Ember X (Death Collectors)

chapter 6

When night arrives, I don’t visit the cemetery. The news announced that Laden is considered a missing person and that there is evidence of foul play. My mom ended up skipping out on dinner and so Raven took her place at the table. She acted like a lunatic, like she was high on the news of Laden’s disappearance, or high on something.

While Raven and I were out shopping, I tried to press her about the details of last night, but she shifted the conversation to clothes every time. I end up going to bed early, but late during the night, I’m woken up by the sound of my mom’s voice.

“Ian,” she yells up the stairs in a drunken slur. “I need your help.”

Ian is locked away in the attic, with his “muse,” a mysterious person that sneaks in every night so he can paint them. I climb out of bed and pad to the top of the stairway.

“Mom, Ian’s in the attic,” I say tiredly, rubbing my eyes and yawning. “What do you need?”

She frowns up at me. “I need help getting up the stairs.”

I sigh and trot to the bottom of the stairway. Her brown hair is disheveled and knotted and her eyes are bloodshot. She used to be pretty, but her lifestyle has rapidly aged her.

She tugs down the hem of her dress and drapes her arm around my neck, sighing. She smells like tequila and cigarettes and her death omen smothers me, like it always does when I come into contact with her. She’s lying in a bed of pills and bottles, dying in her own flames. Holding my breath, I guide her to her room, lie her down on the bed, and slip off her high heels.

She blinks at me through her blurry eyes. “You look so much like him,” she mutters. “You have his eyes and everything.”

She’s referring to my father. “Shhh… Get some rest,” I say, tossing her shoes onto the floor.

“I wonder if you’ll turn out like him,” she says, rolling onto her side. “I bet you will… A killer… You did kill your grandma.”

Her words stab at my heart, like a rusty, jagged knife, but it’s not the first time she’s uttered them. “Mom, Dad didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yes, he did… Yes, he did.” She drifts off to sleep.

I force back the tears and rush out of her room. I don’t cry—I never do—but I can’t fall back asleep. So I read Cameron’s poem, over and over again until the words blur together and make no sense at all. Just like my life.

***

I’m running late the next morning and if I don’t hurry my ass up I’m going to be late for my English class. There are bags under my bloodshot eyes and I look pallid. I quickly get dressed in torn jeans, grey combat boots, and a black vest over a striped T-shirt. Raven texts me as I’m barreling down the stairs, pulling my hair into a ponytail.

Raven: Need 2 get ur own ride 2day.

I halt at the bottom of the stairs and text back.

Me: Why? Is something wrong?

It takes her a second to answer.

Raven: I got things 2 do 2day. Can’t b late.

Me: Just hold on. I’m almost out the door.

Raven: Already gone.

Raven: FYI the news said Laden disappeared the night of the party

Me: … that makes no sense. I saw him outside the house.

Raven: whateva u say. U would know how he died though. U saw it remember. It’s why I had 2 hang out with him

Me: He’s not necessarily dead yet, only missing.

Raven: If you say so. But anyway gotta go. C u in Biology :)

I throw my phone into my bag, wondering how the hell I’m going to get to class. I’ve already missed too much and I don’t want to bail. I consider hitting Ian up for a ride, but then I’d have to explain what happened to Dad’s car. And I’m not ready for that yet. The only other alternative is to take the overly crowded public bus that is crammed with unavoidable death omens.

“What’s up with you?” Ian asks, munching on a Pop-Tart in the kitchen doorway.

“Nothing.” I snatch my house keys off the table. “I’m just tired.”

“Did Mom say anything to you last night?” he asks. “Like maybe why she hasn’t been taking her meds.”

“Does she ever talk about anything?” I snap, shoving my keys into my pocket.

Ian holds up his hands and backs up. “Sorry. I was just asking a question. But I guess I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

I open my mouth to apologize, but he turns back into the kitchen, shrugging me off. I grab my jacket off the banister and step outside. I slip on my jacket and stare at the end of the street at the bench in front of the bus stops. Walk or ride the bus? God, I have no clue.

Cameron’s Jeep suddenly appears beside the curb. He rolls down his window and crooks his finger at me.

I start to walk over, but then hesitate.

“I promise I don’t bite.” He dazzles me with an exquisite smile. “Unless, of course, that’s what you want.”

I start to pant, my chest actually heaving. My feet trot down the steps and across the grass on their own accord and I stop inches away from his door.

“You look lost,” he says, his dark gaze skimming my body behind his sunglasses.

“I have to get to class,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around myself. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel naked and I’m not sure if I like it or if it makes me feel uncomfortable. “But my car’s… broken.” I shift my weight uneasily.

“Hop in.” He nods at the passenger seat. “I’ll give you a ride to the college… I was headed down there anyway to enroll for next semester.”

“I was going to walk.” I adjust the handle of my bag. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

He shakes his head and laughs, sliding his sunglasses off. “Hop in, Ember. I don’t mind giving you a ride. Trust me… In fact, I’m more than happy to.”

I hold his gaze for a moment, catching onto his hidden meaning, then I glance at the corner of the street where a line of people wait for the bus. “Okay… Thanks.” I walk around the front and hop into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like vanilla mixed with a hint of earthy cologne. Cameron waits for me to buckle my seatbelt, then pushes up his sunglasses up, and drives down the road. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hand rests on the shifter and his fingers tap to the music murmuring through the stereo. The compulsion to reach over and entwine my fingers with his nearly devours me.

“So are you always this quiet?” he asks after minutes of silence drones by.

I turn my head away from the window. “I just don’t see the point of talking unless there’s something to say.”

His eyes enlarge. “Okay, sorry for asking.”

I fidget with my leather bracelet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out so bitchy. I’m just having a rough morning.”

He nods and proceeds with caution. “But I’m pretty sure you and I do have something to say, so the question is, do you want to say it or should I?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to put it out there,” I say, shocked. “But okay.”

“The first thing you should know about me is that I hate secrets. They are pointless and request too much energy from an individual, unless the revelation of the secret brings pain to someone.” His lips move like they are a poet’s pen on a sheet of paper.

“Okay, so why were you digging up a grave in the cemetery the other night?” I lay it on the table.

His grin enhances with amusement. “To see if they really do put dead bodies in coffins.”

I’m unsure how to respond. “I’m pretty sure they do.”

“See, that’s why I think you and I can get along,” he remarks cleverly. “Most people would have jumped out of the car with that response.”

I tuck my bangs out of my eyes. “Most people wouldn’t have gotten in the car in the first place.”

“Excellent point.” He flips on the blinker and turns onto the school road. “I was doing my parents’ dirty work. My grandfather—or Old Man Carey as your weird friend calls him—owned a jewel that had a lot of sentimental value to my family. It’s been passed down from generation to generation. But no one can find where my grandfather put it, so they sent me to check in his coffin, just in case he requested to be buried with it and never told anyone except his friend who handled my grandfather’s funeral arrangements.”

For some reason, his story reminds me of a 1980s Tom Hanks movie I watched once—The Burbs. “Did you find it?”

“Again, you’re not fazed.” He grins, pleased and entertained. “No, I didn’t find it.”

“Did you think to ask your grandfather’s friend before you went rummaging around in his coffin?” I question. “It might have been an easier place to start.”

“Hmm…” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I never thought of that.” He laughs and smiles. “Of course I did, but it turns out my grandfather’s friend has already passed away himself, only days after the funeral ended.”

“That’s weird.” I’m torn on whether I believe him. “So who was that man doing the actual digging?”

His smile falters and his face reddens with anger. “You saw him?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah…”

His anger alarms me. “He’s my uncle.”

“You don’t like him?” I ask.

He fiddles with the keychain and sadness hues eyes. “He’s… tolerable.” He turns into the crowded school parking lot and everyone stares. The town has a very low population and an unidentified vehicle is big news. I can almost see the invisible stream of gossip move from car to car. “Wow, it’s like being a movie star,” he comments as he parks in an empty spot.

A smile curls at my lips. “Oh, it’s going to get a lot worse for you. Trust me. The new guy—it will be the headline of the newspaper.” I make a motion with my hand. “Well, maybe it won’t be quite that big. Someone else just moved here today too.”

He takes the keys out of the ignition. “Do you know who it is?”

“Yeah, I met him at a party Saturday night.” I unbuckle the seatbelt. “His name’s Asher Morgan.”

A dark shadow possesses his expression. “And you’ve already met him?”

“Yeah…” My eyebrows scrunch. “At the party, like I just said.”

He stares at the dashboard, jingling the keys with anxious energy, and then he opens the door and climbs out of the car.

I hop out and meet him around the back. “You said you don’t keep secrets,” I say as we head for the bricked canopy entrance. “But it kind of seems like you are.”

“No, I said secrets were pointless unless they hurt someone.” He picks up the pace and waves over his shoulder. “See you around, Ember.”

The whole female student body watches him swagger up the sidewalk, practically drooling. I roll my eyes and shift directions for the side entrance. By this afternoon, he’ll probably be screwing Mackenzie Baker in the utility closet.

The side entrance is the mellow area of the small school, leading right into where my English class is. I rummage through my bag as I walk down the hall, pull out my cell phone, and text Raven.

Me: U at skool yet?

I wander down the hall decorated with fake spider webs and orange and black confetti, with my head tucked down, waiting for an answer.

Me: Hey, r u ok?

Again, no response. I put my phone back in my bag and decide to check in the art room. Sometimes Raven goes in there for fun, when the Professor doesn’t have a class going, because she says it’s the most serene spot to paint with the mountains right outside, along with the football practice field, where the guys run around with their shirts off.

I poke my head inside, but the only person there is a guy painting in the far corner, so I begin to back out.

“Ember,” the guy calls out.

“Asher?” I step into the classroom. “What are you doing in here?”

He stifles a smile. “Painting.”

“But how are you here… I didn’t know you could start class mid-semester.”

“I’m not,” he replies. “The Professor is my dad’s brother and I stopped by to say hi… one thing lead to another.” He raises the paintbush. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“So you have connections?” I say in a teasing tone. “I see.”

His grin illuminates his slate eyes that are shadowed by strands of his hair. “I guess you could say that.”

I grow flustered with the impulse to walk across the room, run my hands up his lean arms, tangle my fingers through his hair, yank him down, and suck his tongue into my mouth.

“Well, I’ll see you around.” I wave and step back to depart the room.

“Aren’t you curious if I’m any good?” He sets the paintbrush down on the tray and motions me over.

I set my bag on a table and weave through the desks and his eyes never leave me the entire time. By the time I reach him, my skin is sizzling from his gaze and the sexual tension building between us.

He has a black hoodie pulled over his At the Drive-In T-shirt and his faded jeans are stained with little droplets of black paint, the same look Ian often sports. He brushes his black hair out of his eyes and I notice a small scar along his brow line, right beneath his eyebrow piercing.

He gestures at the canvas. “So, what do you think?”

I turn my head and my lips part in surprise. It’s the most stunning painting I’ve ever seen. Flawless strokes of black paint brush the shape of a male Angel with his head tucked down and his dark hair hanging over his eyes. His feet are traced by a black circle, like he’s bound to the lonely spot, and he’s crying. The agony and torment in his expression is so real, I want to reach out and comfort him.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe in awe. “I can feel his pain and anguish. It’s like it’s killing him, being trapped to that single spot.”

“You understand it like a true artist,” he observes, with a trace of pain in his eyes. “Do you paint?”

I shake my head. “No, my brother does. And Raven. I’m more of an artist with words.”

“So, you’re a writer,” he says, sounding a little unpleased.

I turn to face him and realize he’s standing closer than I thought. Out of habit, I step back, and the heel of my boot collides with the easel. “I want to be one someday.”

He sweeps a strand of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear, a reminder that I don’t have to fear his touch; that his contact only brings solace, not sorrow.

“Do you know some believe that the eyes are the window to the soul?” he asks softly.

I elevate my eyebrows. “You know that’s a pick-up line, right?”

His intense expression is breathtaking as he cups my cheek and grazes his thumb along my cheekbone. The feel of his skin against mine sends tingles all over my body and fills me with feelings I’ve never experienced before because they can only come through contact with another.

“It is now, but a long time ago people used to believe that a person’s eyes gave insight to one’s soul. It showed what they were really feeling and their vulnerability.” He gently traces his finger below my eyes. “You have beautiful eyes, but there’s so much sadness in them.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on his lips. Dear God Almighty, he has such luscious lips.

“Ember,” he whispers and temporarily unhitches the chains that bind me to every single person’s death. It’s a strange feeling, but an invigorating one. “I want to kiss you.” His voice drops to a husky whisper as he leans in. “Please tell me I can kiss you… God please just say it.”

“Yes…” I breathe and it takes me a second to realize the full meaning of my response; that after nineteen years of intentional solitude I’ll finally be kissed.

He closes his eyes, leaning closer. My heart thumps vigorously in my chest as his mouth nears and then moments later our lips touch.

A groan instantly slips from my mouth as the sensation of his kiss spirals through my entire body. It only gets worse when he slides his tongue between my lips and I open my mouth, letting him in, tangling my tongue with his and tracing the tip along his tongue ring.

His hands skim around to my waist and he backs me up until my back is pressed up against the wall. His firm chest crushes against mine as he tilts my body back, holding onto me, while he explores my mouth with his tongue. Breathy noises keep fleeing from my mouth and deep throaty groans keep escaping from his.

“Ember…” he whispers as his mouth leaves mine. He starts making a path of soft kisses down my jawline, to the arch of my neck, and my head falls to the side as he approaches my collarbone and his teeth gaze my skin.

“Oh my God…” I clutch onto his shoulders for support, wanting more—needing more.

When he reaches the top of my shirt, I bow my back, letting him know what I want. His fingers glide up the front of me, over my ribs and breast, and when he reaches my collar, he pulls it down along with my bra, exposing my breast. Seconds later, his mouth is wrapped around my nipple, licking, nipping at it, the cold metal of his lip clipping my skin and adding to the exhilaration pulsating through my body. I want to brace myself as my knees start to buckle, but all I can do is thread my fingers through his hair and hold onto him as I fall. His hands grip my sides, holding me up and then one of them slips between my knees. His palm glides upward and when he arrives at the top of my leg, he begins rubbing his hand back and forth, driving my body and mind crazy.

“Asher, what are you doing?” a male voice crushes the moment.

Our eyes snap open and before he backs away, he slides my shirt and bras back over my breast. Luckily, we’re hidden behind the easel; otherwise, the professor would have gotten a full view of what we were doing.

Professor Morgan, the art professor, is standing by his desk with a confounded look on his face. He’s in his mid-forties, with chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes and he wears a lot of cargo pants and polo shirts, smeared with charcoal, paint, clay—any art supply, really.

“Oh, hi there, Ember.” He sets a stack of artwork down on his corner desk. “Have you seen Raven this morning? She usually comes in here to work on stuff, but I haven’t seen her. I have a couple of questions about the last painting she turned it. I want to talk to her before I have to start my first class.”

“I think she’s running late,” I say and then press my swollen lips together.

“Oh, I see.” His gaze flicks to Asher and something in his eyes makes me want to leave. “Do you know if she’s going to make it to my class this morning?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh. Okay.” He seems distracted and keeps shooting Asher dirty looks.

Taking it as a signal to leave, I wave goodbye to Asher. “See you around, I guess.”

Returning to his easel, he picks up the paintbrush, avoiding eye contact with me “Yeah, sure.”

Trying not to take it defensively, I walk out of the room and head to the other side of the building. It’s a very small walk, due to the lack of size of the college. When I arrive, Professor Mackerlie is writing on the whiteboard. He also teaches high school English, so this is pretty much my third time around with his teaching tactics.

I walk to the back of the classroom without him noticing. My bag lands on the floor loudly and he turns with the marker in his hand. “Oh, Ember, I didn’t see you come in.” He clicks the lid on the marker and sets it in the tray.

We are studying William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and one of his poems is written on the board. I read the book when I was fifteen after Raven made me watch the movie—the newer version starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes—so I already know how the story goes: love, rivalry, violence, and tragedy.

Professor Mackerlie shifts through papers on his desk as people start wandering into the classroom. Then suddenly, he’s directing his attention on me.

“I really enjoyed the poem you wrote for last week’s assignment.” He taps a finger on the paper in his hand, stained with my penmanship.

“Thanks,” I reply, shifting uncomfortably. I never meant to turn in that particular poem. I wrote it in a weak moment and then didn’t have anything to turn in, so I had to make do.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to read it aloud to the class,” he says. I shake my head in protest, but he’s already turning away.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair, but then sit up again as Mackenzie Baker walks in with Cameron in tow. I’ve known Mackenzie since I was in kindergarten and we’ve never been friends. I secretly wished that once high school was over, she’d leave town, but like almost everyone else, she was pretty intent on staying. Sometimes, I swear the town is haunted and it’s actually impossible to leave.

Mackenzie has strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and wears clothes that allow her cleavage to pop out. She’s kind of like Raven in a way, only maybe a little less forward.

“He’s sitting in on one of your classes,” she states to the professor. “To see if he wants to take it next semester.”

Cameron grins at me, like he’s up to something, which he probably is since this is English and is a prerequisite to pretty much every major.

The Professor barely acknowledges anything’s going on and Mackenzie takes a seat, holding onto Cameron, urging him to sit by her. But he slips his arm from her grip and heads over to me.

“You look a little upset.” Cameron slides onto my desk, trying to act nonchalant, but sorrow haunts his eyes.

“I’m fine.” I take a pen and notebook out of my bag. “I’m just having a rough morning.”

“Did you find your friend?” he asks. “The one with the pink hair?”

I shake my head. “No, but that’s Raven. She’s very sporadic.”

He studies my face closely, as if he’s looking for cracks that will reveal some hidden secret. “I saw you in the art room this morning.”

I pull the pen out of my mouth as my jaw falls. “When?”

He bites at his lip and I can’t tell if he looks annoyed or intrigued. “I just saw you walk in and start talking to some guy.”

“That guy was the other new person in this town that I was telling you about this morning.”

“I know.”

“You seem like you know him?”

“Only from word of mouth.” Placing his hands on the desk, he leans in, smelling of mint hued with a woodsy aroma. “I’m finding out you were right about the whole new-guy thing. Even the Dean seemed overly excited by my appearance.”

“I told you they’d eat you up,” I remark with a small smile.

“No, you told me they’d be star-struck by me.” He smirks, inching his face closer to mine. “The only one who looks like they could eat me up is you.”

I fight my instinct to look away from him. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” He dazzles me with a challenging smile and I shake my head, fighting my own grin.

“Are you always like this?”

“What? Sexy? Gorgeous? Charming?”

“I was going to go with a pain in the ass.”

He smirks, loving my attitude. “You’re pretty charming yourself.”

From a desk in the front row, Mackenzie crosses her legs and crooks her finger at Cameron. “Come here, Cameron.”

Cameron leans away and touches his chest. “My fans are calling me,” he says and I roll my eyes as he saunters up to Mackenzie, whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, patting his chest.

After the bell rings, Mr. Mackerlie takes roll, then stands in the front of the room with my poem in his hand. “Listen up, everyone.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to share with everyone something that I think is an excellent poem that was turned in for last week’s assignment. But I’m going to keep it anonymous.” His gaze flicks to me for only a second, but it’s enough that eyes roam in my direction.

“The poem is called Ember.” Every looks at me and Mr. Mackerlie clears his throat again before reading. “The ember dies slowly in a mound of ash. Darkness and mourning, it longs to burn fire. But the smoke and sorrow let it die. The need for a spark asserts fiercely. But a spark won’t surrender. So the ember continues to smother. Into ash, into dust, into nothing. And that’s how it will stay forever.”

As much as I wish I could be confident in my words, I’ve been known for too long as the twisted girl who obsesses about death.

Everyone is staring at me like I’m the lunatic they always thought I was, ever since my dad’s disappearance. But I refuse to cower, so I sit up straight and wait for Mr. Mackerlie to move on.

Some guy coughs into his hand, “Psycho killer.”

Giggles flutter the room and Cameron raises his hand.

“Yes,” Mr. Mackerlie says. “Wait, who are you? I’ve never seen you in this class before.”

“Let’s just say I’d like to stay anonymous,” he says, throwing off the professor. “And personally, I think it was an amazing poem about pain and survival.”

The Professor browses over the poem again. “Well, that’s a good interpretation, but I think perhaps it’s more about the natural process of death.”

Cameron taps his fingers on the desk. “Death might be a theme, but I don’t think that’s what it’s completely about. I think it’s more relative to the pain someone feels about death and their need to survive through the pain, even though they think they can’t. Perhaps they’ve even lost someone close to them and they are trying to break free from the continual heartache and torment.”

Everyone goes silent and I swear I could kiss those pretty guy lips of his. He turns around and gives me a look that says, You know you’re in love with me now.

“Well, that’s very deep.” Mr. Mackerlie looks about as befuddled as the rest of the class. “But where did you come from… I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Cameron clicks his pen. “I’m working on transferring… thought I’d see if I wanted to take this class next semester.”

The Professor shuffles through some papers. “Where did you live before here?”

“New York,” Cameron responds dryly.

“Oh, the Big Apple.” Mr. Mackerlie selects a paper from the stack and places the rest on his desk.

“That would be the one.” Cameron sounds bored.

“Well, it’s great to have you here, not just as a visitor, but as a new member of our town.” Professor Mackerlie is also on the town committee and he welcomes Cameron, before moving onto Shakespeare. Cameron doesn’t glance at me during class; however, I can’t take my eyes off him. He‘s fascinating and at the same time frightening. Who is this guy that digs up graves in the cemetery? Who speaks up for me in class and writes the most beautiful words? Who is from New York, just like Asher?

A coincidence? For some reason, I don’t think so.

***

My next class is about as uneventful as watching paint dry. I’m about to head to my third and last class of the day, when I’m waved into the main office by the secretary.

She holds a finger up while she continues talking to a slender woman with blonde hair, a sharp nose, and glasses framing her narrow face. Her hair is tight in a bun and she sports a pinstriped pantsuit. I drop down in a chair and wait.

“Yes, I know, but I don’t see why you have to do it here,” the secretary, Mrs. Finnelly, tells the woman.

The woman leans on the counter. “Can you just check again?”

Mrs. Finnelly sighs and types something on her keyboard. She rolls her chair back to the corner filing cabinet and takes out a thin manila folder. “Here you go, Beth, but I don’t see how her file is going to help. In fact, she’s right here, so it might be better just to talk to her.”

Beth turns around and her blue eyes promptly darken with abhorrence. “Ember Edwards, I’m detective Crammer.”

My lips twitch. “Okay.”

She motions to the counselor’s office door. “Why don’t we go in here so we can talk more privately.”

I follow her into the counselor’s office, which is packed with plants and family photos. There’s a bag hanging on a coat rack in the far corner and the air smells like pumpkin and spice. Detective Crammer takes a seat in the office chair and I sit down in front of the desk.

She opens the file with my name printed on it. “You excel in English… but your math grades look a little weak.” She takes off her glasses and tosses them on the desk. “Well, I’ll get straight to the point since we only have the office for a few minutes.” She rolls forward in the chair, and overlaps her hands on top of the desk. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Laden Miller disappeared last night. Now, the last place he was seen was a party you were at. Is that correct?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “But a lot of people were.”

“Just a simple yes or no will suffice,” she says snidely. “Now, as I’m sure you’ve also heard, Laden Miller’s car was found down at the bridge in a very similar situation as how your father’s car was left after his disappearance three years ago. You were the only one ever investigated for his disappearance—the police never had any more leads.”

I brazenly cross my arms. “The charges against me were dropped.”

She pulls out a small notepad from the pocket of her jacket. “I pulled up your father’s case and it said that they got a call right before your dad disappeared. The call was from you and you said he was going to be murdered.”

“No, I said he was going to die. There’s a huge difference.”

“Huge difference or not, it’s highly suspicious. And then you ran away right after.”

I opt for silence, knowing from experience that fewer words mean fewer opportunities to twist what I say around.

Her eyes narrow at me and then she jots something in notepad. “It’s such a strange case. Raven feathers, an hourglass, the bright red X on the road. And of course there’s the blood.”

“They’re all symbols of death,” I say. “I told the police this last time.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she reads over her notes. “Hmm… no one ever made a note of that.”

I shrug indifferently. “Well, it’s true. Except for the X, they all represent death. You can Google it if you want. It’s pretty common knowledge.”

“Did you do that before or after your dad disappeared?”

“After.”

She reddens with frustration, fighting to keep her cool. “You know, I find it highly suspicious that you were at a party Laden Miller attended and then he disappeared. And there were witnesses that said they saw you peeling off in your car right after Laden drove away with another girl.”

Witnesses? “I had somewhere to be… my mom… she needed me home for something,” I lie, but not very well.

She sifts through the notepad. “Actually, if I read the note in the file right, your mother’s been a pretty inactive parent. In fact, she gave up her custody of you and sent you to live with your father when you were four.”

“Inactive or not, she asked me to be home early that night because she needed my help with something.” I make an effort not to fidget, or she’ll use it against me.

Her eyes scrutinize me. “Where were you between the hours of two to four a.m. on Saturday?”

Crashing into a lake, drawing crazy notes on my wall, blacking out. Shit! “I was with Asher Morgan.” It slips out of me and I instantly regret it.

Her eyebrows arch. “And he is?”

“A friend of mine.” I’m digging myself a giant, coffin-sized hole. I grip onto the armrest, hoping she doesn’t notice my uneasiness.

She writes Asher Morgan down at the top of the notebook and then tucks it in her pocket. Then she hands me her card. “We’ll be in touch.”

I take the card, stuff it into my back pocket, and leave the office, not looking back.