"What kind of weapons?"
"A couple of knives, I think? Anyway, the next week is when he snapped. Shot up his house, then skipped town."
I think about it. He would be almost thirty now. I wonder if Aaron has any ideas, if he even thinks about his brother. "He must have had a plan. To be able to carry out the killings so smoothly."
"You know, I think you're the least airheaded blond I've ever met," he says, glancing at me shyly.
"Thanks." Although it's a dubious compliment. I catch him looking overlong at my left wrist, and I know it's not at the bracelet I'm wearing there. Thin fading scratches line my pale skin—I always cover them but my makeup is fading.
"Are you okay?" he asks. "I'm a good listener if—"
I scoop up my backpack and point to the parking lot, trying to stop my rising anxiety. "I gotta go," I say. "It was nice meeting you."
I hurry away from the school, hiding again. I feel like I've lost the ability to act normal.
_________________
After school, I'm sitting at the counter finishing an orange when there's a knock at the door. When I open it, my heart flutters as Aaron's face peering in through the screen. My breath halts in my chest.
"Hey, Ash." He gives me a wide, shy grin that makes my knees weak. His dimples are an unfair advantage.
"Hey."
"I hope it's a good time. I thought I'd come by to get those boxes now." He looks down at the knob and smirks back up at me. "You going to let me in?"
"Sure," I relent, turning the handle. "My dad will be home soon, though." I choose my next words carefully. "He kind of warned me off of hanging out with you."
"What did you tell him?" Aaron asks, frowning. A wave of anxiety crashes from him to me.
"I told him who you are and that we'd just been talking." I don't want to lie to him.
He glances hesitantly up at me through his lashes. "Not many people in town know I'm here. I'd like to keep it that way."
I go to the cupboard and pull out two glasses, then the bottle of orange juice from the fridge. "They probably would never leave you alone, would they?" I pour juice into the glasses and slide one over to him, then sip mine to coat my dry lips.
"No, probably not."
"Do you live close by now?"
"Nearby, yeah." Trying to have a normal conversation with this abnormal boy is not easy.
"But you're not in school," I coax.
He smirks and looks down at the glass, cupping it between his hands. "No. Fairhope High and I never got along. I didn't graduate."
"Are you going to get your GED instead?"
He shrugs noncommittally, staring down and withdrawing his hands to his lap.
"Is it uncomfortable being in this house, after everything?" I ask.
He nods, glancing up at me with those arresting eyes. I can't even tell what color they are, shifting between dark green and gray.
"You don't know the half of it," he says. "I feel like I just can't escape."
He smiles sadly, and I feel an invisible wall between us start to crumble. I sit on the stool next to him, barely resisting an overwhelming urge to reach out and squeeze his shoulder.
The doorbell lets off its creepy chime.
"You expecting someone?" he asks, glancing in that direction.
"No, actually." I frown. "Wait here, I'll be right back."
I open the front door and see Oliver standing in the shade, still wearing his heavy, long trench coat and boots. He smiles at me anxiously.
"Hey, sorry to just show up, but I didn't have your number and I'm in a situation." He points his thumbs behind him. "But if you're busy, I can go."
He starts to step off the porch but I reach my hand out to stop him. "I'm not busy. What's up?"
He pauses like he doesn't believe me, then turns back, pushing his black hair behind his ears. "The one time I actually take notes for the Calc test tomorrow, and my aunt's stupid dog tore them apart."
"You're saying the dog ate your homework?" I raise my eyebrow and the corners of my mouth lift.
"Yeah, I guess so. Do you have yours? Would you mind if I copied them?"
"Of course. Come in and I'll get them for you." He steps into the foyer, giving the house the same reverent look I'm coming to expect.
"You can take your coat off, if you want."
"I'm good," he says shyly, holding up his hands, and I get the feeling he wears the coat as armor.
"My notes are in my backpack in the kitchen," I say as I lead him toward that direction. "I was just talking to—"
The kitchen is empty. The glasses are the only sign that anyone was here. The door is just shutting. I open it up and check outside, but Aaron has made another of his mysterious exits.
CHAPTER 11
"Talking to who?" Oliver asks curiously, looking around. He probably thinks I'm the crazy one now.
"Uh, nobody. Just talking on the phone," I cover. "Let me get those notes."
I dig through my backpack and hand him my folder, assuring him that I've got the subject memorized. We stand awkwardly in the kitchen and he coughs. I hear my dad's car pull up and a minute later he's in the kitchen.
He takes in Oliver's appearance and smiles wanly. "Who's this?"
I introduce them, and Oliver seems intimidated even though my dad is the least intimidating man ever. Dad asks him a few questions about school that elicit short replies.
"Why don't you give your friend a tour of the house?" Dad asks. I widen my eyes at the suggestion, but Oliver looks hopeful.
He stays politely quiet as I lead him around the downstairs.
"This is probably boring, right?" I ask, stopping by the stairs before we proceed.
"Not at all," he says.
I lean against the wall. "You probably know more about what happened here than I do. You said you studied the Moss murders."
He shrugs. "Yeah."
"How about you lead the way?"
He raises his eyebrows. "For real? This is kind of like visiting a museum. Or a battlefield. That would be cool."
I follow him upstairs and we pause. "So, how did it start?" I ask. I can't get rid of this gnawing curiosity and I'm hoping he can help with it. He opens the door of the room with the sailboats first.
"This was Aaron's room."
All the moisture flees my mouth and I swallow hard. "Really?" The idea of Aaron as a helpless, innocent little boy hits me hard and chills shoot down my spine.
"He wasn't here the night of the killings. He was eight years old, and he was away at summer camp." He glances back at me, then goes to the painted plaster spot on the wall and runs his finger over it. "But either Seth forgot, was too far gone to care, or had some other reason. Because he fired a few shots into this wall, and the bed, too. Maybe it was symbolic."
I stare at the bright blue plaster spot, now so much more ominous, as he treads back out of the room. Does Aaron know how close to death he could have been? I wonder how he feels being the only one left. I hurry out to catch up with Oliver, who already is standing in my dad's room. He wrinkles his nose at the shabby state, the unmade bed and tissues on the side table. I feel a bit embarrassed.
"None of the original furniture, huh?" he mutters.
"Uh, no. Not here."
His eyes scan the room, and I get a cold chill from his fervent expression. It's like he's slipping into the skin of a different person. He steps forward, his heavy boots clunking on the floor, and halts next to the bed.
"He killed them both in their sleep," he says evenly. "Shot them in the back of the head. They never even woke up." He tilts his head to the left and raises his two fingers like a gun, pretending to shoot the mattress. I wince as I imagine how much blood must have spilled out.
I'm sure they replaced the carpet. Nobody's going to buy a house with bloodstains
, Carla's phantom voice replays in my head.
Oliver is already striding to the other room, even though I've heard enough. I wanted to know more, but now my stomach is twisted in knots. He steps into the pink room where my old bed now sits.
"This was Lauren's room, Seth's sister. She wasn't so lucky. She woke up when Seth pulled the trigger in the master bedroom, and tried to get away out the window, but he caught her in the back. She crashed through and when she landed she crawled across the grass, but she didn't get far. Her screams are what woke the neighbors."
We both stand at the window and look at the innocent ground below, dappled with afternoon sunlight.
"By the time the cops got here, Seth was long gone. She was dead by then, too. She never had a chance."
"That's awful," I murmur.
"Isn't it?" Oliver says. A toothy, gruesome grin spreads across his acne-scarred face. My stomach knots up again and suddenly I realize it's him that's creeping me out, not just the subject matter. He notices my distress and the smile melts off his face.
"You know, my dad needed my help with some stuff, so we should wrap this up," I lie clumsily. I lead him back toward the stairs. He glances in the direction of the attic staircase, but I have no intention of continuing this little tour. Maybe I'm a hypocrite, but he got a little too into his own story just now.
As I show him out, his expression crumbles in disappointment. But I'm thinking it's better some doors stay closed.
_________________
The temperature drops low the next night. I take a shower and ruffle my hair dry with a towel as I head upstairs. I toss the towel in the laundry basket and as I'm starting to brush my hair, I glance out the window. A clear hand print stands out in the frost lacing the glass. I pause with the brush in my hair. I know I didn't touch it this time.
I button up my pajama top and sit on the window seat. There's one person that would reach out to me, if she could. My mom.
I hold my hand up against the print and a smile touches my lips, even as I feel the edges of my broken heart.
Maybe she's the one whose presence I've been feeling all along—the phantom music, the shadows. A peaceful feeling settles over me like a warm blanket. I rest my head against the sill, curling my legs up, and soon I'm asleep.
CHAPTER 12
The next afternoon, I'm sitting on the bed as I flip through a book of poetry I found in one of Seth's boxes. Some of the phrases have been underlined carefully with steady pen lines. It's probably the last warm day we'll have for a while. I go to the window again and open it. I trace the place where the hand print was, and can still barely make out the outline of the fingers. I watch the birds below strut along the bare branches in the trees.
I hear a whistle and lean forward. Aaron is standing down by the bushes, waving up at me. I crank open the window all the way and lean out.
"Can I come up?" he yells.
"Sure, give me a minute!" I yell back, but he doesn't wait before he latches onto the trellis next to the window and starts to climb up. His swift, fluid movements as he pulls himself up are impressive. He reaches the top and I try to hold out my hand for him, but he grabs the ledge and lifts himself up. He scoots back, dangling his legs out the window, then grins at me and lifts his eyebrows. I shake my head at him and can't help but laugh as I close the book.
"Show off." He's not even flushed, his dark eyes standing out in contrast to his pale, unblemished skin. He smiles at me with those irresistible dimples and my heart flutters.
"Done it a million times."
"Do you always wear the same clothes?" I ask with a raised eyebrow. He looks down at his sweatshirt and jeans, pulling his sleeves down over his hands.
"More or less. They're comfortable."
"You must wash them every night. At least you don't smell."
He grins crookedly. "Thanks, I guess." He nods toward the book. "Is that one of Seth's?"
"Yeah. My eReader is dead, I hope you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind."
"Do you want to take a look at his stuff now?"
He shakes his head. "Past is past. I don't need anything of Seth's to remember him. There's enough in my head." His fingers trace the letters of the poem carved into the wood.
"Did he paint those trees, too?"
He glances back at them. "Yeah. This was his spot to hang out and watch the birds. He used to read all that poetry shit. His head was full of a lot of big ideas and no street smarts." He glances over at me and I get the impression that he's trying to appear casual. "Who was that guy who came over here yesterday? Was he a friend of yours?" His transparency is cute.
"You mean when you dashed out the door like your ass was on fire?" I query innocently, grinning. Aaron shrugs, but he's still waiting for an answer. I sigh. "It was just Oliver. I met him a few days ago. He's a little weird, but he's nice, someone to talk to."
"Looked like some sad goth poser to me."
"You didn't even meet him."
He bites his bottom lip. "Didn't need to see much."
"You're such a pessimist."
"Yeah, that happens when someone experiences the things I have." His words are a bucket of ice water on the conversation. Neither of us speaks for a moment. His gaze captures mine, smoldering silently. He looks back out at the birds singing as they stand along the tops of the fence and in the branches.
"I didn't mean to snap at you," he says finally, his tone thoughtful. "I'm sorry, I just haven't been close to anyone in a while. I've forgotten how to talk to people."
Close.
The word echoes in my head.
"Me too," I whisper.
I scoot over so that my legs dangle out of the window next to him. Our arms are almost touching but he doesn't try to move away. I glance at him while he's still gazing away. He runs one of the ties from his sweatshirt across his bottom lip. The more I look at him, the more perfect he becomes, but I feel uneasy being this attracted to someone with a tragic past. I feel like I'm walking a tightrope, everything I say another step that could make me tumble.
"Everyone thinks that my brother was a monster." The topic surprises me. He turns his head and glances up at me through his lashes, and there's that intensity again. It's hypnotizing. "Do you?"