“That seems pretty weird to me.”
“Like I said. She wasn’t perfect. It used to annoy me. But we only fought about it when she started in on you.”
“On me?”
“Yup. It pissed me off. She was always worried you’d get sick. If it was even one degree below seventy outside, she’d make you wear a jacket. You’d struggle to pull it off. If you couldn’t get it off, you’d start screaming at the top of your lungs. If you succeeded in getting it off, you’d fling your little jacket down on the ground. She’d pick it up and put it back on you. Your chubby little face would get all red, and you’d start trying to get your arms out of the sleeves again. Even when you were only a baby, you had a mind of your own. You were a stubborn little thing.”
I laugh at my two-year-old self.
Dad laughs with me, through his tears. “Her overprotectiveness used to make me angry because I didn’t want you to grow up to be fearful. I didn’t want you to think of yourself as sickly when you were healthy and strong. It was the only thing we ever argued about. Except maybe the dog.”
“What dog? We had a dog?”
“No. I wanted a dog, but she didn’t like them. She worried about allergies or that the dog might bite her.”
“After she . . .” I can’t bring myself to say after she died. “Why didn’t we ever get a dog?”
“It seemed wrong.”
“I like dogs, too. We should get one.”
He smiles. And I notice his face is dry now. I think about what a different person I’d be if my mother were still alive. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be driving around in a Camaro at ninety miles an hour. Or going to the practice range. Firing a pistol. Trying to put a hole in the paper target’s head and succeeding multiple times.
I’d probably have a brother or a sister. Maybe more than one. My siblings and I would wear jackets all year, even in the summer. Then as soon as we were out of my mother’s sight, we’d take them off.
Dad breaks the silence.
“In the very beginning, I was a suspect.”
“You never told me that.”
“C’mon, Harper. Murder 101. Suspect number one. Look at the husband.”
“I know, but still, why would the police suspect you? You loved her.”
“Yes, but the husband’s always the first suspect. And she was the killer’s first victim. No one knew he’d keep on murdering women. Fortunately I had a good alibi and lots of witnesses.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“Helping your grandma move into her new house. She’d been living in an apartment for a year, and she was tired of paying rent. So she bought a house close by, the one she still lives in. I was lugging around boxes, and Grams and your mom were unpacking them and putting stuff away. After a while, a bunch of women from the neighborhood came over with food, you know, to welcome Grams.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Your Grandma is still good friends with all of them. They’re nice ladies. I think some of them are on her bowling team. Anyway, it was getting late and all the stores would be closed soon, so your mom decided to run out and get a few essentials, like paper towels and stuff, for Grams’s new house. I stayed behind to do the heavy lifting.”
“And mom took me with her.”
“She always took you with her. My girls were inseparable.”
“Until he separated us. Permanently.”
“Harper, I was sipping tea and eating chocolate cake with a bunch of old ladies. And you were all the way across town, strapped into your car seat, helplessly watching while that monster stole the woman we both loved. Sixteen years ago. And he’s still out there.”
I’ve known about the killer eight times longer than I ever knew my mother. And I loathe him for it.
“We’ll get him, Dad. I can feel it.” What I really feel is chilled to the marrow, because I keep thinking about what it would be like to be held prisoner by the last man to ever touch my mother when she was alive. I think I’d rather die than be kept hidden away by him in that dark, godforsaken place where I know he must be waiting while his wounds heal. The wounds I inflicted. We need to find him. Fast.
“Today, as I was speeding over to the high school, the possibility of losing you struck me like lightning. Stopped my heart. It jolted hard against my ribs, just once, and then quit beating. When it sparked up again I thought to myself, The person I love most in this world is still alive. And then I accelerated. The Harley’s tires left the asphalt. I wasn’t hydroplaning. I was aero-planing. I flew over to the high-school track.”
“Good thing you were wearing your helmet.”
He grins. “It’s the law.”
“So’s the speed limit.”
“I was a police officer, responding to an emergency.”
“A personal emergency.”
“That’s the most important kind.”
He wraps one big, strong arm around my shoulders and crushes me close against his side. After he kisses the top of my head, he releases me and gives his eyes a quick rub. Then he stands up, extends one hand, and pulls me up.
“Let’s go. Your boyfriend’s probably worried about you.” He smirks.
I throw a punch at his arm. He swivels away in time. “That bicep’s made of granite. I just saved you from breaking your hand.”
He’s probably right.
That night, as soon as I climb into bed, I open my mother’s copy of To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time. Inside the front cover, she wrote her name in very precise and artistic-looking handwriting: Rosemary Ellis. Next to it, in a less faded shade of ink, obviously added later, she wrote the name Flagg. From the moment I begin reading, on page one, I can’t put it down. Because I read it for the first time two years ago, I’ve forgotten some of the story. So I need to move through the plot fast to find out what happens next. Plus, I’m reading it with different eyes this time. Eyes that search for my mother on every page.
Chapter 20
Harper
Waiting
Two weeks have passed uneventfully, and the killer has managed to stay hidden. We keep going over and over the details of his most recent attacks. Forensic teams from the state police and FBI have inspected every centimeter of the two crime scenes, but no one has discovered anything new. Even though I hurt him, there were no fingerprints or blood found at the scene, so there’s no DNA evidence. DNA would only help us if he’s been caught before anyway; otherwise its only purpose would be to identify him when he’s captured. Same with fingerprints. So we’re at a standstill. He’s still hiding. We’re still waiting. No one knows anything we didn’t already know before.
Shane and I haven’t talked about what happened between us in the guestroom that night, but whenever he looks at me, there’s a question in his eyes. And I can’t answer it. Not now, anyway. When we made out he was pretty heavily medicated. Earlier that day we had both been the victims of violent attacks, and adrenaline can affect your emotions. Maybe we experienced our own twisted version of a drunken hook up. Why did we end up making out like crazy? Could it have been the painkillers? Or the after effects of the fight-or-flight response? Is it possible we’re genuinely attracted to each other? Do we care about each other in that way? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. And I don’t feel ready to ask Shane if he does. Not yet.
Today’s a beautiful, warm Saturday. The sun has turned the air golden and sweet, like vaporized honey. You can smell it and taste it with every breath. The birds are singing. The bees are buzzing. The scent of fresh-cut grass and full-blossomed lilacs has lulled me and everyone else on the track team into slow motion. Through the whole practice we’ve all been loping along at half speed, wearing stupefied grins, and the coach hasn’t even yelled at us. He has the same loopy smile pasted onto his own face. Finally our so-called practice ends, and I head out.
On the way home, I roll the windows down and keep to the speed limit for a change, so the delicious air can drift all over me. When I get home, Shane
’s in the driveway, throwing a tennis ball against the garage door. He’s been going to physical therapy for his arm, and they do a lot with tennis balls.
I shift into park and yell, “Hey, you’re supposed to use a racket for that.”
He smiles, jogs over, and leans his forearms on the window frame. “Wanna go for a ride with me? I have to pick up a few things at my house.”
He’s so close I can smell him, and I fight the urge to lower my face toward his bare arm and take in a big close-up breath of sun-warmed Shane skin. Instead, I settle for leaning over a just little closer. “Mmmm. You smell good. But I don’t. I need to take a shower before I go anywhere.”
He shoves his nose down near my armpit, snorts, and laughs. “You just passed the sniff test, Harps. You’re good to go. C’mon. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise. And you’ll only get all sweaty again, so you should take a shower after, not before.”
I’m curious to see what kind of a surprise gets you all sweaty, so I hoist my butt onto the passenger seat of the Camaro, swing my legs over, and snap on the seatbelt. He loves to drive my car, and I’m in the mood to sit back and be a passenger for a change. I kick off my sneakers, pull off my socks, and hang my bare feet out the window. Shane moves the driver’s seat back about ten feet so he can climb behind the wheel and grins over at me. I smile lazily back at him. He’s up to something, but I’m onboard, whatever it is.
“My arm’s healing quickly. The doctor says it’s okay to shoot some hoops as long as I don’t get involved in a competitive game with guys my own size.”
“You could go over to the outdoor courts at the park. It’s a beautiful day.” I close my eyes and admire how the sunshine is turning the undersides of my eyelids orange.
“Nah. The guys who hang out there play full on. I can’t do that yet.”
“There’s a hoop down the end of that dead end street.” I open one eye and point out the window as we pass by it.
“Maybe.” There’s that smile again. All big white teeth and mischief. “Anyway, I need to go over to my house and get my favorite basketball and some other sports gear. I want some more clothes, too: some shorts and warm-weather stuff.”
Even though this errand of his doesn’t seem very exciting so far, I’m happy to be hanging out with Shane. Maybe his surprise will be something fun. I’ve been bored out of my mind lately, and anything’s better than moping around the house. When I’m not at school, Dad insists I stay close to home, even though there’s no way the killer will be out and about yet. Based on how hard and how high I can kick, the experts don’t think he’ll be back in action for at least another week or so.
This means Shane and I have a limited amount of freedom for a limited amount of time as long as we stick together. If either one of us leaves the house alone, it has to be for a well-populated destination, and we have to check in by phone when we get there and periodically throughout the day. My pepper spray’s always in the glove box, and Shane’s is always in his, just in case the killer’s an incredibly fast healer. I wish. Getting to take him down today would be a nice surprise.
When we get to Shane’s house, I put my sneakers back on so we can race each other up the front walkway. He’s winning, so I grab onto his shirt from behind, to slow him down.
He yells, “Hey, no fair!”
I let go and wait downstairs while he makes a couple of trips up to his room to get some boxes of stuff. Then I help him haul them out to the car and throw them into the trunk. Finally, he slams it shut and turns to me.
“One more thing, Harps.”
“What?”
“I gotta go find my favorite basketball.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
“No, you have to come with me.”
“Where?”
“I think it’s in the shed out back. C’mon. There’s something I want to show you.”
We walk out to his backyard and my jaw drops. There’s a good-size basketball court in their backyard, with a regulation-height hoop at each end.
“Wow!” I’m stunned. It’s kind of like if I had a firing range out in back of my house. Only a basketball court is legal, quieter, shows more consideration for the neighbors, and requires less space.
Shane unlocks the padlock on the shed door, opens it up, and sure enough, his favorite ball’s in there. After pumping it up a little with his hand pump, he jogs back to the court, and I follow. His happy energy’s contagious, and I tip my face toward the sun and grin, thankful we’re safe and together, for now. Shane pounds the ball into the blacktop with one hand, then pivots and fires it up two handed, straight through one of the hoops. No net. Just air. I’m impressed.
He turns and grins at me. “Remember how we promised each other you’d teach me how to shoot a gun and I’d teach you how to shoot a basketball?”
“Yes.”
“I’m ready to pay up. Today. Right now.”
“Are you sure? What about your arm?”
“The doctor said I could start practicing again if I was careful. No contact, though. No rough stuff. So go easy on me.” His face lights up, and he smiles at me for about the thousandth time this afternoon.
“Okay. I’ll be careful.”
He flashes his crazy grin again. He’s definitely up to something, and I don’t trust him. Whatever he dishes out, though, I can take it.
“What do I do?”
“Stand right here.” Shane positions me with my toes behind the foul line. Then he stands behind me and lowers the basketball over my head into my waiting hands. “Okay, now, hold the ball with your fingers splayed and your elbows in. Stand with your feet apart, and square your hips to the hoop. Yeah, like that. Put your right hand under the ball and steady it from underneath with your left. The fingers of your right hand need to be kind of along the lines.” He turns the ball so they are. “Keep the ball on your fingers, not in your palm.” I follow his directions like a pro. “Now squat down a little, and put your legs into it when you spring up, and release the ball. As you let it go, your right hand should be pointed straight at the square on the backboard, right behind the rim.”
I try it, and the ball spins out of my hands, arcs up toward the sky, high and perfect before it sinks in. Never in my life have I felt more exhilarated. A yelp of happiness jumps out of my throat, and I leap into Shane’s open arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. Then I remember his injury and unwrap myself.
“Sorry. I forgot about your stitches.”
“It’s okay. You can jump into my arms anytime you want, Harper. No more stitches. They came out last week. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“You heal fast.”
“The doctor said I’m young, strong, and incredibly healthy.”
He looks it, too, standing just inches away, smiling down at me with his fair skin and brilliant hair glowing in the warm sunshine. Suddenly, I want more than anything to be back in his arms, but this would be a bad time to start something complicated like a relationship. There’s a killer on the loose, and he’s tried to harm us both. Soon he’ll be active again, and I need to focus on the hunt. So I turn my back on Shane, run toward the ball, and scoop it up.
“What about dribbling?” I ask.
“First I want to teach you to bounce the ball, pivot, and then pass. Those are good moves to know and easier than dribbling. Dribbling’s tough. You need to be really coordinated. It takes experience and skill to dribble all the way down the court with the ball and execute a layup. I don’t think you’re ready. You might get all frustrated and in a bad mood.”
“C’mon I’m in a great mood, and I’m wicked coordinated. I promise I’ll catch on quick. Teach me to dribble.”
He laughs. “Okay. You asked for it. Rule number one. Don’t look at the ball. Aim your eyes where you’re going. And pay attention to your peripheral vision, too. The opposing players will come at you from the sides and from behind, so you’ll have to be super aware and move fast.”<
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“Okay.” I crouch down with the ball gripped in both of my hands and look straight at Shane.
“That’s good. Stay low. Now push the ball down against the blacktop, with your fingertips, no palm. Never slap it.”
I try a couple of bounces. “I got this.”
“See if you can run while you’re doing it.”
I head toward the opposite basket, pause, shoot, sink it, grab the ball on the bounce, and dribble back toward Shane.
“Try doing it faster.”
I do. No problem. “What’s next?”
“Switch hands. Dribble with your left. Pivot. Change directions.” Shane watches me, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. I follow each of his directions quickly and well.
“Okay, see if you can get it past me.” He hunches down and scuttles toward me like a gorilla, waving his big hands every which way. I stop to laugh at him, and he steals the ball, pivots, hip checks me, and runs away. I launch myself at him, full speed. Too fast. We collide near the edge of the court and roll onto the grass together.
“My arm!” He yells. “Foul!”
I sit up and start apologizing like crazy. He reaches past me, grabs the ball, and leaps back onto the pavement. Immediately, he sinks one and yells, “Three pointer!”
I charge onto the court, grab the ball, and dribble toward the opposite basket like a crazed orangutan. Shane’s laughing so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t pee himself. I go in for a layup and miss, which makes me even madder.
“Hey, Charles Barkley, I get two free shots!”
I’m fuming but throw him the ball. Fair is fair. I did knock him over. Although, it seemed like he might’ve taken a dive on purpose.
Sitting down on the grass, I watch my opponent sink both shots. Show off. Nothing worse. Plus, he was giggling like an idiot the whole time he was shooting.
“I think I’m up by one. What are you going to do about it, Harps?”
“Kick your ass.” I walk over, pick up the ball, stroll toward the basket, take a shot, and sink it. “Nothing but air.”
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 15
