Torn. Part 11

"Seth's here."

I opened my eyes. "Seth Gibson? Why?"

"Jill decided to invite St. Sebastian's."

"It's a shame all this money can't buy her some taste," I grumbled. "Does he know I'm here?"

"People kind of noticed your entrance," she said weakly, and I reached for my cup again.

Not terrible, I told myself. He'd been my date to the junior prom last year, and we'd gone out a few times over the summer. He was a perfectly nice guy.

"Jesus, he's boring," says Verity. She browses through a rack of vintage clothing, forehead wrinkling in concentration. "It's like he's competing for an Olympic medal in average."

"He's nice." I shake my head at the sheer purple scarf she's found, and she sighs heavily, putting it back.

"So are c.o.c.ker spaniels. You don't need nice. You've spent your entire life being nice. You need . . ."

"A real b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" I suggest.

She swats at me. "Someone . . . with an edge. Someone dangerous."

"Thanks, but no."

"Someone bad. Just a little bad," she a.s.sures me, and pulls out a sleeveless blouse of bottle green satin. "Not serial killer bad. Try this on."

"Good to know you've got standards." I take the s.h.i.+rt unwillingly, feeling the cool sleekness of the material under my fingers. It's not my style-too revealing and too impractical. It's more Verity than me, but she shoos me back to the cramped, badly lit dressing room and waits outside.

"Mo, the only guys you've ever gone out with are the ones your mom approves of."

"If she didn't approve, I couldn't go out with them." This seems like a reasonable defense. I draw back the curtain and her face lights up.

"Your hair looks fabulous. You're getting it. And this, too," she says firmly, looping the scarf around my neck. The ends dangle past my fingers, but it's practically weightless. "Your mom isn't the one kissing those guys. You need someone who makes you s.h.i.+ver. Can you honestly tell me Seth Gibson makes you s.h.i.+ver?"

Seth didn't make me s.h.i.+ver, even when he blasted the air-conditioning in his Civic.

"Hey, Mo." As if summoned, Seth appeared in the doorway, a cheerful, nervous smile on his face.

Lena shrugged and eased past him. "Find me later," she said.

"Hey, Seth." I clutched my drink as he approached me.

He gave me a clumsy, beer-scented hug and stepped back a little. "Sorry about Verity," he said after one of those pauses that gets longer and more awkward while you try to figure out the least awkward response. "Unreal."

"That's the word." I studied the pitchers of drinks lined up on the counter. Cosmopolitan, appletini, strawberry daiquiri, lemon drop. At least I'd be getting a few servings of fruit. Scurvy wouldn't be an issue.

"You're okay, though. That's good."

I didn't have an answer for that.

We walked toward the breakfast nook, if you could call a room bigger than my bedroom a nook. It was decorated in blues and yellows, the kind of French country farmhouse no farmer could afford. I stared at a collection of rooster plates instead of meeting Seth's eyes. They were a little too bright, full of questions. His face was ruddy. Drunk, but not sloppy drunk.

My cosmo was already hitting me, since I'd skipped dinner. Now I regretted it. Avoiding Seth would be easier if I wasn't weaving.

"I went to the funeral," he said. "Why didn't you come and stand by us?"

Because I was keeping an eye out for a murderer? "Family stuff."

"We all went over to Anderson's later. You should have come."

Of course. They went to Verity's funeral, then had a kegger in her honor. I tugged at my skirt again, trying to figure out the best way to escape.

"I should find Lena."

Seth talked over me. "You were there, right? When it happened?"

My mouth tasted sour. I took another sip to make it go away. "Yeah."

"You're so lucky, Mo." He took a step closer. "It totally could have been you."

He meant well, I reminded myself.

He touched my elbow lightly. "I didn't call after, you know. Because I thought you might need some time."

I didn't point out it had only been two weeks. I stared into my cup as he barreled on. "I was wondering if you wanted to go see that new movie-by the guy who did Shutter? Maybe grab some dinner after?"

A slasher flick? Really? I took a tiny step backward. "Wow. That's . . . um . . . really sweet, Seth. I'm not sure I'm ready, though."

"You look nice. Like you're okay, I mean."

Nice. I was starting to hate the word.

"Next Friday? Good way to start off senior year," he added. He moved closer, running his hand lightly over my bare arm, and that was it. The h.e.l.l with nice.

I shoved his hand away. "I have to find Lena," I said, and fled the room.

It was stupid to come. Stupid to think I could go back to my old life when it had been smashed worse than Verity's snow globe. I stumbled through the house, and this time, if people whispered, I didn't notice.

The good thing about a house like mine is, while it's the size of a s...o...b..x, you can't get lost, no matter how many drinks you've had. Not so with the McAllisters'. I was looking for freedom but ended up in the backyard. The pool threw off a wavering light, the scent of chlorine and pot mingling unpleasantly. Paper lanterns dotted the patio and lawn. Cl.u.s.ters of furniture were scattered throughout, with people perched on them, and the music was so ba.s.s heavy my teeth vibrated. Exactly what I had wanted to avoid. I saw a lone chair peeking out from behind a hedge and practically dove for it.

A crowd was gathered on the other side of the hedge-Jill McAllister, surrounded by admirers. At first I couldn't hear what they were saying, but then the music s.h.i.+fted from electronica to indie-pop, and the conversation carried perfectly.

"You know what they're saying, right?" Jill, no doubt preening. "The killers were after Mo, not Verity."

Audible gasp. "Seriously?"

"No way," someone scoffed. "Mo? They'd have to notice her first." A chorus of giggles.

I bit my lip as Jill said, "It's true. It's all about her uncle. He's a mobster, you know."

"That's right," a voice agreed. "Her dad . . ."

"Was just an accountant." Jill cut the other girl off-no way was she going to let anyone else get the credit for her scoop. "He laundered Mob money, but her whole family was in on it, even her mom. He's getting out of prison soon, too."

"Oh, my G.o.d," another voice shrilled. "Can you imagine?"

You could hear the smirk in Jill's words. "Think he'll wear his prison jumpsuit to graduation?" The group snickered as she continued blithely. "My dad plays tennis with the State's Attorney, and he said the police think the Mob was trying to, like, intimidate Mo's uncle, or something. They were probably only supposed to rough her up."

"No," breathed a groupie. "And they killed Verity instead?"

Someone else spoke. "Were they blind? How do you mix up those two?"

"I know." More cackling. Still, I didn't move, frozen by the need to hear more.

"Is someone still after Mo? I mean, if she's in danger, doesn't that mean we would be, too?" They murmured, gauging the impact such danger might have on their popularity.

"Probably not," said Jill, loving every second of her time as the star. She was such a b.i.t.c.h. Always had been. I knew Verity's death wasn't connected to my family-that much, I was certain of. But the rest of her poisonous little show made a sort of horrible sense. Kowalski's interest in Uncle Billy, Elsa's pit bull tactics, Colin's constant hovering, my mother's increased paranoia-they were all overreacting because they believed there might be a connection. And they would only believe that if the rumors about my uncle and the Mob were true.

I dug my fingernails into my palms and stayed quiet as she spoke again. "They made their point, right? Besides, one dead girl could be random. Two means a lot of media."

She sounded so smug, so smart, and I wanted to reach through the hedge and yank her bottle-blond hair out by the roots. She was parroting what she'd overheard, embellis.h.i.+ng it to get more attention. She'd never liked Verity. She'd been jealous of how someone with less money and less status could be genuinely popular when Jill herself was more feared than liked. Still, I didn't say anything. I stayed in the shadows, just like always.

"Does Mo know?" someone asked.

"Of course! Why else has she been so quiet? She hasn't given any interviews, she has some eight-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer whenever she talks to the police, and you saw her at the funeral-she wouldn't even talk to us. It's her fault, and she knows it."

Enough. I had to get out. I stumbled away, not caring if they heard me. Lights blurred, the walls and floors canting at strange angles. People stared as I shoved my way through crowded rooms, looking for Lena, feeling the effects of my drinks. Rounding a corner, I slammed into Seth. His face brightened and he reached for my hand. I jerked away and darted down another hall, desperate for escape. Forget about tracking down Lena-I'd find another way home. Finally, I found the front door and half fell down the steps, gulping fresh air as I walked. It didn't matter where I ended up, as long as it was away from the party.

Jill's story wasn't true. I mean, the part about my dad, sure, but they'd never proved Uncle Billy was connected to any of the money-laundering charges my dad had been convicted of. My father was a crook, and a lousy one at that, but Uncle Billy was clean-or as clean as anyone in Chicago could be. He'd never do anything to harm our family. He'd promised me. I'd believed him. Until today.

Verity would have stood up to Jill. She wouldn't have hidden behind a bush and let a catty trust-fund bimbo, a Paris Hilton in training, trash her family and her friend. But once again, I'd failed her. I couldn't be like Verity. I couldn't even come close.

I glanced at the ring, at the white sunburst slipping over the deep blue surface whenever a streetlight struck it. It fit me perfectly. Maybe that's why Verity hadn't been wearing it. For safekeeping, until she could get it sized. Who knew why she'd done anything these past few months? Not me, for sure.

The night, at least, was beautiful, the air cool against my overheated skin. The moon was nearly full and a brilliant white. The neighborhood was filled with large, gracious homes, mature trees, plenty of streetlights. I could walk for a while and clear my head, then go back and wait for Lena at her car.

The temperature dropped as I wandered the well-lit sidewalks. I s.h.i.+vered slightly in the breeze, wis.h.i.+ng I'd brought a sweater, and crossed the street to a small park. There was a baseball diamond and bleachers, and an aging metal playground with slides, swings, and a geodesic dome. I fumbled in my purse for my cell, looking around for a street sign. I could call Lena. She'd pick me up, if I could figure out where I was.

Or I could call Colin. He'd find me no matter what. Lena was less likely to yell, though.

The breeze kicked up, and the moonlight on the jungle gym cast checkered patterns on the wood chips underneath. The swings knocked together gently, chains creaking. Sitting down seemed like a good idea, so I started toward a metal spinner, only to catch my heel on the edge of the sidewalk, my ankle turning under me with a quick, agonizing wrench. Perfect.

I hobbled over and sank down, resting my head against the metal grab bar. The pain in my ankle faded to a dull throb, and I ma.s.saged it, keeping my other foot firmly planted. My shoes, black open-toed sandals with a spiky heel, probably weren't the best for making a hurried, drunken escape. If my mom were here, she'd make some pious comment about the dangers of vanity. Right after she strangled me.

The floating effect of the cosmopolitan couldn't quite erase the heavy feeling Jill's words had left. I'd heard rumors about Uncle Billy, but never put so bluntly. Never about me. Even knowing Verity's death had nothing to do with us-Luc had made it crystal clear there was no connection, and he seemed intent on keeping it that way-didn't ease the shock and anger coursing through my body.

When school started, I'd be facing down entire cla.s.srooms of people who thought I was the reason Verity was dead. The realization made my stomach roil. All those eyes on me, not knowing the truth, judging me anyway. If I'd been an outsider before, it was nothing compared to what senior year had in store for me.

Suddenly, the entire park went black and cold. I stood just as the spinner started whirling, sending me face-first into the wood chips.

Ignoring my ankle, I scrambled up, brus.h.i.+ng myself off and looking at the sky. The moon flashed into view, disappearing as something leathery rushed in front of it.

I screamed.

The black shape swooped in. I raced for the houses across the street, slowed by my bad ankle.

He leaped, not gracefully, but powerfully. He landed in front of me, so ma.s.sive that his shadow blocked my view of the cozy brick homes. I backpedaled, running for the swings.

He gained on me, hissing and guttural, seeming to chuckle. Desperate, I shoved the rubber-seated swing at him and kept going.

The thick chain caught him across the chest, knocking him back a foot. I'd never get past him. He was too fast. Instead, I took off toward the iron dome, the only thing that gave any cover at all. Made of thick metal bars, it was heavy enough to keep him off, and the openings were sized for elementary kids, not freakishly tall killers. If I could buy some time, I could call 911.

I glanced back. Mistake. He was still coming, enormous, easily two feet taller than me and swathed in black leather. The coat sleeves flapped like wings as he reached for me.

As my fingertips brushed the bars of the dome, he snagged the back of my s.h.i.+rt, sending me to the ground, my purse tumbling away. Grabbing my foot, he hauled me closer, wood chips sc.r.a.ping my bare legs and arms, Verity's scarf tightening around my throat. His hand felt spiny and sharp against my ankle, the fingers thin but steely and rough. I sobbed and kicked, bucking wildly, and the heel of my shoe-the one he wasn't holding-connected with his hood. There was a squish and a crack, and he fell back, howling.

Half crawling, half running, I made it to the dome and wriggled through an opening meant for a third grader. My breath sounded painful and harsh as he prowled around the outside of the dome.

He stretched an arm between the bars, but I scooted back out of range. And then I spotted my purse. Behind him. Ten feet away.

I was trapped, and the only thing left to do was scream.

He snarled, jumping on top of the dome in one ma.s.sive leap, reaching down for me. I flattened myself against the ground, hands covering my face. The ring felt searingly hot.

Verity's ring.

He snarled and I froze, my terror swept away by fury. He was Verity's killer, or he was one of them. He had to be. I held out my hand, flas.h.i.+ng the ring. The moonlight seemed weaker than before, but even so, the stone was brilliant, like it was lit from within. "Is this what you wanted? Is this why she's dead?"

He went berserk, slamming against the dome, denting the bars.

"I'll give it to you, okay?" Like he wasn't going to kill me anyway.

He must have carried a knife. A metal screech filled the air as he began sawing through the bars. "Come on," I said. "Let's make a deal. You get the ring. I go home. Everybody wins."

He didn't need to make a deal. No one was responding to my screams. I couldn't call 911, not with my phone on the other side of the dome. It might as well have been ten miles away.

He might not bargain for the ring, but maybe it could buy me some time. If I threw it in the opposite direction, there might be enough time for me to dart out, grab the phone, and get back safely. I could call the police. It might be enough to scare him off.

He finished sawing through the first bar and started on the next. He was cutting a doorway. The sc.r.a.ping sound resonated in my teeth, in my bones, and I started to quake. I would lose the ring, but no jewelry was worth my life, right? Verity would understand.

I tried to tug it from my hand, but it wouldn't budge. The second bar tumbled down, missing me by inches. The screech filled my ears as he started on a third. He'd be through in a few more seconds. I yanked harder, my breath coming in sobs.

"Really wish you wouldn't do that, Mouse," came a familiar drawl.

Luc stepped onto the playground, calling out something in another language, and the moon came back.

And whatever was on top of the dome, about to come after me . . . it wasn't a guy. It was a nightmare.

The thing-not a guy, a thing, I told myself over and over again-stopped sawing and turned toward Luc, like he was scenting new prey. I sagged back against the wall of the dome, panting.