The Secrets of Lily Graves (7 page)

“Want me to explain that you were only teaching me how to drive?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious? No offense, but Erin thinks you're trying to . . . you know . . .” He bowed his head shyly.

Already I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. “No. I don't know.
What?
”

He exhaled. “Hook up. With me.”

I flushed with outrage. Talk about ego. Erin automatically assumed that every girl—even, apparently, Matt's parentally approved tutor—lusted after her
boyfriend. “Well, I'm not.”

“I know that. But it doesn't matter.” Matt lifted his head and turned sideways. “You've got to understand. Erin's not like you. Not at all.”

I slunk down in the seat in case she recognized Matt's truck. “What does that mean?”

“It means she can't just brush stuff off and go with the flow. I don't know how to describe it, but sometimes I worry she's such a perfectionist that if everything doesn't turn out exactly the way she wants, she might hurt herself.”

I was stunned. There was nothing about Erin Donohue that seemed the least bit self-destructive.

For the most part, Erin
was
perfect. Teachers adored her. Guys were intimidated, and most girls wanted to be her.

“You want to give me an example?” I said.

Matt ran a finger under his lower lip, thinking. “Okay, like, last spring after junior prom I suggested that we might want to take a break for the summer, and . . .”

“And what?”

“It wasn't good.”

“Oh.” I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Possibly because a tall, thin guy with long, black hair bouncing on his shoulders was jaywalking across Main
Street with a purpose. He was Alex Bone, aka Stone Bone, one of the weirdest dudes ever to grace the halls of Potsdam High.

He'd been a senior when Sara and I had been mere freshmen, so he seemed scarier than he probably was. Though his penchant for wearing scruffy dusters and making videos about how much the school sucked didn't help. For that reason, Sara nicknamed him Mr. Columbine and profiled him as Most Likely to Take Out the Cafeteria.

He scared the crap out of us, but apparently he didn't have the same effect on Erin, who suddenly jumped up and ran down the steps to give him a great big hug.

“What's she doing with Stone Bone?” Matt asked, leaning forward.

We watched as Alex touched his hands together prayerfully and bowed. Erin did the same. Alex reached into his back pocket and pulled out a book. Erin took it and clasped it to her chest before kissing his cheek. Alex touched his cheek with his fingertips and brought them to his lips. There was something ritualistic in their mannerisms—intimate, yet almost orchestrated.

Then he backed up and jogged across the street, pausing to look at her affectionately before pulling
open the door of the Pots & Cups Café. I remembered hearing somewhere that he was a barista. Struck me as odd job for a guy who couldn't stand people. Erin, meanwhile, had climbed back up the steps of the library, where she sat reading Alex's gift.

“I better find out what that was all about,” Matt said, getting out and closing the truck door softly so she wouldn't twirl around to see me sitting in Sparkle's shotgun spot. Leaning in the window, he said, “I think we should skip our session today. Okay?”

“Sure. Absolutely.” I didn't want to face Erin anyway.

“I'll drive you home. Just give me a minute.”

I nodded and let him go. After twenty minutes of watching the two of them talk on the library steps, I slipped out with my book bag and walked the four miles.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

H
ey, Graves.” Matt shook my shoulder. “Wake up.”

“I don't want to,” I whispered.

“You've got to. I need you.”

I could sense him weighing down the foot of my bed. Though my eyes were closed, I saw his white T-shirt and the rounded contours of his quarterback shoulders in the morning dusk. Oddly enough, his hair was longish, which was how I knew it was only a dream. During football season, he wore it super short.

I opened my eyes and let reality sink in. My room was empty, the garden window closed. Matt had never been here. He didn't care about me.

“Goddammit,” I whispered, and turned on my
phone to see if by chance he'd written during the night.

A bazillion texts filled the screen.

The phone fell from my hand as I reeled from all the vitriol. This was a whole new level of hostility. For some reason, the Tragically Normals—at least, I assumed it was the Tragically Normals—had apparently decided to lay the blame for Erin's death on me.

I leaned over to get my phone and, bracing for the worst, forced myself to read the texts again. They originated from Pinger, which meant they'd be almost impossible to trace. With a shaky thumb, I deleted every one.
Bing. Bing. Bing
. And then I called Sara.

“Hey!” she answered cheerily. “I was just about to call you. I might be a little late because—”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Huh?”

I described the texts, right down to the last breathtaking zinger:
Lily Graves should be IN the grave
. “It's like suddenly I'm under attack for no reason.”

“Okay, okay. Take a deep breath.”

I took a deep breath.

“First of all,
you
have done nothing wrong. Don't be manipulated. Second of all, those texts violate the school's bullying policy. I spent half the night lying awake and strategizing how best to bring them down without making you look like a whining snitch.”

Sara was already aware of the rumors? “But why are they ganging up on me all of a sudden?”

“I'll tell you in the car. Just take a shower, get a cup of coffee, pull up your big-girl panties, and stay calm. All right?”

“I guess. Though I still don't . . .”

“And whatever you do, do not go online. No Twitter. No Facebook.”

Facebook? Who went on Facebook anymore?

“Meet you at seven thirty-ish. I might be a little late. Okay?”

“Okay.” I felt slightly better knowing that whatever it was, Sara had my back. I pressed end and there was a buzz. Another message.

I. Hate. You.

I wondered if that one had been sent by Matt.

Following Sara's advice, I slid out of bed into the cold morning and dragged myself to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Meanwhile, I dialed up the thermostat,
fetched the newspaper off the top step, and let out our cat, Mitzy.

Coffee in hand, I opened the French doors off our kitchen and stepped onto the brick patio. The air was chilly and scented with autumn decay, rotting pumpkins, moldy flowers, and other glorious dead things. As each bright ray of the rising sun touched the remaining red and gold leaves, they fluttered to the ground in a silent rain. It was so pretty and bittersweet that for a brief moment I forgot about the awaiting horde of hatemongers.

“Good morning!” my mother announced as her heels clicked onto the patio, nearly scaring me out of my skin. Being Ruth B. Graves, she was already showered, suited, and ready for work, right down to her tasteful nude lip gloss and tightly wound chignon. “You're up early.”

“Noisy garbage truck.” There was no point in telling her about my dreams about Matt or the hate bombs. It would only make her fret, and already the worry lines between her eyes were turning permanent.

She placed her coffee and iPad on the glass table and took a seat on a wrought-iron chair before scrolling through the morning paper to the obituary section. Mom read the obits like stockbrokers checked the morning overseas markets, part and parcel of staying up on the competition.

“Do I dare ask what you're going to wear this morning?” she asked without looking up.

The eternal question. “What I always wear.” And before she could object, I said, “Please don't argue. It's going to be a stressful day, and I need all the support I can get.”

Mom loved giving support. I think it was a major reason why she took over my father's business after he died—so she had permission to hold hands and coo, “There, there.”

“All right,” she conceded reluctantly. “Go get dressed. Sara will be here any minute.”

A half hour later, I reappeared in my favorite body-hugging black dress with bell sleeves. My shoulder-length hair, the shade and silkiness of ravens' feathers, hung steel straight, with a strip of blue for pizazz. A pair of Doc Martens added the necessary heft.

The only thing missing was the Persephone cameo, my absolute favorite accessory that I had somehow lost swimming last summer. Matt may have poked fun at it, but I loved the Persephone myth—how she came to rule the Underworld yet also remain a loyal daughter. As stupid as it might seem, I felt stronger with Persephone around my neck, and I suspected that this was going to be one of those days when I would need all the strength I could muster.

Mom lifted her gaze from the iPad and emitted a sigh of maternal suffering. “Really, Lily? Today when you're going to police headquarters you can't compromise on—”

“Mom?” I warned.

She went back to reading. “I'm just saying.”

A crunch of gravel followed by a quick beep in the driveway announced Sara's arrival.

“Got to go!” With a kiss on her forehead, I sailed out the door and into the refuge of the McMartins' blue Mercedes.

Sara greeted me with an approving assessment. “Good. That sends the right message.” She waved to the chrome coffee mug in the cup holder, the one we called the Cup o' Bling because it was covered in plastic diamonds. “I made you a cappuccino before I left. Three shots of espresso.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, taking a deep sip.

Sara brewed the absolute best cup of coffee. She started learning the tricks of the barista trade when she was young, around eleven, after her mother stopped getting out of bed to make breakfast in the mornings. Dr. Ken was always at the hospital by five for rounds, so it was up to Sara to rouse her brother, Brandon, and make sure he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and didn't leave for school in his Pokémon pj's.

Sara cut her teeth on instant, moved to drip, and eventually mastered the frothy cappuccino, complete with swirls of steamed milk in the shape of a heart, like they do down at the café.

“Okay,” I said, curling my fingers around the warm cup. “Brief me, counselor.”

Her gaze flitted to the rearview. “I first heard the rumors yesterday when Dad and I brought a casserole over to the Donohues. They only had, like, twenty there on the counter already.”

I could have told her that. Soup-based casseroles were so synonymous with death. Campbell's should consider placing a picture of the Grim Reaper on its cream of mushroom.

“Anyway, Kate Kline was there with her family too.” Sara stopped at a crosswalk to let a group of little kids pass, their backpacks bouncing as they marched to school with amusing seriousness. I had a sudden image of Kate and Erin at that age, prancing into second grade with their own matching pink Britney Spears backpacks, queens of the class even then.

The crossing guard waved us onward and Sara continued. “As soon as we were alone, she grabbed me by the arm and started grilling me about you and Matt.”

“
Me and Matt?
What's there to know? For the thousandth time, we're friends. Nothing more.”

“Not to the TNs. They're convinced you two were cheating behind Erin's back.”

My jaw dropped. Matt and I hadn't much as held hands or kissed or . . . anything.

Well, that wasn't exactly technically true, I thought guiltily, thinking back to a couple of times when we nearly crossed the line.

“Here's what else,” Sara said, flicking another glance at the rearview. “Kate got that stuff about you and Matt from Erin on Saturday, the day she died. That's why everyone's putting the blame on you, Lil. Don't get me wrong. It's totally unfair. But that's the deal.”

Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. It was as if someone had physically socked me in the solar plexus. Cramps radiated through my middle, and I had to lean over to stop them. I wanted to stay that way forever, invisible and hidden, until my existence was forgotten.

“You okay?” Sara asked.

I gripped my waist and tried sitting up. “Yeah. I don't know what's wrong. Nerves.”

“That's why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd get upset, especially since—”

“Erin didn't kill herself.”

Sara's eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

My mother would have had a fit if she'd found
out I was violating her specific order not to tell Sara, but I was sick of lying to my best friend. Besides, this suicide business had gone on long enough. “She was murdered.”

Sara slammed on the brakes just as the light turned red. “Where'd you get that?”

“I saw an internal memo Perfect Bob faxed to Mom. Then Mom confirmed yesterday when she told me I had to go to headquarters today to get my cheeks swabbed so they could separate out my DNA from whoever else's is under Erin's fingernails.”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Sara gripped her right temple. “Information overload. Back up and tell me everything from the beginning.”

So I told her about snooping in Mom's office and seeing the fax—conveniently omitting the part about Bob's instructions to keep me away from Matt. Then I explained about the buccal smear and how Bob had convinced Mom that the test didn't mean I was a suspect, though I couldn't help feeling like one.