CHAPTER Twenty-Eight
I am silent on the ride home.
Dread claws at my stomach. If Scotch is awake, he could be talking. If he’s talking, he might be telling everyone exactly what happened that night at Lookout Point. I made Mattie call Regina back to ask for more details, but it went straight to voice mail. I have to get home as soon as possible and slide into Scotch so I can find out what’s going on.
Anna and Rollins don’t seem to notice my preoccupation. They are heatedly discussing the plot twist at the end of the movie. Rollins insists he saw it coming a mile away, and Anna says he’s full of shit.
“Can you take me home first?” I ask, interrupting.
Rollins glances over at me. “I thought we were going to go get coffee or something?”
I grimace. “I’ve got a headache.”
That much is true. The combination of listening to Anna and Rollins flirtatiously banter about the movie and my torturous thoughts about what Scotch might be telling the police this very second has given me a massive migraine.
It is clear from his one raised eyebrow that Rollins doesn’t believe me, but he steers the car toward my house. Anna is oblivious and continues with the conversation as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
Rollins pulls into my driveway a few moments later, and Anna pauses long enough for me to say good night. When I get out, she gets out of the back of the car and sits in the passenger seat. That is enough to make me regret telling Rollins to take me home first. Now it’s just the two of them with hours to kill. I wonder if they’ll go have coffee. Or maybe they’ll go someplace more intimate.
I can’t think about that now. I push the thought out of my head.
Inside, Mattie is sitting in the kitchen, filling Lydia in on her date. When she sees me lingering in the doorway, she excuses herself and pulls me into the foyer.
“It’s about time,” she says.
“Did Regina call you back?”
“No. I’ve tried over and over. She’s not answering. Samantha said she’d stop by Regina’s house on the way home. Vee, I’m scared. Do you think Scotch remembers what happened? What if he talks to the police? Tells them you were there?”
Even though Mattie is voicing my worst fear, I try to appear calm. I know how frightened she is by the possibility of me getting in trouble. I have a way to check and see what’s going on, but I can’t let Mattie in on my secret. She’s already too involved in this mess.
“I’m sure everything will be okay,” I assure her. “He probably doesn’t even remember what happened.”
Mattie gives me a doubtful look.
“Even if he does remember, what are the police going to do? Arrest me for playing a prank?” I don’t want to tell Mattie that Scotch might be telling the cops something worse. He could very well be telling them I pushed him off the cliff. After all, I wasn’t exactly myself. Maybe I did. Or whoever was in my body did.
Lydia steps out from the shadows.
I wonder how long she’s been standing there, whether she heard anything significant. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” I take a few steps toward the staircase. Reluctantly, Mattie follows.
“Good night, girls,” Lydia says.
“Good night,” Mattie replies.
I don’t respond.
It takes Mattie forever to fall asleep. She keeps flipping from one side to the other and sighing. Finally, sometime after two in the morning, I hear her snore. For a moment, I debate staying in my room to slide into Scotch. After all, Mattie is asleep. But I don’t want her to wake up and disturb me in the middle of my investigation.
I reach under my pillow and pull out the piece of purple fabric from my old Homecoming dress that I stashed there earlier. The whole house is silent as I tiptoe out of my room and down the hall. I pause just outside of Mattie’s room, checking to make sure there’s no light shining under the door. Lydia seems to be sleeping, though. Or lying there very, very quietly.
I lock myself in the bathroom. After climbing into the tub, I pull the shower curtain closed behind me. I grip the tattered piece of cloth to my chest and close my eyes, hoping that the caffeine from the pop I had at the movie has worn off enough to let me slide. Deliberately, I slow my breathing. The tub is cool against my skin, and I feel goosebumps pop up on my arms.
Long moments pass.
I open my eyes, transfer the silky material from one hand to another.
Wait.
Rub the cloth against my cheek.
Wait some more.
Nothing happens.
I’m sure an hour has passed—maybe two—when I finally give up. Defeated, I pull back the curtain and hoist myself out of the tub. The piece from the dress is wadded in my fist, sweaty and wrinkled. It seems to be useless. Or maybe it’s me. I could just be too worked up to slide.
I unlock the door, flip off the light on my way out.
When I am halfway to my bedroom, I hear something downstairs. It sounds like a key jiggling in a lock. The next sound is unmistakable—the front door opening. I hustle into my bedroom and pull the door closed behind me. Press my ear to the door.
Footsteps coming up the steps. They’re soft but most definitely there.
Is it my father? Was he called to the hospital in the middle of the night for an emergency? Usually he stomps up the stairs, the noise surprisingly loud for a thin man.
The footsteps reach the hallway. I hold my breath, waiting to hear them move away from me and then my father’s door clicking shut.
But that’s not what happens.
The footsteps move toward me, slowly but surely.
They move closer and closer until I’m sure the person is standing right outside my door and I imagine I can hear them breathing, inches away, with only a thin piece of wood between us.
Then the person continues on down the hall, past the bathroom. I hear Mattie’s door open and close. And then silence.
It was Lydia.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s after three.
What was she doing outside in the middle of the night?
The next morning, I find my father, Mattie, and Lydia in the kitchen. I grab a banana and lean against the counter. Lydia is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing my dad’s bathrobe. There are dark circles under her eyes. She sips wearily at her cup of coffee.
My father doesn’t look any better. He moves around the kitchen slowly, grabbing a cereal bowl, a box of Cheerios, and milk from the refrigerator. Mattie watches him, and then says, “Dad, you look like you had a rough night.”
“One of my patients had a heart attack,” he says. He turns his attention to Lydia. “Thanks for giving me a ride, by the way. One of the nurses dropped me off when her shift was done. I’m going to have to buy a car this weekend. I can’t keep relying on other people to drive me around.”
“It’s no problem,” Lydia says. “My pleasure.”
Hmmmmm. So that’s what she was doing last night? Driving my father to the hospital?
“I guess we’re not going to make it to nine o’clock mass,” my dad says, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.
Lydia taps her coffee cup thoughtfully. “Don’t they also have an eleven o’clock mass?”
“Yes, they do. Would you like to go?”
Lydia smiles. “Sure.”
“Mattie, how about you?”
My father doesn’t ask me. I haven’t been to church in years.
“Sure,” Mattie says. She’s finished her bowl of cereal and is now drinking the milk out of the bottom of the bowl. “I’ll go get dressed.”
Taking the last bite of my banana, I throw the peel away.
I wait for Mattie to rinse her bowl and put it in the dishwasher, and then I pull her into the hall. “Did Regina ever call back?” I ask in a low tone.
Looking troubled, Mattie shakes her head. “I called Samantha to see if she talked to her, but her phone went to voice mail, too.”
“Shit.”
I figure I’ll try to slide into Scotch once more after everyone leaves for church, but what if I can’t?
Mattie must notice my troubled expression because she reaches out and grabs my arm. “Hey, remember what you said last night? Don’t worry. You’re not going to get arrested just for playing a prank. Right?”
I paste a smile on my face.
“Right.”
After my dad, Lydia, and Mattie leave for church, I grab the piece of purple cloth and lie down on my bed, willing myself to slide into Scotch. But it’s just like last night. No matter what position I get into or how I slow my breathing, nothing happens.
I groan and toss the fabric on the floor.
The doorbell rings.
I sit up.
Who could be at our door on a Sunday morning?
As I hurry down the stairs, I wonder if it’s Regina. Maybe she came over to tell Mattie and me about what happened with Scotch at the hospital. I throw open the door, hoping to see her on the other side.
But it’s not Regina.
It’s Rollins, and it’s clear from the look on his face that something’s wrong.
“Can I come inside?” He runs his fingers through his hair nervously. I realize that, since he dropped me off, I haven’t even thought about him driving around with Anna last night. As I study his anxious face, I am overcome with apprehension. Did something happen? Did they kiss? Something more?
“Sure,” I say, holding the door open for him.
He wanders past me and turns to go into the living room. I close the door and follow him. When he sinks into my father’s recliner and covers his face with his hands, I feel my heart start to pound. Whatever he has to tell me must be terrible for him to act this way.
“Just say it,” I murmur, keeping my voice neutral as I sit down on the couch. I prepare myself for the worst. He’s in love with her. I knew it.
He pulls his hands away from his face. “Vee, we’re in real trouble.”
Just get it over with.
“What’s going on?” I ask, unable to keep the panic from seeping into my voice. “What is it?”
He swallows. “Scotch is dead.”
The room starts to close in on me.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“My uncle came home from his shift a half hour ago. He said something crazy was going on at the hospital and asked if I knew a kid from school named Scott Becker.”
Suddenly I can’t breathe.
“How did he die?”
Rollins is quiet for a moment before answering.
“He was smothered. With a pillow.”
“When?”
“They’re not sure, exactly. He was alive when the night nurse last checked on him, a little after midnight. When the morning nurse went in at six, he was gone.”
My mind is racing. I think about last night, how I tried to use the piece of my dress to slide into Scotch. Nothing had happened. It wasn’t because I lost my ability. It’s because there was no one to slide into.
Scotch was dead already.