The Secrets of Lily Graves

by Strohmeyer, Sarah

  “You seriously believe Matt’s a suspect,” I said, “don’t you?”

  Zabriskie adjusted his frames. “And you have some objection?”

  “You’re after the wrong guy. Matt didn’t kill anyone and neither did I. All I did was tutor him so he could pass a makeup test and play football. All Matt did was stick with Erin because he was concerned about her mental state. That doesn’t exactly sound like a killer to me.”

  “Uh huh.” Zabriskie was unmoved. “By the way, why did Mr. Houser ask you to tutor him when his girlfriend got an A in that class too?”

  “His parents thought Erin might be too much of a distraction.”

  Zabriskie sucked his teeth. “And this is what his parents said to you directly.”

  “No. I’ve never even met the Housers.”

  “So you don’t know if they were aware that their son was being tutored to take a makeup exam in history.”

  This reminded me of how I felt at camp when we played a game where the name of a famous person was taped to my back and I was supposed to guess who it was based on a series of questions. Except I couldn’t figure out who I was (Marie Curie) and people started laughing.

  “Well, they had to have known,” I said dully, “because Matt’s father is the assistant football coach and he wouldn’t have let Matt play if he hadn’t passed history.”

  The cops exchanged knowing glances. “What if I told you, Miss Graves,” Zabriskie continued with a touch of glee, “that there wasn’t a chance that Matt Houser would have been benched this season?”

  Goosebumps rose on my arms. “Why?”

  “Because he finished the class with a B.”

  That didn’t make sense. “He didn’t get a B. He failed.”

  Zabriskie reached into the folder and removed a piece of white paper with the instantly recognizable Potsdam High Panthers logo on top and, below, Matt’s grades for junior year. The line for US History was highlighted in bright yellow, ending in a big, bold B.

  The floor wobbled. I gripped the table edge to remain steady.

  “I don’t get it,” I whispered, searching for a logical explanation. All those summer evenings, all that reading. Him out the door at eight sharp as if he couldn’t stand one more minute. “He paid,” I said. “Twenty dollars a session.”

  Zabriskie let out a loud, low whistle. “Wow. He must really like history to lay down two hundred bucks for no reason. Unless . . .” He paused, stroking his chin. “. . . the money was a down payment for something else. Some service you promised to provide in the near future, a way for you to apply your expertise in anatomy.”

  I was stunned. Had Zabriskie just implied I was an accomplice to murder?

  “That’s it,” Mom declared, leaping out of her chair so fast it fell backward and hit the floor. “We are done. I am sick of watching you harass and intimidate my daughter, who, by the way, was only trying to do the right thing. Come on, Lily. Bob is going to hear about this.”

  She reached over to grab my hand, when something else caught my attention. Zabriskie was dangling a ziplock bag, inside of which was the treasured Persephone necklace I’d lost last summer. Just that morning I’d been searching my dresser and under my bed looking for it, on the off chance it wasn’t at the bottom of the quarry.

  “That’s Lily’s,” Mom said. “Where’d you get it?”

  Zabriskie rose from his chair. He towered over both of us. “I’m afraid to say, ma’am, that our search team came across it on Sunday. They found it snagged on a branch in the woods on the day after Erin was murdered, not twenty feet behind her house.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  NINE

  The day I lost the Persephone necklace was the day Matt and I went swimming, the day he told me his secret.

  We were in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave so punishing a local TV reporter cracked a raw egg on the sidewalk and filmed it frying. The sticky temperatures and lazy air were definitely not conducive to studying, especially since Matt and I could no longer go to the air-conditioned public library, not with Erin watching our every move.

  Matt complained it was too humid in the usually cool cemetery to concentrate on World War I. The headstones were hotter than fireplace bricks, offering no relief from the blistering ninety-plus temperatures, and the cicadas buzzing in the woods created the aura of a Southern gothic graveyard. Some Spanish moss hanging from the trees, a glass of sweet tea, and a few drawling vampires, and we could have been on the set of True Blood.

  I slapped a mosquito and fanned myself with a notebook. “What were the ‘overt acts’ that convinced Woodrow Wilson to go to war?”

  Matt lay in the shadow of a rose granite tombstone, his shirt half off and his hand resting on his tanned, bare flat abs. A line of faint hairs ran tantalizingly from his belly button to the mysterious world under his shorts.

  “Something to do with subs?” he guessed.

  “Close.”

  He rolled over onto his stomach. “Subs reminds me of water and water reminds me of swimming. I can’t work in this heat, Graves. Let’s quit this and go somewhere cool.”

  Couple of problems with that. For one thing, with the exam only a week away, we’d added an entire afternoon to our schedule so we could get past World War II by the end of the day. We couldn’t knock off now, with the United Nations, the Great Depression, and Pearl Harbor untouched.

  “But the makeup is next week,” I said. “And we’ve barely touched the twentieth century.”

  “Who cares? I’ve crammed enough history to pass.”

  In light of how much money he’d forked over, his nonchalance had surprised me.

  “What if Erin sees us?” I said.

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s probably lounging around her own pool with Kate and the rest of them.”

  I wasn’t willing to risk a chance encounter, so I made another suggestion. “Sara and I have a secret spot at Miller’s Creek where hardly anyone goes. We can study there.”

  Our hideaway was a pretty glen of soft green grass surrounded by honeysuckle bushes. With a beach bag of towels, a couple of Diet Cokes, and the latest issues of Us magazine, we had spent entire afternoons there reading, laughing, and wading into the babbling brook when we needed to cool off.

  Matt balked. “That thing’s probably a mud hole these days.”

  Possibly. That left only one alternative, besides the disgusting public pool: the quarry.

  My mother had designated the quarry as strictly off-limits due to its unpredictable danger. Last summer, she’d been assigned the unpleasant duty of transporting a body, submerged for days, that the search-and-rescue divers had found. He was in his twenties, still wearing his gold chain, with a tattoo of an angel that, along with the rest of his skin, disintegrated upon touch. Boo said that his body felt as slippery as leftover soap in the shower.

  He wasn’t the only one. Over the years, more than a dozen people had drowned in Harper’s Quarry, either hitting their heads on rocks or suffering the misfortune of catching their feet in the crannies that riddled its perimeter. Most of them had been drunk. Or stoned. Often both. Stupidity was a common risk factor. As was darkness.

  There were lots of myths about Harper’s, like that it had no bottom and that the water reached the Earth’s core, where it turned boiling hot. There were pieces of rusting construction equipment (true) and monsters (not so much) in the quarry. It was rumored that swimmers had felt their ankles tugged by invisible creatures below and that the trick was not to resist, because if you fought too hard, you’d use up all your oxygen and die. The best approach was to try to extricate yourself slowly and, most of all, not panic.

  Matt eyed me cautiously. “You really want to go to the quarry?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. Why not? If you know where to dive, it’s okay. My aunt Boo took me once and pointed out the safe areas.”


  I did not elaborate that she did this after we got the so-called “sinker” with the soap body, or that in so doing she’d faced one of my mother’s extra special rants. In Aunt Boo’s opinion, it was better to know how to avoid danger than to avoid dangerous places. Those were two distinct concepts people foolishly confused.

  He rolled over and blinked at the sky. “I wish there was somewhere else. Erin has such a sweet setup.”

  Of course she did. Everything Erin had was prettier, smarter, newer, and better. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a chichi inground pool. But if you don’t want to go to the quarry, that’s okay. I’ll go alone.” I stood and gathered my stuff.

  “You can’t go alone,” he said, sitting up. “It’s in the middle of nowhere. What if you hurt yourself? Or . . . whatever.”

  “Then it’ll be on your conscience because you were too chicken to go.”

  A half hour later, Matt’s truck was kicking up dust as we exited onto a dirt road that ran through a field of weeds, conquering a swath of industrialized destruction. We bounced over ruts and ditches, past discarded white fuel tanks and rusted barrels, to the broken chain-link fence. Matt boldly parked in front of a WARNING! TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign that had been shot through with BBs.

  My stomach knotted. Maybe this was a mistake after all.

  “I thought you were cool with this,” Matt said, getting out.

  “I am. Just that . . .” I pointed to the signs.

  “No sweat. Jacks and I have been here a million times and never gotten caught.” He found the break in the fence and held it wide for me to go through.

  I ducked under his arm. “To go swimming?”

  “Um, no. Other stuff.”

  I chose not to think about what he’d been up to, or how the mustard-yellow DANGER! DEEP QUARRY! KEEP OUT! had triggered a burst of jitters in my gut. This had been my idea. Now was not the time to be a wuss.

  We wound our way through the grass. Here and there were charcoal circles of extinguished fires littered with faded beer cans and melted packs of Marlboros. I dared not take off my sandals lest I step on broken glass or, God forbid, used condoms.

  When we got to the edge, I let out a gasp. This was a more precarious drop than I remembered from coming here with Boo, and I wondered if she’d taken me to a different jumping-off point, since this had to be at least twenty feet straight down. The dark water below was surrounded by steep cliffs and jagged rocks striated with gashes left over from mining. Also, the slate surface was fragile. A scrape of your toe could cause it to crumble to bits.

  “Piece of cake.” Matt swallowed. A bead of perspiration dribbled from his temple past his jaw.

  “Don’t be a weenie,” I bluffed, stepping out of my tan skirt and sandals. After removing my skull ring, pentagram necklace, and other jewelry, dropping them onto my skirt lying in the grass, I was practically naked aside from a black tank and underwear—bikini-style Dora the Explorer panties I’d bought for the irony. Sara had given me a raft of grief that morning when I was getting dressed after spending the night at her house.

  “I’m not sure that’s an area of the body Dora should be exploring,” she’d said, laughing.

  “At least it’s not days of the week,” I countered weakly, since Sara knew I had a set of those, too.

  Matt didn’t seem to notice, however. He just put his hands on his hips and boldly nodded in approval. “Yes, it’s all going according to plan.”

  “Shut up. You’re next.”

  He ripped off his shirt to reveal a pair of striped boxers peeking over the edge of his khaki shorts. I was surprised that his shoulders were so smooth, almost as if they’d been oiled.

  “Do I pass?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.

  My stomach flipped. “In a pinch,” I said breezily. “So, who goes first?”

  He reached in his pocket, threw his wallet on the ground—“Glad I remembered that!”—and found a quarter. He tossed it up and smacked it onto the back of his hand. “Heads or tails?”

  “Heads.”

  George Washington sparkled in the sun. Great.

  No going back now, I thought, inching to the edge. The dark water below was like glass. I turned to Matt.

  He looked uneasy. “Don’t mess up, Graves. I’ve got plans tonight and they don’t include searching the depths of this pit for your sorry ass.”

  Matt gave me two thumbs up and I retreated a few paces before running outward off the edge, my adrenaline soaring.

  The few short seconds it took for my feet to feel the air beneath them, to see the water rising up and then swallowing me into its shockingly frigid depths were, without question, the most exhilarating of my life. Everything around me came into sharp focus—the cliffs on the other edge, a seagull flying far from home, the click of the cicadas, the smell of the rocks baking in the sun, the dropping temperature as I fell.

  I hit the water and went down, farther than I’d expected. There was paralyzing shock as my system protested the frigid water. The quarry didn’t have the benefit of light, like you get in a blue swimming pool or a sandy pond. It was as black as night down there and so cold that my calves cramped.

  I remembered Boo’s obvious advice: Look up. I looked up, and there, far above me, was a small ring of white gold. The sun. No wonder people drowned at night. You couldn’t figure out where to go.

  Pointing my fingers to the sky, I kicked with all my might until I broke through the surface, relieved, invigorated, and tingling with the thrill of accomplishment.

  “Jump!” I shouted, gasping. “It’s amazing!”

  Matt peered down tentatively. I found his caution very strange, since he’d built a reputation as fearless on and off the football field. He’d once climbed to the roof of the school to put a pig there because none of the seniors dared, even though it was their prank. The dude even drove down the highway with his knees!

  “Seriously. It’s fine,” I assured him. “It’s cold when you hit the water, but if feels so good.” To show him, I floated on my back.

  He didn’t move.

  “Are you really not coming in? You’re just going to leave me here alone. What if something pulls me under and . . .”

  He took a running leap and was off, clutching his legs to his chest. He’ll sink too far if he does a cannonball, I thought as his body met the water with a terrific splash. I bobbed in his waves and treaded madly, waiting for him to emerge, and when he didn’t it was my turn to be alarmed.

  “Matt!” I called. “Matt!”

  I dove into the darkness, my eyes taking a second to adjust. I was a good swimmer, thanks to my mother’s insistence that I take classes before I could walk. I was only ten when I learned CPR and got my American Red Cross certificate. But in the depths of Harper’s Quarry, the visibility was zero.

  I surfaced and paddled around valiantly searching for any sign of life.

  Finally, there was an eruption of bubbles as Matt surfaced, his arms smacking the water. “Goddammit, Graves,” he swore, shaking his head. “I told you I didn’t want to effing do this and you made me.”

  I’d never seen him so furious. I was almost frightened. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t make you come in.”

  “You did and you know it.” He aimed for the rocks and began swimming freestyle, his arms fighting the water with too much effort.

  I was about to say “Sorry,” when I caught myself. He was a big boy. If he didn’t want to jump in, he didn’t have to. It wasn’t my fault that he’d freaked down there.

  He hoisted himself onto a large rock, holding his nose. Blood cascaded down his chin.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, getting out and discovering, too late, that the rocks were like fire. I had to splash water on them to be able to sit. “Because you’re acting like a total ass, you know.”

  He said nothing as he wiped the blood off his lips and kept his eyes averted. Embarrassed, I realized. That was why he’d gotten so angry, because he’d been ashamed about losi
ng his cool.

  We sat silently, the sun warming and drying our skins. Matt’s nosebleed stopped and he seemed to calm somewhat as he reclined against an indentation in the cliff.

  “My bad,” he said after a while. “I don’t know what happened there.”

  I lay next to him. With a piece of slate driving into my spine, it wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I didn’t want to complain. “I’ve never seen you so pissed over nothing.”

  He sat up and looked away. “Remember when I told you about James, my twin brother?”

  Oh, crap. “Don’t tell me he drowned.”

  “Thanks to me.”

  “And that’s why you don’t like to swim.” I sighed at my incredible insensitivity. “What happened?”

  Matt plucked a weed that grew through the rocks. “We were at our cabin on Lake Wallenpaupack, an awesome place right on the water with a dock and rocks to dive off and those black inner tubes James and I loved playing in.”

  I watched his face, how his brow furrowed as he told the story. One Sunday morning, they’d awakened way early, as little kids do. It was mid-July and already it was hot. James wanted to go swimming, but Matt told him they couldn’t go without their parents.

  “But he went anyway,” I guessed.

  Matt nodded. “I tried to wake up Mom and Dad. I banged on their door. They had it locked and the window air-conditioning was on full blast. When I gave up to go get James, he was clinging to a tube and drifting away from shore. I wanted to save him, but I couldn’t float and . . . neither could he.”

  “Oh God!” I had an image of Matt as a skinny shrimp, standing on the dock and calling frantically for his brother. I wanted to reach out and tell him it would be okay. I wanted turn back the clock and shake his parents awake. I wanted to jump in that water and rescue James myself.

  “I saw him go down,” Matt said, his eyes tearing. “One minute, he was holding on to the tube, kicking, and then the wake from a passing boat flipped him and he was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Gone.”

  I covered Matt’s hand with mine. There was nothing to say, so we just stayed like that, him pretending not to cry, me pretending not to notice.