21- the connection
School is closed Friday, the day after the shooting, and so is The Strip Mall. It’s a good thing, since my dad isn’t letting me out of his sight. We spend Friday and Saturday hanging out on the couch, playing video games, eating ice cream straight from the container—yes, Dad decided that life was too short to live without dairy after the awful events at school—and watching the news. The ice cream is glorious. The news is not.
The shooter was a twenty-three-year-old guy with no previous problems with the law. The network flashes his picture on the screen every five seconds and really, you couldn’t find a more everyday-looking guy. I mean, he really did not look like a psycho. He wasn’t from Cadence, but from a rural town farther east in Appalachia. The shooter’s red-faced parents cry to the reporter that their boy was a good boy. They never saw this coming. And no, they didn’t know about any guns. They don’t know why their son tried to kill all those people. None of the smart people on the news know why, either.
The sad thing is, there is no why. The shooter probably was a good boy before he was stung.
Dad shakes his head, drilling his spoon into a pint of rock-hard mint chip. “I don’t get what makes people do these things,” he says. “I’m just so glad you’re safe.”
The number of times he has told me how glad he is I’m safe this weekend is in the double digits. I pat his arm. “Me, too.”
I’d been trying to find the right time to bring up a possible temporary exit from Cadence. To get myself and Dad out of town, in case that really bad thing happens. With the recent violence, now seems to be a good time to try. “Hey, Dad, what do you think of taking a trip?”
“Hmm.” He nods. “I could see about taking some time off in April. When’s your break?”
“I was thinking like, next week? We could check out a few of the colleges I applied to. In Philadelphia and New York? We could make a road trip of it.”
“Can’t do it. I’m closing a huge sale of equipment to the hospital and will be in Pittsburgh part of the week to train the techs on it.” His brows knit. “Besides, you can’t miss school for a road trip. Don’t you have midterms coming up?”
“Right. Okay. Just a thought, with all the stuff that’s been going on around here, I thought…”
He shakes his head. “You’re not missing school. I understand what happened scared you, but Cadence is still a safe place, Angie.”
Nope. He’s not biting. A trill of panic traces up my spine. I’m not getting out of Cadence, but my dad will be in Pittsburgh. That’s something. I could get really hysterical, tell him a catastrophe’s coming and we’re going to die, but I suspect all that would do is make my dad cancel his appointments in Pittsburgh and stay home with me. I’d rather he get out of here and be safe.
“You know, they’re going to be testing the water,” he says. “Folks think it’s contaminated with heavy metals from all the mining back in the day.”
I study him from the corners of my eyes. “What do you think?”
“I don’t see how mining from sixty years ago is suddenly affecting us now, but hey, I’m not a scientist.” He nods toward the kitchen. “There’re three cases of bottled water in the pantry. Use that for drinking and brushing your teeth until all this is figured out.”
“Okay, but I seriously doubt Lake Serenity is contaminated. They test it all the time,” I say. “The dam has been there for decades, so the water is nowhere near the old mines.”
He shrugs. “What else could it be? Decent people don’t turn homicidal for no reason. Don’t worry. I’ve got us covered if it’s the water. We’re getting a new water filter installed next week.” His eyes go bright with excitement. “You should have seen the demo of this thing. It turned urine into drinkable water—”
I hold up a hand. “I’m not drinking my own urine.”
“No, no, of course not. But you could, if you had to. They use a reverse osmosis filtration…”
I stop listening there. It’s unfortunate my dad is buying the bogus theory about the water. I’m not surprised. He doesn’t hide the fact that anything but a logical, scientific explanation is pure hooey. Yes, hooey is the technical term for all things whimsical. He says my mom cured him of hooey and whimsy.
The doorbell rings. It plays this bombastic little tune that must be audible to the whole neighborhood.
“That would be Reece,” I say.
“Does he have to come over tonight? I was going to order a pizza.”
I raise my eyebrows. Pizza? That’s so tempting. “I asked you earlier if it was okay, and you said yes. You should have stated your objection then.”
When he just frowns at me, I lean over and kiss his cheek. “You said yes. I’m going to let him in before he rings that doorbell again and wakes up every napping infant in a five mile radius.”
Dad grumbles but doesn’t stop me. Roger leads the way to the door, tail wagging as if he knows who it is. I follow the dog down the hall, suddenly a little self-conscious. I should have changed. I’m barefoot in purple leggings and a huge, bleach-spattered sweatshirt with the neckline cut out. I tug up the frayed neck, but it slips right back down over my left shoulder.
I open the door to find Reece on the front porch. His hands are jammed deep in his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunched. He looks up, gives me a lopsided grin. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” The porch light glints off his wet hair. He looks so darn cute standing there. A little nervous. A little eager.
His brows go up. “What?”
I shrug one shoulder and grin at him. “We’re eating ice cream.”
“About time.” He shakes out his rain-soaked hair, reminding me a little of Roger when he does it.
He tucks his arms against his torso and shifts his feet. “Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”
I lean outside and press my mouth to his. He draws in a sharp breath, then eases into the kiss, slanting his lips against mine. He tastes like cold rain and mint gum—two things that in this moment, I’m sure I could subsist on indefinitely. When I pull away, reluctantly, there’s hunger in his eyes that makes my stomach tighten. I drop my gaze, unsure of myself, of these feelings that are intense and unfamiliar. It’s a real problem. The more I feel for Reece, the deeper the claws of dread dig into my chest. It’s harder and harder to remind myself…he can’t stay.
Reece’s dark eyes hold mine. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.
“No, I—” I think I’m falling for you. “You’re a good kisser.”
“My gift. My curse.” He gives me a shrug and another lopsided smile. “So may I come in?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I dance backward as he steps inside.
He crouches to scratch behind Roger’s floppy ears. “Is your dad going to be mad I’m here?”
I beam a smile. “Not at all. Come. We’ll have a pint.”
“Mint chip?”
“I can share.”
He hangs behind but follows me to the den. My dad is still sitting there, spoon in hand and a scowl on his face.
Reece stops in the entrance to the den. “Hello, Mr. Dovage.”
“Mr. Fernandez,” Dad says coolly.
The two eye each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. My dad must have a point to make. I plop next to him on the couch and stick an elbow in his side.
Dad shoots me a stern look. “Don’t poke me with your elbow.”
Reece sighs. “I can go.”
My dad huffs out a breath and waves Reece in. “Damn it, come and sit down.”
Reece hesitates. It’s so obvious that he’d rather not deal with my glowering father, but he comes in and sits down next to me. My dad leans forward and fixes Reece with a hard gaze. “Angie likes you, so you must be an okay kid. But so help me, if I catch you sneaking in the basement with my daughter again, you will leave on a stretcher. Got it?”
Wow. Even as my cheeks heat up, I am a little in awe of this previously unknown side of my dad. It’s as fascinating as it is embarrassing.
Reece swallows. “Yes, sir. No basements.”
“That’s right.” My dad settles into the couch. “Have a daughter one day and you’ll see. Forget the water,” he mutters. “Kids are what’s making people lose their minds.”
I can’t tell if Reece is intimidated, or if he’s pretending for my dad’s benefit. I pass Reece a speculative look, which he returns with a quick smile and amused eyes. Only pretending, then. Not surprising. Nothing my dad could do to him would be worse than going through puberty nine times.
“Here.” I pass him the mint chip. “You know. Life’s too short.”
He drops his gaze. “Indeed it is.”
“Hey.” My dad points at the TV. He looks confused. “I know that guy.”
I scan the screen. It’s a scene of the crowd outside the college, backed up behind the crime scene tape.
“Who?”
Dad grabs the remote and hits the pause button. “That skinny guy right there, with the wool hat. I know him.” He rubs his chin. “Trying to remember where.”
My heart clutches. I send Reece a look of panic, because we both know that guy, too. His curse may have gifted him one bland set of features for the TV, but that’s Rafette my father’s pointing to.
“Ah!” Dad claps his hands and points to the screen. “Son of a bitch. That’s the same piece of sh— Oh, sorry for the cursing.” He clears his throat, but his eyes are glued to the screen. “That guy used to hang around your mom at the apartment we shared in Pittsburgh, after you came along, Angie, but, well, we were apart for a bit. Something happened and she came home, but when she saw that guy, she really freaked out. I finally confronted him and told him to get lost, which he did, I think. Man, your mom was scared of nothing, but that guy… The guy made an impression on me. I could never forget him.” He squints at the TV and circles a hand over his face. “He had a weird kind of face, too, like it wasn’t quite… Whatever. I can’t explain it.”
“That was a long time ago,” I choke out. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
“I know. It can’t be, right?” Dad shakes his head, eats a spoonful of butter pecan. “Nah, you’re right. Couldn’t be. That guy’s a spitting image, though. How bizarre is that?”
All three of us stare at the blurred, paused image of the man at the crime scene. I doubt my dad perceives the pleased, satisfied look on the Beekeeper’s face. No one else would, either. It’s just another face in the crowd.
Reece’s lips are so compressed, they’re almost colorless. His fingers compulsively rub the scars on his palm. “I should get going.” He’s trying for lightness, but he sounds as serious as he looks.
Dad looks over and blinks up at him. “That was a short visit.”
“I know.” Reece gets to his feet. “I just remembered I told my mom I’d be home tonight. To watch the kids. She has a date or something.”
My dad sits up straight. “Oh, sure. Is it…um. Is she seeing someone seriously?”
Reece struggles to keep a straight face. “I don’t think so. I mean, we just moved here, so…”
“Of course.” My dad waves a hand. “None of my business anyway.”
Reece covers his mouth with a hand. “Well, okay. I’m gonna go. Good night, Mr. Dovage, Angie.”
I get up. “I’ll walk you out.”
Out of earshot, I grab his arm. “What the hell was that?”
He looks away. “Yeah, I don’t know. That was weird.”
“That was more than weird.” My chest swells with anger. “I told you there was a connection between my mother and Rafette. I saw her features in Rafette’s face that night in the parking lot behind The Strip Mall, and now we learn he was stalking my mom.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Which means you lied to me when I asked you about it. Why? What do you know?”
“I didn’t lie,” he protests. “Remember when I told you how all the Beekeeper’s faces once belonged to people who died with their venom in them?”
“Yeah?”
“No one survives that. They just don’t. The venom is powerful and shifts reality in a specific way to its victims.” He steps close, speaks quietly in my ear. “If your dad saw Rafette stalking your mother back in Pittsburgh, it means she would have been stung just after you were born. Your mother lived for more than a decade after that. The average life-span after a Beekeeper sting is a few weeks, max.”
“She did take her own life.”
“Not violently. She overdosed. Maybe it was intentional, but it was also many years later,” he counters. “No one lives that long. They just don’t. Look what’s happening with Corey Anderson, and he was stung only two days ago.”
My vision blurs. Officially, no one has heard from Corey Anderson since he was hauled out of PE, but the rumors about him are bad. It’s said that he flipped out on his parents, and he went to Pittsburgh for specialized psychiatric treatment.
I cross my arms. “Explain it, then. Explain the connection.”
“I can’t.” He grips my shoulders and leans close. “Angie, we have only a little time left. My family and I are watching you, Rafette, and trying to keep tabs on the people we know he stung. Forget him. Don’t dig for answers here,” he says quietly, turning the door handle. “Don’t forget that you’re living in a marked town. There are bigger forces at work here than a Beekeeper playing mind games. Soon, you’re going to have to add survival to your list of priorities.”