I keep toward the edge of the Grossos’ property, hoping the trees and falling snow will obscure me from any prying eyes. The snow packed on the driveway crunches under my feet, despite my efforts to make my footsteps delicate. I glance in the garage; there’s a snowblower, an ATV, but no Jeep Wrangler papered with NRA bumper stickers. Just like I thought, Cliff isn’t home.
Snowflakes catch on my eyelashes as I creep around the side of the house. Footprints. The Grossos will come home and see my footprints. It’s too late now. I hope it snows harder to cover my tracks and keep plugging away toward the shed.
I freeze. There’s a rustling in the woods, the snapping of twigs. I crane my neck to see better; a fawn stares back at me, a statue except for its jaw working a mouthful of deer feed. I slowly show my hands and it stops chewing. In a flash of brown, it jolts away into the woods.
Overhead, a woodpecker pauses from its tapping. I let out the breath I was holding and continue up to the shed, breathing in through my nose. There’s no rotten smell this time, no stink of blood. The frost paralyzes my nasal cavity, but I can detect pine needles and rust.
I’m brushing my hand over the padlock as a voice sounds around the other side of the shed.
“Don’t move or you’re dead. I mean it.”
All the blood in my body drains to my toes as I see Cliff Grosso coming at me, a crossbow on his shoulder, the tip of the arrow pointed at my heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The words tumble out of my mouth: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t kill me.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Cliff tilts the bow twenty degrees downward. Still close enough to send the arrow flying into a less vital part of me.
“I don’t know.” My inner thigh is wet; I must have peed a little when I saw the crossbow. “What were you doing in the shed?”
“Fueling up the snowblower. What are you doing on my property?”
I can’t stop my knees from shaking. “It was nothing—just let me leave. I swear to God I’ll never come back.”
Cliff’s upper lip twitches. “You’re not going anywhere until I call the police so they can find whatever you left back here for them to find.”
“What? I didn’t leave anything. I swear to God.”
“Just like you didn’t leave Bailey’s phone?” Cliff rubs his upper lip. Nervous. He thinks I planted Bailey’s phone on his property.
“I swear I didn’t do it,” I say. “Please let me go.”
“Nah. I don’t think so. Because someone’s fuckin’ framing me,” Cliff says. “And I think it’s you.”
He lifts the crossbow; I yelp again, but he’s just switching arms. He digs a cell phone out of his pocket and dials. I sneak a glimpse at the screen—he’s calling his father, not 911, which almost makes me piss myself all over again.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, drowning out what Cliff mutters into the phone. I’m going to pass out. When he ends the call, Cliff turns to me: “My dad’s calling the sheriff. He says not to let you leave.”
My teeth are chattering. The pounding in my ears dissolves to white noise. “I need to sit. Can I at least—can we go inside?”
Cliff grabs me by the arm. Pulls me with him around the shed, then pushes me inside the open door at the other end. He must have been in the house the whole time, watching me through the window.
Crossbow still cocked on his shoulder, Cliff moves to a stack of lawn chairs. He grabs one off the top with his free hand and drops it in front of me. “So, sit if you want.”
I sink into the chair and dip my head between my knees. When I come back up, Cliff is staring at me. “You’re one strange bitch, you know that?”
I lick my lips. They’ve gone numb. “Why do you think I planted Bailey’s phone?”
Cliff shrugs. “I heard you know where she is, and you’re trying to make sure everyone’s looking at me.”
“Who’s saying that?” I demand. “That I know where she is?”
“People. Around.” Cliff shrugs. “Everyone knows you keep magically finding evidence.”
“I didn’t find the bloody sweatshirt.” Something about the way that crossbow is pointed at me is making me bold. He’s not going to shoot me: not with Sheriff Moser on his way here. “Speaking of, you’re not missing a sweatshirt, are you?”
Cliff snorts. Shakes his head. “Yeah, cops showed me a picture of the sweatshirt. Not mine.” Cliff stares at me. I notice for the first time how far apart his eyes are. I will never understand the bewitching effect he has over girls like Bridget, who could do so much better.
“You didn’t answer me,” he says. “Why the hell are you here?”
The lawn chair is ice-cold beneath my butt. “I came here looking for Bailey.”
“You think I’m keeping Bailey in my shed?” Cliff blinks at me. “You really must be out of your skull. She’s dead, haven’t you heard?”
“You seem pretty confident about that.”
“Whatever. I feel bad about it and all, but it’s time to face facts. And I’m so sick of people trying to pin this shit on me because of what happened last year.”
I keep my eye on the crossbow, my teeth chattering. “Maybe they think losing a scholarship is big enough of a deal to kill someone.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I already told the cops I let it go. I didn’t give a shit about Bay anymore.”
“Then why wouldn’t you let the cops search your backyard?”
“Whatever. My dad is a private person.” Cliff shifts his crossbow to his other shoulder again. “Besides, my Jeep is at the crime lab right now. I let them search it because I got nothing to hide.”
So stupid. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Cliff would turn his Jeep over. I’m fumbling; I can’t take my eyes off the crossbow. I’m sure he’s not going to use it—it’s all about control with him—but it’s still nerve-racking to have it in my face. I decide that whatever happens when Jim Grosso gets here, I can’t leave without answers.
“Bailey was here, wasn’t she? A week ago,” I say.
Cliff’s expression darkens. “How do you know about that?”
“Bridget told me.”
Cliff’s shoulders rise. “Don’t talk to me about Bridge.”
I would be perfectly content not to talk to Cliff Grosso about anything, but grilling him is a distraction from how completely fucked I’ll be once his father gets here.
“Just tell me why Bailey was here,” I say. “If you weren’t hooking up with her, what did she want from you?”
Cliff’s shoulder muscle twitches under the weight of the bow. He won’t answer me; if it was sex Bailey wanted from him, why not admit it? Cliff Grosso is not known for his modesty. Before he started dating Bridget, when someone was saying his name, it was usually accompanied with the name of whatever girl he bragged about sleeping with most recently.
And besides, Bridget already broke up with him. It’s not like he has anything left to lose. So why the stubborn silence?
Why does he look scared?
Outside, someone shouts Cliff’s name. His eyes flick to the shed door. “In here!”
Cliff hangs up the crossbow on the rack next to a bunch of gardening tools. Sheriff Moser, the hood of his parka pulled over his leathery forehead, is standing in the doorway. He looks back and forth between us. “Well, what in Sam Hill is going on here?”