Chapter Sixty-Five. Melanie
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
MELANIE
The Amenity Center kitchen isn’t stocked for a blizzard, but I was able to find a stash of Styrofoam cups and some coffee.
Now I’m making slow laps through the room, carafe in one hand, a stack of cups in the other.
It keeps me from sitting on my hands, keeps my mind from replaying the crack of Cat’s skull.
People take the cups with grateful murmurs, and I smile, telling them I hope it’ll help them warm up.
But while I pour, I watch every face closely. I eavesdrop on every whispered conversation.
Some of the teenage boys—Kennedy Claire’s son and his curly-headed friend and that big linebacker—are huddled up around a phone, watching YouTube or whatever nonsense.
I whistle and their heads snap up at me.
“Turn that off,” I say. “We might need the battery in case the power goes out again.” They grumble something under their breaths, but I don’t pay it any mind.
“Go on and help your daddies.” The men have been raiding the cars in the parking lot, bringing in all they can find—blankets and flashlights and cases of bottled water.
There’s a cluster of women in the corner, and I break up their group with the offer of coffee, which they gladly accept, and while I pour, I listen.
“I’m not one to gossip,” Beverly Jean says, though we all know she’d tell secrets to a fence post if it had ears.
Beverly Jean works reception up at Preston High, and there isn’t a person in town who doesn’t know which kids slip in late after Sonic runs and which mama pitched a fit over the homecoming court ballots.
She leans in close now. “But we all saw that fight between Cat and Kennedy Claire.”
“Those two have been sniping at each other since orientation,” Maria piles on, sipping her coffee and looking down her nose. “Things were reaching a boiling point, if you ask me.”
“Oh come on,” Lindsey says. “I don’t think we need to be spreading bear tales.
” Lindsey is the youth pastor’s wife over at First Baptist, so she needs to at least put on a show that she really is above gossip.
“There’s a pretty long mile between pageant bickering and …
what happened to Cat.” She looks at me, rubs a hand on my shoulder. “You holding up okay, hon?”
“Managing,” I say with a weak smile, then I drift off to hand out more coffee.
Kennedy Claire is across the room, tucking a strand of hair behind Sarah Lynn’s ear. She’d be fuming mad if she knew the kinds of things her friends were whispering behind her back. And Lindsey is right. Pageant bickering is a far cry from murder.
But they don’t know about the missing SD card, about Cat’s threat to upend Sarah Lynn’s life with the push of a button. I watch her, slicking her daughter into perfection even now, and I know if there’s one thing that would drive any of these women to kill, it would be to protect their kids.
I set a cup of coffee in front of Mrs. Mackey, who’s wearing a blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, I point out where she can find some sugar if she needs it, and when I straighten, my eyes catch on Magnuson.
He’s sitting at a table with one of the girls, his hand on her shoulder, like he’s saying something comforting.
She peers up at him, and I see the blush rising in her cheeks.
I bet Magnuson doesn’t even know what a blush is, because he’s never seen a girl’s or a woman’s face without one.
He smiles, and his hand slides down her arm just an inch.
It’s nothing, and yet I feel that motherly instinct raising a warning flag.
And suddenly I’m thinking again of Cat’s threat to Kennedy Claire.
I have security footage from that party the kids threw in The Hollow.
And Magnuson, tinkering with the lights onstage, his head lifting at Cat’s words, his hands stilling on the rigging.
He’d heard her words, her threat. And for some reason, they’d meant something to him.
He looks up and catches me watching. He leans back in his chair, taking his hand off the girl to raise his hand in a wave, that slick charm of a smile slipping its way onto his face.
The wind roars with a sudden force that sends a tremor through the walls, a hollow thud echoing from the roof. Then, with a pop, the lights go out. The dark is thicker this time, settled and certain, like it’s here to stay.