Crescendo h-2

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  Detective Basso ripped the top sheet off his ticket pad and slapped it into my hand.

  My eyes brushed over the balance at the bottom. “Two hundred and twenty-nine dollars?!”

  “You were going thirty over and driving a car that doesn’t belong to you. Pay the fine, or I’ll see you in court.”

  “I—I don’t have this kind of money.”

  “Get a job. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

  “Please don’t do this,” I said, injecting all the pleading that I possessed into my voice.

  Detective Basso studied me. “Two months ago a kid with no ID, no family, and no traceable past wound up dead in the high school gym.”

  “Jules’s death was ruled a suicide,” I said automatically, but sweat tingled the back of my neck. What did this have to do with my ticket?

  “The same night he disappeared, the high school counselor lit your house on fire, then did her own disappearing act. There’s a link between these two bizarre incidents.” His dark brown eyes pinned me in place. “You.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Tell me what really happened that night, and I can make your ticket go away.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I lied, because there was no alternative. Telling the truth would leave me worse off than having to pay the ticket. I couldn’t tell Detective Basso about fallen angels and Nephilim. He’d never believe my story if I confessed that Dabria was an angel of death. Or that Jules was a descendant of a fallen angel.

  “Your call,” Detective Basso said, flicking his business card at me before folding himself inside his car. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

  I glanced at the card as he roared off. DETECTIVE ECANUS BASSO. 207-555-3333.

  The ticket felt heavy in my hand. Heavy, and hot. How was I going to come up with two hundred dollars? I couldn’t borrow the money from my mom—she could barely afford groceries. Patch had the money, but I’d told him I could take care of myself. I’d told him to get out of my life. What did it say about me if I ran back to him the moment I hit trouble? It was admitting he’d been right all along.

  It was admitting I needed him.

  CHAPTER 12

  TUESDAY AFTER CLASS, I WAS ON MY WAY OUT OF the building to meet Vee, who’d skipped class to hang out with Rixon but promised to swing back by school at noon to chauffeur me home, when my cell phone chirped. I opened the text message just as Vee hollered my name from the street.

  “Yo, babe! Over here!”

  I walked to where she was parallel parked at the curb and folded my arms on the open window frame. “Well? Was it worth it?”

  “Skipping class? Heck, yeah. Rixon and I spent the morning playing Xbox at his place. Halo Two.” She reached over and unlatched the passenger door.

  “Sounds romantic,” I said, climbing in.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Violence really puts guys in the mood.”

  “In the mood? Is there something I should know about?”

  Vee flashed a hundred-watt grin. “We kissed. Oh man, it was good. It started out all slow and gentle, and then Rixon really started getting into it—”

  “Okay!” I cut in loudly. Had I been this sappy when Patch and I were together and Vee was odd man out? I prayed not. “Where to now?”

  She scooted back into traffic. “I’m tired of studying. I need to inject a little excitement into my life, and that ain’t gonna happen with my nose in a book.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Old Orchard Beach. I’m in the mood for some sun and sand. Plus, my tan could use a base coat.”

  Old Orchard Beach sounded perfect. It had a long pier that stretched out over the water, an on-the-beach amusement park, and fireworks and dancing after dark. Unfortunately, the beach would have to wait.

  I jiggled my cell phone. “We already have plans tonight.”

  Vee leaned sideways to read the text message and grimaced. “Marcie’s party reminder? For real? I didn’t realize you guys were new BFFs.”

  “I was told that missing her party is the surest way to sabotage my social life.”

  “She’s such a ho. Missing her party is the surest way to make my life complete.”

  “Might want to rethink your attitude, because I’m going—and you’re coming with me.”

  Vee pressed back against her seat, her arms going rigid on the steering wheel. “What’s her angle, anyway? Why’d she invite you?”

  “We’re chemistry partners.”

  “Seems to me like you’re forgiving her for that black eye awfully fast.”

  “I owe it to her to at least show up for an hour. As her chemistry partner,” I added.

  “So you’re saying the reason we’re dragging ourselves to Marcie’s party tonight is because you sit beside her every morning in chemistry.” Vee gave me the look of someone who knows better.

  I knew it was a lame excuse, but not as lame as the truth. I needed to make absolutely certain Patch had moved on to Marcie. When I’d touched his scars two nights ago and been transported into his memory, he’d seemed reserved with Marcie. Up until their kiss, he’d even been short with her. I hadn’t made up my mind how he felt about her. But if he’d moved on, it would make it that much easier for me to do likewise. A confirmed relationship between Patch and Marcie would make it easy to hate him. And I wanted to hate him. For both our sakes.

  “Your breath smells like liar, liar pants on fire,” Vee said. “This isn’t about you and Marcie. This is about Patch and Marcie. You want to find out what’s going on between them.”

  I tossed my hands in the air. “Fine! Is that so wrong?”

  “Man,” she said, wagging her head, “you really are a glutton for punishment.”

  “I thought maybe we could look in her bedroom. See if we find anything that proves they’re together.”

  “Like used condoms?”

  Suddenly my breakfast was rising up my esophagus. I hadn’t thought of that. Were they sleeping together? No. I didn’t believe it. Patch wouldn’t do that to me. Not with Marcie.

  “I know!” Vee said. “We could steal her diary!”

  “The one she’s been carrying around since freshman year?”

  “The one she swears would make the National Enquirer look tame,” she said, sounding strangely gleeful. “If something is going on between her and Patch, it’ll be in the diary.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on. We’ll give it back after we’re done. No harm, no foul.”

  “How? Toss it on her porch and run? She’ll kill us if she finds out we took it.”

  “Sure. Toss it on her porch, or take it during the party, read it somewhere, and put it back before we leave.”

  “It just seems wrong.”

  “We won’t tell anyone what we read. It’ll be our secret. It’s not wrong if nobody gets hurt.”

  I wasn’t sold on stealing Marcie’s diary, but I could tell Vee wasn’t going to let it drop. The most important thing was getting her to agree to come to the party with me. I wasn’t sure I was courageous enough to go on my own. Especially since I couldn’t count on having a single friend there. So I said, “You’ll pick me up tonight, then?”

  “Count on it. Hey, can we light her bedroom on fire before we leave?”

  “No. She can’t know we were snooping in it.”

  “Yeah, but subtle really isn’t my style.”

  I looked sideways, eyebrows peaked. “No kidding?”

  It was just after nine when Vee and I climbed the hill leading up to Marcie’s neighborhood. Coldwater’s socioeconomic map is easily determined by a simple test: Drop a marble on any street in town. If the marble rolls downhill, you’re upper class. If the marble doesn’t roll at all, you’re middle class. And if you lose the marble in a vapor of fog before you have a chance to find out if it rolls, you’re … well, you live in my neighborhood. The backwoods.

  Vee pushed the Neon uphill. Marcie’s ne
ighborhood was older, with mature trees that spilled above the street, blocking all moonlight. The homes had professionally landscaped yards and half circles for driveways. The architecture was Georgian colonial; every house was white with black trim. Vee had the Neon’s windows rolled down, and in the distance, we heard the steady pulse of blaring hip-hop.

  “What’s her address again?” Vee asked, squinting through the windshield. “These houses are so far off the road I can’t read the numbers over the garages.”

  “Twelve-twenty Brenchley Street.”

  We came to an intersection and Vee turned onto Brenchley. The music intensified as we cruised down the block, and I assumed it meant we were headed in the right direction. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper down both sides of the street. As we passed an elegantly remodeled carriage house, the music reached an all-time high, vibrating the car. Flocks of people were cutting across the lawn, streaming inside the house. Marcie’s house. One look at it, and I had to wonder why she shoplifted. For the thrill of it? To escape her parents’ carefully and perfectly crafted image?

  I didn’t dwell on it longer. A deep ache swirled in my stomach. Parked in the driveway was Patch’s black Jeep Commander. Obviously he’d been one of the first to arrive. He’d probably been inside alone with Marcie hours before the party started. Doing what, I didn’t want to know. I sucked in a deep breath and I told myself I could handle this. And wasn’t this the evidence I’d come looking for?

  “What are you thinking?” Vee asked, her gaze also glued to the Commander as we rolled past.

  “That I want to throw up.”

  “All over Marcie’s foyer would be nice. But seriously. Are you okay with Patch being here?”

  I set my jaw, tilting my chin up slightly. “Marcie invited me tonight. I have the same right to be here as Patch. I’m not going to let him dictate where I go and what I do.” Funny, because that’s exactly what I was doing.

  Marcie’s front door was open, leading into a dark marble hall crammed with bodies gyrating to Jay-Z. The foyer merged into a large sitting room with a high ceiling and dark Victorian furniture. All of the furniture, including the coffee table, was being used for seating. Vee hesitated in the doorway.

  “Just taking a moment to mentally prepare for this,” she called to me over the music. “I mean, the place is going to be infested with Marcie. Marcie portraits, Marcie furniture, Marcie odors. Speaking of portraits, we should try to find some old family pictures. I’d like to see what Marcie’s dad looked like ten years ago. When his dealership commercials come on TV, I can’t decide if it’s plastic surgery that makes him look so young, or just massive amounts of makeup.”

  I gripped her elbow and yanked her flush against me. “You are not ditching me now.”

  Vee peered inside, frowning. “All right, but I’m warning you, if I see a single pair of panties, I’m out of here. Same goes for used condoms.”

  I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. The chances of seeing both were fairly high, and it was in my best interest not to officially accept her terms.

  I was saved from further discussion by Marcie, who sashayed out of the darkness holding a punch bowl. She divided a critical glance between us. “I invited you,” she told me, “but I didn’t invite her.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Vee said.

  Marcie scrutinized Vee slowly, head to toe. “Didn’t you used to be on some stupid color diet? Looks to me like you gave up before you even started.” She turned her attention to me. “And you. Nice black eye.”

  “Did you hear something, Nora?” Vee asked. “I thought I heard something.”

  “You definitely heard something,” I agreed.

  “Could that be … a dog fart I heard?” Vee asked me.

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  Marcie’s eyes thinned to slits. “Ha, ha.”

  “There it went again,” Vee said. “Apparently this dog has real bad gas. Maybe we should feed it Tums.”

  Marcie thrust the punch bowl at us. “Donation. Nobody gets inside without one.”

  “What?” Vee and I said at the same time.

  “Do-nay-shun. You didn’t really think I invited you here without an agenda, did you? I need your cash. Pure and simple.”

  Vee and I eyed the bowl, which was swimming with dollar bills.

  “What’s the money for?” I asked.

  “New cheerleading uniforms. The squad wants ones with bare midriffs, but the school’s too cheap to spring for new ones, so I’m fund-raising.”

  “This should be interesting,” Vee said. “The term Slut Squad will take on a whole new meaning.”

  “That does it!” said Marcie, her face darkening with blood. “You want in? You’d better have a twenty. If you make another comment, I’ll boost the cover charge to forty.”

  Vee poked me in the arm. “I didn’t sign up for this. You pay.”

  “Ten each?” I offered.

  “No way. This was your idea. You pick up the tab.”

  I faced Marcie and pulled on a smile. “Twenty dollars is a lot,” I reasoned.

  “Yeah, but think how amazing I’ll look in that uniform,” she said. “I have to do five hundred crunches every night so I can trim my waist from twenty-five to twenty-four inches before school starts. I can’t have an inch of fat if I’m going to wear a bare midriff.”

  I didn’t dare pollute my mind with a mental image of Marcie in a promiscuous cheerleading uniform, and instead said, “How about fifteen?”

  Marcie cupped a hand on her hip and looked ready to slam the door.

  “Okay, calm down, we’ll pay,” said Vee, reaching into her back pocket. She stuffed a wad of cash into the bowl, but it was dark and I couldn’t tell how much. “You owe me big-time,” she told me.

  “You’re supposed to let me count the money first,” Marcie said, digging through the bowl, trying to recapture Vee’s donation.

  “I just assumed twenty was too high for you to count,” Vee said. “My apologies.”

  Marcie’s eyes went slitty again, then she turned on her heel and carted the bowl back into the house.

  “How much did you give her?” I asked Vee.

  “I didn’t. I tossed in a condom.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Since when do you carry condoms?”

  “I picked one up off the lawn on our way up the walk. Who knows, maybe Marcie’ll use it. Then I’ll have done my part to keep her genetic material out of the gene pool.”

  Vee and I stepped all the way inside and put our backs to the wall. On a velvet chaise in the sitting room, several couples were tangled together like a pile of paper clips. The center of the room was filled with dancing bodies. Off the sitting room, an arched entryway led to the kitchen, where people were drinking and laughing. Nobody paid Vee or me any attention, and I tried to rally my spirits at the realization that getting inside Marcie’s bedroom unnoticed wasn’t going to be as hard as I’d thought. Trouble was, I was beginning to think I hadn’t come here tonight to snoop through Marcie’s bedroom and find evidence that she was with Patch. In fact, I was dangerously close to thinking I’d come because I knew Patch would be here. And I wanted to see him.

  It looked like I was going to get my chance. Patch appeared in the entrance to Marcie’s kitchen, dressed in a black polo shirt and dark jeans. I wasn’t used to studying him from a distance. His eyes were the color of night and his hair curling under his ears looked like it was six weeks past needing a cut. He had a body that instantly attracted the opposite sex, but his stance said I’m not open to conversation. His hat was still missing, which meant it was probably in Marcie’s possession. No big deal, I reminded myself. It was no longer my business. Patch could give his ball cap to whoever he wanted. Just because he’d never loaned it to me didn’t hurt my feelings.

  Jenn Martin, a girl I’d had math with freshman year, was talking to Patch, but he looked distracted. His eyes circled the sitting room, watchful, as if he wasn’t about to trust a single soul there. His posture w
as relaxed but attentive, almost like he expected something to happen at any moment.

  Before his eyes made it around to me, I shifted my gaze. Best not to be caught staring with regret and longing.

  Anthony Amowitz smiled and waved at me from across the room. I automatically smiled back. We’d had PE together this year, and while I’d hardly said more than ten words to him, it was nice to think somebody was excited to see me and Vee here.

  “Why is Anthony Amowitz using his pimp smile on you?” Vee asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re only calling him a pimp because he’s here. At Marcie’s.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “He’s being nice.” I elbowed her. “Smile back.”

  “Being nice? He’s being horny.”

  Anthony raised his red plastic cup to me and shouted something, but it was too hard to hear over the music.

  “What?” I called back.

  “You look great!” A goofy smile was plastered on his face.

  “Oh boy,” Vee said. “Not just a pimp, but a smashed pimp.”

  “So maybe he’s a little drunk.”

  “Drunk and hoping to corner you alone in a bedroom upstairs.” Ugh.

  Five minutes later, we were still holding our position just inside the front door. I’d had half a can of beer accidentally sloshed on my shoes, but luckily, there’d been no vomit. I was about to suggest to Vee that we move away from the open door—the direction everyone seemed to run moments before spilling the contents of their stomach—when Brenna Dubois came up and held a red plastic cup out to me.

  “This is for you, compliments of the guy across the room.”

  “Told you,” Vee whispered sideways.

  I stole a quick glance at Anthony, who winked.

  “Uh, thanks, but I’m not interested,” I told Brenna. I wasn’t very experienced when it came to parties, but I knew not to accept drinks of questionable origin. For all I knew, it was tainted with GHB. “Tell Anthony I don’t drink from anything but a sealed can.” Wow. I sounded even dumber than I felt.