He has to drive slower than usual, too, because he still has the stupid spare on. When we get to my house, Shane comes inside and waits downstairs while I take a shower. What the hell are we supposed to do now? Stay barricaded in the house together until the police catch the killer?
Once I’m all dried off, I pull on a pair of faded, ripped jeans and my Green Day T-shirt, the American Idiot one with the bleeding-heart hand grenade. Wearing it usually makes me feel like a badass, but not today. I hang my head and walk into the living room. Shane’s sitting on the couch, oblivious to the huge wet splotch on his shoulder because he’s watching the news coverage of the latest abduction. Nora Hazel, age twenty-six, blonde hair, blue eyes, five feet two inches, 115 pounds. Her six-month-old baby girl, Erin, left sitting in the car seat. A passerby saw the baby with no adult nearby and called 911. They haven’t found Erin’s mom yet.
My cell rings and it’s Dad. He wants to know if Shane can add any more details to what he remembers about the man who stopped and offered to help with the flat tire.
Silently, I hold the phone out to Shane. He takes it from my hand, gets up from the couch, and starts pacing around the living room, repeating the facts to my father. Explaining once again how he saw an average-size guy, about six feet tall, probably about 170 pounds, dressed in black with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up so his face was completely hidden. He was driving a small black car, but Shane didn’t get a good look at it.
“I wish I’d seen more. I wish I could remember something else.” He mutters an F-bomb under his breath and hands the phone back to me.
My father asks me to make sure Shane doesn’t head for home alone. “I’ll follow him in my car. Don’t worry, Dad. We’re safe.”
“You’re alone too much, baby. Shane’s a good kid, and he understands why you are the way you are better than anyone else ever could.”
Huh. My brain-cloud of misery and confusion clears, and a new thought dawns. I realize why my father’s been so friendly toward Shane.
“Is that why you haven’t tried to scare him away?”
He laughs. “You’re onto me. How’d you get so smart?”
“My dad’s a highly skilled detective and it’s hereditary.”
His voice softens. “Harper, honey, I feel like you’re safer if you’ve got a six-foot-four guy looming around you. I’m busy with the investigation, so I can’t always be there.”
“But the killer attacks women who are alone with their babies, not girls like me.”
“No matter. You’re definitely safer with a big hulking guy trailing after you.”
“Shane doesn’t trail after me.”
“He should. You’re gorgeous and smart and funny, and you two need each other right now.”
“I don’t need anyone, Dad. You’ve made sure of that.”
“I did too good of a job. I don’t want you to be lonely.”
“Being alone and being lonely are two different things.”
“Not always, baby, not always. Promise me you and Shane will stick together as much as possible until we catch this monster.”
“I’m not promising you that.”
“For Shane’s sake. You know more about self-defense than he does. And he’s the one the killer approached.”
“Okay, Dad. I promise.” The thought of what could’ve happened to Shane the other night on that lonely stretch of Route 138 makes me shiver, and I almost start crying again. Then I think about baby Erin and a few tears leak out. Sniveling just a little, I tell my father, “Bye. I love you.”
After shoving the phone back into my pocket, I turn toward Shane.
Wrapping his arms around me for the second time today, he hugs me close. “If you need to blow your nose use the same side where you wiped your face, please. I don’t want the whole shirt to get all disgusting.”
Giggling, I bury my face in the fabric of his T-shirt. He only has to stoop down a little for his shoulder to be at the right height for my face. He feels warm and solid and he smells good. He’s wearing some high-class cologne and he didn’t spray on too much, unlike most teenage boys. But then he’s not a teenager anymore.
“You smell good.” The words slip out.
“So do you, Harper.” He sniffs at my still damp hair. “Your hair smells like a meadow. What kind of shampoo is that?”
Before I can answer, he moves his arms down and tightens his hold on me. Then stops.
He loosens his grip and places one big hand on either side of my waist, then swivels me sideways. With one finger, he pokes at the pepper-spray canister tucked inside the back of my waistband. “There it is.”
“It’s more important than ever that I carry it now,” I remind him.
“Yes, but it still feels weird. It’s one thing to know about the pepper spray. But completely another to put my arms around you and hold you close and feel it there. Even though I should have expected it, it felt strange. And I . . .”
“You feel threatened.”
“No, just surprised.”
“You said ‘and.’ You were going to add something.”
“Reassured. I feel safer knowing you have it and you know how to use it.”
“That’s all? Reassured?”
“Yes, and safer. I was caught up in the moment: holding you and thinking about how soft and sweet you feel. Then suddenly I felt something hard.”
“My lethal weapon.”
“Yup. I forgot about it. Then I felt it and remembered. But it’s okay. I know we’re both safer because you have it.”
“Speaking of safety, I promised Dad I’d follow you home.”
“But what about you? Afterwards you’ll be driving back alone, and you’ll have to pass through that isolated stretch of Route 138, right when it starts to get dark.”
“First of all, no one could have tampered with my car. It’s been locked in the garage all day, so I know there are no slits in any of the tires or anything.”
“Okay, and second?”
“Second of all, I can out drive the killer. My car’s faster, and I’m a better driver. I’ll be past that stretch of road before he can say, ‘Shit, she’s fast!’”
“What if he’s waiting back here for you?”
“He won’t be. And if he is, I’ll be ready.” I reach back and pat the pepper-spray canister. “We’ll be safe for at least a while because the killer’s busy. He has Nora Hazel, and he won’t go on the prowl again until he’s finished with her.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Shane touches my chin and tilts my head up so I have to look into his eyes. I can’t hide my emotions from him, and it doesn’t feel good. I want to push him away and head out to find my mother’s killer. I want to save little Erin Hazel’s mother before it’s too late. But even more than that, I want to climb back inside the circle of Shane’s arms and stay there for a long time, maybe even cry some more. But I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I grab his hand and walk him out to his car. Then open the garage door, get in my car, and drive it up behind his.
I’m not a very patient person, so it’s hard for me to follow Shane without passing him, but I promised Dad I’d follow him home to make sure he arrives safely. So I stay behind him and drive five miles an hour under the speed limit, muttering F-bombs under my breath the whole time. I’m much more comfortable with feeling annoyed and frustrated than I am feeling helpless and worried and sad. I imagine ramming into his rear bumper and smile.
Chapter 11
Harper
Spaghetti and Meatballs
I pull up to the curb right by the front walk to keep an eye on Shane until he’s safely inside the house, but instead of heading straight up to the front door, he runs over and motions for me to roll down the window.
“Come on in and eat dinner with us.”
“No, but thank you.”
“You must be starving. It’s not good to go without food, especially when you’ve been running races and shooting guns all day. Your blood sugar will dip too low if you d
on’t eat. You’ll feel weak, and that’s dangerous considering our circumstances.”
“Your family isn’t expecting me. It would be rude.”
“I called on the way. They don’t care. We have plenty of food.”
“I can just heat something up when I get home. It’s okay.”
“Saturday’s spaghetti-and-meatball night, and your dad doesn’t want you to be alone.”
“He’ll probably be working straight through for at least the next twenty-four hours, so if he doesn’t want me to be alone, maybe I better stay overnight.”
“That can be arranged; just leave your pepper spray in the car, please.” Shane grins.
“That was sarcasm. I’m not staying over.”
“Then at least stay for supper.”
I don’t really want to meet his family and have to make awkward conversation, but I can’t see a way out of it. Shane keeps insisting. And I’m starved. The thought of homemade spaghetti and meatballs is making my mouth water. “Okay.”
He smiles and opens the car door as I turn off the ignition. Remembering Shane’s parents’ attitude about weapons and fighting, I lock the pepper-spray canister in the glove box.
On the way into the house, Shane warns me. “They don’t like to talk about the killer. So don’t bring it up. I tried to discuss it with my dad when Jessica Phelps disappeared, but he wouldn’t listen. He got pissed off and told me never to mention it again. My father and stepmother want to put it behind us. And they don’t want Emily to get scared.”
“You’re not going to tell them you may have had a close encounter with our mothers’ murderer?”
“Not yet. I will eventually if I have to.”
“So what did you tell them about me?”
“I said I met a girl and we’ve been hanging out, and I wanted to invite you to supper so they could meet you.”
“Won’t they recognize my name?”
“My dad might, but my stepmother probably won’t, and he won’t tell her because then she’ll get in a bad mood.”
Maybe I’m lucky my dad’s marriages didn’t last after all. I don’t have to worry about anyone getting in a bad mood if I mention my mother’s murder. “Well then, we won’t even hint at anything that has to do with the killer. I wouldn’t want her to get in a bad mood.”
“She’s really very nice. She just wants her family to be normal and not have to live with the memory of a grisly murder lurking around every corner of the house.”
“Like the way my family lives.”
“I’m sorry, Harper. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way did you meant it?”
“I didn’t mean for you to take it personally. I wish I could talk about my mother. I want to help solve her murder. I think about the killer all the time, but I can never say anything to my own family. It sucks, but now I have you. I’m so glad we finally met.” He grabs both my arms and pulls me toward him. I look up into his face, and he lowers it slowly. When he’s so close his features start to blur, I close my eyes.
“Shane!” The front door of the house swings open. His sister runs down the walkway and bursts out laughing. “Wait a second! Did I interrupt something?”
Shane steps away from me and growls, “Shut up, you obnoxious little . . .”
“If you swear at me, I’m telling.”
“Sorry, Harper. She’s impossible.” He murmurs an F-bomb under his breath.
“Dad said to tell you guys the food’s getting cold. Bring your new girlfriend in, and let’s get this over with. Mom’s dying of curiosity. She’s so excited she burnt her hand stirring the sauce.”
“How bad?” Shane asks.
“She ran it under cold water and she’s fine. It didn’t even blister.”
When Shane introduces me, using only my first name, his dad says, “Harper, what an unusual name.” He blinks and stares at me a second too long, before he smiles politely and says, “I hope you like spaghetti and meatballs. My wife makes the best homemade meatballs in New England. Her maiden name was DiGiovini.”
“Yes, my granny taught me her recipe. She was from the old country and learned it from her grandmother. She had a pasta machine and made her own noodles, but I just buy the regular spaghetti in a box at the store.” Mrs. MacGregor walks over and places a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“It smells delicious.” And it does. I’m famished, and when we sit down to eat together, I think about how great it feels to share this delicious dinner with Shane’s family. Everyone’s passing around the serving dishes and stuffing food in their mouths: salad, cheesy garlic bread, spaghetti, and the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted in my whole life. Once, a date took me to a famous restaurant in the North End, and the meatballs weren’t this good. I mention the restaurant to Mrs. MacGregor and tell her that her meatballs are better than theirs. She smiles like she just won the lottery.
“Thank you so much, Harper. Have another one. Have two.”
I hold out my plate, and she puts two more golf ball–size meatballs, dripping with sauce, on it.
“Shane has never invited a girlfriend to a family dinner before. You must be very special.” She gives me the raised-eyebrow grin. The just-between-us-girls grin.
The words I’m not his frickin’ girlfriend start exploding out of my mouth, but I only get out the “I’m . . .” part before Shane grabs my knee under the table and exerts some serious pressure. So I finish my sentence with a quick ad lib. “I’m glad he invited me, because the food’s so delicious and you’re all very nice. I feel right at home.”
The last part is an outrageous lie. Mrs. MacGregor’s doing her best to make me feel welcome, but their family is completely different from mine. I couldn’t possibly feel at home here. We never sit down at the table and have dinner together. My dad’s rarely ever home in time to eat with me. When he is home, he’s usually in a rush to get back to work and consumes his food standing up. Grams and I eat together almost every night, but it’s just the two of us. Sometimes we sit in the living room and watch TV while we eat. The MacGregors’ TV’s in another room, and it isn’t even on.
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrates twice inside my pocket. When I reach in to take it out, Shane grabs my wrist. “We have a ‘no cell phones at the table’ rule.”
“Sorry, but my dad will worry if I don’t answer. I’ve been gone all day.”
Mrs. MacGregor pats my other hand. “Go ahead, dear. We don’t want him to worry.”
I check the text and it is from my dad. I assure him I’m safe and eating dinner with the MacGregors. He texts me back and warns me to be careful. I answer him that I’m not afraid. I’m ready. I’ll be careful. And I will be careful. I’ll take very careful aim when I shoot the killer in the face with pepper spray right before I beat the crap out of him. I leave that part out, though, and put my phone away.
Mrs. MacGregor asks me, “Was your mother expecting you home for dinner, Harper?”
“No, we don’t keep in touch with my mother. She’s been gone a long time.” I imply that my parents are divorced.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I was just a baby when it happened, and I don’t even remember her. My grandmother lives nearby, and she’s the best. We’re very close.”
When dinner’s finally over and we’re all stuffed full of the most delicious Italian food ever, Shane’s father stands up and announces, “Honey, you and Emily cooked, so Shane and I will clean up. Go sit down and relax.”
“NCIS starts in a minute,” Emily announces.
As mother and daughter leave the kitchen together, Emily teases Mrs. MacGregor. “You think Gibbs is sexy, don’t you, Mom? Admit it. You’re obsessed with him. C’mon. You’ll feel better once the truth’s out.”
“Sh. That’s supposed to be our secret. I don’t want your father to get jealous.” She gives her daughter’s ponytail a playful yank.
“Ouch! Child abuse!” Emily yells.
They both start laughing, quiet
homey laughter that dies down as they become engrossed in the TV show.
Shane and I start to carry the dishes from the table to the dishwasher, where his dad’s loading them in. Turning away from his task, Mr. MacGregor looks straight into my eyes as I hand him a dirty serving bowl. “I know who you are, Harper Flagg, and I don’t want you near my family. This will be the last time you’ll ever be invited into our home.”
His hostility feels like a slap on the face, and tears spring to my eyes—again. What is wrong with me tonight?
I turn my burning face away and swipe at the tears dribbling down my cheeks. I barely manage to choke out the word “Sorry.” Right before I turn and sprint for the door.
On my way past their family room, I yell over the sound of gunfire blasting out of the TV, “Good night, Mrs. MacGregor. Thanks for the wonderful dinner.” My voice sounds wobbly, but I don’t care.
Within a few seconds, I’m in my car pulling away from the curb. A glance into the rearview mirror confirms that Shane’s running after me. So I speed up, and my tires squeal against the asphalt. One more reason for Shane’s family to hate me: I drive like a psycho.
I must’ve really been flying, because when I get home and turn on the TV, the first commercial break is just ending on NCIS. It’s an episode I haven’t seen before, but I didn’t miss much. I try to get comfortable and calm down, but it doesn’t work. No matter how many car chases and how much shooting there is on the screen, I can’t shake off the restlessness. I need to be the one driving fast and shooting at bad guys. One Bad Guy in particular.
Sitting still is torture, so I decide to go for a drive and look for my mother’s killer. Maybe if I park on the darkest stretch of Route 138, where he approached Shane, he’ll come by after he’s finished with his latest victim. I hope he cruises up and stops to take his chances with me. Unlike Nora Hazel, I’ll be ready. I adjust the canister tucked into the waistband of my jeans and click off the TV. My cell phone rings for the tenth time since I left the MacGregors’ house. I pull it out and reject Shane’s tenth call. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to see anyone. Except the killer. Until I can close this episode of my life, I can’t really have a life. Shane’s dad made that clear for me tonight. I’m a freak. I shouldn’t be allowed near normal families. The MacGregors have the right idea. Put it all behind you. Block it out. Start again. I need to get this over with and then work hard to avoid anything that reminds me of the horrible way my mother died. But before I can open the door that leads to the garage, a thunderous pounding shakes the front door. I run over, tap in the alarm code, and with one hand yank it open. With my other hand I whip out the pepper spray and take aim. Right between Shane’s eyes.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 8
