Elliott's mother pointed at me. "You're not going to keep him from going to college and rob him of this opportunity."
I was taken aback by her sudden vitriol. Kay had never pretended to like me, but she'd also never been so directly hostile.
"He should go. I want him to go."
Kay nodded once, settling back into her chair. "Then maybe he can get out of the mess you've put him in."
"Mom, enough!" Elliott growled.
Leigh snarled, disgusted. "This was supposed to be a celebratory moment. You can't think about someone else for two seconds. Not even your own son."
Kay's eyes widened. "This is my fault? I wanted him to move back to Yukon with me. If he'd been there, he wouldn't be under investigation right now, would he?"
"He didn't want to live in Yukon, Kay!"
"Maybe he would have if you had been on my side! He stayed here, just like you wanted, and now look! He could go to prison! I told you this town was trouble!"
"You're really going to blame me? For giving him a home? For taking care of him when you wouldn't get out of bed?"
"How dare you! I was depressed! I couldn't help it!" Kay wailed.
"He might as well be mine, Kay. That's how much I love him!"
"He's not yours!" Kay said, standing. She pressed her palms against the table. "He's my son! Not yours!"
Elliott stood and calmly walked to the kitchen. A drawer squeaked when he pulled it open, and then he returned, holding a long, rectangular box. We watched him unroll the foil and tear a piece off. He covered my plate, and then he did the same for his. He stacked them, holding them in his hand along with our forks, and then waited for me.
"Elliott," Leigh pleaded. "I'm so sorry."
"We'll eat downstairs." He gestured for me to follow, and I did, hearing Kay snipe at Leigh again as we reached the stairs. Elliott shut the door behind us, and then we walked down the stairs and to his bed, sitting on it with our plates. Elliott's fork scraped the ceramic, and he filled his mouth with casserole, staring at the floor. Leigh's and Kay's muffled arguing filtered down the stairs. The sound gave me a strange sense of familiarity.
"You're smiling," Elliott said.
"Oh." I swallowed the bite of food in my mouth before I spoke again. "It just reminded me of when my parents would fight. I haven't heard that in a long time."
He listened for a bit, and then the corners of his mouth turned up. "It does sound a little like the first night we talked."
I nodded, taking another bite. Even as Leigh's and Kay's voices went up an octave and the fighting escalated, the air in the basement felt lighter. I pretended it was my parents: all shouting and no listening.
Black-and-white photos of me, Elliott and me, a swing at Beatle Park, and the field we use to explore when we first met hung from a string that began in the corner of his room and stopped at a faded green hutch pushed against the center of the back wall. More photos of me and us were in frames at his bedside and taped to the wall in collages.
"Lots of me and not much else."
He shrugged. "They say you photograph what you love the most."
I picked up his camera, pointed it at him, and snapped a picture. He beamed.
"Do you miss your dad?" I asked, looking through the photos on the digital display.
"He calls once in a while. Probably when he can't stand feeling like a no-good piece of crap another day. Do you? Miss yours?"
"Every second," I said, sighing. I stared at the floor. "And I meant what I said. I want you to go to Baylor."
"I meant what I said about not leaving you here alone."
"I'm not alone."
"You know what I mean."
I put his camera back on the table. "You realize I was alone at the Juniper for two years before you showed up again."
He sighed, frustrated. "You're already living with Mrs. Mason."
"Just until you graduate and move."
All emotion left his face. "So that's it? You're just buying time for me so I can go to college? Then you're going back there?"
"You're speaking in question marks again."
"Yeah, I do that when I'm upset. You have zero concern for your own safety. How am I supposed to leave knowing that?"
"You're such a hypocrite," I snapped.
He touched his chest. "I'm a hypocrite?"
"You're saying I shouldn't put myself in what you perceive to be danger for you, when you're talking about throwing away your college career for me."
"Perceive as danger? I have no idea what's going on in your house, but I know it's not safe!"
I wrinkled my nose. "It's not my house."
"See?" he said, putting down his plate and standing. He pointed at me with his whole hand. "That's not normal. You're going to go back and continue to live in a place you don't consider home."
"Oklahoma has never felt like home to me."
He knelt in front of me, holding my legs. "Then come to Texas with me."
I cupped his cheeks. "I can't afford it."
"So get a loan."
"I can't afford to pay off a loan. I'm going to have to get a second job so we don't lose the Juniper."
"Why would you want to keep it?" he yelled. He stood up and walked away, pacing the floor.
"I don't! I don't want to keep it! I don't want to keep its secrets! I wish I didn't have to, but I do."
He turned to me. "Don't you know, Catherine?"
"What?" I snapped.
"That's the beauty of a secret. Trust. Trust me with this. Let me help you."
"You mean I should let you save me."
He swallowed. "We could save each other."
I glared at him, angry that he was making my resolve waver. "I've already moved out. I've already left her so you could keep your scholarship. You can't ask me for this, too."
He pointed to the floor. "You're not safe there; you'll never be safe there. I can't pack up and move knowing that. If something happened, I'd be six hours away!"
I set my plate next to me and breathed out a laugh.
"You . . . think this is funny?"
"We sound like my parents."
Elliott's shoulders sagged. "Catherine, I'm in love with you. I won't leave you here."
I looked away, feeling cornered. "We don't have to decide tonight."
"No, but I know you. You'll put it off until I pack the Chrysler and gas up. Then you'll tell me you're not coming. And you know what? I'll just unpack. I'll get a job and rent a room at the Juniper."
I turned to face him. "You . . . you can't," I said, shaking my head.
He held his hands out at his sides and then let them fall to his thighs. "I guess neither one of us will have a choice but to stay here."
I rubbed my temples. "I'm getting a headache. I should probably go home." When Elliott didn't respond, I looked up, meeting his gaze. "What?"
"That's the first time I've heard you call a place home since freshman year."
He sat next to me on the bed, looking exhausted. He slid his arm behind my shoulders, pulling me to his side. Sometimes he seemed twice my size--my own personal giant. He'd changed so much since he left the last time, and I imagined when he left again, the next time we saw each other, we'd be strangers. I didn't want Elliott to be a stranger even more than I didn't want to go back to the Juniper.
"I can get you something for your headache."
I shook my head.
Elliott lay back against his pillow, bringing me with him. I let the heat from his chest sink into my cheek, helping every muscle in my body to relax. He ran his fingers through my hair, starting from my temples and moving back to the nape of my neck. Listening to Kay and Leigh fight and then arguing with Elliott was exhausting. I looked up at the tiny white lights strung along his ceiling and closed my eyes, pretending they were stars blurring together just before everything went black.
"Elliott?" Kay said in a soft voice.
I rubbed my eyes and peered up at her. The hardness in her expression was gone, th
e hate in her eyes absent. She sat on the bed next to her still-sleeping son. Elliott created a large wall between us, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
"Hi, Catherine."
"Hi," I said, sitting up on my elbow.
The lampshade cast a dim, yellow glow, and except for the hum of the heater, the room was silent.
She didn't speak for a full minute, instead spending the time staring at the floor. She fidgeted before she spoke, a trait Elliott emulated often. "You make him happy. I know he loves you. I just don't know why. No offense."
"It's okay. I don't really know why, either."
She breathed out a laugh and shook her head. "We've had so many fights about Oak Creek, and come to find out, they were all about you."
"I'm sorry." It was the only thing I could manage. Elliott shared so many of her features that it was hard to feel anything but love for her.
"He tried to get to you so many times, and it seemed like the harder I fought him to stay, the more he wanted to leave. I thought it was the usual teenage crush, but he was anxious. Irritable. It was like he couldn't breathe."
I looked down at Elliott, sleeping on his side, his back to his mother, with one arm around my middle. He looked so peaceful, so different from the boy she described.
"He was just fifteen. Now he's eighteen, and I spent most of that time either fighting his dad or fighting him. I wasted it. Maybe you'll find out one day. I hope you do--not anytime soon, but one day. He use to look at me the way he looks at you. Different, of course, but with that same honest, unbreakable love in those big, brown eyes. I know what it's like to be his favorite person in the whole world. I envy you."
"You don't know what it's like to hear him talk about you," I said.
She turned her gaze on me. "What do you mean?"
"He's listened to you. He quotes you sometimes. He thinks you're wise."
"Wise, huh?" She looked at the stairs. "Wasn't expecting that word." Her expression crumpled. "Catherine, if you love him--and I know you do--you will find a way to get him to go to college. This is his chance."
I nodded.
She sighed. "He'd follow you anywhere. Maybe this time you could return the favor. That, or set him free. That's what I had to do when I wasn't what was good for him anymore. And God"--her eyes glossed over--"if that's what you choose . . . that I don't envy."
She stood, gathering our dirty plates, and climbed the stairs. Her footsteps marked her location until the door opened and then closed.
Elliott turned over, staring up at me without expression or judgment, but more like he was waiting for that from me.
"You were awake that whole time?" I asked.
"A little trick I learned from my dad. Mom hates waking us up." He sat up and swung his legs over until his feet were on the floor. His elbows planted on his knees, he stared at the rug beneath his socked feet.
I rubbed his back. "You okay?"
"I have a bad feeling," he said, his voice soft and sleepy.
I wrapped my arms around his middle and hugged him from behind, then kissed his shoulder. "We have more than seven months before you leave."
"Even if you break up with me, I won't go. Mom has good intentions, but she has no clue what I'll do or what I'll give up for you."
"Don't say that too loud. Half the town already thinks you murdered Presley for me."
His eyebrows furrowed. "Then at least they have an inkling."
I stood. "Don't say that. That's not funny."
"None of this is funny."
Elliott stood and walked to the hutch. He opened a drawer and then closed it, turning around. In his hand was a flat box the size of a notebook, wrapped in white paper and tied in red and green string.
He took a step toward me. "Merry Christmas."
I shrugged one shoulder. "It's tomorrow."
"I know. Open it."
I pulled the string and lifted the lid, revealing a black-and-white photo of Dad and me just a day or two before he died. We were standing on the porch, smiling at each other. It was a quiet moment, one that I had forgotten. The frame was a decoupage of more photos of my dad. Some of just him, some of us together. I covered my mouth with my hands, my eyes instantly filling with tears that overflowed down my cheeks.
Chapter Thirty-Five Catherine
Elliott put the Chrysler in park, the engine idling in Mrs. Mason's driveway. Her car could be seen through the small square windows of the garage door, and although the lights were out, it was comforting to know she was inside waiting for me.
Elliott slid his fingers between mine and then lifted my hand to his lips.
"Thank you for today. And for this," I said, tapping the box with the frame inside.
"You like it?" he asked.
I nodded. "You don't get yours until tomorrow."
"Fair enough."
"It's not much."
"You didn't have to get me anything. When can I see you?"
"Around noon? Oh God."
"What?"
"I didn't get Mrs. Mason anything."
"She won't care, Catherine."
"But they got me presents."
"They?"
"Mr. Mason brought some by. Oh my God. I'm awful. I should have done something for them today."
Elliott chuckled. "It's fine. If you want, we can find something tomorrow, and you can give it to them then."
"Like what?"
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. We'll sleep on it."
I leaned over to peck his lips, but he grabbed my arm.
"What?" I asked, still smiling.
Elliott's grin faded. "I still have a bad feeling. I'm going to walk you to the door. I can do that now, right?"
I nodded.
Elliott left the motor running, and we walked hand in hand to the door. I turned the knob and pushed, the alarm beeping at me, so I entered my code and pressed disarm.
"See? All good," I whispered.
"I guess my bad feeling is just about dropping you off."
"Merry Christmas," I said, rising on the balls of my feet. I pecked his lips and then waved, watching him walk to his car. The Christmas tree was lit, the soft glow lighting my way to the kitchen. I paused for a moment, feeling something sticky under my feet, and then continued over the tile floor to the light switch. I heard the Chrysler back out of the drive and pull away, and I flipped on the light.
My mouth fell open, and my stomach instantly felt sick as I traced the bright red spatters and smears along the countertops, the refrigerator door, and the floor. Someone had been dragged across the kitchen, four small streaks from fingers left behind as whoever it was futilely clawed at the tile. The body was dragged through the utility room and out the garage door.
I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, my trembling hand covering my mouth. The blood told a violent story, and whoever had left it behind didn't have much more to spare.
"Becca?" I called, my voice small. I cleared my throat. "Becca?"
Slick crimson made my hand slip over the knob as I tried to turn it, finally getting some traction long enough to get the door open. "Becca?" The light flickered when I flipped the light switch, the fluorescent rectangle above igniting one tube at a time. My stomach sank. Blood on the floor had been marked in and then used to write scribbles on the wall. Tears fell down my cheeks. "B-becca?"
I backed out of the garage door and the kitchen, then fumbled through the dark to the hallway, unable to recall where to find the next light switch. I reached around a doorway and swept my hand against the wall, finally lighting the way. I looked to the left. My bedroom door was open. To the right, one side was smeared with crimson, leading from Mrs. Mason's bedroom.
My entire body shook, every hair standing on end as I forced myself to take a step toward Mrs. Mason's end of the hall. The door was standing wide open, and I called for my guardian into the dark.
"Mrs. Mason?" I asked, my voice refusing to rise above a whisper. I reached for the wall, the light exposing
more of the bloody mess.
Mrs. Mason's purse was on her dresser, and I ran past it, checking the bathroom. "Becca?" I said, my voice shrill. I scrambled for her purse, dumping it out onto the bed. Change, a wallet, and makeup fell out, along with her phone. I swiped it from the bedspread and dialed the first number in her recent calls list.
"Hello?" Mr. Mason answered, sounding confused.
"It's um . . . it's me, Mr. Mason. It's Catherine."
"Catherine? You okay? What's going on?"
"I just got home. I'm"--I ran across the room to shut and lock Mrs. Mason's door--"I'm in the house."
"Okay. Catherine . . . let me speak to Becca."
"She's not here," I whispered. Even my voice was shaking. "There's blood. There's blood everywhere," I choked out, feeling hot tears stream down my face.
"Blood? Catherine, let me talk to Becca. Right now."
"She's not here! She's not here, and there's blood trailing from her bedroom to the garage!"
"I'm hanging up, Catherine. I'm going to call the police. You sit tight."
"No, don't hang up! I'm afraid!"
"I'll call the police, and then I'll call you right back. I'm getting in the car. I'll be there in five minutes."
The phone went silent, and I held it against my cheek, keeping my eyes shut tight to block out the gruesome scene in the bedroom.
I didn't know what else to do, so I counted. I counted to ten, and then twenty, and then a hundred, and then five hundred. At 506, the front door crashed against the Christmas tree, the ornaments and lights dancing with the branches.
"Catherine?" Mr. Mason bellowed, police sirens sounding in the distance.
I scrambled to my feet, sprinting down the hallway and into Mr. Mason's arms, sobbing.
He hugged me, nearly panting. "Are you okay?" he asked, holding me at bay. "Becca?" he called.
I shook my head, unable to form a single word.
Mr. Mason trudged into the kitchen and saw the mess for himself. He ran into the garage and then the yard, calling for his wife. He came back inside, slipping and then falling to his knees. He looked at the blood on his hands. "What happened?" he cried. "Where is she?"
"I don't . . . I . . ." I shook my head and then covered my mouth with my hand.
Two police cars parked in front of Mrs. Mason's house. Their blue and red lights flickered in the front room, drowning out the soft white light of the Christmas tree.
A police officer knelt beside me. "Are you all right, miss?"
I nodded.
A second officer froze in the dining room. "We need to search the house, sir. I need you to step outside."