“Having your brother as a cop doesn’t mean you’re above the law, you know.” His voice was quiet, somber. It was like he’d drawn into himself.
“I know,” Ivy said. “I don’t know why that old bitch is following me!”
Except she did.
God, she knew.
It was because Mrs. Stratford, somehow, could see what everyone else was missing: Ivy’s guilt.
Daniel considered her for a moment. “I think we really need to talk about this, Ivy. I think we should see you down at the station.”
Mattie
Friday, June 26
“Bet you thought you killed me, didn’t you?” Stratford pushed at his glasses, made foggy with moisture. “Bet you thought throwing me in that river was the last time you’d see me.” He laughed, and a trickle of muddy river water escaped the corner of his mouth.
“You died,” Mattie whispered.
But he hadn’t. He was standing in front of Mattie in soggy loafers, with mud and leaves stuck in his sparse hair. “Wake up, Mr. Byrne. Next time you take part in a murder, make sure you do it right. You should have dismembered me. Just a few swings with an ax—”
Mattie sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
There was no one in his room with him. Early-morning sun streamed in through his window, leaving long, bright rectangles on the floor. But, still, it was empty. No one else there.
Not Stratford, not anyone.
Except a cat. (His aunt’s favorite cat, Macbeth.)
Mattie groaned and clicked on the lamp sitting on his bedside table. The cat mewed at him, and Mattie picked him up and set him on the bed.
The cat purred his approval and rubbed his head against Mattie’s hand. Mattie pet him obediently, willing his heart to slow.
Stratford was still dead. Still in the river, probably, since no one had found him.
And no one knew Mattie had anything to do with it.
No one except the others.
(And maybe Derrick.)
Mattie’s whole body hurt. He hadn’t been sleeping well. The night before, he’d tossed back some NyQuil, which had finally, finally forced him into sleep.
And into dreams.
Dreams worse than waking thoughts.
Mattie realized he was shaking. He was shaking with the same fear he’d had in the dream, with Stratford trailing mud all over his room, reaching for him, shaking like there was a dead person still with him.
The cat purred louder now, arching his back and kneading Mattie’s shoulder with his paws, pulling him just a little further away from his nightmare. Mattie realized he didn’t want the animal to leave.
“I should do something,” Mattie whispered to the cat. “I should confess, shouldn’t I?”
The cat mewed at him.
“I need to,” Mattie said. “I’m talking to a cat, which has to mean something. I’m . . . I don’t know. But according to Cade, this is all going to fall on me. And I can see how he’s right. Can’t you?” He hesitated. “What if . . . what if I just took the blame? If I confess early, the police might be more lenient. . . .”
The cat didn’t respond. Instead he circled and found another soft spot on the bed. He curled up and mewed softly.
Mattie didn’t say what he was really wondering: that with Derrick hating him, with his parents sending him away, with no friends to speak of, would anyone really miss him if he went to jail for the rest of his life?
Maybe not.
And maybe that’s where he deserved to be.
Mattie pushed himself out of bed and showered quickly. He needed to get out of the house. He needed a walk, or something. Anything. To see that the world outside was still the same. Still some semblance of normal.
After dressing and wandering through the almost-silent house, Mattie walked down the driveway and clicked in the code that would open the gate. That was when he saw it.
His bike. Just inside the gate. Hidden partially by the climbing plant that concealed the grounds from prying eyes.
The bike that had gone missing after the . . . event.
The bike he hadn’t seen since that night.
But here it was, tucked away, like it was waiting for him.
Someone had left it here.
Someone who must have taken it that night, or soon after.
Someone who must have been there.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t take a single breath. He sunk to his knees, sucking in deep gasps of air that hurt his lungs. Someone knew. Someone knew what he was hiding. Someone knew and was screwing with him.
Was it Derrick? Would Derrick have driven all this way? Was it Mrs. Stratford?
It was someone. Someone who knew him, or knew of him. Who knew where he lived. Who had watched him long enough to know it was his bike.
His head spun. It spun him around and around and around until he wasn’t sure which way was up or down or where he was or where the bike was and his chest hurt like he was dying. He knew what was happening: he was having a panic attack. (Could he die from a panic attack?) He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t live like this. Not anymore.
He was going to confess.