Someone Is Always Watching, page 13
“You do look awesome,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “I’m struggling with a conundrum here, Bliss.”
“Hmm?”
“There’s some guy creeping on you, and after this spring, I’d like to come and make sure you’re okay. But after this spring, I also know you won’t want that, so do I offer?”
“You can offer, and I’ll say thank you, but I’m fine and I’m extra careful after this spring.”
“I know.” He pauses. “If I did come—which I will not, after you said no—I wouldn’t hurt him. Not for just creeping on you. I’d just keep an eye on him and warn him off if he didn’t listen to you.”
“I know that.”
Silence.
“I do know that, Tuck. Really.”
“Okay, good. Dare I ask where my sister is?”
“We split up to watch Devon. Still looking for a chance to talk to him.”
“Well, then feel free to chat with me, if you’re bored. Or feel free to say goodnight if you want to mingle. Also feel free, at any time, to call me if there’s a guy bugging you. Crank up the speaker, and I’ll do my best badass impersonation.”
I smile. “Thanks.” I walk to the sofa and plunk onto it. “So, how’s the book?”
He chuckles. “Party’s that boring, huh?”
“Yep. Now, the book. Spill.”
He lifts the book, and I realize it’s the one I picked out with Gabrielle. Before I can say anything, I sense someone behind me. I glance back to see the football reaper. He’s literally at my back. Seeing me looking, he gives an exaggerated start, as if he hadn’t noticed me. A nod and then he moves on.
“Bliss?”
“Sorry. Tanya’s hailing me. I should go.”
“Signing off then. Update me when you can.”
I disconnect and dial Callum’s number. Football reaper glances down at his pocket, as if it’s vibrating. Then he walks farther into the crowd. A moment later, my call goes to Callum’s voice mail.
I stare in the direction the football reaper went.
What the hell?
Veritas’s words come back to me. A guy I trust. Yes, that could apply to Tucker or Devon or Andre. We’d come to Darlington Hills when CMT opened the lab, and we’d all been eight or nine. But it doesn’t make sense that whoever killed that kid in Iowa would be moving to a new city less than a year later. The “alternate resolution” mentioned in that report would be something like a mental hospital or juvenile facility or whatever. It may seem as if a kid got away with murder, but that’s not how it works. He just wouldn’t have gone to an adult jail or gotten a permanent record. That means it couldn’t have been Tucker, Andre, or Devon.
But it could be a guy I met a year ago.
It could be Callum.
And I’m going to jump to the conclusion that my new kinda-boyfriend is a murderer based on anonymous emails with no corroborating evidence…let alone proof that any eight-year-old boy committed the crime?
I’m upset over Gabrielle and feeling helpless, and that’s making me paranoid. If the sweetest, kindest girl I’ve known for half my life could slash at me with a box cutter—maybe even attack my sister—then who can I trust?
My phone vibrates and a text pops up.
Tanya: Hello? You see me, right?
I do now. She’s outside gesturing for me to get my ass out into the yard. I glance over to where Devon had been sitting. The chair’s empty.
FIFTEEN
Devon is sitting behind the shed. He’s been there for the past ten minutes.
The yard’s empty. The temperature has plummeted, and anyone who’d been on the porch has headed inside. It’s cold enough that I’m shivering and trying hard not to stamp my feet. Skimpy costumes aren’t made for autumn weather.
The shed is at the rear of the double-lot yard. Tanya and I have positioned ourselves near the opposite fence, leaning against it as if we’re talking, should anyone walk out and see us. Every few minutes, one of us checks on Devon.
“Nothing,” Tanya mutters, as she returns from the latest check.
“What’s he doing?” I whisper.
“Sitting. Staring. More sitting. More staring.”
I shift from foot to foot and glance Devon’s way. “Maybe it’s a bad trip? Could he be in medical distress?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We need to talk to him,” I say. “I know we’d like a better idea of whether the drugs have had an effect but…” I glance over again. “I think this means they have. Just not necessarily what we hoped for.”
“Yeah.”
I rub my arms. “Any chance he figured out what we did? Got a buzz from the drugs and headed out here to wait and confront us?”
She says nothing, which means yes, that may be what happened.
We head for the shed. Halfway there, one of us steps on dead leaves, and they crackle. When Devon gasps, we stop and look at each other.
A scuffling, as if Devon is scrambling up. I round the corner, and the first thing I see is blood.
The red handprint shouldn’t catch my eye. Fake blood spatters the whole damn shed. But this one’s glistening. This one’s wet.
Devon crouches with his hands held out in front of him.
Hands covered in blood.
I run forward. Devon doesn’t even seem to hear me. Blood drips from his outstretched hands. Then I see the drink we gave him. The bottle is shattered on the ground, one piece streaked with red.
“Devon?” I say.
He sees me, and he stares as if I’m a stranger.
“I killed him,” he whispers.
I skid to a stop. “Wh-what?”
Devon lifts his hands. “My father. I killed him.”
“Devon…?”
I crouch in front of Devon. His palm is gashed open.
“I killed my father.”
A raspy breath as he runs his hands through his hair, blood smearing. I inch forward, but he falls back.
“Don’t you see what I’ve done?” He gestures at the grass.
There’s nothing there except broken glass.
In the back of my mind, I hear every anti-drug lesson ever.
“You’re hallucinating,” I say. “Tripping. You’ve taken something—”
Devon shoves me aside. “I need to call an ambulance. I need to call…” He stops and stares down at that empty spot. “Oh God, what have I done?”
Devon pitches forward, gagging, and his foot slides on the damp grass. Tanya and I both try to catch him, but he twists out of my reach and stumbles sideways. His head smacks against the shed. He drops to one knee and catches himself there, shaking his head hard.
Then he looks up and sees me.
“Blythe?”
I exhale. “Yes. It’s me. You—”
“What the hell are you doing here?” He rises. Then he sees the blood on his hands. “What the hell?”
“It’s from the bottle there,” I say quickly. “See?”
His gaze darts to where I’m pointing before swinging back to me.
“You attacked me with a broken bottle?” he says.
“What? No. You broke the bottle, Devon. I came out and found you bleeding and ranting about killing your father.”
He stiffens so fast it’s like a convulsion. Then his head jerks up, lip curled in a sneer. “I said what?”
“You were tripping. I know you brought dope to the party. Whatever you took—”
“I gave you something,” Tanya says.
We both turn to her. Tanya crosses her arms and manages to look imperious despite her sexy-brain costume.
“I drugged you, Dev. I take full responsibility. I will tell you exactly what you took if you need to go to the clinic. However, what I gave you wouldn’t cause hallucinations. So, let’s talk about what just happened.”
Devon stares at her.
“Tanya…,” I murmur under my breath.
“Yes, I’m being a bitch,” she says. “Let the record show that I’m a shitty person, and you rightly called me out on it. However, I’m not backing down, so you have options here, Blythe. Either you take an immunity walk, or you stay to rein me in.”
“Those are her options?” Devon says, straightening. “Well, let me exercise my options. Get the hell out of my way, Tanya, or I will tell everyone what you just did to me.”
“Your call. Just know that includes telling them what you hallucinated.”
Devon goes still.
Tanya steps back and waves at the open yard. “Go on. I’ll warn my dad before your parents call.” She peers at Devon through the semi-dark. “You are going to tell your parents, right? Once word gets out, it’ll reach them.”
When Devon looks at Tanya, there is pure hatred in his eyes. I’d quail under that look. Hell, under that look, I’d question every life choice I’d ever made. I’d also feel the overwhelming urge to defend myself. Tanya just meets Devon’s look head on. “Well? Go on,” she says. “What’s the big deal, right? Clearly, you hallucinated killing your father.”
“My father is fine.”
“Your adoptive father, you mean. You never knew your birth father. Or that’s the story you told us. So, what happened? Did you kill him?”
Devon snarls and slams Tanya against the shed. Before I can intercede, Tanya shoves Devon off, and they stand, glaring at each other.
“Tanya?” I whisper. “That shit’s not funny.”
“Nope, not funny at all,” she says. “But he clearly thinks he killed his father. That’s a problem.”
“A problem?” Devon’s voice comes as a hiccup. “Is that what you call it, Tanya? An intellectual conundrum?”
I lift my hands. “Okay, everyone just breathe. Tanya is implying you accidentally killed your birth father. Either that’s wrong—and you were hallucinating—or you did do it and understandably never told us. It’s nothing we needed to know.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Devon says, his voice low.
I shake my head. “We know you, Dev. There’s no way you intentionally—”
“I shot him in his sleep. I don’t know why. I just know that I did it on purpose.”
I look at Tanya. “What did you give him?”
“This isn’t the drugs speaking, Blythe,” Devon says. “I murdered my father.”
“That’s impossible,” I say slowly. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” Devon snaps. “You wouldn’t, Miss Perfect. You—”
“Cut the crap,” Tanya says. “If you think you can scare off Blythe with insults, you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with. Now that she’s got the scent of this mystery, she’s following it to the end. Same as me.”
I glance at her. “Do you know what’s going on here?”
“No, but I have an idea.” She looks at Devon. “You don’t remember killing your father, do you? You forgot about it.”
“How could he forget something like that?” I say.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” She turns to Devon. “Any answers?”
He says nothing, and that’s answer enough. He hasn’t told Tanya she’s full of shit. He just stands there, saying nothing, and then Tanya says, “Let’s find a place to talk.”
SIXTEEN
Getting Devon away from the party isn’t easy. There, he feels safe, as if he could shout and bring rescue. It’d be short-lived, though. Something is going on here, and it no longer matters whether it has anything to do with Gabrielle. Another friend needs us…whether he thinks he does or not.
We eventually get him away. Tanya changes into regular clothes, and we drive out to the hill. It’s the one place we’re guaranteed privacy. It’ll also, I hope, remind Devon of our shared past.
When we get there, Devon sits, knees drawn up, gaze on the ground. A defensive posture, as if he has no intention of talking.
“Why do you think you killed your father?” I ask.
“Because I did.”
“Is Tanya correct, then? You somehow forgot it?”
“I didn’t just forget. It was taken from me.”
“Taken…?”
“The memories,” Tanya says. “Is that what you mean? You don’t think you just blocked the memories. You think someone took them?”
“I know someone took them. I know—” Devon hugs his knees tighter. “I want to go home.”
He sounds like a child, like the Devon we knew, and Tanya hesitates.
I move over to sit beside Devon. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I’d like to hear it. I’d like to understand.”
“Like to help me, you mean,” he says. “Help me realize I’m crazy. Oh, sorry, mentally unstable.”
“Just tell us what you— Tell us what happened.”
He looks over. “What I think happened. That’s what you were going to say.”
Tanya stands in front of us. “You honestly expect us to buy this story without a shred of evidence, Devon?”
Devon’s jaw tenses, but after a moment, he gives an abrupt nod. “Fine. If you can somehow convince me I’m wrong, I’ll be ecstatic. But I’m not wrong.”
He puts his legs out, making Tanya sidestep.
“You just going to loom, Martel?” Devon says. “Or are you going to sit and join us for story time?”
Tanya snorts, but plunks down on Devon’s other side.
“It started after we moved to California,” Devon says. “I went to a movie with some new friends. There was this scene of a guy getting shot in his bed.” He glances at me. “You know what déjà vu is, right?”
“Feeling like you’ve seen something before,” I say.
“Right. Since then, I’ve read up on PTSD, and how something can trigger past trauma. Except there wasn’t any past trauma I knew about. No reason why this scene sent me running from the movie theater. No reason why I’d be huddled behind the building with my head between my knees, barely able to breathe.”
We don’t speak. Anything we say will sound like doubt.
Devon continues, “I started having nightmares. They weren’t clear at first. Bits and pieces. A bed. A gun. Blood. I thought I was reliving the movie. It didn’t seem to match, though. Then, slowly, it came clear. Me shooting a man in his bed.”
He pulls his knees in again. “At first, it was almost laughable. This was the big puzzle my brain was torturing me with? Imagining myself doing what I saw in a movie?”
We don’t answer. If I did, I’d leap on this, saying his impulse had been right, and Devon’s imagination had clearly run away with him.
He continues, “It wouldn’t stop. It kept playing in my head, even when I was awake.” He glances from me to Tanya. “Do you guys still get your mental health checkups?”
I nod. They’re like physical checkups, except poking and prodding our minds. Has anything been bothering us? Making us particularly angry or anxious? Anything we wanted to talk about in private? Concerns? Questions?
While we always grumble about the sessions, I think they’re a good idea. Mental health is as important as physical health. I remember when Tanya first realized she wasn’t interested in dating or sex. Dr. Kenner was the first person she told, who reassured her it was no cause for concern. It just placed her in a different spot on the sexuality spectrum, which might change or might not.
“We all still go,” Tanya says. “Annual checkups, mental and physical.”
“Do they ask you about obsessive thoughts?”
Tanya shrugs. “They don’t call it that, but I know what you mean.”
When I frown, she looks at me. “They ask whether we get an idea in our head that we can’t get out. Like an ear-worm, but a thought instead of a song.”
“Ah, right.” I turn to Devon. “That’s what you had? With the dream?”
He nods. “I wanted to see a therapist. I asked my parents, thinking it’d be no big deal, right? That’s how we were raised. Instead, it turned into this big production.”
I frown. “Production?”
“They seemed to brush it off, which was annoying. Then I started hearing them on the phone, making all kinds of calls. They were telling me to chill while they freaked out. That meant it must be worse than I thought.”
Now it’s Tanya frowning.
I explain to her. “Because they were so eager to reassure Devon.”
“That’d be your parents, Blythe,” Devon says. “Having my parents tell me to chill—nicely tell me, not snap that I’m overreacting—raised red flags even before I overheard the frantic phone calls. Then they had me speak to Dr. Kenner.”
Dr. Kenner performs our annual mental health checks. He worked for CMT before they relocated to Darlington Hills. He’d been near retirement, and so they let him telecommute rather than move away from his kids and grandkids. He comes back for these mental health checks. Everyone likes Dr. Kenner. If there’s a fantasy version of a psychiatrist, he’s it—gentle and soft-spoken and endlessly understanding. Even Tucker’s comfortable with him.
“That makes sense, right?” I say. “Dr. Kenner knows you.”
“I guess so, but it felt weird. My parents are insisting nothing’s wrong while pulling me from school to video-conference with a guy across the country. Anyway, Dr. Kenner had questions. Lots of questions. He said it sounded like I’d triggered a memory of an old movie, something I saw when I was too young for stuff like that. After the conference, my parents insisted I go back to school, even though it was already afternoon. They called me a cab. I gave the guy twenty bucks to drop me off down the street.”
“And he did?” I say.
Devon gives me a withering look. “You really are a Darlington Hills girl, aren’t you? Yes, in the real world, no one actually cares whether you go to school or not. Guy dropped me off, and I snuck home, came in the back door, and found my parents on a video conference. They were talking to one of the corporate bigwigs, the guys who fly in once a year for the annual CMT banquet. My parents were freaking out. Furious with this guy. Saying they were told I’d been ‘fixed.’ That there wasn’t any danger. They said they didn’t get paid enough to babysit a kid who might murder them in their sleep.”
