boat searching for a killer if I had?”

  I consider it. “Maybe if you didn’t want anyone to know you did it.”

  She smiles. “There’s an idea.”

  Thinking of my sister as someone who could harm another is so crazy that the thought doesn’t linger. I don’t really think she did it. Plus, she has no reason to.

  “Charlotte, quit toying with your brother.” Grandpa’s words end with a sharp cough. He struggles to catch his breath, and I swear I hear him mumble something about his damn allergies. “We both know he wouldn’t hurt the girl.”

  Grandpa’s right, I wouldn’t harm her. But someone did.

  I wonder if Samantha fought back. She came this far out to see me, that much is clear, but why not stick to the roads? They found her in deep waters. She must have taken a boat, whether voluntarily or not. Guilt kicks me in the stomach, leaving a lingering impression. If only she hadn’t attempted to come see me, she might still be alive.

  The only people in these parts are Charlotte, Grandpa, and me. The Bell family, too, mind you. None of them would have murdered her, though.

  “Grandpa,” I say, mostly out of obligation, “did you kill her?”

  But I don’t think he did. Not one ounce of belief backs my inquisition. Grandpa wouldn’t do it.

  Grandpa’s face remains impassive. His only answer is a haunting hum, filling the bog.

  Police never found a clue. At least that they’ve told us.

  No witnesses.

  I try to imagine a girl dropped into an unfamiliar landscape, dying. It’s a difficult thing to think about. But something doesn’t add up. She should have been on the roads, not in a boat in the swamp a half mile north of the property. She knew my address, even if she wasn’t entirely familiar with the area. Why veer off track?

  I slap a mosquito on my arm and another on my neck.

  The oar I’m holding is smeared with greenish-black algae, looking as though I’ve dipped it into a vat of mold. I place it in the water again, wondering if we can ever claim this swamp back, or if it’ll always be tainted by the damn killer. I try to keep my exterior hard as a swamp rock, but inside I feel the change brought about by the murder. The bog isn’t as free of worry as it used to be.

  Grandpa takes us under a cluster of trees so thick that I have to duck to avoid branches clawing me.

  It’s getting dark. Light bleeds from the sky, overtaken by an army of clouds that swell like a bloated belly splotched with welts. I hold back a shiver when I feel the air change direction and brush a million cool fingers over my skin. It, like us, is picking up speed.

  The boat hits a shallow part of the swamp, and we have to stick our oars into the mud and push hard, maneuvering so as to not get stuck. A few thrusts and we make it out, where the water depth drops off again, allowing us an easier ride.

  The boat rocks, stirred up by the wind. But at the last minute, the storm changes direction and misses us. My stare swipes over the shore. Leaves are tossed into the air before swirling back down. I don’t know what I’m looking for—any kind of clue, really.

  Though we’ve rowed for hours, spreading across the swamp’s surface like algae, we find nothing strange in nature.

  No one is here.

  Or else someone is, and they camouflage so well that not even trained eyes can spot them.

  A chill tiptoes up my spine. Unease squeezes a tight fist around my stomach, and I have to remind myself to keep calm. It’s the only way to gain an advantage over the killer. It’ll do no good to hole up inside the cabin and wait for him to strike again.

  We search well into the night. I shine a flashlight and catch the reflection of fox eyes, frog eyes, raccoon eyes. Never anything else.

  It drizzles. The clouds smear themselves over the moon. Stars glint in the sky like the tips of a million blades. The night is heavy with humidity so thick that I feel as though I’m breathing in air straight from a heater vent.

  “Call it a night?” Grandpa takes a bite out of his second packed sandwich. This one is peanut butter and jelly. “It’s been hours.”

  I eat mine, too.

  I’ve had plenty of water. But I still feel parched.

  “I suppose,” I say. “Maybe we can search again tomorrow. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until we find him.”

  “Or maybe someone else will find the killer first,” Charlotte says, steering us back home.

  …

  I’m not expecting company the next morning. Through an open window, I spot a car sitting in our driveway. I don’t immediately recognize it, black from top to bottom. When a man steps out, I know almost instantly that he’s a cop. The folder. The pen. The look of authority. Like he’s come to take notes on our family.

  “We have a visitor,” I say, alerting Grandpa and Charlotte.

  Grandpa opens the door before the officer has a chance to knock. It’s nearly time for us to go to school.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “I’m here to ask for your cooperation in our ongoing case regarding Nicole Samantha Star.” The cop glances purposefully at me. “I’m a detective with the police force. Mind coming into the station, all of you? Just routine stuff.”

  The way his gaze cuts the air in half and lands on me tells me that I’m his main concern. His look is weighted by suspicion.

  “Sure,” I say, letting my family know I have no problem answering his questions. I guess school will have to wait. I hope Willow won’t mind my not driving her. “I’ll go to the station.”

  After all, I have nothing to hide.

  The officer gives Grandpa the address. “One hundred and third Avenue. Two-story brick. You know the place?”

  I send a quick text to Willow saying I can’t drive her, and I receive a response a few seconds later saying Okay.

  “I know it, yes,” Grandpa replies and goes to retrieve his car keys.

  “Ride with me,” he says to Charlotte and me.

  The drive to the station takes twenty minutes, but it takes no time at all for the police to separate me from my family. The room they place me in smells like the rose air freshener they’ve plugged into the wall. There’s a table, a water bottle, and a notepad. A detective walks in. Not the man from the house. This one is lanky, with a thin mustache.

  “I’m Officer Cordova. Mind if I ask you a few questions, Beau?”

  “Not at all,” I say casually.

  He shuts the door behind him. I lean in my chair and stare at the doub
le-paned glass. Wonder who’s looking back. Officer Cordova takes out a pen and readies it, along with a recorder. He presses play.

  “As you know, there’s been a murder in the swamp,” he says. He waits, as though I might have something to add. Since he didn’t technically ask a question, I keep quiet.

  “Wonderful young girl. Such a tragedy. Been talking with her family and friends lately. What we can’t figure out is who would do such thing.”

  I stare at Officer Cordova. I watch the way his eyes scrutinize me, assessing.

  “Do you happen to know anyone who would do this to Samantha, as she was known, especially by those she was closest to, which I hear includes you?”

  “Don’t know a thing about it, Officer,” I say. “Couldn’t point you to anyone.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “No one at all? Any help you can give us would be much appreciated.”

  “No one,” I say.

  “You mind telling me about your relationship with Samantha, then?”

  I cross my arms and prop my feet up on the table with a comfortable ease that I force on the outside. Inside, I feel as though this small room can’t contain all my nervousness. Do they really think I did it?

  “Sure. I wouldn’t call it much of a relationship, though. We sometimes saw each other.”

  “Romantically?”

  “Yes.”

  My eyes slide to the window again. I wonder if the person—or people—behind it is taking notes like the officer in front of me. My fingers tap, tap, tap on the chair. Even though the detective’s eyes fall to my movement and notice the crack in my armor, I can’t seem to control my unease. I need to get out of this room. I don’t want to talk about a dead girl. Especially not with a detective who thinks I’m the one responsible.

  “For how long?”

  “A few weeks.”

  The officer sets down his pen. “You seem pretty casual about it, Beau.”

  “I didn’t have feelings for her anymore, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  I don’t want to go into the fact that I don’t have feelings for any of the girls I date outside of finding them interesting and having fun. I am honest with each girl, so it’s not like I’m hiding anything. They know I don’t develop attachments. Still, I do care if one of them is murdered. How could I not?

  “Did she do anything to anger you? Did you fight often?”

  “No and no.”

  The officer slowly loses his friendly facade, his tone sharpening to a point.

  “Listen, Beau. I’m going to be straight with you. I know you and Samantha were involved, which you’ve admitted. I also know it was more than casual for her. And I know that she had contact with you the night she died.”

  I’m pretty sure I understand where he’s headed, but I let him take his time getting there.

  “She sent a text asking to come to your house. You replied with a firm ‘no.’ She then resorted to calling. You answered, declining her visit. Yet somehow, she ended up near your cabin anyhow. Want to tell me how that happened?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  I’ve gone over the possibilities myself, but I’ve come up with nothing. The officer surely knows more specifics than I do.

  “I’m going to need the details of your interaction with Samantha on her final night.”

  “You already know,” I reply. “You just said them. She sent a text, and then called. I’d broken up with her at school that afternoon. She initially seemed fine about the breakup but left school early. Apparently, she was more upset than I had realized. She wanted to come over. I said ‘no.’ End of story.”

  “Your whereabouts, Mr. Cadwell?”

  The detective no longer bothers to call me by my first name, nor does he bother to make me feel comfortable. He leans into my personal space, hovering. It’s overwhelming, the white sterile walls, harsh tones, and what I imagine are too many eyes staring from behind the glass. I want to leave.

  “I was home with my family. You can ask them yourself, if you’d like.”

  “There was never a time you were alone?” he asks.

  “Not until about two a.m., when I finally went to my own room to sleep.”

  I know good and well that Samantha’s death occurred around midnight. The police said so themselves the following day when they visited the swamp and questioned my family, needing to know where we all were at exactly that time.

  “Did you see or speak to Samantha after her phone call?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He’s nearing the end of his rope. I wasn’t with Samantha at the right time. I have an alibi. I know his words before he speaks them.

  “Okay, then, Mr. Cadwell. That’s all for now.”

  Whether he suspects me anymore or not, I don’t care. The important thing is that I answered his questions, and he has nothing to charge me with. I leave as quickly as I arrived.

  In the car, Grandpa tells me that they questioned him and Charlotte.

  “Damn police, never minding their own business. Just because we live out this way doesn’t mean nothing,” Grandpa says.

  “Well, Beau did date her,” Charlotte says.

  “Doesn’t mean I killed her,” I reply.

  “Then who did?” Grandpa asks.

  I wonder if Grandpa doubts me like the others, or if he simply means to make conversation. I watch the marsh slowly come back into view—stagnant green water between slices of trees.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” I reply.

  “More searching?” Charlotte asks.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  It’s already lunchtime. I text an apology to Willow as we near the school and ask if we can eat together.

  “See you later,” I say to Grandpa as he pulls up to the front doors.

  Charlotte hops out first and takes off without me. I shut the door and offer Grandpa a final wave just as my phone chimes with a message from Willow, accepting my offer to have lunch together beneath the shade of a maple tree.

  …

  “Sorry I couldn’t drive you this morning.” I sit in the shade, relishing the heat on my skin. “The police showed up, wanting to question me.”

  Willow takes a bite out of a turkey sandwich. “It’s okay. I rode the bus.”

  She doesn’t seem upset, which is a relief.

  “They let me go easily enough,” I explain.

  “Of course they did. You have an alibi. You didn’t murder that poor girl, but that doesn’t stop the rest of the school from suspecting you. Who knows…maybe the police have questioned others. I’m sure, if they did, many of them mentioned your connection to her. They thrive on gossip, and you haven’t exactly given them much reason to believe you’re innocent. It wouldn’t hurt for you to be a little kinder. I know you have it in you. Why do you show a softer side to me that you won’t allow them access to?”

  Because you’re different. “No reason. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe there is no softer side.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  When her hand stretches out to brush mine, I lose all train of thought.

  “You, Beau, are not as dark as you want people to believe, and you know it.”

  She lets go of my hand and reaches for an apple, taking a bite.

  “You are capable of being wrong, you know.” I watch the way her mouth sinks into the fruit, leaving a wet sheen of juice across her lips.

  “Not about this.”

  Her confidence is reassuring. I grin at her, lost in the moment. I notice the little things: the sun on her toes, reflecting off her peach-painted nails, which I can see because she wears flip-flops today; her hair blowing in the slight breeze; the little gap between her teeth as she smiles.

  “What’s their plan for finding the real killer?” she asks.

  I frown. “I don’t know. I guess they’ll analyze evidence in their lab. Maybe search the swamp more thoroughly. I will, too.”

  …

  I stay true to my word. I search and search the bog as the w
eeks pass. One, two, and then three. I’m frustrated and tired of eating packed sandwiches. My schoolwork suffers because I’m spending every hour outside the halls—where students give me a wide berth and accusatory stares—combing through the swamp. The only exception being the few stolen moments I spend in dreams, with friends, or with Willow, who, thankfully, has been riding to school with me.

  She’s the only one who makes me feel sane, aside from my family, Pax, and Grant. Everyone else looks at me as though I’m already guilty, their stares eating me up inside.

  “It’s no use.” Though I say the words aloud, I don’t completely believe them. I can’t seem to stop looking. Even now, I’m looking.

  I shine my light over and over and over again. I see trees and water and grass and creatures but nothing out of the ordinary. The swamp current rolls into our boat, rocking us. The air is humming with gnats, smelling earthy and dank, a reminder that rain has recently visited.

  “We’re missing something.” Charlotte’s brows pinch in concentration.

  She is better at this than I am. Her focus allows her to not give up easily. The look she bestows tells me that I better not dare give up, either. Maybe she’s toying with me. That would be just like Charlotte to do, to have a secret and then hang it up right in front of me, as big as the moon but just out of reach.

  Maybe she knows more than she says. I didn’t think it was possible at first, but now I wonder. With her elusiveness, it’s hard not to suspect that she’s up to something.

  “Where’s the killer, Charlotte? Do you know anything about the murder? Have you discovered any new details?”

  Her brows relax. Her face transforms into a smile that is both intimidating and terrifying.

  “Isn’t that the million-dollar question?”

  I don’t know why she chooses to be so poisonous. Actually, I’m lying. I do know why, what I don’t know is how she does it for so long. I hardly ever see moments of weakness in her. Even I have occasional moments. It’s not normal, the strength of her resolve. One day she decided she would never love another soul. And then she lived up to her own promise, tenfold. People are scared of her, and I can’t say I blame them.

  “Charlotte?” I say her name softly.

  I hardly ever do things softly, but for her, my only sister, I show a glimpse of the real me.