Wicked Charm(30)

"So broken hearts aren't the motive," Charlotte says, seeming genuinely concerned.

"I've thought it over. None of the victims lived close to one another.  They had no friends in common. They aren't all even in the same grade. I  can't figure it out."

"Do you think someone's jealous?" Grandpa's voice sounds like Dad's.  "Maybe a guy who wishes he could date the girls you have, but they've  rejected him."

"Maybe." I pace the floor, trying to find the missing piece of the  puzzle. Pax and Grant sometimes seem envious. But they're my friends.  They wouldn't hurt innocent girls, would they? "If only I knew why the  victims were targeted, I might be able to figure out if Willow is in the  killer's sight."

"You're really worried about her, aren't you?"

The truth slips free. "Yes, Grandpa, I am. What if I can't protect her?"

Charlotte and Grandpa have no reassurances for me, which tells me they're worried about the same thing.

Looking for the killer so far has done us no good. I want to stop him before he hurts another girl. I want answers.

Why was there an earring in Charlotte's room that matched the one  dropped in the forest? Why is each dead girl someone I've known?

If it's me the killer is targeting, then why doesn't he just come for me instead?

Or maybe it's not a "he" at all.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the only evidence I've found so far.

"Charlotte." It's time I ask her about the earring. "Whose is this?"

I drop the green-amber onto the counter and watch her eyes hone in on the earring.

"Mine." Her tone sounds relieved, but that doesn't make any sense.  "Where did you find it? I've been looking for it for a month."

Grandpa runs a finger over the smooth stone. A smile touches his face. "These used to belong to your grandmother."

"Which is why I was so worried when I lost one," Charlotte says. "You know I don't have much from her. Just the jewelry box."

"You lost the earring?" I can't keep the doubt from seeping into my  words. "Any chance you lost it in the forest while running from me?"

Her eyebrows knit in confusion. "What are you talking about? I never  wear these or even take them out of the house. They're too valuable, and  I don't want to lose them, which is why I couldn't believe it when one  went missing. I discovered it was gone the same day I came home to my  window being open, when I could have sworn I'd shut it before we left.  At first, I considered the idea of a robber. But why would they only  take one earring?"

"So you thought you misplaced it instead?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense, right? A robber would have  taken the pair, not just one, and would have likely taken more than just  my earrings. Are you saying you found this in the woods after chasing  someone?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Actually, the one I found in the woods  is now in police custody. This is the one from your jewelry box, but  they're a match. Why were they separated?" I lean against the counter  and rub my temples, trying to make sense of the situation. "You're  saying someone snuck in the house, took one earring, and fled to the  forest. Why? Who would do such a thing?"

Grandpa clears his throat. "Answer that and you have your killer."





29


Willow

Beau's handprints don't match the marks left on the dead girls. That's  what I've learned this morning. Police took Beau in for more  questioning, simple blood tests, and fingerprint analysis. I suppose  they needed to be certain that his alibis weren't lies.

He's not the killer.         

     



 

It's a relief, that's what it is.

They released him quick-like when they knew for certain that they had nothing on him. And now, here we are.

"Charlotte isn't the killer," he says. "The earrings are hers. Someone stole one of them from her."

His nostrils flare and his eyes twitch. Is he lying to me?

"I'm supposed to believe that she didn't lose it that day? That she isn't the person we saw in the woods?"

"I'm telling you it wasn't her."

"You sure about that?"

He smiles. "Absolutely positive."

"How do you know she's telling the truth?"

He rows gently, his long legs stretched out toward me. In the small boat, our feet touch.

"Talked to her last night. I can usually tell when she lies. Those are  the times when she won't look me in the eyes, but she did last night.  Nothing to worry about," he says. "Strange as Charlotte is, she wouldn't  hurt anyone, I don't think."

This is the most Beau has ever tried to convince me of anything, and so I  decide to trust him. The police have questioned Charlotte. They don't  suspect her. Beau doesn't suspect her. Maybe I shouldn't, either. Yet  still, I can't completely erase my doubt.

I try to shake the thought from my mind, promising myself I'll come back  to it later. For now, I want to concentrate on Beau's surprise.

"Where is it you're taking me?" I ask.

"Just you wait," he says with a mischievous grin.

The bog gurgles beneath us as bubbles rise to the surface and pop,  followed by a turtle head. The sun's rays scratch holes in the canopy,  creating shafts of light that form a path through the water.

"You're up to something," I remark.

"Always," he replies.

We turn a bend. I look back, wondering how far exactly we've come. A  mile, perhaps? Far enough away from home that no one will see us. But  not too far that I have to worry about disobeying Mom's request to stay  close to the house.

Up ahead, I make out a cluster of trees that juts out of the water. It takes me a second to realize it's an island.

Beau stops rowing, and the boat gently floats toward the shore. From beneath his seat, he pulls out a rope.

"What are we going to do on a small island, Beau?" I ask.

A smile slips through. I don't think I care what we do on the island as long as it involves Beau being there.

Beau does exactly as I suspect. He ties up the boat, places the oars  securely inside, and helps me out and onto solid ground. I can see only a  few feet into the trees, but I want to see more.

"Are we going in there?" I ask, hopeful.

"Would you like to?"

I answer by taking a step into the leaves. The sun retreats. Tree trunks line up like markers. Bushes dot the landscape.

I make my own trail. Beau follows.

The walk is littered with stones and broken twigs. Leaves rustle like  crackly paper. The wind brushes my skin so lightly that it's almost a  sigh. And then, only a few minutes later, I see the thing Beau wants me  to see, sitting in the middle of it all.

"What is this?" I ask.

I bound over to it. Tree roots pop up from the ground like veiny scars  intersecting a path. The crazy boy has made a platform for us out of  wood, with four stilt legs beneath it digging into the ground. The wood  is pine and smells like it, too. I run a finger along the edge, feeling  where he smoothed it. It's newly made, I can tell by the flakes that  pepper the forest floor like pencil shavings and the rich wood smell.  Atop the platform are another four posts with a fifth in the center, and  draped over that is a canopy of white fabric. It sways in the breeze  like spider's silk.

"I wanted us to have a place to hang out," Beau replies. "Where we won't  run into Old Lady Bell, Charlotte, or Grandpa, and where we can both be  alone to relax."

His eyes roam the swamp around us.

The makeshift pavilion is smaller than my room, but still it's the most  beautiful thing. Clear lights are strung around it, reminding me of  fireflies. There is not enough space in my lungs for the quick breaths  of excitement I find myself taking. I gasp at the beauty of it all.

"How did you get them to light up?" My question is filled with wonder.

"Battery powered," he says, his grin growing. "Wait till you see inside."

He helps me onto the platform that protects us from wandering critters  below. It's easily five feet up. I try not to catch my feet on the  lights.

Beau pulls back the drape. A small cluster of cushions sits on the  ground, fronted by a tiny wooden table topped with freshly fallen leaves  and sticks, reminding me of a bird's nest. A pink magnolia marks the  middle, the source of the floral smell that sticks to the air.         

     



 

"You did this?" I ask, mesmerized.

"All by myself," he says.

It's hard to imagine. Sure, I can see how Beau would bring the cushions  and lights and tools to the island by boat, and how he could use the  resources already here-the trees and stump for the table, the sticks and  flower and leaves-to construct everything, but what I can't see is why  Beau would go through the trouble. Isn't he the boy Jorie warned me  about-the one who breaks hearts? Isn't he the one Gran swore was darker  than the night? That Beau doesn't match the one standing before me,  watching my reaction.

"I love it," I say.

And then I wrap my arms around this surprising boy and press my lips to  his. It's daring. It's electricity zapping the air. It's him sighing  into me.