Hush, Hush

“I’m starting to think the only reason you keep offering me a ride is because you know how not fond I am of this thing.” I blew out a jittery sigh, scrunched the helmet on, then swung on behind him. It wasn’t entirely my fault that I was snuggled up close to him. The seat wasn’t exactly spacious.



Patch made a low sound of amusement. “I can think of a couple other reasons.”



He sped down the straightaway of the garage, gunning it toward the exit. A red­and­white­striped traffic arm and an automatic ticket machine barred the exit. I was just wondering if Patch would slow long enough to feed money into the machine, when he brought the bike to a smooth stop, jolting me even closer into him. He fed the machine, then floored the bike up onto the street above.



Patch edged his bike up my driveway, and I held on to him to keep my balance while I climbed off. I handed back the helmet.



“Thanks for the ride,” I said.



“What are you doing Saturday night?”



A moment’s pause. “I have a date with the usual.”



This appeared to spark his interest. “The usual?”



“Homework.”



“Cancel.”



I was feeling a lot more relaxed. Patch was warm and solid, and he smelled fantastic. Like mint and rich, dark earth. Nobody had jumped out at us on the ride home, and all the windows on the lower level of the farmhouse glowed with light. For the first time all day I felt safe.



Except that Patch had cornered me in a dark tunnel and was possibly stalking me. Maybe not so safe.



“I don’t go out with strangers,” I said.



“Good thing I do. I’ll pick you up at five.”



CHAPTER 17



THERE WAS COLD RAIN ALL SATURDAY, AND I SAT NEAR the window watching it pepper down on the growing puddles in the lawn. I had a dog­eared copy of Hamlet in my lap, a pen tucked behind my ear, and an empty mug of hot chocolate at my feet. The sheet of reading comprehension questions on the side table was just as white as it had been when Mrs. Lemon passed it out two days ago. Always a bad thing.



My mom had left for yoga class almost thirty minutes ago, and while I’d practiced a few different ways of breaking the news of my date with Patch to her, in the end I’d let her walk out the door without vocalizing any of them. I told myself it was no big deal, I was sixteen and could decide when and why I left the house, but the truth was, I should have told her I was going out. Perfect. Now I was going to be carting around my guilt all night.



When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed to announce 4:30, I gladly tossed aside the book and jogged upstairs to my bedroom. I’d burned through most of the day with homework and chores, and that had kept my mind off tonight’s date. But now that I was down to the final minutes, nervous anticipation overruled all. Whether or not I wanted to think about it, Patch and I had unfinished business. Our last kiss got cut short. Sooner or later, the kiss would need resolving. I had no doubt I wanted resolution, I just wasn’t sure I was ready for it tonight. On top of all this, it didn’t help that Vee’s warning kept popping up like a red flag at the back of my mind. Stay away from Patch.



I positioned myself in front of the bureau mirror and took inventory. Makeup was minimal, reserved to a sweep of mascara. Too much tumbleweed hair, but what else was new? Lips could use some gloss. I licked my bottom lip, giving it a wet shine. That got me thinking more about my almost­kiss with Patch, and I got an involuntary rush of heat. If an almost­kiss could do that, I wondered what a full­on kiss could do. My reflection smiled.



“No big deal,” I told myself while trying on earrings. The first pair was big, loopy, and turquoise … and tried too hard. I put them aside and tried again with topaz teardrops. Better. I wondered what Patch had in mind. Dinner? A movie? “It’s a lot like a biology study date,” I told my reflection nonchalantly.



“Only … without the biology and studying.”



I tugged on matchstick jeans and ballet flats. I wrapped a Hally­blue silk scarf around my waist, up over my torso, then tied the ends behind my neck to fashion a halter­style blouse. I fluffed my hair, and there was a knock at the door.



“Coming!” I hollered down the stairs.



I did one final check in the hall mirror, then opened the front door and found two men in dark trench coats standing on the porch.



“Nora Grey,” said Detective Basso, holding up his police badge. “We meet again.”



It took a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing here?”



He tipped his head sideways. “You remember my partner, Detective Holstijic. Mind if we step inside and ask you a few questions?” It didn’t sound like he was asking permission. In fact, it sounded just this side of a threat.



“What’s wrong?” I asked, dividing a glance between them.



“Is your mom home?” Detective Basso asked.



“She’s at yoga. Why? What’s going on?”



They wiped their feet and stepped inside.



“Can you tell us what happened between you and Marcie Millar at the library Wednesday evening?”



Detective Holstijic asked, plunking down on the sofa. Detective Basso remained standing, scrutinizing the family pictures arranged on the mantel.



His words took a moment to register. The library. Wednesday evening. Marcie Millar.



“Is Marcie okay?” I asked. It was no secret I didn’t hold a warm, affectionate place in my heart for Marcie. But that didn’t mean I wanted her in trouble, or worse, in danger. I especially didn’t want her in trouble if it appeared to involve me.



Detective Basso put his hands on his hips. “What makes you think she’s not okay?”



“I didn’t do anything to Marcie.”



“What were the two of you arguing about?” Detective Holstijic asked. “Library security told us things were getting heated.”



“It wasn’t like that.”



“What was it like?”



“We called each other a few names,” I said, hoping we could leave it at that.



“What kind of names?”



“Stupid names,” I said in retrospect.



“I’m going to need to hear those names, Nora.”



“I called her an anorexic pig.” My cheeks stung and my voice was humiliated. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I might have wished I’d invented something a lot more cruel and demeaning. Not to mention something that made a little more sense.



The detectives exchanged a look.



“Did you threaten her?” asked Detective Holstijic.



“No.”



“Where did you go after the library?”



“Home.”



“Did you follow Marcie?”



“No. Like I said, I came home. Are you going to tell me what happened to Marcie?”



“Can anyone vouch for that?” Detective Basso asked.



“My biology partner. He saw me at the library and offered me a ride.”



I had a shoulder propped against one side of the French doors leading into the room, and Detective Basso walked over and took up a post on the opposite side, across from me. “Let’s hear about this biology partner.”



“What kind of question is that?”



He spread his hands. “It’s a pretty basic question. But if you want me to get more specific, I can. When I was in high school, I only offered rides to girls I was interested in. Let’s carry that a step further.



What’s your relationship with your bio partner … outside the classroom?”



“You’re joking, right?”



One side of Detective Basso’s mouth hitched up. “That’s what I thought. Did you have your boyfriend beat up Marcie Millar?”



“Marcie was beat up?”



He pushed up from the doorway and positioned himself directly in front of me, sharp eyes boring into me. “Did you want to show her what happens when girls like her don’t keep their mouths shut? Did you think she deserved to get a little roughed up? I knew girls like Marcie when I went to school. They ask for it, don’t they? Was Marcie asking for it, Nora? Someone beat her up pretty bad Wednesday night, and I think you know more than you’re saying.”



I was working hard to suppress my thoughts, afraid they might somehow show on my face. Maybe it was a coincidence that on the same night I complained to Patch about Marcie, she took a beating. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.



“We’re going to need to talk to your boyfriend,” Detective Holstijic said.



“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my biology partner.”



“Is he on his way here now?”



I knew I should be up­front. But on further reflection, I could not accept that Patch would hurt Marcie.



Marcie wasn’t the nicest person, and she’d acquired more than a handful of enemies. A few of those enemies might be capable of brutality, but Patch wasn’t one of them. Senseless beating wasn’t his style.



“No,” I said.



Detective Basso gave a stiff smile. “All dressed up for a Saturday night in?”



“Something like that,” I said in the coldest tone I dared.



Detective Holstijic pulled a small notepad out of his coat pocket, flipped it open, and clicked his pen.



“We’re going to need his name and number.”



Ten minutes after the detectives left, a black Jeep Commander rolled to the curb. Patch jogged through the rain to the porch, wearing dark jeans, boots, and a thermal gray T­shirt.



“New car?” I asked after I opened the door.



He gave me a mysterious smile. “I won it a couple nights ago off a game of pool.”



“Someone bet their car?”



“He wasn’t happy about it. I’m trying to stay clear of dark alleys for the next little while.”



“Did you hear about Marcie Millar?” I threw it out there, hoping the question would take him by surprise.



“No. What’s up?” His answer came easily, and I decided it probably meant he was telling the truth.



Unfortunately, when it came to telling lies, Patch didn’t strike me as an amateur.



“Someone beat her up.”



“A shame.”



“Any idea who might have done it?”



If Patch heard the concern in my voice, he didn’t show it. He leaned back against the porch railing and rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his jaw. “Nope.”



I asked myself if I thought he was hiding something. But reading lies wasn’t a strong point of mine. I didn’t have a lot of experience. Typically I hung around people I trusted … typically.



Patch parked the Jeep behind Bo’s Arcade. When we got to the front of the line, the cashier laid eyes first on Patch, then on me. Back and forth they went, trying to make a connection.



“What’s up?” Patch said, and put three tens on the counter.



The cashier trained his watchful stare on me. He’d noticed that I couldn’t stop staring at the moldygreen tattoos covering every available inch of skin on his forearms. He moved a wad of gum? tobacco?



to the other side of his bottom lip and said, “You looking at something?”



“I like your tat—,” I began. He bared pointed dog teeth.