“Harper, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” Kyle’s face is really red from having recently run a thousand meters in four minutes. As I stare up into it, his face grows even redder.
“What?”
“Will you go to prom with me?”
“Prom?”
“Yes, it’s at the end of next month.” He wipes some more sweat off his face with the towel.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend or something you could ask?”
“Look, if you don’t want to go with me, just say so.”
“It isn’t that. You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting to get asked.”
“All the senior girls are expecting to get asked. What is the air like on your planet, Harper? It’s senior year. Prom is next month. Have you been living under a rock?”
“No. I have other things on my mind.”
“Like what?”
Evidently the Phelps murder isn’t first on everyone’s list of stuff to think about. Maybe I do live on a different planet than the rest of the kids in the senior class at Eastfield High. “Nothing much. Family stuff. I don’t think I’ll be going to prom. I went last year and it was expensive and boring.”
“Okay.” Kyle turns and walks away from me.
I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. I like Kyle. He’s a good runner and a nice guy. We always sit together on the bus rides to track meets and share our playlists with each other. He has some boring overplayed top 40s on his, but he likes Edward Sharp and Twenty One Pilots and some other good stuff, too.
Now Kyle probably won’t want to sit with me on the bus anymore. Damn. Maybe I should’ve said yes to his prom invitation. Too late now. I won’t be taking the bus today anyway because Shane, my dad, and I are heading straight to the shooting range.
Finally the track meet ends, and I walk over to where my father and Shane are waiting for me. Just a couple of tall dudes, talking and smiling. Dad laughs at something Shane said. And then he punches his new best buddy lightly on the bicep. Ugh, I can’t take this.
Pretending I can, I plaster a smile onto my face. “Hi, you two. Did you enjoy the meet?”
“Long and boring except for the five minutes when we got to watch you run,” my devoted parent replies.
“Five minutes and seven seconds,” I remind him. “I sucked.”
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. That’s still pretty fast, Harps.” Shane smiles down at me. The sun behind his head makes him look like he’s wearing a halo of fire. He could use a haircut.
“Thanks.”
“C’mon, kids. Let’s go shoot some guns. Unless you want to swing by the house and take a shower first, honey.”
“Nope, I’m fine.” My dad’s grin is a mile wide and more than a little sarcastic as he herds us over to where his Harley’s parked next to Shane’s beat-up old Honda. “Damn, I forgot the extra helmet, Harper. You’ll have to ride with Shane.”
He plunks the helmet onto his head, hops onto the bike, and yells, “See you there!” Then revs the Screamin’ Eagle engine, peels out of the parking lot, and heads toward the street, faster and more elusive than a fly that keeps landing on your food. And twice as annoying.
I’m stuck riding over to the firing range with Shane in his sucky old car.
My father’s bike is out of sight before Shane’s even finished backing out of the parking space. When we’re finally headed down the road toward the firing range, I peek at the speedometer. Thirty-two miles per hour. The speed limit’s thirty-five.
My chauffeur takes his eyes off the road for a heartbeat. “Who was that guy you were talking to?”
“What guy?” And why does Shane need to know?
“The one with the towel around his neck. He was standing next to you after your race. You two were talking.”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle who?”
“You don’t know him anyway, so why does it matter?”
“I’m just asking. So, is he your boyfriend or something?”
“He’s on the track team. We’re friends; that’s all.”
“That’s really all?”
“He asked me to go to prom with him.” Why am I telling Shane this?
“Did you say yes?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you want to go to prom with him?” He smiles.
“I don’t have anything against Kyle. It’s just that I went to prom last year and I didn’t have a good time.”
“I went when I was in high school. It was fun!”
“Well, I didn’t think so.”
“Then maybe it’s a good thing you decided not to go this year.”
“Maybe.”
“With your friend Kyle.” Shane smiles again and takes his eyes off the road to look at me for a second.
“I hope he’s still my friend even though I said no.”
“Guys are never ‘just friends’ with girls who look like you.”
“I have guy friends.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do, too.”
“Nope. You have guys who would like to date you but will settle for being just your friend. Temporarily. They’re really waiting. Deciding when to make the big move.”
“What move?”
“You know, Harps, the big move. Out of the friend zone.”
“No, I don’t know.” I do know, but Shane’s annoying me and it’s making me feel stubborn.
“The big move goes something like this: you’re riding along in the car, probably listening to music.” He turns up the volume on the radio. A quiet-voiced guy is singing a slow song about a girl he’s in love with.
“Shit, Shane, country western? I should’ve known.”
“Shut up and listen, Harper.”
I look over at him. He takes his eyes off the road, locking me in his blue-eyed gaze. It doesn’t matter, either, because he’s driving so damned slow. At this speed, even if we hit a guardrail, it wouldn’t even dent the car.
“So you’re just cruising along, like this, and the guy casually reaches out and touches you in a way that a friend wouldn’t touch another friend.” Shane takes his right hand off the steering wheel and starts rubbing the back of my neck. It feels really good. His hand’s warm and strong, and he keeps stroking and rubbing firmly, down the back of my neck, onto my shoulder. I resist the urge to lean forward, so he can reach down lower. Finally he moves his hand back up and massages the tense muscles on my neck again, soft and slow. After his hand stops moving, he rests it against my bare skin for a few minutes, right at the base of my neck, where it curves down to my shoulder. Gently, he pokes his thumb up and rubs a very sensitive spot under my earlobe.
Glancing over at me, he raises one eyebrow and grins like he wants to know whether or not I like the way he’s touching me. Then, in one long, slow stroke, he moves his hand down my arm and onto my bare knee. I feel a red-hot burn trail down my body in the wake of his touch, and another, more intense heat wave creeps across my cheeks.
I’d love to wipe the expression of smug satisfaction off his face, but I don’t want to punch someone who’s driving, no matter how slowly the car’s heading down the road. Plus, I’m not sure I want to punch my new friend Shane MacGregor, who’s very effectively demonstrating how to put the moves on a girl, and the girl is me. Is this just a demonstration, or is it real? I want to ask him, but I can’t seem to make my voice work.
“What are you going to do now, Harper? Push his hand away so he gets the message he’s only a friend? Or let him leave his hand there and see what develops between the two of you?”
“Okay, now I understand. The demonstration’s over.” I grab his wrist and try to pull his hand off my knee. He holds it in place for just a few more seconds. Then laughs and puts it back on the steering wheel.
“See. That’s one way to make the big move out of the friend zone. Or you could try another way, like asking her to prom.”
“Shut up. Nobody likes a smart ass.”
“You should kn
ow, Harps. Your own ass is pretty smart.” He glances sideways at me and smiles full out, all shiny white teeth and confidence.
I’m not sure how to respond. Does he mean he appreciates my sarcastic sense of humor, or is he complimenting my ass? Once again, I sit here speechless and turn red—not exactly hating this predicament I’m in.
Shane stops teasing me abruptly, and his expression changes to serious as he tips his head in the direction of a grassy area over on the left side of the road. “There’s the spot where I stopped to change a flat the other night, after I left your place.”
“You didn’t tell me you got a flat.”
“I haven’t really talked to you much since then.”
Twisting around, I look back over my shoulder at the desolate stretch of road where Shane got stranded. “It must’ve been dark and spooky. The entrance to the swamp is really close by, and there aren’t any houses or stores for about a mile in either direction.”
“It was pretty creepy, so I moved fast. I changed the tire and got the hell out of there. Some weird guy stopped and offered to help me, but I was already done.”
“What was so weird about him?”
“He was dressed all in black with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Even if it hadn’t been so dark, I couldn’t have gotten a good look at his face.”
“Anything else?” I am the daughter of a highly skilled detective, and I sense something unnerving about Shane’s encounter with a seemingly helpful stranger on a dark and deserted stretch of road. The hood part is freaking me out.
“He didn’t have his headlights on when he pulled over. I would’ve seen them if he did. And he crept up behind me. I never heard him. At the last minute, when he was really close, I sensed someone was there and turned around fast. I still hadn’t heard him, but I got that fizzy sensation on the back of my neck”
“Fizzy?”
“Goosebumps popped up all over my neck, then spread across my scalp.”
“My dad says to always trust that feeling.”
“I did. I stood up fast and spun around, with the tire iron ready in case I had to defend myself.”
“Good move. You did the right thing.”
“As soon as he left, I threw my stuff into the trunk and got the hell out of there.”
“Scary.”
“I know. If you wanted to help someone out in a situation like that, wouldn’t you shine your headlights on them so they could see better? And wouldn’t you yell to them as soon as you got out of the car? You know, something like, ‘Hey, do you need any help over there?’”
“That would be the normal thing to do.”
“Not for him. He didn’t utter a word until I had spun around and he was really close to me. I keep thinking of this creepy phrase: within striking distance.”
“I think we should tell my dad about it.”
“Are you sure? It might be nothing. The guy might’ve been sincerely offering his help.”
“Tell my dad exactly what you told me, and let him be the judge. He’s the professional.” I look over at Shane. He fixes his eyes intently on the road ahead, and flexes the muscles in his jaw. He doesn’t look worried. He looks ready for anything.
“Game on,” he says. I know he’s hoping the guy who stopped and offered to help him with the flat is the Bad Guy. For years, I’ve felt the way he’s feeling now, but I don’t like seeing him this way. I’m afraid for him.
With my left hand, I grip his shoulder and warn him, “The Bad Guy’s dangerous, Shane. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Trembling like a cornered rabbit, I realize the unfamiliar feeling I’m experiencing is fear. But I’m not afraid for myself, because I’m ready. I don’t want to lose Shane. I just found him.
“We need to tell my father. He’ll know what to do.”
Chapter 10
Harper
New Developments
When Shane’s shit-box finally creeps into the firing-range parking lot, Dad’s already there, leaning his butt against the big leather seat of the bike, with his arms folded across his chest, smiling like a large, exceptionally well-muscled, arrogant control freak. I’m so used to his obnoxious attitude, it doesn’t even annoy me. I have more important things on my mind.
I jump out of Shane’s car and sprint over to him, faster than we could have driven there.
Dad tugs on my ponytail and grins. “Hey, honey, what’s the rush?” His face looks more affectionate and less arrogant now.
“Something happened to Shane the other night, on his way home, right after he left our house.”
“What happened?” He stops smiling and slips into detective mode. It’s pure instinct. He knows from the tone of my voice whatever happened was important and bad. “Shane, tell me everything. Start right from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
Shane begins repeating the whole story. As he listens, my father holds so still I start to wonder if he’s still breathing. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire from the shooting range punctures the quiet every few seconds, but no one flinches. Dad barely even blinks. I interrupt Shane here and there if I feel like he’s leaving out a detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem. I’ve learned from my father that you need to know everything and then sift through it all. No rock can remain unturned. Everything’s important until you can prove it isn’t.
When Dad’s sure we’re finished he says, “I need to see the tire.”
“It’s still in my trunk.” Shane opens it, and we all look inside. “I haven’t had time to get the flat repaired yet.”
“That tire looks new,” my father observes.
“Yes, sir. I bought four new tires a couple of weeks ago.”
Shane and my dad stand the tire up and rotate it slowly, inside the trunk, and my father examines the treads. “I can’t see anything suspicious. But just to be sure, keep holding this upright, you two.”
I move over next to Shane and help him hold the tire in position.
Dad runs over to his bike and unzips a small bag fastened to the back. It’s his on-the-road crime-scene kit. He pulls out a magnifying glass, brings it over and peers at the tire treads through the glass.
“Rotate it slowly. Okay. Stop.”
He bends down closer, squints one eye, and stares through the magnifying glass for almost a full minute, then places his index finger on the spot he was examining. “I can see a very small, neat slit right here, in between the treads. Almost invisible to the naked eye. Someone damaged your tire on purpose, Shane. With a very sharp knife. He probably slid it in just deep enough to cause a slow leak. And I think he did it when you were parked in our driveway. He carefully calculated where you’d break down. On the darkest, most deserted stretch of Route 138.”
“Damn.” Shane shakes his head.
“He’s been watching you, Harper. And watching Shane, too,” my father warns.
“Are you sure, Dad?”
“I can’t prove it, but my instincts are screaming ‘Yes!’”
My father has honed his instincts sharper than the killer’s blade. He would never ignore them, and neither would I.
“Maybe I should get some pepper spray, too.”
My father puts his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “I’ll get you a police model canister, like Harper’s. You don’t need an FID because you’re over eighteen, and you won’t need a parent’s signature, either.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I can have one for you by tomorrow. Keep it locked in your trunk or your glove box if your parents won’t allow it in the house. And practice. Harper can show you how to use it effectively.”
“Thanks again. I know you’re busy.”
“You might not be able to stop him by waving a tire iron at him the next time. And there could very well be a next time.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll be ready,” Shane promises.
“Now let’s go shoot some guns.” My dad tips his head in the direction of the entrance to the shooting range.
We walk in and sta
rt Shane’s first lesson.
If I can pick up the skill of shooting a basketball as easily as Shane takes to shooting a pistol, I’ll be signing with the WNBA next week. Dad and I explain a few elementary steps and give him a couple of important instructions. A few minutes later, he starts firing away at the targets and hitting progressively more challenging marks about 95 percent of the time.
Afterward, as we’re heading toward Shane’s car in the parking lot, my father’s cell phone rings. He stops, yanks it out of his pocket, and says, “Detective Flagg, here.”
After listening for a second he responds, “Be right there.”
As he jogs over to the Harley, we follow close behind. Dad jams the helmet onto his head and slings one leg over the bike. Before he lowers the visor, he turns toward us and says, “I have to go. You two stick together. Don’t go anywhere alone. Another woman disappeared. They found her baby just minutes ago, outside of a Walmart about two miles from here. In broad daylight, on a busy shopping day. He’s escalating.” After Dad takes off, the clouds of dirt in his wake tower above us in the unpaved parking lot.
“Maybe she’s still alive.” Shane looks at me hopefully.
“Don’t count on it.” My throat swells up, and I almost choke on the words. I try coughing, but it doesn’t help. Shane puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay, Harper?”
I want to say that it’s just the dust Dad’s bike raised, but I can’t speak because I start sobbing. A whole stupid waterfall of tears. Sixteen years’ worth. The boy whose mother was also murdered by the Bad Guy pulls me into his arms, and I weep like an idiot with my face plastered against his chest. What is wrong with me? I never cry.
It takes a few minutes for me to gain control of my emotions. Finally I sniffle a couple of times, wipe my face on his T-shirt, push him away and take a step backward.
“Are you sure you don’t want to blow your nose on my shirt, too, before we get in the car?”
“Nah. I’m good. Thanks for the offer, though.” I attempt a smile and fail.
“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.” He slings one long arm across my shoulders and herds me toward his pathetic excuse of a vehicle.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 7
