The Creeping

I push forward into the mob, trying to get to its core, where Mr. Talcott is handcuffed like a criminal. Fragments of Zoey’s voice follow behind me, cursing and shouting, trying to keep at my heels. I don’t have a plan, and by the time I realize that this was a horrible idea—like pounding-a-strawberry-milk-shake-before-you-get-on-a-roller-coaster brainless—the people around me have started to recognize me. One by one, pairs of eyes attach to me. Some strangers murmur condolences, others scream, “Guilty!” louder, like it’s my battle cry. Everyone smiles this brainwashed fiend’s grin at me, like I’m no longer a seventeen-year-old girl but the main attraction in their circus of horrors.

All the reporters must communicate through some insect-y silent sixth sense, because as soon as one reporter notices me, the whole army turns to torpedo me with questions. I try to spot Shane as I fight forward. If I can find him, explain to him what’s really going on in Savage, they’ll have to let Mr. Talcott go.

The blond reporter with the shellacked helmet of curls is nearest to me. “How does it feel to know that the man who victimized you and your childhood friend will finally be behind bars?” she yells above the chaos.

My stomach thrashes. This is my fault. Doubly so. If I’d been able to tell the cops what happened that day, this wouldn’t have gone on for years. If I had told Shane about the other missing girls, they’d know that there’s no way Mr. Talcott is involved. Instead I was selfish, spoiled, stubborn. Too worried that I’d be sent off to Chicago. Now Mr. Talcott is being sent off to prison.

Hands reach out, palms petting me, patting me, squeezing me. Everyone trying to console me, not giving me any room to breathe. I can’t wade through the crowd any farther. A wall of reporters has formed—at least they won’t be hassling Mr. Talcott now—and I can’t get past their swarm of cameras. The blonde sticks her microphone in my face again and says, “Any comment on the judge moving Kent Talcott’s trial to today?”

Mr. Talcott and his police escort reach the top of the stairs, and the beast of the mob cries louder, working itself into a tizzy. Jeanie’s dad’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s being careful not to look anywhere but at his shoes. Someone in the crowd throws a full soda can at him; it thuds loudly between his shoulder blades. Zoey comes out of nowhere, elbowing and kicking to make her way to my side. Her hand slips into mine; her bony fingers make me braver. The crowd writhes and cackles as Mr. Talcott stumbles to regain his balance.

In that faltered step, in the instant I see the yellow and violet stains on his face from where people—probably neighbors he’s shared meals and laughs with—attacked him, it hits me. There’s only one thing I can do.

I grab for the blond reporter’s microphone, wrenching it from her faux orange grip, and yell at the top of my lungs, “I remember what happened. It wasn’t Jeanie’s dad. Jeanie’s dad is innocent.”





Chapter Twenty-One


It’s amazing how quickly the fury drains out of the crowd. One minute the mob is an angry beast, and the next they’re sheepish adults looking nervously around like they hope no one will remember that they were here.

Once I scream the lie I look to Zoey, for I don’t know what. She inclines her head almost imperceptibly, and I know that I did the only thing I could have, the thing she would have done. The police find us, and we’re propelled forward through the now docile crowd. I gulp one last breath of fresh air before being ushered into the courthouse.

Mr. Talcott sits against the far wall, slumped on a wooden bench, red hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, still flanked by cops. The officers turn toward me, mouths twisted as they watch me, noses scrunched like my lie reeks. And then I spot Daniel.

Daniel’s dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a button-down shirt, like he’s going to homecoming or a funeral. He’s nodding, arms crossed against his chest and speaking under his breath to a paunchy older guy clad in a suit and the kind of spectacles my father wears. A wash of relief and I sink back onto my heels. He’s probably already told the police everything Sam told him. They know about the generations of missing redheads, and they’ve likely sent a patrol car out to Mrs. Griever. She’ll give a statement, an official one this time, and Mr. Talcott will be home for dinner.

I step forward, lips forming Daniel’s name. But then Shane, who pushes through the crowd of uniforms, comes to rest at Daniel’s side, clapping a hand on his shoulder. I hang back uneasily, struck dumb. The thinly veiled distrust that Shane has always had for Daniel—my restraining order against Daniel had even been Shane’s idea—is gone. In its place is a fatherly smile, an encouraging bob of his head, and a thumbs-up. Gradually, I recognize the man in the suit as a lawyer with the courthouse, one who prosecutes criminals rather than defends them. But ultimately it’s the fact that Mr. Talcott is in shackles and Daniel is getting a pat on the back that sets off a keening siren in my head.

Shane starts toward me. “Stella, what’s going on?” he asks tersely. “This is serious,” he adds just in case I’m a total moron and the least observant person on earth.

“I think she gets that,” Zoey says saucily, hands on her hips.

“What is Daniel doing here?” I ask, craning my neck to catch his eye. We’re fifteen feet apart, but I can’t seem to snag his attention.