He caught me by the wrists.
“All right,” he laughed. “We’re moving into cruel-and-unusual territory, here.”
I tried to pull free, but he held fast. With my back to the counter, I had nowhere to retreat. He had me trapped. I flattened my palms, doing my best to appear repentant. “Okay. Truce time. I surrender.”
“I believe you.” He didn’t release me.
I looked up at him. He didn’t look tidy any longer. He was a mess. Flour streaked his hair and face, dusting the ends of his eyelashes, the bridge of his nose. I’d somehow managed to get frosting on his chin. He kept fighting a smile that tugged at his lips.
My heart did a funny little flip.
From the hall came the sound of the front door opening.
Leon dropped my wrists. We turned toward the door, then back to each other. We didn’t move. We probably should have. Even if we couldn’t clean the kitchen in the time it would take my mother to reach us, we could have at least fled the scene. Instead, we just stared at each other in horror as the sound of footsteps grew louder. Which is exactly how my mother found us a moment later.
But, as it turned out, we had bigger problems.
Mom wasn’t alone. Beside her, in the slant of light that cut through the doorway, stood Detective Wyle.
***
It took my mother a moment to register the state of the kitchen. She’d been speaking to Detective Wyle when she entered, then broke off mid-sentence. She looked around at the damage: flour and sugar scattered across the linoleum, bags and bowls overturned on the table, pans on the floor, frosting on the counter.
“What the hell happened in here?” She didn’t even sound angry. Just really, really confused.
That made two of us. Her clothing wasn’t necessarily incriminating—she had her H&H Security coat on—but she’d left that night to patrol as Morning Star, and here she was, home early . . . with a police officer. One she wasn’t on the best of terms with. That didn’t bode well.
“Baking?” I suggested.
Detective Wyle cleared his throat. Mom continued to stare.
Leon just looked sheepish. “Sorry, Lucy,” he said. Then he made a dash for the door.
The traitor.
I looked back at Mom and shrugged. “We were making you a cake. We, um, missed.”
Detective Wyle chuckled. He looked tired and even scruffier than the last time I’d seen him. He certainly knew how to play the brooding antihero, all rough edges and stubble and dark rumpled hair.
Except for his clothing, anyway. He was dressed plainly, in old jeans and a raggedy black sweatshirt with a hole in the collar—but considering I was two eggs and a stick of butter short of being walking cake batter, I couldn’t say anything.
“Hi, Mickey,” I said, giving him a jaunty smile.
He scrutinized me closely. He chose not to comment on the flour in my hair or the frosting on my hands, and instead said, “Hey, kid. You doing all right?”
“Except for being a powdered donut.”
That got a smile. “Feel like any more fortune-telling?”
I glanced at my mother. Her expression was stormy. Even without a Knowing, I’d be able to sense the trouble brewing. I could almost see little thunderclouds gathering around her. Her forehead was creased, her lips a thin line, and from the glare she was aiming at Detective Wyle, I guessed it hadn’t been her idea for him to follow her home.
Maybe he’d threatened to arrest her again.
“I predict you’re about two seconds from getting tossed out of here,” I told him. Literally, I suspected, if Mom could figure out a way to do it without raising more questions.
His smile turned wry. “I see your opinion of me hasn’t improved.”
He was wrong. Looking at him, his way of standing, the tilt to his head, how the light caught that hint of gray in his hair—I Knew I could trust him. He was easy to read, and I had this sense about him: he didn’t mean my mother any harm. There was no malice in him, no desire to injure. He wanted to help.
Of course, I also saw suspicion in his eyes. Not of Mom’s motives, but of her actions.
“I hope you’re not here for the party,” I said, stepping between him and my mother. “Because I didn’t finish putting up streamers, and our cake exploded. And it doesn’t look like you brought a gift. Did you at least say happy birthday?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered under his breath.
Mom walked farther into the kitchen. Though her face was flushed, her eyes were focused and alert. She looked nothing like the sleepy, disheveled working mom she liked to portray to the outside world. I doubted it had escaped the detective’s notice.
She must have had the same thought, because she reached back and pulled her hair free, shaking it messily onto her shoulders. She pulled off her coat, revealing a rose-colored tank top with a bunny on it. I was pretty sure she’d found that in the kid’s department at Target.
Then I noticed a smear of red on her left arm.
“You’re bleeding!” I cried, moving to her side.
“It’s just a scratch,” Mom said in dismissal, covering the wound with her hand. “Someone tried to mug me on the way home tonight. Luckily, Detective Wyle was on hand. He scared the man away.”
He grunted, crossing his arms. “Luckily. You seemed capable of handling the situation.”
Mom walked to the sink, widening the distance between them. “It’s part of my job. And anyway, I grew up learning the value of self-defense,” she said. “My father was a cop.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Yeah, I know. My old man’s been giving me shit for hassling Jacky Whitticomb’s little girl. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it.”
A frown flashed across her face. “Your father is Hank Wyle. Your parents came to my father’s funeral.”
There was a note of sadness in her tone. It was slight, something I Knew more than heard. A catch in the syllables of funeral, like the word didn’t want to leave her throat. I’d heard the same thing in Gram’s voice countless times. My grandfather had died when Mom was only fifteen, and though there were photographs of him around the house, though Mom and Gram spoke of him often, there was always a small silence between breaths. An ache that lingered.
“He was a good man,” Mickey said, his voice gentle. “I wonder what he would think of vigilantism.”
Mom turned away, grabbing a dishrag from the sink and slowly wiping down the counter. She shrugged. “I don’t think the topic ever came up. Not really the sort of thing we talked about. He didn’t like to bring his work home. He always said he couldn’t be a good husband or father if he let it hang over him.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mickey, and if he couldn’t see the focus of her gaze, I could: the bare space of skin where his wedding ring had been.
I was about eighty-six percent certain that what she said was a lie, and she was just being mean. They’d clearly forgotten my presence at this point, so I sidled backward, toward the door.
“We met before, you know. As kids,” Mickey said, ignoring her jab. He’d moved across the kitchen and stood looming over her. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to intimidate or charm her. Maybe both.
Regardless of his intent, Mom was immune. She lifted a hand to wave away his remark. “I’m sure we did.”
“Precinct picnics,” Mickey added, continuing to crowd her.
“I don’t really remember,” Mom said. She stepped away from him, giving up ground. But she didn’t seem nervous, just annoyed. “Was there something you wanted?”
“You never did say what you were doing lurking around the streets of Edina at ten at night.”
She yawned into her hand. “I was visiting one of my boyfriends.”
I couldn’t help it. I giggled.
Mom, reminded of my existence, sent a silencing glare my way.
“Patrick Tigue?” Mickey asked, a perplexed look crossing his face. I couldn’t tell if his tone meant disbelief or disgust.
“His gardener,” Mom deadpanned. Then she gripped his arm and started leading him toward the doorway. “I’d like you to leave now, Detective. It’s late. And you’re upsetting my daughter.”
“Uh, he’s not, really.” I probably should have played along, but I was as curious as he was. Tigue—I’d heard the name recently. Mr. Alvarez had mentioned it the night I was attacked.
Which might mean it was connected to the bleedings.
Mickey was raising his eyebrows at me. “You’re on my side now?”
I shrugged, trying to ignore the look my mother was giving me. “She grounded me. I have to get even somehow.”
He put a hand on his chin, rubbing the trace of stubble there. A thin, jagged scar ran along his jaw, close to his mouth. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up? I’ll take care of this mess while I chat with your mom.”
She appeared about to protest, but kept her mouth shut. I gave the detective a grin. Even if it was an obvious ploy to get rid of me, I decided I definitely liked Mickey Wyle.
18
I showered quickly.
My clothing had taken most of the damage, but my hair was sticky with sugar. I scrubbed myself and shampooed and stood in the steam, letting the heat fog around me. I decided to toss my clothing in the wash before I went to bed—but first, I wanted to hear what Mom and Detective Wyle were discussing. And I was not above spying.
After toweling myself dry and pulling on my pajamas, I slipped down the hall to the top of the stairs. They were still in the kitchen, their voices muffled. Cautiously, I crept downward, skipping the steps that creaked.
Through the door, I saw my mother’s back, the light catching in her hair. Her voice came to me clearly.
“—if what you’re suggesting is true, why hasn’t there been an investigation? Or am I wrong in assuming you’ve taken the initiative here?”
“The first deaths were staged, made to look like accidents. The connection is subtle.”
“Cuts,” my mother said.
I Knew what that meant before Mickey said it. A shiver ran through me.
His tone was all seriousness, calm, intent. “On the backs of their ankles, just below the calf. Razor-thin,” he said. “Five girls with it, and those are just the ones I was able to verify. The deaths are related. An individual—or group of individuals—is responsible.”
Mom moved, leaning back into the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her. “We’ve had this discussion before. Why are you here now?”
“We found another dead kid. A sixteen-year-old girl over in Eden Prairie.”
Not Tricia Morrow, I thought. Someone else. More bleedings.
“That’s horrible,” my mother said. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me. I know you’ve been following me. Unless you have police business, I think that counts as stalking. What is this about?”
“A month after the Stevens girl went missing, I was called to the scene of an accident. Two girls in a car had been involved in a hit and run. Both dead at the scene.”
Mom was silent. She held herself very still, her body tense. Whatever Mickey was about to say, she knew it was coming.
“The thing is, they didn’t know each other. They weren’t friends. They lived in different cities, went to different schools. They didn’t share the same hangouts or work together. There was no reason for both of them to be in that car when it crashed. In fact, the only connection between the two girls . . . is you. You were at both of their houses the night they died. Which is why I don’t think it will surprise you when I tell you the crash was staged. The girls were already dead.”
“If you know that much, I’m sure you also know that both their families contacted my firm, H&H Security. What are you accusing me of, Detective?” Her voice was soft.
Mickey stepped into view. His hand hovered beneath my mother’s elbow, almost touching. “I’m not accusing you. Maybe I should be—but I’m not. I’m asking for your help. You know something I don’t, and you’re holding out on me. And while you’re holding out, kids are dying.”
Mom’s tone was deathly cool. “Believe me, Detective, if I knew anything that would save lives, I’d share it. I can’t help you.”
He sighed deeply, moving away. “Two girls were attacked outside a club downtown recently. I heard one of them was yours.”
“My daughter is fine,” Mom told him. “You just saw her.”
“Why is she grounded?”
“I caught her with weed.”
I was rather offended by that, but thought it better to keep my mouth shut.
“What were you really doing in Edina tonight?”
“I work security in the area. The details are confidential. Contact my boss if you want confirmation. It’s all legal.”
Mickey’s voice went low, quiet. “Look, we both know there’s something here you’re not telling me—but that’s not what I’m after. These attacks are escalating. More kids are going to wind up dead if this isn’t stopped, and soon. All I want is information. I won’t ask how you came by it.”
“That’s generous of you.”
He sighed again. “All right, we’ll play it your way a while longer. When you’re ready to talk, you have my number.”
I shrank back against the steps as they left the kitchen. Mom was quick on Mickey’s heels, as though she thought he might start snooping if she didn’t get him safely outside.
He paused at the front door, turning back to face my mother. “The funny thing. Three of the dead kids? Are linked to Patrick Tigue. They volunteered at one of his charities. I wasn’t staking you out tonight. I was watching him. Same as you. Goodnight, Miss Whitticomb. Happy birthday.”
***
I sat on the staircase after Mickey had gone, trying to sort through what I’d heard. My hair was drying in clumps against my shoulders, and I teased my fingers through it absently, watching water pearl and drip at the ends. There was a slight chill in the air, blown in from outside, but I barely felt it.
Slashes on the ankle, I thought. Cuts, to test the blood. This was bigger than I’d realized. Five deaths, Mickey had said. Or was it six now? Or seven? Had he been counting Tricia Morrow?
The scars above my heels itched.
“If you were trying to be sneaky, you really should’ve gone back upstairs.”
I hadn’t heard Mom approach. Startled, I let out a little yelp and tried to jump to my feet, only to lose traction on the slick bit of staircase where my hair had been dripping. I sat back down with a thump, sliding down the remaining three steps until I came to a halt on the floor.
“Ow.”
“Oh, Audrey,” Mom sighed, reaching out an arm to help me back up.
Leon stood behind her. The expression on his face told me he was trying very, very hard not to laugh. Not that he presented the most dignified appearance himself. His hair had been washed clean of flour but had dried strangely, bits sticking up on one side and curling around his ear on the other.
Unlike me, he hadn’t changed into pajamas. He’d put on a clean shirt and pants, and stood holding his coat.
“I thought you weren’t going out tonight,” I told him.
“I was out. I’m back now.”
“I needed him to take care of something for me while Detective Wyle was here,” Mom said. She’d pulled her hair back into its bun and put her hoodie on. The night was still young; the streets needed watching. She’d leave again soon. But instead of heading out the door, she took a step back, looked at me, and said, “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
True to his word, Mickey had taken care of the mess. Part of it, anyway. The floor needed mopping, and bits of sugar were stuck to the walls, but the table had been wiped clean, and the mixing bowls were set neatly in the sink.
Mom motioned for me to sit. She stood across from me, near the counter, keeping her arms folded. I wondered if her injury had already healed. “Gonna try to pretend you weren’t spying on me?” she asked.
I bit my l
ip. “Um . . .”
“You don’t want to answer that.” She sighed. Closing her eyes, she lifted a hand to her forehead. “I assume you heard most of it.”
“I was in the shower part of the time,” I said.
Her eyes flicked back open. She gave me an unamused look.
“Points for honesty?” I suggested.
Mom just sighed again. “I’d really rather keep you out of this,” she said. “But it seems you’re bent on working it out. So, we’ll talk. But I need some assurances from you. I need you to understand how dangerous this is. The threat is very real, and anyone involved could get hurt. That includes you. I want you to promise me, from now on, you’ll think before you act. You won’t do anything like you did at that club.”
“Once was enough for me,” I said. I darted a glance toward Leon, who stood silent near the door. His face was unreadable.
A little worry knot appeared in Mom’s forehead. “I’m serious.”
“I promise,” I said. “Does this mean you’re going to answer my questions?”
“That depends on the question.”
“I’ve already figured out some of it.” When she lifted her eyebrows at me, I shrugged and said, “The Harrowers are searching for a Remnant. And they’ve been bleeding girls my age to find it, right? Killing them. That’s what Mickey was talking about.”
“What Detective Wyle was talking about,” she corrected.
“And they’re making the deaths look like accidents? I didn’t know Harrowers did that.”
Mom leaned back against the counter. She folded her arms, cupping her elbows with her hands. “No. They don’t, usually. Most Harrowers don’t bother with that sort of cunning. They like to kill, and they like to flaunt it. Their activity is easy to detect. But this—this is different, subtle. Well-hidden. And deliberate.”
“They don’t want us to know what they’re up to,” I guessed.
She nodded. “It began a little over a year ago, and it took us far too long to make the connection. It wasn’t until the fourth death that we realized the girls were being bled.” Pausing, she rubbed her face with her hand. “We should’ve used subtlety ourselves. Now that they know we’re aware of their goal, they’ve increased the attacks.”
Dark Star Page 14
