Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  The intensity of my scrutiny is rewarded when Mr. Sharp breaks in his speech, obviously overcome by grief, and is led away by the ever present funeral director. My eyes are locked on Phillip and I imagine I am the only one who catches the fleeting smile, the crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes.

  Phillip is laughing inside.

  “I’m worried you’ll embarrass me,” Mom whispers harshly, pulling my attention away.

  “What?” I ask quietly. She huffs a sigh and grabs my arm.

  “I said you’re shaking like crazy. Do you need to step out?” she repeats and I glance down at my hands which are trembling so violently even my mother’s hand is shaking where she touches me. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down, to focus on what needs to be done. The shaking subsides and Mom releases me, her cheeks red with embarrassment, though as far as I can tell no one has noticed. Clenching my jaw in irritation, I focus on the rest of the service, listening absently to the funeral director describing how to get to the graveyard where Nicole will be buried. Finally it ends and people begin to shuffle out the door, most of them headed for home. Only close friends and family will be at the gravesite.

  That doesn’t include me. Nicole’s mother requested I not attend the burial.

  I catch Beverly Sharp’s eye as she moves down the center aisle supported by her husband and a slightly older man I don’t recognize. Probably an uncle or cousin.

  Her gaze locks with mine and instead of the hatred and blame I have come to expect, there is only confusion. Pity surges through me as I watch her pass, wondering even if I manage to prove Phillip murdered Nicole if it will be of any help to her mother. I simply don’t know.

  By the time we make it outside, I am sweating with the effort of appearing normal. I have heard so many unknowingly honest comments in the crowd that it is a wonder that I haven’t struck out at the voices around me, trying to silence them with my fists since I cannot escape them in my head.

  Mom leaves me at the curb while she goes to get the car. People walk around me as though I am encased in an invisible bubble that prevents them from touching me, but they watch me as they pass, curiosity and condemnation in their eyes.

  I am the girl who let Nicole die, after all.

  A familiar voice carries to my ears and I turn to see Simon Householder pursuing Cole’s father down the sidewalk, peppering him with question after question about the oddity of two dead teenage girls who were friends with his son.

  When he sees that other people are pausing to watch the exchange, Geoffrey Wise stops and turns to face the crowd, effectively ignoring Simon even while purportedly answering his questions.

  “I don’t want anyone to know about Jake’s involvement with Miranda’s death,” he says, nodding solemnly, his voice heavy with sorrow but still resonating loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “Our town will always feel the loss of these two young women keenly, and I can promise safety measures on the bridge in question are being investigated as we speak. But as to the involvement of my family with either death, I can only feel disgust that anyone would try to sensationalize these unfortunate events. I believe the families have suffered quite enough, don’t you?” he asks, raising his hands out to his captive audience. Everyone within hearing distance claps, shooting dirty glances at Simon. Even I have to concentrate hard not to join in the approval of the mayor’s statement. Uneasiness snakes its clammy way down my throat and coils in my stomach as I push off the impulse. Almost as if he can sense my resistance, Geoffrey Wise turns his regal head in my direction, the barest hint of a smile twitching at his lips. Dipping his head to me in silent tribute, he turns and ushers his reluctant sons into the black sedan at the curb.

  The crowd disperses quickly after the car pulls away, and I am able to push my way over to Simon, who stares resentfully at the road.

  “Simon,” I call out, and he snaps his attention around, eyes gleaming with expectation when he spots me.

  “I know details about Nicole’s death,” he says in greeting and I feel my pulse race in reaction to this hidden truth.

  “Can we talk?” I ask him, glancing around warily for my mother’s car. I know I have only moments before she arrives.

  “You going to give me a scoop, young lady?” he demands, putting his pad and pencil away in his overstuffed pocket.

  I give him a wry smile. “Only if you return the favor,” I stipulate, amused by the mercenary glint in his eyes.

  “I forgot how sharp you were, Miss MacKenna. Alright. Let’s meet at the café. Say around eight?”

  I hear the approach of the Torino, finally restored after its close call by the river. “No, I can’t tonight. Mom will never let me back out. How about before school tomorrow? If you can give me a lift afterward.”

  “Fine. Meet me there at seven.”

  I nod in affirmation before I slip away, back to where Mom left me waiting. When I glance back, Simon has disappeared, no doubt aware that his continued presence is probably a bad idea. I get into the car without comment and we make the drive home in silence, Mom probably imagining her upcoming date, and me silently resolving to get the truth out of Simon and find something with which I can go after Phillip.

  I worry neither of us will be satisfied.

  Chapter 14

  The café is bustling this morning, a long line waiting at the register for coffee and bagels; almost every table is taken with people still encased in coats and ski jackets shoveling down piping hot food as fast as they can. Simon waits for me at a table near the back, two stacked plates in front of him, the food itself obscured by the bucket of syrup he’s poured over everything. I signal to the waitress as I take the seat across from him and order a hot chocolate and blueberry muffin.

  “I’ve got diabetes,” Simon mumbles in between bites. I frown, thinking that having that much syrup has got to be bad for someone with diabetes and I consider saying something, but then dismiss the urge. He’s not a stupid man. He knows what he’s eating is bad for him.

  “Good morning,” I say, shedding my bulky coat and scarf. Outside the wind is howling and fierce, chips of ice blown around in mini-tornados above the snow drifts. It is the coldest winter on record for the area.

  Simon stuffs another heaping forkful in his mouth and gives me a measured look. “Alright, Derry, I’ve got little time to waste, so why don’t you just ask me whatever it is you want to know,” he says around the mouthful of food.

  I smile in appreciation of his attitude. “Fine. What do you know about Nicole’s death that hasn’t been printed?” I ask, figuring I don’t need to waste time dancing around the issue.

  He coughs and goes slightly purple as he chokes on a clump of pancakes. Taking a deep drink of his coffee and rubbing his chest, Simon stalls for time, obviously trying to think of what he can get out of me in return for the information.

  Finally he puts down the coffee and the fork and pushes his plate away. “I’ll answer your questions if you can give me something to work with.”

  “I can tell you what Nicole was doing out there that night,” I offer quietly, glancing around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. Thankfully, we are ignored; the other patrons are far too focused on their own plates to care what an old reporter and a teenage girl are doing in a corner booth together.

  Simon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is that so? Alright then. Here’s what I know.” He leans forward, keeping his voice low. “Nicole did not jump off the old railroad bridge. She didn’t jump off of anything. The coroner says that her head was struck on something sharp and wooden. Looks like pine. From the angle needed to break her neck, he suggested a tree with a broken limb. To have done that kind of damage, she would have had to have been knocked into the tree with a lot of force. Something she couldn’t have done without help.”

  I digest this information, which isn’t entirely new, but the confirmation and detail helps to paint a picture. She struggled with Phillip first.

  “What else? What about her
neck?” I demand, refusing to get sidetracked.

  Simon nods and gives me a knowing look. “Coroner said the neck was an odd break. It would have paralyzed her and stunted her breathing, but if she had gotten immediate help she might have survived. Would have been paralyzed, but she might have made it.”

  Nausea drips down into my stomach, settling uneasily on the hot chocolate I’ve already drunk. An image flashes before my eyes; Nicole fighting with Phillip and him throwing her on an outthrust tree limb, snapping her neck with the force.

  A loud crash resonates through the room and I shake the impression off, glancing around to see a waitress stooping to clean up a dropped tray and several dirty plates. I just watch her for a moment, taking in the bright flush to her cheeks as she gingerly picks up the chunks of broken dishes, her eyes darting around as though daring anyone to say something. I don’t know why this is so fascinating to me. I don’t know why it is so hard for me to turn back to the conversation.

  Simon clears his throat and taps the table to get my attention. “Derry? What are you thinking?” he asks curiously, as though he really cares what I think about the situation.

  “Are they treating her…death like an accident, or like a murder?”

  He gives me a cynical look. “Now do you really think the police share that kind of detail with me? A lowly reporter?”

  I return his look with interest. “But they’ll give you every detail about her injuries? Come on, what do you know?”

  With an amused grunt, Simon shifts his bulk and glances at his watch. “I think we’ve concluded the free ride portion of the meal. Your turn,” he says, pulling out his ever-present notebook and pen. For a moment I am puzzled. Since I realized people seem to be compelled to answer me honestly when I really want to know something, I have become accustomed to getting answers without much work. Why Simon is able to resist is beyond me, but I feel abruptly certain that he has given me all of this information not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

  I narrow my eyes and concentrate, trying to pick up a trace of the peculiar connection I get with Cole and Jake, and even their father, but there is nothing. Only the lengthening pause that hangs between us like an accusation.

  “Any time now, sweetheart. We’re on a clock, you know,” he reminds me. Seeing that I have less than twenty minutes before school I admit defeat and tell him about Nicole’s certainty that Phillip murdered Miranda. Off the record, of course.

  “What exactly was she basing this on?” Simon asks when I’m done.

  “Partly a feeling. But mostly Miranda’s journal,” I admit, knowing how thin everything sounds out loud.

  But Simon perks up at the mention of the journal. “Journal? The police never found one. How did Nicole get it?”

  Seeing that I’ve caught his interest finally, I give him a beatific smile and get to my feet, putting a few dollars down for a tip. “Now do you think anyone would share that kind of detail with me? A lowly reporter?” I return his earlier words wrapped in sarcasm. Simon tightens his mouth in irritation, but after a moment his lips loosen in a grudging smile.

  “Fine, Derry. I suppose you’ll give me that information when I can tell you more about the investigation?”

  I mime delighted surprise. “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Householder. You give me a call when you know something.”

  He laughs as he throws a twenty down to cover his ridiculously unhealthy meal. “I told you, call me Simon. And yes, I’ll call you if I learn anything else. You’ll make a fair reporter one of these days, Derry.”

  I am absurdly pleased by his comment, and cover my blush with the scarf I wind around my face as a shield against the spitting snow. Simon leads me outside and down the street to the train station parking lot where his car waits. He unlocks a tan Malibu and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

  “What?” he demands, dropping heavily into the driver’s seat.

  “Where did you get this car? From a police auction?” I joke.

  He gives me a stunned look as we pull cautiously onto the road toward the high school. “How did you guess?”

  “It’s got former unmarked police car written all over it.”

  With a chuckle, he pats the steering wheel affectionately. “It’s good for stakeouts.”

  By the time he drops me off at the front of the school, I feel as though we have cemented our odd little friendship. He waves, pulling away from the curb, and I can see him shaking his head as he drives away.

  As I turn to walk up the stairs, all my mirth drains away and my feet are heavy with reluctance. This is the my first day back since Nicole died, and suddenly the thought of maneuvering the hallways alone, the empty seat in history, the deserted alcove where we ate lunch is too much, and I halt on the steps, nearly choking on the wave of desolation that descends over me.

  I am still standing there when I hear the crunch of shoes on snow behind me come to a stop, and a hand rests lightly on my shoulder. Turning, half expecting to see Cole, I am surprised when Ruth’s sympathetic face confronts me.

  “I am worried about Phillip,” she says, her real greeting lost.

  I haven’t really talked much with her since the day I ate lunch with Phillip and the rest of his friends. We nodded at one another in the hallway and exchanged pleasantries, but we moved in different circles once I was firmly established as Nicole’s friend.

  She squeezes my shoulder and gives me a sad smile. “I’m glad to see you’re back. I’m so sorry about Nicole and what happened to you. Let me know if I can do anything,” she says, and I know she is sincere. Despite her apparent loyalties to Phillip, I remember that I liked her the first time we talked, and am relieved that at least someone is genuinely sorry about Nicole’s death.

  “Thanks. I got your card,” I reply, remembering that she had been one of the few to send me a note while I was in the hospital. Phillip sent one too.

  I shredded it and threw it in the trash.

  “Oh, good. I wanted to visit, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted company or not,” she says and my skin hums lightly. I don’t mind; I can’t imagine wanting to visit someone I barely know in the hospital. But the sentiment is nice.

  “I was pretty out of it most of the time anyway.” I take a deep breath and begin ascending the stairs, knowing I can no longer put off the moment I have to resume my school life without Nicole. Ruth comes with me, quietly companionable, her presence a welcome support whether she knows it or not.

  We reach the doors before she speaks again. “I know you and Nicole had your own lunch routine, but…it would be nice if you came to sit with me today. I mean, I know Phillip won’t mind, and…” she breaks off when she sees my face. “Sorry, I mean, just if you wanted to…”

  Forcing a smile I just nod. “Thanks, Ruth. Maybe.”

  Her answering smile is relieved. “Okay. Well, let me know if I can do anything,” she repeats and enters the school, leaving me behind on the snow-dusted welcome mat. With a deep, fortifying breath I follow, ignoring the wet squeak my boots make on the pristine linoleum as I plunge into the flowing stream of students headed to lockers and classrooms.

  I get quite a few looks, and hear a number of unwelcome truths as people pass me in the hall. I can feel tears pricking at my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep from showing weakness. I have no idea what people are really saying to me; it could be condolences or insults and I’ll never know the difference. All I hear are the hidden truths that whisper only to me.

  The door to history is closed when I reach it, and for a moment I seem to see a pinched-faced girl waiting for me, an impatient glint in her eyes, but I blink and the image is gone, the hall is empty.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath and enter the room, ignoring the dozen sets of eyes that immediately lock on me, following my every movement. Pausing at Mrs. Sullivan’s desk to hand her my official excuse, I glance at Nicole’s seat and then freeze, my heart spiking and stalling before it resumes a quickened pace.

  Phillip is s
itting in her chair.

  He catches my eyes and smiles, the smile of a tiger just before it strikes with a crushing blow, the smirk of a wolf before he lunges, the grin of a shark before it snaps its jaws closed over its prey. He smiles and it seems to me that his green eyes glow with anticipation and something else. Something akin to hunger.

  “I always liked Nicole,” Mrs. Sullivan says and I snap my attention back to her as she signs the excuse and hands it back. “Let me know if you need help getting caught up,” she continues and I just nod, completely incapable of speech. There are no other seats available but my usual desk and the one Phillip is supposed to occupy. I have no choice but to take my seat, feeling the electricity light under my skin in the presence of the grinning liar next to me.

  “I thought it might be easier for you if you didn’t have to think of Nicole’s empty seat,” Phillip whispers, his eyes wide and innocent-looking. My skin is on fire and a wild rage bubbles just beneath the surface. It takes every ounce of control I have not to reach out and claw the loathsome grin off his face.

  When I don’t respond, he smirks and turns his attention to the front of the class, where Mrs. Sullivan is passing out some papers. I barely glance at the sheet when it is passed back to me and the guy in the back row has to come get his from me when I forget to hand it to him.

  “You’ll be starting your major project today. You and your partner will choose one of the events listed and present an oral report two weeks from today. Take some time now to talk it over and come up with some ideas. We’ll go over the details in a bit,” Mrs. Sullivan announces. I sit staring at the sheet in confusion for a moment, trying to figure out who I’m supposed to work with now that Nicole isn’t here.

  And then I remember. Nicole was never my partner.

  Phillip is.

  I turn to see him watching me, his reptilian gaze a cold stroke down my spine.

  “Hey there, partner. You know, I’m glad we’ll be working together. Maybe it’ll give us a chance to talk,” he says, false concern marking his face. It’s eerie in a way, as though he is only pretending to be human, that he has practiced and nearly mastered expressions of emotion, but is just slightly off, a mirror image instead of reality.