Breaking Beautiful (35 page)

I nod and follow him. The second time around, the front seat of the Charger seems less ominous. For a second, I wonder who saw me get into it this time and what the new rumors are going to be, but I have so many other things going through my head that the thought slips through without sticking.

At the door of the police station I meet Mr. and Mrs. Phillips.
She’s wearing a fur coat. He’s wearing an expression of triumph. The divers must have already found the truck. Detective Weeks must have lied to me, to get me to come with him. Why didn’t he just let me confess? Maybe he wants me to do it in front of Trip’s parents so they’ll see that he did his job.

Chief Milton and Detective Weeks usher us back to Chief Milton’s office. It’s bigger than the office that Detective Weeks was using. The walls are covered with commendations, certificates, and pictures. The bookshelf is full of books. On the desk is a picture of Chief Milton with his wife and three buck-toothed kids.

Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and I sit on chairs around the desk. Chief Milton sits behind the desk; Detective Weeks takes a chair to his right.

Chief Milton looks around the room, takes a deep breath, and begins. “We called you here to let you know that we’re officially closing the investigation into the accident that killed Trip Phillips. We’re ruling his death accidental and closing the case.”

Mr. Phillips jumps to his feet. “You can’t do that!” he roars. “My son was murdered.” He steps toward me and sticks his finger in my face. His face is purple with rage. I shrink back into my chair. “She killed him. I demand that you take her into custody!”

Detective Weeks stands between me and Mr. Phillips. “Sit down, Mr. Phillips. The divers didn’t find anything. There isn’t enough evidence to—”

Mr. Phillips gets into his face. “Don’t tell me what to do! She killed my son!”

“No.” Mrs. Phillips’s voice from the chair in the corner starts
out small but gets stronger. “You killed him. You taught him that whatever he did was okay. You gave him everything he wanted. You showed him it was okay to step on people to get what he wanted. You showed him—”

“How dare you!” Mr. Phillips lunges for his wife, but Detective Weeks catches his arm and holds him back. “How dare you!” he sputters again, fighting to get to her, but Detective Weeks holds him fast.

Mrs. Phillips stands up. Her voice trembles, but she speaks clearly. “Enough people have been hurt. It’s over.”

Mr. Phillips looks at her with an expression that’s somewhere between shock and anger. She walks to the doorway and then pauses. His expression changes to horror as she lets the edge of her fur coat slip, just a little. Enough so I can see the bruise on the back of her neck. Enough so that I understand.

After they leave, I turn to Detective Weeks and Chief Milton. “You saw”—I swallow hard—“you both saw what was on her neck.”

Chief Milton shakes his head sadly. “We can’t do anything about it until she’s ready to step forward and press charges.”

I swallow again, my heart hurting for Mrs. Phillips.

“But you might have grounds for a harassment charge against Mr. Phillips,” Detective Weeks says. “James confessed to everything last night when we arrested him for starting the fire in the gym. He said Mr. Phillips paid him to follow you and to put the notes in your locker.” He stands up. “We’ll give you some time to think about it.”

“Allie.” Blake comes to the door of the office, breathless, his arm in a sling. “I saw your mom’s car out by the cliff and
I—” He looks at Detective Weeks and Chief Milton. “Is everything okay?”

“I think so.” I look up at Detective Weeks.

He nods, then says, “I have a few more questions, Allie, for clarification on my report. If you’ll follow me.”

I hang back. “I don’t understand.”

He smiles patiently. “Without a truck or a body, none of the evidence I gathered means anything. I have no choice but to close the investigation. But I would like to know what happened to you that night and before. He looks into my eyes. “I mean, whatever you remember.”

Blake hugs me with one arm. He stiffens like it hurts him, but he won’t let go. “It’s time to tell the truth,” he whispers into my hair. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

I squeeze Blake’s hand. Then I follow Detective Weeks into his office. I sit down, take a deep breath, and let my memories flow out with a tide of tears.

Chapter
50

“I got you something. For your birthday. And to wear to the dance.” Andrew’s new voice sounds deeper, more mature, less electronic. It fits him.

“Don’t you mean
our
birthday?” I blot my lipstick and turn away from the mirror to face him.

“I decided you could have this one. I think you earned it.” He pushes a little box across his tray toward me.

“And you didn’t?” I pick up the box, lift the lid, and pull out a heart-shaped pendant, pale green, on a silver chain.

“Periodot, it’s our birthstone. It’s supposed to be a gem of healing.” He looks up at me and his eyes soften.

Since the night at the clinic, we haven’t talked about it—what really happened to Trip. It’s a secret that only we share. I’ll never tell anyone else and he’ll never tell anyone else. Being in the womb with someone for nearly seven months creates an unbreakable bond.

“I love it.” I turn toward the mirror and fasten it around my neck. “It’s perfect.” I turn my head and watch it catch the light in the mirror. It almost matches the dress I chose for cotillion this year: short, simple, and blue green, my favorite color. “But you should be saving your money for school.”

“Full-ride scholarship, remember?” He smoothes his tux with his good hand.

I look at how handsome he is, how grown-up, and I have to swallow a lump of tears. “Are you nervous?” He’s leaving for Stanford next week. My heart aches every time I think about Andrew going away to college—the two of us, who have never been apart, separated by so many miles.

“No. Yes. Maybe a little.” His electronic voice is emotionless, but his hand trembles.

“I’m glad Caitlyn will be there to keep you out of trouble.” She’s going with him on a full-ride scholarship, too. They applied together and they’ve been planning this for months. Who knew a girl with absolutely no fashion sense could be as smart as Andrew? Then again, she saw something in him that no other girl did.

“Allie, Andrew, you’re going to be late.” Dad’s voice floats down the hall.

Andrew reaches for my hand. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

I nod my head and try to look brave. “If you can leave home and go almost a thousand miles away to college, I think I can make it through one more cotillion.”

His eyes meet mine and he squeezes my hand. “I’ll miss you, sis.”

I swallow hard. “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Hey, babe.” Caitlyn breezes into the room. “Are you about ready?”

I release Andrew’s hand and move out of the way so she can kiss him.

“You look amazing,” he says as she pulls away.

“Thanks.” She beams at him. She’s wearing a gold sequined dress with swirls of brown and orange all over it. It looks like a mix between a tiger pelt and a retro ’70s disco dress. When she smiles at my brother, I wonder why it took me so long to realize Caitlyn is beautiful. She sits down on his lap. “Shall we go?” He nods and backs up his wheelchair.

I follow them into the living room and stand by Mom while Dad takes pictures. “You look very pretty,” she says, and wraps her arm around my waist. I lean into her shoulder. Five months of counseling and a lot of long talks with both her and Dad have gone a long way toward fixing things between us. It’s going be hard for me to leave for college in a couple of weeks, but at least I’ll be close enough to come home on the weekends. I had to rewrite my college application. No one ever saw my suicide note. The day Andrew came home from the hospital. I took it to the mouth of the cave and burned it. I decided the ocean already held too many of my secrets.

When we’re done taking pictures, I follow Andrew and Caitlyn to the limo and climb in after them by myself.

.........

Mrs. Phillips greets us as we walk in the door to the inn. She’s wearing a silvery blue dress that matches her eyes. Her arms
are bare and tan from her recent trip to Florida. Someone behind us whispers, “Divorce looks good on her.” I have to agree with them.

Andrew and Caitlyn head for the dance floor, but I stop and take in the effect. Blue and green lights dance across the dark wood floor. The wind machine makes Blake’s sail paintings billow like they were at sea. The ballroom at the inn looks almost as magical as the high school gym did the night Blake told me he loved me for the first time.

The city council wanted to use Blake’s paintings for cotillion, as a sort of pre-exhibit exhibit, with them all displayed in one place before they’re spread out all over town. It took him a long time to clean off the soot and restore them. I can still see some fire damage on some of the edges, but I think it gives them character. They look more weathered and authentic.

Between the paintings, guys in black tuxes and girls in colorful flowing formals float across the dance floor, like waves on the ocean. In the middle of it all is Kasey, surrounded by her court, wearing her sash and crown, the new Beachcomber’s Queen. Blake is beside her.

I turn toward the redone painting,
Hope
, and my own face smiles back at me. I press the pendant at my neck while the wind machine ruffles through my hair. It would take a long time for it to grow back to the length it was before, the length that the girl in the picture has, but I’ve decided I like it short.

“Hey.” Blake walks up behind me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

“We just got here.” I nod toward the makeshift stage where Marshall and his band are setting up. “Did you get the problem taken care of?”

He rolls his eyes. “We had to drive all the way to Olympia to get a replacement part for Marshall’s amp, but he wasn’t about to miss out on playing at the Pacific Cliffs Inn. I only hope his band doesn’t shake the plaster off the walls. I promised Mrs. Phillips no damage.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me on the back of the neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to do the picture thing, or ride with you to the dance.”

“Don’t worry.” I lean back against him, “You can make up for it later.”

He rests his chin on my shoulder. “So, what do you think?”

I take in the whole room: his paintings blowing in the artificial breeze, the lights playing across everyone’s faces, the music—slow and sappy, Kasey giggling with the other girls from the pageant, Angie sulking in the corner while Randall tries to apologize, Marshall tuning his guitar onstage, Caitlyn and Andrew making slow circles in the middle of the dance floor, Mom and Dad chatting with people from town by the refreshment table, even Hannah and her unknown trophy date flipping through a scrapbook of Beachcomber’s pageants past.

It feels like I belong here. It feels like home.

I turn around, wrap my arms around his neck, and whisper in his ear, “I think everything is absolutely beautiful.”

Blake brushes back my hair and slides his fingers down my scar and along my cheekbone. He cups my face in his hand. “Yes. You are.”

I touch the stone at my throat and think about what I am now—not perfect, still scarred, not completely whole, but not broken either. For the first time in forever I feel good about myself, like I’m okay.

Maybe even beautiful.

Acknowledgments

Way back when I started this process, I remember reading the acknowledgment sections for the books I read. One author said something like, “It takes an army to write a book.” At that point, working alone on my laptop, I couldn’t comprehend how that could be true. Now I know. I’m grateful for the opportunity to say a huge (if grossly inadequate) thank-you to my personal army—the people who have made this dream a reality:

First, to my biggest supporter, cheerleader, and beloved husband, David. I love you! I would be nowhere without you. Next, to my four kids, David, Sabrina, Zach, and Daniel, who have supported me through this journey even when they had to eat cold cereal for dinner and do their own laundry. Thank you to my amazing extended family: my parents, Dale and Linda Shaw, who taught me to work hard, do what’s right, and live my dreams; Kristy, my only blood sister, who has walked every step of this journey with me; my mentor, sister-in-law, and shoulder to cry on, Angela Morrison, for teaching me pretty much everything I needed to know to get me to this point; and my brothers and my “extended” sisters (sisters-in-law) for their support and willingness to read.

Thank you to my lovely agent, Sara Megibow, for being adviser, cheerleader, counselor, friend, and sometimes even mom, and for believing in me from the beginning. Thank you to Anita, Kristin, and Lindsay at Nelson Literary Agency.

Thank you to my editor, Mary Kate Castellani, for pushing me when I needed to be pushed and pulling me back when I needed that, too. You’re a master of your craft! Thank you to the rest of the unseen army at Walker.

Thank you to the members of the most incredible critique group I could have stumbled upon: Val Serdy, Joan Wittler, Blessy Mathew, Sarah Showell, Michele Gawenka, and Monica White, for reading and reading and reading and telling me the truth even when I hated you for it. Thanks to my first teen readers: my daughter, Sabrina, and her best friend Ashlyn; Abby for giving it to me straight; and my niece Ashley for her simple, encouraging question, “Is there any more?” Thanks to my adult beta readers: my sister, Kristy; my almost sister, Christie; Mom; Stacy; Lucy; Lynn; and Miranda. Thanks to my literary agency mates, my Apocalypsies group, SCBWI Western Washington, SCBWI South Sound, the Class of 2K12, and my ANWA sisters. Thanks to Ann Gonzalez for helping me hone my craft and for giving me the writing prompt that sparked this story.

Thanks to Jason and his family—Marianne, Kevin, and Julie—for teaching me about inner strength and compassion.