Lucy realized she was staring. As fear and confusion coursed through her, her mind scrambled for some self-defense tactic, but the rest of her still felt too stunned to cooperate.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again. “I just want to talk.”
He released her so unexpectedly that she nearly fell over. Recovering herself as best she could, Lucy watched as he took three steps back, then he raised his hands into the air where she could see them.
“You ran away,” he stated. His eyes narrowed slightly, yet the piercing stare never wavered, even when Lucy began to back up.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?”
Her heart was racing like a trip-hammer, her thoughts spinning in all directions. He knows about the girl—how could he know? The only way he could possibly know anything is if he was here—if he was the one who—
“You tried to help her, but it was too late. And if you tell anyone—anyone at all—you could die.” His tone was so even, so matter of fact—which somehow made it all the more frightening.
Lucy’s voice rose. “You don’t know anything! You don’t know—”
“And they wouldn’t believe you anyway—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Byron. I want to help you.”
“I don’t know you! And I don’t need your help! Why are you doing this? Why are you saying these things?”
“Because they’re true.”
Slowly he lowered his arms. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and he turned his eyes to the ground, and when he spoke, Lucy could hear the cold contempt in his voice.
“It’s not your fault, you know. You couldn’t have saved her. Nobody could.”
Tears blurred Lucy’s vision. Wheeling around, she was finally able to run.
This is insane! This can’t he happening!
She realized she was crying, crying so hard she couldn’t see, and her chest was hurting, and her lungs were aching from the cold. She slid on wet leaves and sank ankle-deep in mud. Every breath she took was a knife blade between her ribs.
God, why had she ever come here this morning? How could she be so stupid, what could she possibly have been thinking?
And now, on top of everything else, here was some psycho lurking in the graveyard, acting like he knew her, acting like he knew about what had happened here last night—some psycho who must be the murderer, who else could he be?—he saw me and he knows who I am and now it’s a game—cat and mouse—he’s taunting me and now he’s going to kill me, too—
“You’re in danger,” the voice warned.
Lucy screamed. She hadn’t heard him following, hadn’t seen him coming, but now her back was flat against a tree, and he was standing there, just inches away, gazing at her with those dark, dark eyes.
“People know I’m here!” she babbled. “They’ll be looking for me—they’ll be worried if—”
“I told you, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m a friend.”
“Leave me alone! I don’t have any friends!”
“But you need one. Someone you love is gone now … you need one.”
Lucy gaped at him. A wave of nausea rose up from her stomach, lodged in the middle of her throat. I’m going to be sick … Oh God, I’m—
“Sorry about your mother,” he whispered.
As Lucy drew an incredulous breath, all feelings of nausea vanished. She simply stood there with her mouth open, staring at him in utter disbelief.
“Someone told you.” At last her words choked out, tight with fury. “Someone had to tell you! My aunt or—or—my cousin—or someone at school—”
“No one had to tell me. I see it in your eyes.”
She was vaguely aware of a rushing in her head—a churning mixture of shock and rage and despair—and the tears that wouldn’t stop, still pouring down her cheeks. For a moment she couldn’t think, didn’t even realize that she’d moved toward him, or that her hands had clenched into fists or that she’d shoved them hard against his chest.
“You really expect me to believe that?” she cried.
She saw him shake his head. Saw his hands close firmly over her fists, though he made no move to push her away.
“Some things take time to believe in,” he said solemnly. “And right now … we don’t have a lot of time.”
As Lucy stared at him in bewilderment, he eased her hands from the front of his jacket. Then, still holding her wrists, he leaned down toward her, his voice low and urgent.
“Something happened here last night. Something important.”
Yes, she thought desperately, a murder. A coldblooded murder and—
“I think something touched you.”
“You don’t know anything,” Lucy whispered. But “What’d you touch?” Angela had asked … and the dying girl’s hand, squeezing so hard … the pain, the horrible pain, the excruciating pain … and “That’s no bruise,” Angela had said … That’s no bruise …
“I think something was … passed on to you,” Byron murmured.
Lucy’s eyes widened. As she tried to pull free, Byron’s grip tightened, forcing her closer. With one smooth movement, he turned both her hands palms-up and gazed down at the tiny, crescent-shaped scar.
“Let go!”
Jerking from his grasp, Lucy stumbled back out of reach. She could feel her right hand beginning to tingle—ice-hot needle pricks spreading out from the center, out to her fingertips—and she clamped it shut and thrust it deep into her pocket. She told herself it was just the cold, told herself Byron had just held her too tight, shut off her circulation, but her hand was stinging … feeling so strange … and it was starting to tremble, just like her knees were trembling, just like her voice was trembling …
“Stay away from me!” she burst out. “I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, and I’m not afraid of you!”
For a long moment Byron stared at her. “It’s not me you need to be afraid of,” he said at last.
It took every ounce of courage to turn her back on him. Holding her head high, Lucy made her way determinedly back through the graves, and she told herself that she wouldn’t look back.
But when she did, he was still standing there, and she couldn’t help thinking how very much he resembled some dark angel, some ominous messenger in the midst of all that death …
“Be careful,” he called to her then, his voice as heavy as the shadows around him. “Someone won’t be glad you’re here.”
9
The whole morning had been a disaster.
A complete, miserable, and utter disaster.
Lucy stood in the doorway of the cafeteria, clutching her books to her chest. She let her eyes wander over the laughing, chattering mass of students, then turned and walked slowly down the hall. She hadn’t planned on coming to school this morning after her visit to the graveyard; she’d wanted to find a way back to the house and hide there and try to make sense of things—until she suddenly remembered she didn’t even have a key.
She hadn’t tried to find a pay phone. “You tried to help her … it was too late …” She hadn’t reported last night’s murder. “You can’t tell anyone … you could die … they wouldn’t believe you anyway …” She’d been so frightened, so thoroughly shaken by her encounter with Byron, that she didn’t even realize she’d retraced her steps back to school. She’d simply looked up and found herself standing outside Pine Ridge High, wondering how she’d gotten there.
Oh, God. What’s happening to my life?
She’d stared at the school, and she’d weighed her options—Could I spend the day hiding out in some coffee shop? The library? How about the bus depot?—but she hadn’t been able to come to a single decision.
He knew things! Byron knew things about last night, he knew things about me he couldn’t possibly know!
She’d rested her head against the fence while the world passed in a blu
r. He was a total stranger, but he’d known about her mother. He was a total stranger, yet it was almost as if he’d been waiting for her there, as if he’d expected her to show up there this morning …
Maybe he really was the murderer, Lucy thought again. And maybe he really had been taunting her, playing with her, trying to see how much she really knew. So why didn’t he kill me? Why didn’t he kill me right then, when he had the perfect chance?
She hadn’t been able to shut out his words: “She’s not here … the one you’re looking for … he took her away …”
His words … those frightening, fateful words playing over and over and over again, relentlessly through her brain—
“We don’t have a lot of time …”
“Be careful …”
“Someone won’t he glad you’re here.”
She’d stood outside Pine Ridge High, afraid to go in, afraid to go anywhere, until a teacher hurrying into the building had spotted her and ushered her to Principal Howser’s office. To Lucy’s relief, the man had actually believed her story about being sick that morning. He’d welcomed her warmly and offered deep condolences for her loss; he’d praised her high grades from her former school, and he’d talked about how wonderful Aunt Irene was. He’d gone on and on about some Festival the school was having, and how he hoped she’d enjoy living in Pine Ridge. Then he’d handed her a schedule, assigned her a locker, given her a tour, and escorted her to class.
“Here we are, Lucy. I believe your cousin Angela has Miss Calloway this hour, too.”
Wonderful. My morning’s complete.
He’d interrupted a pop history quiz to introduce her, leaving her to stand like an idiot at the front of the room while Miss Calloway tried not to look annoyed and all the kids had stared. She’d felt flushed and panicky and embarrassed. Some of the kids were laughing, she’d noticed—some of the girls whispering to each other, some of the guys whistling loudly. And then she’d spotted Angela, sitting in the very back row, snickering loudest of all.
It wasn’t till she’d run to the bathroom afterward that Lucy realized she had dead leaves stuck in her hair and mud spattered over her clothes. She’d stared at her sorry reflection in the mirror and felt so mortified, she’d actually considered hiding in there the rest of the day.
Wonderful, Lucy, just wonderful. Leave it to you to make a great first impression.
But at least the humiliation had distracted her.
At least it had kept her from dwelling on the cemetery … the murdered girl … Byron …
Thank God lunch was over now; she had only a few more hours to get through.
By the time Lucy found her next class, her head was pounding. Dull ribbons of pain crept down one side of her face and unfurled behind her eyes. She was achy and stiff, her shoes and socks were damp, and she still hadn’t had anything to eat. Her mind was worn out from worrying; her brain had turned to mush. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to make it through math. Like a robot, she slid into her assigned desk and saw Angela sitting right beside her. The dark raccoon eyes fixed on her accusingly.
“I’ve been thinking about that jacket of yours,” Angela frowned, leaning toward her.
Lucy braced herself. “What about it?”
“It looks really familiar to me. In fact, I have one exactly like it.”
“I know.” Lucy kept her gaze lowered. “Irene said I could borrow it.”
“And you didn’t even ask me?”
“You were already gone. And she said you never wear it anyway, because she gave it to you.”
“I can’t believe this!” Angela pulled back as several kids squeezed between them, book bags swinging dangerously. “Look at it! It’s totally ruined!”
Someone bumped Lucy’s desk and murmured an apology. She glanced up to see the back of his faded jacket as he leaned over the desk in front of hers. Then Angela snapped her back to attention.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you,” Lucy sighed. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned, okay?”
“You’ll pay to buy me another one, is what you mean. God, who do you think you are?”
To Lucy’s relief, Mrs. Lowenthal called the class to order and instructed them to take out their books. Then, while the woman droned on and on about numbers that made no sense, Lucy tried to ignore the venomous looks Angela kept shooting at her from across the aisle. Don’t let her get to you … right now Angela’s the least of your worries …
“—announcements regarding the Fall Festival,” Mrs. Lowenthal was saying. Fall Festival? When had they finished with math? When had they stopped working problems on the chalkboard? Lucy didn’t know … hadn’t been paying attention.
Something soft hit her foot. Glancing down, she saw what looked like a necklace lying there on the floor, but she had no idea where it had come from. Her eyes did a quick sweep of the class, but everyone was focused on the front of the room. Lucy scooted the necklace closer with the toe of her shoe, then picked it up to examine it.
It was a simple piece of jewelry—nothing expensive, elaborate, or even professional, she thought. Just a single strand of tiny beads, dark green glass, that looked rather childishly handmade. Pretty, though, in a plain sort of way …
“—want all of you there early if you’re working a booth,” Mrs. Lowenthal continued.
Lucy put her left hand to her forehead. Was it just her, or was the room getting hotter by the second?
“—big fund-raiser of the year, as you all know,” Mrs. Lowenthal said.
It was getting hotter in here, Lucy was sure of it. She could feel drops of sweat along her hairline; she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“—those volunteers will meet this afternoon in the library—”
Maybe I’m coming down with something—getting a fever—God, I’m burning up—
“—be sure to check the schedule to see which shifts you’re working—”
Lucy slid lower in her desk. Her head was way past throbbing now—it felt like it was going to burst. She wound the necklace around her wrist, twined it between her fingers; she could feel the tiny beads cutting into the tender flesh of her palm—
“—can use my car to transport some of the food—”
For a brief second the room shimmered around her. A tingling pain shot through her hand, and Lucy tried to brace herself against the desktop, tried to prop herself up, but her wrists were so limp, so useless …
What’s happening?
She couldn’t hold her head up anymore. She couldn’t hear … couldn’t see—yet at the same time she could see everything, hear everything, everything all at once, every single sense wide open—
What’s … happening?
The classroom vanished. The warmth building steadily inside her now burst into scalding heat, searing through nerves and muscles, throbbing the length of her fingers and upward through her hand, along her arm, exploding inside her head.
I’ve felt this before—oh God—-just like last night—
And then they came.
Lightning fast and just as merciless—images so vivid, so sharp, her body reeled with the force of them—
Hands—such powerful hands—eyes glowing through shadows—lips on her neck, her throat, and blood flowing, life flowing, “Could have been different … could have been perfect …”
Wind! Ah, the cold, sweet rush of it, taste of it, caress of it—night smells night sounds damp and cold! And fog so thick … woods so black … black and deep as—
“Death,” Lucy murmured. “I’m not afraid to die …”
And “Lucy?” … someone saying her name, over and over again, “Lucy … Lucy …”
“Lucy?” Mrs. Lowenthal’s voice, anxious and loud. “Lucy, are you all right?”
Lucy’s eyes flew open.
She was slumped on her desk, both arms pillowing her head. She was clutching something in her right hand, and her whole arm felt numb and prickly, as if she’d been shot full of novocaine.
>
“Lucy?” Mrs. Lowenthal said again.
Very slowly Lucy lifted her head. She could see that the classroom was there again, along with the faces of the students, all of them staring, and Angela smirking beside her, and Mrs. Lowenthal leaning over her with a worried frown.
“You’re so pale, Lucy, are you ill? Do you need to be excused?”
Lucy tried to answer, but couldn’t. Instead she opened her fingers and stared down at the necklace in her hand.
“I’ll have someone take you to the nurse,” Mrs. Lowenthal decided. “Angela can help you. Here, Angela, let me write you a pass.”
But Lucy wasn’t paying attention anymore to Mrs. Lowenthal or Angela or the curious stares of her classmates.
As the guy in front of her turned around, she saw that he’d taken off his jacket. She saw the thick black hair falling soft to his shoulders, and the calm gaze of his midnight eyes. And then she saw him reach back and slide the necklace from her hand.
“Thanks,” Byron said quietly. “I must have dropped this.”
10
She knew she was going to be sick.
As Byron faced forward again, Lucy got to her feet and rushed up the aisle to the door. Then, ignoring an alarmed Mrs. Lowenthal, she hurried down the hall in search of a bathroom.
She finally found one near the stairs, barely making it inside before dry heaves took over. She left the stall door open and fell to her knees, sweat pouring down her face, her insides like jelly. She dreaded Mrs. Lowenthal coming to check on her—or even worse, sending Angela.
“This might help,” a voice said softly.
Lucy was too weak to lift her head. She felt a cold, wet paper towel on the back of her neck … a gentle hand smoothing her hair back from each side of her face.
She heaved again, but there was nothing in her stomach but pain.
“Thank you,” she managed to whisper.
“No need,” the voice whispered back to her. “The first time’s always the worst.”
Lucy lifted her head.
Turning around, she stared out at the bare floor, at the row of sinks and the dingy mirror stretching over them, reflecting nothing.
It Begins Page 5
