Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 12

  I felt as if I was floating outside my own skin.

  I had washed the blood off my face in the little sink in the back. But the front of my clothes was stained dark. And somehow, I could feel the thick liquid clotting in my hair.

  Morgan had her eyes straight ahead on the road. She gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, like an old person driving. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She didn’t say a word until the tattoo parlor was several blocks behind us.

  “Slow down,” I said. “You’re going eighty.”

  A hoarse cry escaped her throat. “You killed him, Morgan. You killed Lonny!”

  “I couldn’t help it,” I said. “I just . . . couldn’t stop.”

  “Look at you,” she said. “Covered in blood. You killed him. You killed Lonny.”

  I was floating. So happy. Ecstatic. I’d never felt this way before. I wasn’t going to let her bring me down.

  “I couldn’t help it,” I said. “I . . . I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even think. I just . . . I just had to do it. I was as shocked as you. Really.”

  “You . . . you were like an animal, devouring your prey.”

  I thought about it. I tried to feel a little bit guilty. But I couldn’t.

  “I’m a Fear, Morgan. I’m not like other people.”

  We drove in silence for a long moment. I could see that Morgan was trembling. Her whole body was quivering . . . in horror.

  “You should have tried it,” I said. “You’re always so scared. You’re like paralyzed when it comes to anything new.”

  “Anything new?” she screamed. “You killed him! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? You killed Lonny. You took a human life.”

  “I know. I know,” I said. “But . . . but he was not a good person. And it tastes so good.”

  “You’re a monster!” she cried. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the road, as if she was afraid to look at me. “A monster.”

  “Look out. You almost hit that woman,” I warned, grabbing the wheel.

  “I—I can’t live with this,” she stammered. She made a sharp left turn, cutting off an oil truck.

  “Watch out!” I screamed. “You’d better let me drive.”

  “No way,” she said. “We’ve got to get you help, Morgan. I can’t live with this. We have to find someone to help you—” She spun the wheel hard.

  “What are you going to do?” I cried. “Where are we going?”

  “To the police. I don’t know where else to go. Maybe they’ll know what to do.”

  “Stop!” I screamed. “Let me out! You can’t turn me in to the police! We’re sisters, remember?”

  “No. No, we’re not. We’re not sisters. You’re a monster! You . . . you killed Lonny. I have to do this, Morgan.”

  “The police? You’re joking,” I said. She couldn’t be serious—could she? She would turn her best friend in to the police? Just because I had an accident with a tattoo needle?

  “What do you want me to do?” she said. “What do you expect? Do you expect me just to keep it a secret?”

  “Yes,” I said. “No one needs to know—”

  “But I know!” she screamed. “I’ll never stop seeing it. I’ll never stop seeing you lapping up Lonny’s blood like a dog. Letting it pour over your face and drip from your lips. I-I’ll see that for the rest of my life!”

  Her words were bringing me back to earth. I felt my energy slipping. My body suddenly seemed heavy. The lights that flashed in my eyes quickly dimmed.

  “Morgan, listen to me—” I started.

  “No. Just shut up. You need help,” she said through gritted teeth. I saw teardrops running down her cheeks. “You need help. The police will get help for you. They’ll call your parents. They’ll find you doctors. They’ll—”

  “NO!” I screamed. “I won’t go there. NO WAY!”

  I grabbed the wheel. I tried to spin it, to turn the car.

  She jabbed her elbow into my side. “Let go. Let go. Are you crazy? Back away, Morgan.”

  I shoved her with both hands. “Turn around. Turn around now. I’m not going to the police.”

  She clamped her jaw tight, kept her gaze straight ahead, and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  I shoved her shoulder hard. I clamped both hands around the wheel—and swung it to the right.

  She elbowed me again.

  I swung the wheel.

  I saw her foot slam down hard on the brake.

  I heard the squeal of tires before I saw the concrete barrier.

  It rose up fast in the windshield. Darkened the glass. And then the sound of the crash boomed like thunder, thunder inside my head, a roar that surrounded me and shut out all light.

  The jolt of the collision sent my head shooting back against the seat. Pain throbbed instantly all over my head.

  And I felt the car rise up over the barrier . . . felt it lift off the ground. And then I was upside down . . . too terrified, too surprised to scream. Upside down, and I knew the car was spinning over, overturning.

  There was darkness. Then there was another hard jolt. Then there was crushing pain.

  Before it all stopped. Before it all came to an end, I let out one last painful breath.

  And then I lost everything. And knew that I was dead.

  34

  Morgan Fear Continues

  Yes, I died hanging upside down in the crushed SUV. I stopped thinking or feeling . . . or breathing. I couldn’t move. I had no pulse.

  I was dead. And Morgan Marks was dead beside me.

  Her mouth hung open. Her eyes stared glassily at the broken windshield, seeing nothing. Her head was slanted, tilted at an impossible angle. I knew her neck was broken.

  I was dead, so how did I see her?

  The Fears know how to cheat death.

  Hanging upside down, I willed my hand to move. The fingers were already numb, and the numbness was spreading. I had little time.

  I fumbled for my bag. The strap had tangled around my foot.

  My hand gripped the strap and tugged the bag up to me. I gripped it tightly with the other hand. Tore it open. And quickly found the needle, the hypodermic needle I carried but hoped never to use.

  When you’re a teenager, you don’t ever plan to die.

  You don’t stop to think about it. You don’t think you’ll ever need the family cure. I carried it at the bottom of my bag and never thought about it—till now.

  Yes, the Fears know how to cheat death.

  The hypodermic was filled with the precious fluid, the formula my family had perfected over many years, after testing it on corpse after corpse. Yes, it was a formula for reviving life.

  I knew it would bring me back. Not exactly as I had been. But it would snap me back. I could breathe. I could move. I could live.

  I removed the cover and raised the needle to my arm.

  I glanced at Morgan Marks, so dead and still, openmouthed as if protesting what had happened to her. Her hands hung limply down. Her hair pushed against the roof of the car beneath us.

  I hesitated, the needle poised at my arm.

  I have a whole dose, Morgan. I could share it with you.

  I could bring you back, too.

  But I don’t think I will.

  You were my best friend, my twin. But you betrayed me in the end.

  You planned to ruin my life. You planned to turn me in.

  So I’m going to do what’s best for both of us. I’m going to let you rest in peace.

  I jabbed the needle deep into my shoulder. I was dead, so I didn’t even feel a pinprick. But I could feel the results instantly, feel myself reviving.

  My sight returned. The jagged shards of glass in the windshield. Gray light pouring into the car. Morgan suspended upside down beside me. Both of us hanging upside down.

  The pain of the crash coursed through my body. I felt the stab of the needle in my shoulder. My hearing snapped back. I heard sirens in the distance.

  I tried to speak. “Yes! Yesssss!” M
y voice a dry croak at first, then back to full volume.

  I felt a wave of deep sadness roll over me. I’m dead. I’m here, but I’m dead. I’ll never be the same again.

  The sirens rang louder in my ears.

  I pulled the needle from my shoulder and let it fall to the car roof beneath my feet.

  I turned to Morgan Marks, poor dead Morgan, and brushed the hair from in front of her eyes. “I won’t forget you,” I whispered. “I promise I won’t forget you. I’ll carry your name with me from now on.”

  I squeezed her limp, lifeless arm tenderly. Then I unfastened the seat belt that was holding me in place, dropped to my knees on the car roof, climbed out through the broken windshield—and hurried away.

  Part Five

  Back to the Present Day

  35

  Delia Narrates

  Detective Batiste swept a hand over his bald head. He motioned for me to take the chair across the table from him. His pale gray eyes followed me as I set my backpack down and slid into the chair.

  I clasped my hands in my lap under the table so he couldn’t see that I was trembling. How could I not be tense? Winks was dead. I was up all night. No way I could get to sleep.

  A young woman in a blue business suit with a white blouse under the jacket took a chair two seats down from Batiste. She had wavy, brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a nice smile. Her chair squeaked against the floor as she slid it closer to the table.

  “This is Lieutenant DeMarco,” Batiste said. He stood up, pulled off his wrinkled gray suit jacket, and draped it over the back of his chair. He sat back down with a sigh.

  We were in a small, narrow teachers’ meeting room at Linden High, a room I’d never been in before. I knew that Julie had been questioned here earlier, and now it was my turn.

  The air was stuffy and warm. There was no window. The room was probably a closet at one time. The long table took up most of the room. I saw a few wooden chairs against the back wall, a half refrigerator that hummed loudly. Someone had tacked a poster on the wall of dogs sitting around a table, playing poker. The only artwork in the room.

  I studied the room, I guess, to avoid facing the two police officers.

  Batiste cleared his throat. He studied a sheet of paper in his hand. “Delia Foreman. Do we have that right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Do I have to raise my right hand or anything?” I don’t know what made me say that. Nervousness, I guess.

  Officer DeMarco chuckled. Batiste’s face remained solemn. “We just want to talk, Delia. Nothing formal. We set up in here so we could talk to Rich Winkleman’s friends. Anyone who knew him at all.”

  “Maybe someone will be able to help us,” DeMarco said. She slid an iPad out of her bag and placed it in front of her on the table.

  “We know this is hard,” Batiste said, speaking very softly. His eyes never left my eyes. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “No. I couldn’t,” I told him. “I . . . I couldn’t stop thinking . . .”

  He and DeMarco both nodded. She typed something on her tablet.

  “It must be really hard on you,” Batiste said. “You two were going together, right?”

  Julie must have told them that.

  I nodded again.

  “How long did you go together?” he asked.

  “Since I moved to Linden,” I said. In my lap, my hands were wet and ice-cold. “It was like love at first sight, I guess.”

  “I’m so sorry,” DeMarco whispered. She seemed genuine, honest.

  “And you were getting along well?” Batiste asked. “No big fights or troubles?”

  I squinted at him. Did he think I killed Winks? Did he think we had a fight and I killed him? No way.

  “We were in love,” I said. “Sure, we had a few arguments. Who doesn’t?”

  Batiste leaned over the table. His chair groaned under him. “Can you tell us about an argument you and Winks had in the parking lot at Chuckles comedy club?”

  I swallowed. Wow. He did his research fast. How did he find out about that? I know Julie would never have told him that.

  “Some people reported seeing you having a screaming argument,” Batiste added.

  “Whoa,” I said. “It wasn’t about anything at all.” I pushed my chair back. “Should I get a lawyer? Should I call my parents? Are you really going to accuse me of killing my boyfriend and drinking his blood?”

  Batiste waved both hands. “No. Stop. Sorry. Please. Come back to the table. We don’t suspect you of anything at all.”

  “You must be a wreck,” DeMarco said. “First, the horror of finding your boyfriend like that. Then being up all night. And then our questions. We really are sorry, Delia.”

  “But we have to ask the questions,” Batiste said. He fiddled with his narrow blue necktie. “We’re talking to everyone who knew Rich Winkleman. Just trying to get some clues. We don’t really have anything to go on at this point.”

  “And you might be helpful without even knowing it,” DeMarco chimed in.

  I scooted my chair back under the table. I brushed back my ringlets of hair. “I’ll try to answer, but I don’t really know anything. We had a fight in the parking lot that night, but it wasn’t about anything. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

  They both studied me.

  “It was probably me just being jealous,” I added. “I can’t help it. I’m the jealous type. Well . . . Winks was my first real boyfriend, see.”

  I knew I was rambling on, talking too much. I couldn’t seem to stop my mouth.

  “I have to ask everyone this question,” Batiste said. “Where were you the night he was murdered?”

  “You mean before Julie and I drove to his aunt and uncle’s house and found him?”

  They both nodded.

  “I was at Amber’s house. She’s another friend. Julie and I were at her house. She can vouch for us.”

  “We believe you,” DeMarco said.

  “We’ll be talking to Amber later,” Batiste said, studying his sheet of paper.

  “You three are good friends?” DeMarco asked.

  I nodded. “Pretty good. I’m the new girl. Like I said, I only transferred to Linden last September. I think Amber and Julie have been friends since elementary school.”

  “Transferred from where?” DeMarco asked.

  “Walter Academy, in Cincinnati.”

  She typed something on her tablet. “It’s a private school?”

  “For girls.”

  Batiste cleared his throat. I saw drops of sweat on his bald head. It had grown hot in this windowless room, not much air, especially with the door closed.

  “So you were at your friend Amber’s the whole time? And what did the three of you talk about?”

  “I . . . I really don’t remember,” I stammered. “They’d probably remember better than me. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was . . . distracted.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Distracted?”

  “I kept texting and calling Winks,” I said, “and he never answered.”

  “He was babysitting his cousin,” Batiste said. “Was that unusual that he didn’t respond to you?” He swatted a fly on the table in front of him. Missed. The fly buzzed up to the low ceiling.

  “Totally,” I answered. “It wasn’t like Winks at all. He always texted me back. Or called if Spencer had gone to bed.”

  DeMarco typed some more on her iPad. I could see the concentration on Batiste’s face. His eyes kept their steady gaze on me, but his mind was sifting through other questions.

  He leaned forward again. “One last question, Delia.”

  I tried to return his stare, but it was far too intense. I lowered my eyes to my lap.

  “Did Rich Winkleman have any enemies?”

  “Excuse me?” The question took me by surprise. It sounded like something from a murder mystery.

  Of course, this was a murder mystery.

  “Enemies?”

  “Can you think of anyone who disliked him? An
yone who maybe even hated him?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you ever see anyone get into a fight with Rich? Did you ever see or hear anyone threaten him?” Batiste demanded.

  “No one,” I said. “Winks was a big, sweet teddy bear. Everyone liked him. He was one of those kids who everyone—”

  I stopped. A thought flashed into my mind.

  If I hadn’t been so nervous, I might have thought of it earlier.

  “Oh, wait,” I murmured.

  Both officers raised their eyes to me expectantly. DeMarco stopped typing on her tablet.

  “I just remembered something,” I said. “I’m sorry. I guess I just put it out of my mind. It sounded so crazy . . .”

  “Just tell us,” Batiste said.

  “Winks told me about this, I guess, two weeks ago? Someone beat him up. At his job. Some guy was waiting for him at the car wash and beat him up. And Winks lost his job.”

  Silence. They both stared at me. No reactions on their faces. Then Batiste said, “Someone beat him up? Didn’t you think that was important enough to tell us?”

  I could feel my face turning hot. I clamped my hands tighter in my lap. I hadn’t moved them since I’d sat down. “I . . . I’m sorry,” I stammered. “This has all been so . . . horrifying. Like a nightmare. I’m not thinking clearly. My brain is, like . . . exploding.”

  Batiste scribbled a note on his sheet of paper. “Did Rich describe the guy who beat him up? Did he recognize the guy? Did he tell you anything about him?”

  I thought for a long moment. “The guy said he was my stepbrother. That’s what Winks told me. But that’s crazy. I don’t have a stepbrother.”

  “And you don’t know why he would say that?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s crazy. It’s just . . . crazy.”

  DeMarco crunched up her face. “You don’t have a stepbrother? Is there anyone else in your family who would want to beat Winks up?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “No way. I told you, this guy must be crazy or something. I don’t know who he is or why he said what he said.”