Chapter 15
I stare at my reflection in the water-spotted bathroom mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent bulbs, my skin is too pale, pallid, even. The few freckles across the bridge of my nose look more like gray spots.
The water pouring out of the tap is hot enough to send tendrils of steam upward, but the yellow bar of soap—removed from its clear plastic wrapper—is cheap and crumbly. Impossible to lather.
I do my best.
Of all the places in and around Beecher that I might have considered a refuge—the basement at P.
Edgars where no one ever goes because of the relentless spider colony and the shelves of semi-creepy artifacts dug up from the original Beecher village, the Around the Clock diner, Weir Hall (the sciences building), Chessa’s parents’ house—the Just Fuck It wouldn’t even make the list. Under normal circumstances.
But after Devon drove around campus and town for the better part of an hour, I gave up. There just aren’t that many places that I knew could meet the—admittedly complicated—qualifications.
Somewhere without a bunch of innocent bystanders as potential victims, isolated enough that the spawn wouldn’t have a place to hide while attacking, but not so isolated that I couldn’t be easily found.
Here, there are no houses or residence halls nearby. The old KFC restaurant next door is boarded up, which means that its parking lot and the Nantucket’s empty swimming pool provide lots of open space to see someone lurking or approaching.
Not to mention, the funk of depression hangs heavy over this place. Even as we were checking in—Devon paying with a credit card that definitely did not have his name on it—a man came in with an overstuffed duffel bag, trailing dress-shirt sleeves and an air of resignation.
I was able to pull from him enough to take the edge off my hunger, for now. But it is rumbling beneath the surface, sending up spiky demands for more.
Food. Now. Food now!
I may have to walk past the other rooms, see if I can source more. Especially if I have to take on someone that powerful again.
A needlelike pain stabs behind my left eye, and I lift a dripping hand to press against it.
I’ve never felt anything like that pressure and intensity, when I tried to interfere and save that girl, Izzy.
It was like I was being turned inside out, scraped clean.
An ice cream container torn open at the seams to suck out every last bit of goodness.
The stabbing sensation fades slightly, and I lower my shaking hand back to the water to continue scrubbing. Between my fingers and under my nails.
There’s no blood. Never was. Not this time. I touched Izzy’s shoulder, that was all. But my hands still feel dirty.
Because it’s my fault. Even though I don’t know her, I’m still responsible for what happened to her. I brought this to campus—or rather, my father did, with his announcement. And thanks to my decision to stay out of the Old Ones’ world, I have no idea how to handle it.
The soap breaks apart in my hands, chunks of it falling into the sink.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I toss the remnants of the bar into the shell-shaped sink to join the rest and turn off the water.
Scrubbing my reddened hands on my jeans, I force myself to walk away from the sink and back into the main room.
Devon is propped up against the headboard of one of the queen beds, the contents of several Walmart bags spread around him on the ugly peacock-blue bedspread. Again, I suspect these purchases were courtesy of a “borrowed” credit card, though I wasn’t there to see it.
I stayed in the car. I could too easily picture a scene in which Devon and I are wandering the aisles and humans start dropping left and right around us, bleeding, choking, dying, from some unseen force.
Instead, I focused on pulling emotional “sips” from shoppers passing by—hints of depression, despair, or failure—in the parking lot to keep myself going.
Devon returned to the car with protein-heavy snacks, water bottles, a bunch of new clothes in various sizes, a first aid kit, a disposable phone for me, and a small sketch pad and pencils.
It’s the sketch pad, propped up on his raised knee, that he’s currently frowning over, tapping a pencil against the underside of his chin.
The phone, three different types of snacks, and a pile of neatly folded clothes are laid out for me on the other bed.
The tags have already been removed from the clothes, ready for me to wear.
The impossible plastic packaging around the phone has been torn open, but the phone remains still nestled inside.
He’s helping me. Making things easier for me. The realization brings an unexpected pulse of warmth and gratitude.
But the wave of suspicion that follows is immediate and fierce. He just wants you to let your guard down, to trust him, a cynical voice in my head says. And maybe win some bonus thoughtfulness points while he’s at it.
I might be inclined to agree with that assessment, except Devon’s paying absolutely no attention to me, not waiting for praise or recognition. He’s thoroughly absorbed in his sketch, hand moving swiftly over the page.
Jesus, Jo, he knows you’ve had a rough day. Maybe he’s just trying to be kind. Ever heard of it?
Rolling my eyes at myself, I tear open a box of peanut butter granola bars and pull one out, ignoring the phone.
I want to call the hospital, see if Izzy made it.
If the EMTs were able to get her out of there in time.
I want to call Chessa, just because. The need to reestablish my connection to my normal life pulses in me, growing more intense by the minute.
It’s as if I need that tether to keep from floating away into this … insanity.
But right now, Chessa thinks I’m with Carter. Safe and sound and screwing up my life with more unrequited love and longing looks. I don’t want to have to explain why that’s not the case and where I actually am. Not to mention who I’m with.
I study Devon, the concentration in his expression, the dimple that has appeared next to his pursed lips.
“What are you drawing?” I ask, through a mouthful of granola. Attractive, Jo.
I don’t care about being attractive to him.
Uh-huh.
Devon looks up, startled, then uncomfortable. “It’s just how I make sense of things,” he says, color rising in his cheeks. He starts to close the black plastic cover of the sketch pad.
“Can I see?” I ask, more intrigued by this glimpse of vulnerability than the drawing itself.
Reluctantly, he pulls the cover back open and holds the pad out to me. I dust my hands off on my sweats before taking the sketchbook and settling on the edge of the bed.
On the white page, the south end of Beecher’s campus is rendered in tiny but precise detail.
The ivy on Hayes and P. Edgars, Branwick’s gabled roof, the columns on Theta Iota, the lines demarcating the sidewalk out in front of Delta Pi Gamma.
The Foreign Language House down the street looks as squat and dumpy as it does in real life.
He’s even got crows perched in the trees over the old cemetery.
It’s like his brain took a picture and this is the output, one of those instant cameras, only with pencil and paper.
“Holy shit,” I say before I can stop myself.
He flushes and reaches out to take the pad away from me.
I hold it out of reach. “No, it’s perfect.” Beautiful. Artistic, but not in the way that artists play with lines and shadow or bending reality, more like a ship in a bottle. Life in perfect miniature.
“You just … in the car you mentioned that it seemed like the spawn was following you. I thought it would be good to see it, laid out in one place.” He’s marked the side garden of Branwick and the front yard of the Delta Pi Gamma with tiny red stars, like splashes of blood. Which is not inaccurate.
“Maybe they’ll close your campus now, send everyone home,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. We’ve had deaths on campus before. And they’ve never done that.” Though murder is a new one for Beecher, if you don’t count the stories about a serial killer fifty-some years ago that are more legend than anything. So maybe? I don’t know.
Something about that …
I frown, trying to grasp a thought slipping through the back of my mind, but it squirms past me before I can pin it down.
“It’s interesting that both events happened so close together on one end of campus,” Devon points out, gesturing to the page with his pencil.
“Where I’ve been,” I say flatly.
“Yes, but you’ve been to other places that haven’t been affected.” He gestures for me to turn the page.
On the next page, he has a detailed timeline of yesterday and today written out in neat squared-off letters. Including my Friday classes, my work schedule at Hayes, and the time I arrived at Happy’s.
I raise my eyebrows. “You were spying on me?”
“I was researching,” he corrects with no hint of shame.
He leans closer to me, and I can feel the heat of him against my back. The constant low-level hum of attraction buzzes louder in me. Like my cells are clamoring to touch his.
“My point is that you were in various places on Friday and Saturday, including the bar, your work, and where your friend lives.” He taps his pencil on each location in turn. “And nothing happened in those locations.”
“Yet,” I add grimly.
I flip to the next page, even as Devon reaches up to stop me. “Wait—” he begins.
It’s a quick sketch, barely more than an outline But I can pick out the curve of a heart-shaped face, a shy smile, and wavy hair covering one side of her face, as though she’s not sure she wants to be seen. Love emanates from the sketch, from her looking up at the artist. At Devon.
But grief, too, somehow, is etched in every sweep of the pencil.
“Who is this?” I ask softly.
Devon’s hands flex as if he’s working hard not to reach out and take the book away from me. Then he takes a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision about something. “That is…” He pauses. “That was Amelia.”
Oh, shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”