by Dan Rix
“Clearly,” she said.
“She wasn’t breathing,” I said. “She didn’t have a pulse. For like forty minutes, she didn’t have a pulse. If you don’t have a pulse for forty minutes, that means you’re dead.”
“Did you check her pulse?” said Megan. “I checked her pulse. Maybe she had a weak pulse and I couldn’t feel it. I’m not a doctor.”
“This is so screwed up,” I muttered.
“How come it’s Ashley that shows up while we’re wearing dark matter?”
Dark matter. I’d almost forgotten.
We’d been talking to it when Emory called. The reminder left a chill.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe our brains are filling that in too.”
“Maybe it’s because the girl who looks like Ashley and sleepwalks like Ashley and jumps out in front of our car the same night Ashley goes missing, is in fact Ashley.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Why don’t I just ask her when I have dinner with her tomorrow.”
Ding-dong.
The sound of the doorbell tied my stomach in a knot. Inside Emory’s house, footsteps pounded into the foyer, and a blonde blur streaked past the side windows, pausing just long enough to peek out onto the porch. The door unlatched and swung inward, revealing Ashley Lacroix.
My stomach dropped out from underneath me.
She was identical to the girl I’d seen in my bedroom and at Tina’s party, identical down to every perfect freckle on her sun-kissed face. Details I couldn’t have possibly known.
How?
“Hi . . .” she said awkwardly, shuffling her feet. She lowered her eyes shyly and shouted toward the kitchen. “Emory! Your friend’s here.” Then to me, playing with her hair. “You can come in if you want.”
She didn’t hate me.
She didn’t know me.
I studied the side of her face, and a memory jolted into focus, stinging me like an electric shock—blood trickling down that face, her neck Megan had checked for a pulse, those blue eyes staring lifelessly as we piled her into my trunk.
It was her. It had to be her.
She caught me staring at her and blushed a little. “Emory,” she whined, as if she didn’t want to be alone with me.
I paid attention to everything.
Emory emerged from the kitchen, expertly kneading some kind of dough between his palms, his ruddy cheeks glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. The smell of something delicious wafted out from behind him. He flashed a crooked smile, and a strange ache formed in my heart, making me feel heavy and light at the same time. I’d never seen him like this before . . . happy.
Oh God, he was gorgeous.
“Leona, get in here. You’re on parmesan duty.” When I appeared confused, he waved me into the kitchen. “Ash, you going to help us cook or not?”
“Uh . . . I’m good,” she said, eying me warily before she shirked away, leaving me to follow Emory into the kitchen with an uncomfortable knot in my throat.
I shouldn’t be here.
Something very weird was going on.
At the range, Emory manned several boiling pots, each exuding a different heavenly smell.
“Give her some time,” he said, tossing the dough onto a baking sheet so he could taste test a spoonful of sauce. “She just got back. She’ll warm up to you.”
“You look really happy,” I said.
“Catch,” he said, tossing me a huge wedge of cheese, which bounced off my fingers and thudded on the ground, picking up a few stray dog hairs. Embarrassed, I picked them out hurriedly. He watched me, amused, and pointed to a cheese grater and a bowl on the center island. “Give me half a cup.”
“So am I your assistant?” I said, smiling despite myself.
“Quit wasting time, Leona. I needed that cheese ten minutes ago. Chop chop.” He grabbed the ball of dough and began tossing it and catching it, his hands shaping it smoothly, stretching it into a disc.
“Are we making a pizza?” I said.
“Shh. Don’t ask questions,” he said, laying the circular dough on a baking sheet.
I peeked into the nearest pan and saw what looked an awful lot like pizza sauce. “Yep. We’re making a pizza.”
He faced me and planted his fists on the island, eyes impatient. “Okay, Sherlock Holmes, you figured it out. Now how about some cheese? Unless you just want crust and tomato sauce?”
“Someone’s touchy.” I tried to stare him down, but his stern face made me crack up. Suppressing a smirk, I grabbed the grater and started grating, taken by the sudden urge to giggle.
Satisfied that I was being a good assistant, he went back to tending the pizza sauce. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, the way his strong triceps tensed against his long sleeves as he balanced a dainty spoon in front of his lips to blow on it. The contrast was almost comical.
My hand got tired fast, so I switched to my left hand and kept grating. “I can’t believe you cook,” I said. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would cook.”
“Come here,” he said, touching the spoon to his lips. “Tell me what this needs.”
“I’m not done with the cheese,” I said.
He glanced back and dropped the spoon. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He rushed over and snatched the parmesan out of my hands and pried the grater from my grip. Grated cheese overflowed onto the granite counter. “I said half a cup, not the whole block.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“It’s okay. Make up for it. Tell me what this needs.” He led me by the hand over to the range and dipped another spoon into the pizza sauce, which he blew on for a few seconds. He took a taste himself and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the taste. “Hmm . . . open your mouth.”
I parted my lips, feeling strangely excited. I knew there was something else I should be doing right now, a nagging doubt at the back of my mind, but I could barely think. His fault. He held the spoon to my lips, and I licked a little bit off, watching for his reaction. Okay, that was unnecessarily sensual.
He had just spoon-fed me pizza sauce.
Which meant . . . what?
Were we dating or something?
“Well?” he said, peering at me intently. “What does it need?”
I swallowed and realized I’d forgotten to even taste the sauce. I’d been too focused on him. To me it tasted perfect.
“Maybe some parmesan cheese?” I guessed.
He smirked. “The cheese goes on top, Leona, not in the sauce.”
Duh, Leona. I knew that.
He nibbled at the spoon himself, eyes thoughtful. Yep, we just shared saliva. He’d done that on purpose, tasted from the same spoon on purpose. He was playing mind games.
After great deliberation, he announced, “Black pepper,” and reached for a pepper grinder.
I called him out on that shit. “You already knew it needed black pepper . . . you didn’t need me to taste it, did you?” I accused.
“Nope.” He held my gaze. “But then, I didn’t need you to grate parmesan cheese either. But I wanted you to.”
For a moment I got lost in his eyes, and my mind went infuriatingly blank. When he didn’t look away, I felt my cheeks flush.
He nodded to the pan and the baking sheet. “Now you’re going to spread this sauce on that dough. I’ll show you how.”
“Do you ever ask people to do things? Or do you just order people around all the time?
“I was a quarterback,” he said. “Those habits die hard.”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” I said.
“Yes, you do.”
I felt warmth on the back of my neck, but not from his sharp stare. His gaze flicked to something over my shoulder, and he smiled. I
spun around.
Ashley stood in the doorway, her face flat.
“What’s up, Ash?” Emory said brightly. “Want to help us cook?”
“Mom wants to know when dinner is.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’re making your favorite. Four-cheese pizza.”
Her gaze flicked to mine, and she rolled her eyes and slunk back upstairs, leaving my skin crawling.
How long had she been watching us?
“Come on, let’s get this baby done.” Unfazed, Emory set the steaming pan of sauce down on the counter and whacked a spoon into my hand, and together we spooned the pizza sauce onto the dough and sprinkled cheese on top—he’d already grated a bunch of mozzarella, asiago, and fontina cheese to go with my parmesan—and finally he opened the oven and slid the pizza onto the rack.
“Hey, Em.” Emory’s dad bustled into the kitchen and took a satisfied sniff. “What’s on the menu?”
“Pizza, salad, meatballs . . . nothing special.”
“What kind of wine should I pair with it?”
“Since the pizza’s heavy on the parmesan—” Emory threw me a pointed look, “I’d go with something medium-bodied and crisp . . . the Pino Grigio would be perfect.”
“My thoughts exactly.” His dad caught my eye with a conspiratorial look and held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Pour a little for you?”
“Oh, uh—” I brushed my hair out of my eyes, having forgotten I was even in the room with these two charismatic men. “No thanks. I drove here.”
His fingers inched closer together, and his eyebrow nudged upward. “Just a sip?”
“Yeah . . . I probably shouldn’t,” I said, biting my lip.
He pouted, and the expression was so comical on his serious-looking face I laughed.
“Dad, this is Leona.” Emory put his palm on my lower back, unamused. “If you’re going to get her drunk, you should at least know her name.”
“John,” said his dad, taking my hand with a wink. He continued into the dining room and hollered, “I’ll set the table.”
“I was just about to do that,” said Emory’s mom, breezing in from the other door.
“Great minds think alike,” said his dad, and they met in the middle and gave each other a loud smooch.
“Get a room, you two,” Emory shouted, checking on the pizza.
I edged closer to him and whispered, “I’m in love with your family.”
He smiled knowingly. “Just wait until Ashley turns on the charm.”
At the mention of her, I tensed up a little. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“She will,” he said.
Take a good look at them, Leona, said a little voice in my head.
“Hi, Leona. So good to see you again,” his mom said, coming into the kitchen, greeting me like I was an old family friend. She was glowing. “You want something to drink? Wine? Beer? A cocktail? Juice? Milk? Coconut water? Seven-Up?”
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I said, poking Emory’s arm, using it as an excuse to touch him.
“That’ll be a triple shot of gin with an orange peel and a dash of lime,” said Emory.
“Okay, two underage hangovers,” she said. “You guys want a chaser with that?”
“Make that three of those, hun,” his dad shouted from the dining room, clinking silverware.
“I thought you were having the Pino Grigio, sweetums?” she called.
“He wants a man’s drink,” Emory muttered, tying an apron around his hips and pulling on an oven mitt. The sight made me giggle.
“In fact, hold the orange peel and lime,” called his dad. “I’ll have mine straight. Hear that, Emory?”
I was pretty sure they were joking, but not a hundred percent sure.
“Water’s fine,” I said quietly.
She nodded understandingly and, with a very teenager-like eyeroll, mouthed, “Boys.”
Suddenly, I got really sad. Seriously, how was this family so perfect? They were all so witty, and gorgeous, and loving, and welcoming, and happy . . . and I felt so inadequate around them.
I didn’t belong here, I didn’t deserve to be welcomed into this home. Even if Ashley was alive, I still felt guilty in her family’s presence.
Take a good look, Leona.
I stiffened at the voice in my head.
“Why are you showing me this?” I whispered.
Because this is what you stole from them.
My skin chilled. Even in the hot kitchen, I had to rub my shoulders to fend off a shiver.
Emory pulled out the pizza and talked me through slicing it, and then we carried the food to the table and sat down. Though I listened, the voice said nothing else. Slowly, I began to relax again.
Ashley sauntered in and sat down across from me, meeting no one’s eyes. I watched her carefully.
She looked normal enough.
What had really happened to her?
Emory’s hand found mine under the table, and his fingers clasped mine. My heart did a backflip before I realized everyone else around the table had also grabbed hands and had closed their eyes. I followed suit, holding his mom’s hand, feeling even more out of place. I must stick out like a sore thumb. We didn’t say grace in my house, and I had no idea what to do.
No one spoke.
The silence wore on.
Was I supposed to say something? Panicking, I peeked at Emory, but saw his eyes were still closed. So were his mom’s and dad’s.
My gaze flicked to Ashley, and an electric jolt pierced my heart.
Her eyes were wide open.
Staring at me.
I looked down at my plate, face burning under her gaze. While everyone else was reflecting with their eyes closed, she was staring at me. Why was she staring at me? Did she know? Did she know what I’d done to her? An icy cold sank into my skin.
Emory’s dad cleared his throat and spoke in a deep, emotional voice. “We’re so blessed to have our amazing daughter back, to have our family back together . . . We’re just . . . we’re so blessed to have her back . . .”
While he said grace, Ashley never blinked, never looked away.
Just stared at me.
I tried to close my eyes, tried to ignore her, but those stabbing blue eyes lurked in my periphery, lured my eyelids back open. My clammy fingers began to sweat in Emory’s hand, and my breath came fast and frantic. What was I supposed to do? Look at her? Make a face at her? Avoid eye contact?
“Amen,” said his dad.
“Amen,” murmured Emory and his mom.
Emory gave my hand a squeeze and let go, and the others dug in, passing around pizza slices and helpings of salad and meatballs, bantering and making small talk with each other. Feeling sick, I peeked at Ashley again.
She slumped in her seat and looked down at her food as if nothing had ever happened. As if she hadn’t been staring creepily at me for the last minute.
“Ashley, eat something,” said her mom.
“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, squishing a piece of lettuce under her fork.
“But you haven’t eaten anything all day,” she said gently. “You must be starving.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ashley said, her voice dripping with attitude.
“Sweetie, you didn’t eat anything yesterday, either.”
“Mom, it’s okay.” Emory caught his mom’s eye and made a cut-it-out gesture across his neck. “If she’s hungry, she’ll eat.”
His mom nodded, her jaw tight.
Worried the attention would turn to me next, I forced myself to pick at my own pizza. Forks clinked on plates. We ate in tense silence.
Ashley pushed her food around her plate. She had everybody’s attention.
“Won’t you at least have a bite?” said her mom. “Emory and Leona made your favorite—”
“Mom,” Emory warned. “Quit pressuring her.”
“May I be excused?” said Ashley.
Emory’s dad shared a glance with his mom. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped his hands carefully on his napkin. “Sure, Ash. You want us to save you a piece?”
“No.” She stood up and stomped into the other room.
“Yeah, save her a piece,” Emory said to his dad, tossing his own napkin on the table. “I’ll go see what’s up.” He pushed past me and hurried after his sister, leaving me alone with his parents.
“Hun, don’t worry about it,” his dad whispered across the table. “It’s been three months. Give her time. She’s still adjusting.”
“You’re right,” said Emory’s mom, nodding. “I have to remember she’s not our little girl anymore. She ran away from home, and that’s a major thing for a teenager. She’s probably just acting out because we’re too stifling.” She laughed nervously. “God, I’m just so relieved she’s back.”
He grinned and tore into another slice of pizza.
“I think I should probably go,” I said, standing on shaky feet. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You want to take that gin for the road?” said Emory’s dad jovially.
I gave a feeble laugh and teetered toward the front door, in no mood to offer a retort. A terrifying suspicion had planted itself in my brain, and now I couldn’t get rid of it. The way Ashley had stared at me while he said grace . . . like she wasn’t exactly human.
Chapter 7
“I showed Emory her body,” I told Megan when she picked me up before school the next day.
“Not sure what that means,” she said, pulling into the street.
“Ashley’s body. I made myself invisible and I led him to the spot where we dumped her.” I hung my head in my hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
