Wicked Charm(14)

Because you're different. "No reason. Maybe you're wrong. Maybe there is no softer side."

"I'm not wrong."

When her hand stretches out to brush mine, I lose all train of thought.

"You, Beau, are not as dark as you want people to believe, and you know it."

She lets go of my hand and reaches for an apple, taking a bite.

"You are capable of being wrong, you know." I watch the way her mouth  sinks into the fruit, leaving a wet sheen of juice across her lips.

"Not about this."

Her confidence is reassuring. I grin at her, lost in the moment. I  notice the little things: the sun on her toes, reflecting off her  peach-painted nails, which I can see because she wears flip-flops today;  her hair blowing in the slight breeze; the little gap between her teeth  as she smiles.

"What's their plan for finding the real killer?" she asks.

I frown. "I don't know. I guess they'll analyze evidence in their lab. Maybe search the swamp more thoroughly. I will, too."

 …

I stay true to my word. I search and search the bog as the weeks pass.  One, two, and then three. I'm frustrated and tired of eating packed  sandwiches. My schoolwork suffers because I'm spending every hour  outside the halls-where students give me a wide berth and accusatory  stares-combing through the swamp. The only exception being the few  stolen moments I spend in dreams, with friends, or with Willow, who,  thankfully, has been riding to school with me.

She's the only one who makes me feel sane, aside from my family, Pax,  and Grant. Everyone else looks at me as though I'm already guilty, their  stares eating me up inside.

"It's no use." Though I say the words aloud, I don't completely believe  them. I can't seem to stop looking. Even now, I'm looking.

I shine my light over and over and over again. I see trees and water and  grass and creatures but nothing out of the ordinary. The swamp current  rolls into our boat, rocking us. The air is humming with gnats, smelling  earthy and dank, a reminder that rain has recently visited.

"We're missing something." Charlotte's brows pinch in concentration.

She is better at this than I am. Her focus allows her to not give up  easily. The look she bestows tells me that I better not dare give up,  either. Maybe she's toying with me. That would be just like Charlotte to  do, to have a secret and then hang it up right in front of me, as big  as the moon but just out of reach.

Maybe she knows more than she says. I didn't think it was possible at  first, but now I wonder. With her elusiveness, it's hard not to suspect  that she's up to something.         

     



 

"Where's the killer, Charlotte? Do you know anything about the murder? Have you discovered any new details?"

Her brows relax. Her face transforms into a smile that is both intimidating and terrifying.

"Isn't that the million-dollar question?"

I don't know why she chooses to be so poisonous. Actually, I'm lying. I  do know why, what I don't know is how she does it for so long. I hardly  ever see moments of weakness in her. Even I have occasional moments.  It's not normal, the strength of her resolve. One day she decided she  would never love another soul. And then she lived up to her own promise,  tenfold. People are scared of her, and I can't say I blame them.

"Charlotte?" I say her name softly.

I hardly ever do things softly, but for her, my only sister, I show a glimpse of the real me.

She regards me curiously. "Yes, little brother?"

I catch a grin before it fully forms.

"I'm glad you're here with me." The words are out before I can  second-guess them. "Today. At school. At home. We make a good team."

I almost believe she wants to smile. Her pink lips begin to align into  something genuine-a reminder of good memories-not backed by a  razor-sharp tongue.

"If you say so." She turns to the swamp, not allowing me access to her expression.

I have no idea if my words affect her at all, but I hope they do. I want her to know she can trust me.

"You'd tell me if you knew something, wouldn't you?" I ask.

I can almost touch the stretch of silence between us.

"Perhaps."

"That's not an answer."

I don't understand why she insists on wearing a cloak of elusiveness with me.

"It's as good an answer as you'll get."

Since she won't turn around, since she insists on facing forward, the wind tells me her reply instead.

"Answer me the right way." I'll push her until she caves if I have to,  but I can't keep sitting in the boat wondering if she's hiding  information. "Would you tell me if you knew something more? Do you  actually know something more?"

Finally, she offers me a solid answer.

"Yes, I'd tell you." Her voice comes out sounding like bells, but they  are the type of bells I'd imagine would signal a warning of something  bad to come. "Sadly, I don't know anything."

The thing is, I'm not sure if she's lying.





13


Willow

"I might have to eat you alive," Beau says, but I think he means to say, "Good morning."

He stares at my dress, yellow as a bursting sunflower. Beau can't stop  looking at me, and it thins the invisible cloud of worry around him. I  need him to know I'm here, even when whispers trail him like a ghost,  calling forth suspicion. He is connected to the victim, but I don't  believe he's a murderer. I suppose I want him to know that he can let go  of the tension that draws all his muscles tight, the guilt hanging off  his shoulders, brought forth simply because he's an unfortunate link.  His smile is sly, but I see it, the uncertainty, as though he expects  that any day now, I will cross the dividing line to stand with those who  think of him as guilty.

"Let's not go to school today," he says.

I have every intention of going to school. I decide to tease him a little. Lighten the mood.

"Fine, I suppose I should let another boy drive me."

I swear I hear something similar to a growl escape his lips.

"Who? Brody?"

I haven't had another date with Brody. We went out that one night. Had a  good time. Maybe I'll do it again. Or maybe not. His second date  invitation is open-ended, my choice to make.

"Or maybe I'll take the bus instead."

Beau bites his bottom lip and opens the truck door for me. "Hop in."

His hair is a tousled mess. His jeans fit just so, and his shirt is the lightest shade of gray.

"Not again." I glance out the truck window and notice Gran hobbling down  the steps, a disapproving grimace carved into her expression. "Better  go."

"Still isn't fond of me driving you to school, I see." Beau tries to hide a grin.

"She's warming up to the idea," I reply.

He arches a brow, gets in, and puts the truck in reverse.

"That's considered ‘warming up' how?" he asks, pointing at Gran.

"Well, she hasn't forbidden me to see you yet, has she?" I ask.

Beau laughs and drives us to school. He tries not to stare at me and fails.

"Beau." I smile at the way my lips curve around his name, enjoying the  easy shape of each letter. "I'm gonna stitch your eyes to the road."         

     



 

But I don't actually need to. He trains his stare ahead the whole rest of the way there.

Two guys approach us as we arrive at school. I recognize them as the  ones I sometimes see Beau with in the halls but have never officially  been introduced to, mainly because my time spent with Beau is split  between the ride to school and the bog.

"Hey, you must be Willow," says the smaller of the two, a boy with bright, curly red hair. "I'm Grant, Beau's friend."

"Hi," I say.

"Pax," says the other, bigger one.

"So when did you and Beau start going out?" Grant asks.

"We're not going out," I correct him.

"Oh yeah?" Beau says, as though he's challenging me.

With a gleam in his eyes, Beau leans toward me. I know his exact  intention. I lean away because he's not getting a first kiss from me  like this. It's not easy to turn him down, but I'll be damned if our  first kiss is based on a challenge, on Beau trying to prove something.

"Gonna have to do better than that," I say as we walk to the front doors.

I hear Grant's and Pax's deep laughs, but there's a more musical one,  too. I turn around to see the source and come face-to-face with the most  beautiful girl I've ever seen. Her hair is blacker than black, rippling  in the breeze like a flock of feathers. Her skin is olive like Beau's,  her makeup flawless. Her legs are ten thousand miles long. Maybe ten  thousand and one. I recognize her from my first-period class, though  I've never heard her utter a word until now. Still, I know who she is.

Beau frowns. "Go away."

"Sorry about him," I say. "He's allergic to manners."

She has a wicked, glinting stare.

"Stupid girl, I already know that." She smiles at Beau. "I know much more about my brother than you ever will."

She's the one I've heard of but never managed to see around the bog or  at his cabin. I wonder how we've missed running into each other in the  swamp all this time.