The Creeping

“Anyone? What the hell, Stella? I’m your best friend. I’m not just anyone. We’re supposed to tell each other everything, and instead you’re keeping something this juicy from me for nine effing months? I told you when I went down on Patrick Hoser. Stinky effing Patrick Hoser! I tell you my most mortifying secrets.”


But all I hear is Zoey calling my deepest, darkest secret “juicy.” Of course she would see this detail as tantalizing. Of course she’d be livid with me. How could I have been such a fool as to think she wouldn’t be? “It just kind of freaked me out, and I didn’t know what I thought about it. It blindsided me. How could I tell you? You would have made up your mind about what it meant instantly. You would have told me how to feel about it. Maybe I just wanted to figure things out on my own for once?” Tears pour down my face. Is that really why I didn’t tell her? It rings partially true, but not completely.

“Please, Zo, don’t be mad. I’m telling you now and I need your help. I’m desperate for your help.” I hiccup out the last word.

I imagine Zoey sitting rigid on her bathroom floor, seething at the betrayal. “Yeah, whatevs. My mom’s calling me for dinner, so I’ve got to go.” Before I can beg her to stay on the line, she’s gone. Only silence left.

I stare moon-eyed at my phone. Zoey has never hung up on me before. Shouted, berated, cussed, screamed, pulled my hair, and even thrown food at me, sure. But never once has she just fallen silent and refused to fight. Is it really so unforgivable that I kept something that scary to myself? Can’t she fathom that I might have been frightened to tell her? That I might have been worried what she’d think?

“Shit,” I hiss, glaring at the ratty and worn stuffed bunny that rests on my pillow. Now who’s going to help me remember Jeanie? Obviously Daniel could, but do I want to be alone with him? I doubt he’d be willing anyway. He’s so freaking certain that I know more than I’m letting on. I mentally run through the list of those close enough to me that I could ask such a bizarre thing of. It’s shorter than I’d like. What would I say anyway? Hey, do you think you could help me remember who took Jeanie Talcott eleven years ago while her murderer is on the loose offing new victims and her body parts might be showing up one by one? Yeah, right. I’m sure people would be banging down my door to help me with that morbid journey into the past. Especially now that I basically have a target on my back. Michaela’s the only other person I could ask, but she never knew Jeanie, since she moved here in the eighth grade. Wait . . . Sam. Sam Worth went to kindergarten with me and Jeanie. The only reason he wasn’t there the day she disappeared was that it was a girly playdate set up by our moms.

“Crap.” I smack my forehead with my palm and glare at my bunny’s smug whiskered face. Even my bunny with stuffing for brains knows that I screwed up any chance of Sam helping me. He’d probably hang up on me the instant he saw my name on his cell. Or he’d answer to tell me just how little of me there is left. In which case I could assure him that I’m next on a kill list, so there’ll be even less of me left if he refuses to help.

I scroll through my contacts quickly before losing my nerve. I stab my finger at his name. Once I hear ringing, shame washes over me. I have no right to call Sam for help. No right to ask him to do anything for me. Ever. By the second ring I’m in a cold sweat. I hit end before the third can finish me off.

I roll off the bed and lie crumpled on my white shag rug. When my parents remodeled the house, Mom argued with me for days about my choice of carpet. She said it wasn’t practical. She didn’t understand that it was soft on my face and I wanted something to curl up on doing homework and talking on the phone. Even though there’s a glaring green stain from a guacamole debacle, I’m glad I didn’t let her talk me out of it. I wish I could crawl into the shag now and hide.

A buzzing above my head makes me jump. I sit upright and look eagerly at the offending cell. Let it be Zoey calling to give me a chance to explain. It’s not, though. The screen glows blue with Sam’s name in bold black letters. They look angry.

“H-hello,” I stammer. “Sam?”

“You prank calling me now?” His tone is quiet but not angry.

“No . . . I mean, I guess I did, since I called and then hung up. Sorry.”

“Sorry about calling during dinner and then hanging up, or sorry about what you said to me earlier?”

“Both.” I’ve recovered my bunny from the pillow and wrap my arms tightly around his mottled gray body. I hope he’ll keep me afloat through this.

“Well, apology accepted, but I have to go—”

“Wait a sec. Please,” I squeak. “I—I have no right to ask you this, especially after earlier, but I need your help.” A noise halfway between a snort and a chuckle from the other end. “Did you hear about Jeanie’s mom?”

“Yes.”

Another deep breath on my end. “Okay, so the cops have been here, and they think whoever killed her is the one who took Jeanie and is also connected to the body in the cemetery.”