Wicked Charm(12)

"Let's just have fun," Jorie says. "We've got three more holes, and then you can buy me ice cream."

She runs up to knock the ball into the hole, which she does in four tries. It takes Yin four tries, too.

Brody joins me. "The trick is to hit it to the left. There's another  hole there that acts as a tunnel straight to the final hole. It'll pop  out right by it. You can get it in two tries."

I take his advice and make it in two tries, much to my astonishment. I  raise my hands in victory, a broad grin on my face. Even so, there's  nothing I can do that will push us ahead of Jorie and Yin. Not even the  fact that Brody makes a hole in one five times.

"Knew it," Jorie says with a smile.

"Fine, I'll buy you peach ice cream," I say.

We turn the clubs back in and make it to the sweet shop just as the  first raindrops begin to fall. The sky rolls with thunderclaps and  purple waves of clouds. I picture Beau standing under it all.

No.

That's not what I should be picturing.

Brody slowly drapes a tentative arm around me, waiting for my reaction.  And since I don't want to think about Beau tonight, I lean in to Brody  to tell him it's okay, that I like him, because I honestly do.  Simultaneously, I act as though I'm not at all thinking about another  boy.

If only I were oblivious to my own lies.





12


Beau

The bog stretches on forever, and my curiosity goes with it. Charlotte  and Grandpa sit in the boat with me, each of us wondering the same  thing.

Who's creeping through our swamp?

No one has permission to be on our land. Old Lady Bell has given no one  authorization to be on hers, either. We have a trespasser on our hands. A  murderer, more like it. Finding them, if they're still here, is now our  number one priority.

Just out of reach, a snapping turtle surfaces. Its spiky shell is  covered in green fuzz, and its head is as large as my fist, tipped with a  beak-like jaw. Its milky eyes and size tell me that it's old, and it's  easily one hundred pounds. One of the bigger ones I've seen but  certainly not the biggest.         

     



 

"Mom's favorite," Charlotte whispers.

But then her face goes blank, as though she didn't mean to say the words. It's too late. I'm already remembering her.

I watch, transfixed, just barely nine years old, as Mom wrangles an  alligator snapping turtle into the open for Charlotte and me to see.  She's huffing and panting and completely out of breath. Her brown hair  is plastered to her face, and she's lying atop the thing like she's  wrestled an actual alligator, pushing all her weight on it to keep it  still. Dad pins down the head, the most dangerous part because it has a  mouth that can snap off fingers.

"Look at it," Mom says, in awe.

She's covered in muck from the turtle, which looks as though it's been  submerged for a while. Unlucky, he surfaced for a breath right near the  shore. Of course Mom and Dad took the opportunity to jump in the water  and fight it onto land. This one is a male, I can tell from sheer size.

"Must be at least one hundred and fifty pounds." Mom huffs.

I feel as though I'm looking at a dinosaur with its prehistoric wrinkled skin and massive shell.

I glance at Mom. She's smiling.

"Well, come on," she says to me. "Give it a touch."

"It's going to storm," Charlotte says, whipping me out of my memories.

Above us, a grumpy sky glares down, threatening to spill. We don't mind,  though. A little rain won't deter us from finding a killer.

"You sure you didn't do it?" Charlotte asks.

I rock the boat so she almost falls in the water with the gators.

"Told you a hundred times, didn't I? I'm no murderer."

"But you're the one who was sleeping with the enemy," Charlotte says.  "Oh, no, wait. That was Samantha. She was the one sleeping with the  enemy."

Cruel of her to make jokes about a dead girl who isn't here to defend  herself. Even crueler of her to think of me as the enemy, a murderer.  After all we've been through, and owing to the fact that she is my  sister, you'd think she'd give me more credit. I'm not that evil.

"I might not have liked her anymore, but I didn't kill her," I argue.

Some people say Charlotte and I argue too much, but they don't understand our way of communicating.

"'Course you didn't," she purrs. "You don't have it in you."

"And you do?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

From the moment the news broke of Samantha's death, reporters have  labeled it the "Mangroves Murder." Since that's technically where they  found Samantha, slumped over a mangrove like a play prop. Body bruised,  especially her neck.

"Did you kill Samantha, Charlotte?"

I look at her long fingers and wonder if they could possibly choke the  life out of someone. That's not the official report, of course. Cause of  death requires a detailed autopsy, and a toxicology will take weeks. I  say it only because that's the word around town.

Strangled.

Charlotte crosses her legs and frowns at the sky. "Would I be on this boat searching for a killer if I had?"

I consider it. "Maybe if you didn't want anyone to know you did it."

She smiles. "There's an idea."

Thinking of my sister as someone who could harm another is so crazy that  the thought doesn't linger. I don't really think she did it. Plus, she  has no reason to.

"Charlotte, quit toying with your brother." Grandpa's words end with a  sharp cough. He struggles to catch his breath, and I swear I hear him  mumble something about his damn allergies. "We both know he wouldn't  hurt the girl."

Grandpa's right, I wouldn't harm her. But someone did.

I wonder if Samantha fought back. She came this far out to see me, that  much is clear, but why not stick to the roads? They found her in deep  waters. She must have taken a boat, whether voluntarily or not. Guilt  kicks me in the stomach, leaving a lingering impression. If only she  hadn't attempted to come see me, she might still be alive.

The only people in these parts are Charlotte, Grandpa, and me. The Bell  family, too, mind you. None of them would have murdered her, though.

"Grandpa," I say, mostly out of obligation, "did you kill her?"

But I don't think he did. Not one ounce of belief backs my inquisition. Grandpa wouldn't do it.

Grandpa's face remains impassive. His only answer is a haunting hum, filling the bog.

Police never found a clue. At least that they've told us.

No witnesses.

I try to imagine a girl dropped into an unfamiliar landscape, dying.  It's a difficult thing to think about. But something doesn't add up. She  should have been on the roads, not in a boat in the swamp a half mile  north of the property. She knew my address, even if she wasn't entirely  familiar with the area. Why veer off track?         

     



 

I slap a mosquito on my arm and another on my neck.

The oar I'm holding is smeared with greenish-black algae, looking as  though I've dipped it into a vat of mold. I place it in the water again,  wondering if we can ever claim this swamp back, or if it'll always be  tainted by the damn killer. I try to keep my exterior hard as a swamp  rock, but inside I feel the change brought about by the murder. The bog  isn't as free of worry as it used to be.

Grandpa takes us under a cluster of trees so thick that I have to duck to avoid branches clawing me.

It's getting dark. Light bleeds from the sky, overtaken by an army of  clouds that swell like a bloated belly splotched with welts. I hold back  a shiver when I feel the air change direction and brush a million cool  fingers over my skin. It, like us, is picking up speed.

The boat hits a shallow part of the swamp, and we have to stick our oars  into the mud and push hard, maneuvering so as to not get stuck. A few  thrusts and we make it out, where the water depth drops off again,  allowing us an easier ride.

The boat rocks, stirred up by the wind. But at the last minute, the  storm changes direction and misses us. My stare swipes over the shore.  Leaves are tossed into the air before swirling back down. I don't know  what I'm looking for-any kind of clue, really.

Though we've rowed for hours, spreading across the swamp's surface like algae, we find nothing strange in nature.

No one is here.

Or else someone is, and they camouflage so well that not even trained eyes can spot them.

A chill tiptoes up my spine. Unease squeezes a tight fist around my  stomach, and I have to remind myself to keep calm. It's the only way to  gain an advantage over the killer. It'll do no good to hole up inside  the cabin and wait for him to strike again.

We search well into the night. I shine a flashlight and catch the  reflection of fox eyes, frog eyes, raccoon eyes. Never anything else.

It drizzles. The clouds smear themselves over the moon. Stars glint in  the sky like the tips of a million blades. The night is heavy with  humidity so thick that I feel as though I'm breathing in air straight  from a heater vent.

"Call it a night?" Grandpa takes a bite out of his second packed  sandwich. This one is peanut butter and jelly. "It's been hours."