Killer Coin Page 10

  I lean back, stunned. This is about Colin. I blink. Josh Barton’s jealous.

  “I . . .” I open my mouth, then close it. All of a sudden, I feel beyond tired. I’m depleted.

  “I like you, Josh,” I say, dismayed that it sounds so lame. “You know I do. I mean, ever since we got together as kids . . .” Just for a moment I’m fourteen years old, back at that crappy summer camp. There was Josh, emerging from the lake, spraying drops of water like spilled diamonds. The eyes of every girl in camp were glued to his tanned, toned chest, everyone hoping he’d look their way, that he’d choose them. Pick me. Yes, me. And then he’d seen me and smiled his lottery-winning smile. Straight at me! I hadn’t—and still can’t—quite believe it.

  I press my lips shut and push my palms against the Porsche’s smooth leather seat. I’ve never admitted it out loud: it wasn’t just some teeny teenage crush. When he finally, inevitably rejected me, it was crushing. He broke my heart. Yes, it’s pathetic but I spent years obsessing about him. Nobody else measured up. Ever. When we met again, this past summer, it was like a dream come true. And now he’s here, in my life, close enough to touch. A living god.

  He said he needs me. I got what I wanted. So why do I feel so empty?

  Josh’s knuckles are white against the wheel. His jaw is rigid.

  I realize I stopped talking mid-sentence. He’s waiting for me to finish. I swallow. “For years and years, I still thought about you,” I admit. “I couldn’t get you out of my head. When we met again, I couldn’t believe it.”

  He’s still staring straight ahead. “Then why are you still seeing Colin?”

  I study his square chin, glints of gold stubble against his tan. He’s so beautiful. How come I’m not sure? I like Colin too. I love things about both of them.

  But Josh is right. I should know by now. What’s wrong with me? I should be sure. Quinn claims she loved Bruce from their very first date. Why am I so indecisive?

  I take a deep breath, unsure how to say it. “I’m taking this seriously,” I say. “I just want to be sure.”

  He frowns. “It feels like you’re playing games.” His voice is harsh.

  I lean back, shocked. “I’m not!” Does he think I’m that shallow and manipulative? If I were deceitful, I’d just tell him what he wants to hear. That I’m in love, that he’s the One. I know there’s a long line of women who’d kill to take my place. If he gets sick of waiting, I might be kicking myself for the next two—or six—decades. But I can’t lie and promise—without a doubt—that we’re meant for each other. If we get there, and I hope we do, I want it to be wholeheartedly.

  “I haven’t been in many relationships,” I say. “Not serious ones. I don’t enter into things lightly. And I don’t play games.” I lay a hand on his arm. I will him to turn to me, to reach out. But he sits frozen. “Please Josh.” I take my hand away. Maybe it’s the lack of food, or the stress of today, or this tense conversation, but the ache behind my eyes has expanded. “Just bear with me. Okay?” I shake my head and attempt a smile. “It’s been a rough day, hasn’t it?”

  His frown deepens.

  “Please,” I say, again, trying to lighten the mood. “Can we talk about this some other time? Soon, I promise. Okay, Captain?”

  A muscle in his jaw tightens.

  I remember Quinn’s misgivings about Josh—that he’s so charming, so rich, and so good looking that he feels entitled to adoration, that people that blessed can’t help but be arrogant and selfish.

  A large oak tree stands some feet from his car. Somewhere overhead, an owl hoots softly. I hope it’s sheltered from the rain. The car’s windshield wipers have started to squeak.

  Josh’s voice is low. “I think we’re done,” he says.

  Done? For tonight? Or forever? I swallow hard, unable—or unwilling—to take this in. I feel chilled to the bone. The smooth leather is cool beneath my hands. “You . . . you don’t want to see me anymore?”

  “Not deciding is a decision,” says Josh. “Your decision. So don’t pin this on me.” He sounds so bitter I don’t know what to say. This is not my decision.

  I pull my backpack up off the floor. My hand feels leaden as I reach for the door’s lock. I’m desperate to get out, and equally desperate to fall into his arms.

  He sits like a statue, staring straight ahead at the rain-flecked windshield.

  I paw the lock open and crawl from his fancy car, dragging my backpack behind me.

  When I shut the door, he’s still frozen.

  Standing out there, in the rain, I want to take it all back, to tell him I was wrong. I want to scramble back into his car, to say I love him. I want to beg for forgiveness.

  Except I’m too sad to speak and too angry. How could he do this, today of all days? He’s still staring straight ahead, his face like a waxwork in the dashboard light. He looks like a zombie.

  Rain and tears fill my eyes. I hunch my shoulders and take a step back, dragging my backpack. Rain leaches under my collar. It’s raining harder than ever.

  When Josh’s car pulls away, it’s like a gate slamming down on my heart. He speeds off down the street. I’m too shocked to believe it.

  He’ll stop. He’ll turn around. He’ll reach the corner and regret it. Couples fight. It’s part of being in a relationship. They fight and realize they were wrong—or at least half-wrong. They wake up. They make up.

  I wait for his brake lights to glow red. I’ll give him another ten seconds. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

  When his car rounds the corner my head drops. But I force it back up and look the other way. No problem. He’s just going around the block. Three Mississippi. Four. I stop counting at sixty.

  He’s not circling back.

  It’s over.

  I swipe the wetness from my eyes and turn away. Rain is dripping, icy cold, down my spine. I look up, blinking.

  Skinny arms crossed against her sunken chest, Mrs. Daggett glares down at me from her window. As usual, she looks poised to give me the finger.

  Usually, I wonder what I’ve done to piss Mrs. Daggett off. I tell myself she hates everyone under age sixty-five or all Asians. But tonight, for once, her disapproval feels justified. It’s like Mrs. Daggett knows I screwed up. She sees me for who I am: an indecisive, socially awkward loser—the kind of cowardly, neurotic girl who had a clear shot at love but blew it.

  CHAPTER 13:

  WITH REGRET

  I’m woken at what feels like dawn by my ringing phone. It’s my mother. “I’m downstairs,” she says. She’s talking fast. “Is your buzzer not working?”

  I sit up, blearily, and rub my sore head. I had a horrible night’s sleep, plagued by recurring dreams about Daphne’s cabin, interspersed with replays of getting dumped by Josh—an endless loop of dread and disappointment.

  My bedside clock reads 7:42 a.m. I knead my forehead. It’s not even early.

  “I’m coming,” I say. I stumble out of bed. Despite my thick terrycloth robe I feel cold and clumsy.

  When the buzzer sounds afresh it takes me two tries to admit my mother.

  I slouch by my front door and try to psyche myself up. She mustn’t know I’m depressed. She’ll want to talk about it. I can’t even bear to think about it.

  My throat tightens. I messed everything up. When Josh said he needed me I should have leapt into his muscular arms and declared my never-ending passion . . . Instead, I froze.

  Tears cloud my eyes. The man of my dreams just dumped me.

  “You won’t believe—” says my mom, as I open the door. Seeing me, she falls silent. Her eyes widen. I must look like death warmed up. “Honey? Are you okay?” She sounds worried. “Is it the shock of finding the body? Oh, it’s so terrible! Did you have nightmares? I should have brought the Bach flowers rescue remedy!”

  I attempt a smile. “I’m fine,” I croak. “But I just woke up.” My mom looks skeptical. She steps inside. In one hand is a cute wicker basket, covered by a gingham tea towel. She could have stolen it o
ff Little Red Riding Hood, except I can guess what’s in there: her dreaded “healthy” breakfast muffins.

  I shut the door, resisting the urge to lean my forehead against it.

  My mom steps out of her purple Crocs. She tilts her head, a cute, bright-eyed budgie surveying a sad little sparrow. “Hmmm . . . Have you had breakfast yet?”

  I manage to nod.

  “No you haven’t,” says my mom. Her basket swings ominously. “Look!” She smiles, thrilled to be of use. “I brought you muffins!”

  mumble my thanks, but there’s no disguising my lack of enthusiasm. As well as being fat free, gluten free, dairy free, and egg free, my mom’s muffins are—unsurprisingly—free of flavor.

  “I’ll heat them up,” she says. She motions toward my oven. My mom mistrusts microwaves. At night, she turns off the Wi-Fi. “I put quinoa in these ones. And teff. It gives them a lovely nuttiness. Do you want one or two, sweetie?”

  I rub my eyes. What the hell is teff? It sounds like some pricey new high-tech fabric. Head wrapped in a turban printed with tropical fruit, my mom blinks at me expectantly. She is a vision of lovely nuttiness.

  “Um, one, please,” I say, trying not to sound reluctant. The only thing worse than being woken suddenly from a deep sleep is being woken suddenly by my mom, who’s hideously chirpy in the mornings. I didn’t inherit this trait. No one should speak to me precoffee.

  You’d think that by now my mom would have figured this out, but she hasn’t. As she heats a couple of nutty muffins, I stumble toward my espresso machine. I can’t hear a word she’s saying over the whir of the machine, but that doesn’t stop her from chattering.

  I don’t bother to offer her a cup. My mom thinks coffee’s poison.

  I watch the black liquid gush into my cup and inhale its rich smell. It smells better than chocolate, or honeysuckle, or Josh. Well, maybe not Josh, but I mustn’t think about him now. The back of my throat burns. I want to cry. I bite my lip. Just focus on the damn coffee.

  Meanwhile, my mom hops around my tiny kitchen, twittering. She’s keyed up about something. I lack the strength to ask what. I take a desperate gulp and scald my tongue. I swallow anyway. Another sip and some of her chirps begin to make sense. I upend the tiny cup. So good. So bitter.

  “I just consulted the I Ching and the answer was crystal clear. Daphne’s been misled. She feels alone and brokenhearted.”

  Oh God no. No I Ching before noon. There should be a law. The last grainy drops of coffee land on my seared tongue. I lick the sides. It’s all gone—as is Josh. My eyes well up. I squeeze them shut.

  Too much self-pity and not enough caffeine. I need more coffee.

  After two doubles, I feel capable of speech. My mother is still chattering nervously, all about cards and bad feelings. Her real news, whatever it is, has yet to come. She’s working up to it, slowly.

  “Right?” says my mom. She tilts her head, clearly expecting an answer.

  I make a noncommittal sound and rub my forehead. I have a headache.

  She peers at me. “Does your head hurt?” she asks, then, before I can deny it, “Well no wonder! Drinking that poison on an empty stomach!”

  She opens my fridge. From the look on her face, you’d think she was peering through the gates of Hell. She sounds aghast: “Ketchup, yogurt, Nutella, and beer?” I know what she’s thinking: I raised you better than this! “You know, Nutella is full of palm oil,” she says. “It’s killing the rain forests.”

  I hang my head, guilty that I don’t feel sufficiently guilty. Those poor homeless orangutans. I am a heartless, unenvironmentally-friendly bitch. No wonder Josh dumped me.

  My mom pulls out the produce bin and extracts a flaccid carrot and a bunch of sad-looking spinach. She proceeds to wash and chop these vegetables before tossing them in the blender with some yogurt. I enjoy the quiet that’s descended. Whatever she’s concocting has her full attention. She opens and shuts various cupboards in search of my spice rack, then tosses in colorful pinches. “Turmeric. Cinnamon. Ginger,” she says. “All anti-inflammatories.” She spoons in some honey.

  I wonder if another espresso is a bad idea. Probably. My heart seems to have sprouted its own tiny, offbeat heart.

  The blender whirs. Gazing at the whirring sludge, my mom looks pleased with herself. She can’t seriously expect me to drink that.

  “A smoothie,” says my mother. She holds out the glass. It looks exactly like baby poo—a substance I’ve grown familiar with since the arrival of Abby. She smiles encouragingly.

  I shake my head. “Thanks but no—”

  “C’mon, Toby.” It’s her Mom voice. I haven’t heard it in ages.

  I take the glass.

  Her smile doubles in size. “You’ll feel much better after this.” I highly doubt that.

  Strangely, I do. While the smoothie tastes like it looks, the pounding behind my eyes subsides. I feel awake enough to question what my mom’s doing here. It’s Sunday morning. Isn’t this when she usually does Tai Chi in Windsor Park, near the rose garden?

  I force down another sip and follow her into my box-like living room. There’s no space for a table in my kitchen.

  She opens my curtains to reveal a view of some poplars and the building behind mine, separated by a parking lot. I blink against the sudden glare. My mom pads across the room and sits cross-legged in an armchair. I sink onto the couch across from her.

  “Lukas called,” she says.

  It takes me a moment to recall who Lukas is. When I do, I lower my glass in surprise. “Lukas Dane? Has his mom turned up?”

  “No,” she says. “The police came to see him and his sister.” From the tight pitch of her voice, I know she’s finally getting close to the reason she’s here. Her bright eyes float around the room before settling back on me. “They ID’d the dead guy.” She clutches at the dark blue beads around her throat—kyanite, I see, a stone meant to ward off lies and ill will. “It was Daphne’s new boyfriend, Stephen Buxley.”

  I push my smoothie away. I feel freshly sick. Even though I sort of suspected it was him, it’s still a shock. The discovery of Stephen’s body makes Daphne’s disappearance a lot more worrying. What was her lover doing in that decrepit cabin? They were meant to be together . . . Were they there together?

  “He wants my help,” says my mom. “My professional help.”

  For one dreadful moment, I think she means Stephen, who is dead. But then I understand: she’s referring to Lukas.

  “Lukas wants to hire you?” I say. “You mean, as a psychic?”

  My mom crosses her skinny arms and pouts. “Don’t sound so surprised, Toby. That’s what I do. People hire me all the time.”

  I rub my forehead. “Sorry.” I shouldn’t belittle my mom’s metiér. She is passionate about it. “I’m just . . .” I choose my words carefully. I know psychics get used in murder and missing persons investigations. If someone I loved vanished, I’d try everything too. But Daphne’s been gone for what, four days? And she took a suitcase. “It just seems early in the day to hire a psychic,” I tell my mother.

  My mother sniffs. “Lukas is a very spiritual young man.”

  Okay. I guess that’s possible. He was off meditating, after all. My head is pounding again. “So how does it work?” I ask. I hope I sound interested, rather than dubious.

  “I’ll go to her house and hold a piece of her clothing or jewelry,” explains my mom. She twists the large chrysocolla (healing, calming) ring on her right hand. “Of course I’ve been thinking about her nonstop, trying to get a sense of where she might be.” She shakes her head in frustration. “But beyond this deep . . .” She touches a hand to her chest. “Deep sadness and sense of betrayal . . .” My mom sighs. “I can’t see where she’s gone.”

  I study my fish tank, unsure how to respond. “Well, maybe going to her place will help.”

  My mother jumps up, like she’s been reminded of her purpose. She rubs her hands on her jeans. “Right. We’d better go,” she says. Then sh
e remembers the muffins. I stay seated as she retreats to the kitchen and deposits them—clink, clink—onto two plates. “Voila!” she says. She bounces across the hardwood floor. “Hot from the oven!”

  I hold my breath. Her muffins look like rocks—something I imagine an archeologist pulling out of the ruins of a two-thousand-year-old bakery in Pompeii.

  “Eat fast,” she says. She passes me my muffin-slash-fossil. I doubt eating fast is possible. It would take hours to gnaw through it. As for digesting—years would be my guess.

  My mom grabs hers. “I said we’d be right over.”

  I sink deeper into the sofa. “Um, pardon?”

  My mom bites into her muffin. She’s always had great teeth. “To Daphne’s house,” she says. She chews with gusto. “To meet Lukas.”

  “I . . .” I shake my head. “You want me to come?”

  “Well, you said you’d give me a ride,” she says, with a tiny frown. I blink. I did? When? My mom looks nonplussed. “My car’s in the shop,” she says. “Weren’t you listening?”

  Oh no. I must have nodded or said uh-huh back before the espressos. “Um, of course,” I say. “Sorry. I, ah, I meant inside. Of course I’ll give you a ride.” I’ll drop my mom off and get the hell out of there.

  My mom’s frown reappears. “But you promised to stay. You said you’d have a quick look around, while I was doing the reading.”

  I frown too. I did? I think of Colin and how unimpressed he was by my visit to Daphne’s summer cottage. He more or less told me to butt out and let him and Miriam do their jobs. “Look for what?” I ask. “The police already looked . . .”

  My mom’s pointy chin goes up. “We told the police she was missing days ago! They didn’t take us seriously! There might be clues they’ve missed!” She shakes her head. “I know it’s their job. But they don’t know Daphne. They’re not family!”

  I start to say I’m not Daphne’s family either but don’t. The truth is, Ivy is my only real family, and she considers Daphne part of hers. Like Quinn and her parents are part of mine. Blood ties aren’t always the ones that count. My dad’s not family, after all.