“I was hoping you would. And I’ll call you too.” She goes quiet. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course.” It’s right there on his tongue. To tell her how much he enjoyed kissing her. To tell her he wants to do it again. To ask about Trent. But there’s a loud beeping sound on the phone.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“My phone alarm reminding me to…”
“What?” he asks.
“I’m supposed to watch a nine o’clock show with my mom. Better go.”
“Okay.” There’s something off with her tone again. Her quick disconnect punctuates the feeling.
Effing great. Now he’s back to thinking she might be brushing him off. Why are girls so hard to read?
17
We’re shopping. The store’s filled with new winter colors and styles. I haven’t been shopping in over a year. A Natasha Bedingfield song pipes through the sound system. Mom’s already told me that there’re no cash limits. She’s more excited about me going back to school than I am.
I’m scared. And it occurs to me that I don’t look forward to facing Trent. When he called, he reminded me that I said we’d be friends. He told me he still wants to be more and hopes I’ll change my mind.
I changed the subject to books. We only talked five minutes. An awkward five minutes.
I pull out a blue shirt, see it, and rehang that sucker.
As much as I used to love shopping, I’m not into it today. Or is it that my options are so limited that shopping isn’t fun? The clothes are beautiful, but high necklines aren’t in. Other than turtlenecks and long-sleeve Ts. Boring. Boring. Boring.
When you have a huge-ass scar running down the center of your chest, putting on clothes feels more about hiding than trying to look good.
“Love this,” Mom holds up a pink V-neck blouse.
She’s forgotten. “I like this one better.” I nod at the burgundy T in my basket, thinking she’ll remember and we can pretend she didn’t forget.
Mom moves to the next rack. “You have to try this on!” She holds up another top. The color is right. Blue looks good on me. The scooped neckline, however, is a big honking no-way-not-happening. But she’s so excited I take it to make her happy. Not that I’m trying it on. Hurry up and remember, Mom.
“I think I’ll grab a pair of those jeans and hit the dressing room.” I point to the items in my basket.
“You’ve only got four tops.”
Four boring tops. “It’s a good start.”
“Okay. You go. I’ll grab you a few more.”
I start to tell her no but can’t. Instead, I snag a pair of jeans and head to the dressing room. I pull off my shirt to try on boring shirt number 1. I catch my image in the full-length mirror.
I stare at the scars. I’ve been avoiding looking at myself. I know exactly where to dress in my bedroom so that I can’t see my reflection in the dresser mirror.
But there’s no avoiding it now.
There’s the puckered scar where my artificial heart was connected right under my left rib. The second small one where I had a drain pipe when I got the new heart. And then the biggie. Where they cut and cranked open my chest bone.
It’s still bright red, almost a half an inch thick, and it starts a few inches below my neck and goes down a good three inches past the center of my chest. I’m not so vain I wish I didn’t have it. I’m alive because of it. But I wish it would fade.
I wish I didn’t still hear Brandy’s gasp. I’m still not mad at her, but I’m more self-conscious than ever.
I run my finger down the scar. It’s still numb in places. I wonder if the feeling will come back. Placing my hand on my chest, I feel the slight thump-thump.
I wonder if Eric’s heart is the same size as my original one. I wonder what they did with my heart. Throw it away? Cut it up to study it?
Is that what happened to the Old Leah? Did I lose part of her when they removed it all those months ago?
Do I miss it?
I wonder if one day Eric’s heart will feel like mine. Will I ever stop feeling as if I stole someone else’s life? That I benefited from something terrible?
Realizing all the wishing and wondering is ruining my mood, I stop it. I slip on the new shirt. It’s boring but fits nicely. I turn to the side, and for the first time I see what Brandy says.
Yeah. My boobs are bigger.
I put my hands on my sides. I’m curvier. I remember Matt’s hands on my waist. I remember how it felt to have my bigger breasts pressed against him. His lips on mine. I get flutters in my stomach. The good kind that tickles and teases.
Then another thought crowds out the flutters.
I wonder if Matt will gasp if he sees my scar.
It’s a stupid thought. Once we’re back in school, he may never want to kiss me again. Maybe he doesn’t even really like me. Or will he pretend he does so that I’ll keep helping him look into what happened to Eric?
I tell myself to stop it again.
Taking off my jeans, I slip the new jeans on. They fit. They look good.
“Leah?” I hear my mom.
“In here.” I unlock my door.
She pushes it open and sees me in the new shirt and jeans. “Hmm,” she says. “I don’t know, it’s a little…”
“Boring.” I try to make light of it.
“No, just plain.”
As if “plain” and “boring” aren’t synonyms. What can I say? Mom’s always been more into numbers than words.
“I found these.” She dumps an armload of shirts and sweaters on me.
Four of the six shirts have pink in them. I’ll bet none of them are high-necked.
“You try them on?” I suggest.
“Today’s all about you. I want to see them on you,” she says in her excited voice and shuts the door.
I hang them on the hook and pull out the blue one. I hadn’t wanted to tell her, because I know she’s going to feel bad, but … it’s that or show her. I don’t want to show her. I don’t want to see it. To see the scar peering out behind a cute article of clothing is worse than seeing me naked.
“They won’t work, Mom.”
“Why? They’re cute.”
I touch my chest beneath the burgundy long-sleeve T. “The scar.”
Her eyes widen, and tears fill her eyes. “Oh, baby. I’m sorry. I … forgot.”
She looks as if she’s just insulted me. Kind of the way Brandy looked. I hug her. “It’s okay.”
She squeezes me, then lets go. “I love that scar. It saved your life. You are here because of that scar. Because of it, one day I’m going be in a dressing room watching you try on wedding dresses.” Tears slip down her face.
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t want—”
“I get it,” she says. “Wait, I have an idea.” She storms out and I’m clueless to what’s she’s up to.
I try on the next boring T. I’ve barely got it on when Mom storms in.
“Camisoles.” She hands me three hangers. “Try one on with that blue sweater. Just a couple of months ago, I saw a show on how to wear sexy camisoles with everyday clothes.” She points to my phone. “Google it if you don’t believe me,” she says. “I’m going to look for some more tops to pair with them.” She rushes out. A woman on a mission.
I stare at the door and realize it’s the same mission she’s been on for almost two years. Keep Leah alive and happy.
She needs to focus on herself now. She hasn’t mentioned going back to work. I should nudge her. She used to love her job working for a big accounting firm. Her friends still work there.
I look back at the lacy camisoles. I slip one on and pull the blue sweater over top of it. It doesn’t look bad. Maybe Mom is on to something.
It’s not boring. The sweater’s neck is loose and sort of falls off the shoulder just a little. Before I wouldn’t have bought it because it would show my bra strap, but with the camisole it’s different. It’s kind of sexy. I feel sexy. I think of Matt seeing m
e in it and grin.
I’m still busy admiring it when my phone rings. Brandy’s supposed to call to see how shopping is going. I start looking for the jeans with my phone in the back pocket. I answer it without checking, and that very instant I remember.
I remember who else has my number.
“Hello?” The slight tremble in my voice echoes in my stomach.
“Who is this?” the caller asks. I don’t recognize the voice, but I know it’s her.
My mind starts whirling. Questions. Questions. What were they?
“Cassie?” I force myself to speak. Undefined emotion floods my chest. Not fear. Not just nerves.
“Who are you?” The tone is unsure, insecure. Not how I expected the beautiful, bold head cheerleader Cassie Chambers to sound. But then the image of her at the roadside park where Eric was shot floods my mind. She didn’t look so bold then either.
Then it hits. Sadness. I feel sadness. For Cassie. So. Much. Sadness.
“This is Leah. Leah McKenzie. From school. You probably don’t remember me.” I hear footsteps outside the dressing room. Don’t be Mom. Please don’t be Mom.
I hear another dressing room door open. Not Mom.
“I remember you,” Cassie says. “Why are you calling me? Are you the one who came to my house?”
I swallow oxygen. My tongue feels thick. I want to cry. I don’t know why, but I do. “Yeah. I … I’ve been talking to Matt Kenner and he has questions and wanted me to—”
“Stop. I’m hurting enough already. Tell Matt to leave me alone!”
“But Cassie, as bad as you’re feeling, Matt feels worse. Eric was his brother, his twin. He’s just trying to understand how … this happened. You could help him. Please.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” I hear her shaky breaths. Crying. The heaviness in my chest swells past the legal limits, pressing against my rib cage. Too tight. I want to cry with her.
For her.
For Eric.
“Why can’t you?” The words strangle through my constricted throat.
“You don’t understand.”
“What do I not understand? Tell me. I’ll tell Matt.”
The last thing I hear is her sobs. Then she’s gone.
The heaviness in my chest makes my knees weak. I feel dizzy. I plop down on the dressing room bench.
The feeling fades. Replaced with another. I failed. I got nothing that’ll help Matt.
Then I rehear Cassie’s words. I can’t. You don’t understand. Was it just me, or did Cassie make it sound as if … she knew something but couldn’t tell?
Is Matt right? Does Cassie know something?
* * *
Good to his word, Matt returns to see the detective the next day. He stands at the front desk and faces Mrs. Johnson. The heavyset African American woman, who looks like someone’s grandmother, stares at the computer oblivious to his presence. “I’m here to see Detective Henderson.”
She looks up. “Your name?” She asks that every time. He’d bet his football jacket she knows his name. Just like he knows hers. She probably knows why he’s here.
The pity in her eyes guarantees it.
He hates pity. He needs answers. Not pity.
“Matt Kenner?” He’s not sure what he’s going to do if they give him another brush-off.
How much of an ass can he get away with being in a police station?
Not that it’d be his fault. But it would be his problem. A problem he’d take on for Eric, but one he didn’t want upsetting his mom.
He takes a deep breath, then releases it. To center himself, to think more clearly.
It’s a trick he picked up from Leah. The moment she tiptoes into his mind, he starts missing her. He can’t remember ever having it this bad for a girl.
He relaxes his stance. Mrs. Johnson picks up the phone and pushes in some numbers.
“Yes, Matt Kenner’s here.” She refuses to look at him. He watches the frown pass over her face.
That isn’t good.
“Okay. Yeah.” She hangs up and lifts her dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry, but he’s going into a meeting.”
“I’ll wait.” His tone’s hard. His stomach knots, reminding him that he skipped breakfast.
She frowns. “It could be—”
“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens. Hell, since he can’t see Leah, he can stand here all damn day. What are they gonna do, arrest him for standing? Maybe loitering? Would they?
A door from the back swings open.
It’s Detective Henderson. An unhappy-looking Detective Henderson. He glances at Mrs. Johnson. “I got this.” His focus shifts to Matt. “Come on.”
Matt follows, aware how tall and broad-shouldered the man is. The detective passes his office, where they usually talk, and walks into what looks like an interview room. There are even cameras in the corner of the ceilings. And a big mirror that Matt suspects is a window.
The detective pulls out a chair from the big table and drops down. Matt chooses the chair across from him so they face each other. He meets the man’s stern gray gaze. Matt almost tosses out a smartass remark, but remembers the old you-get-more-flies-with-honey theory.
“Thank you. For seeing me. I wanted to ask—”
The man holds up his hand. “Me first.”
“As long as I get my turn.” Matt settles back.
The man scrubs a hand over his face. “I hate seeing you.”
Matt’s spine tenses. “Because I remind you of what a shitty job you’ve done on my brother’s case?”
The detective shakes his head. “I hate seeing you because you make me remember my younger brother. He died at eighteen. I had almost forgotten how much that hurt until you started darkening my doorstep.”
Matt’s surprised. “How did he die?”
“He got a batch of bad cocaine.” He exhales. “Like you, I wanted to blame everyone else. The drug dealers, the friend who drove him to get the shit. The girlfriend who got him hooked. My parents for not intervening. Even myself. But I could never bring myself to blame my brother.”
“Eric didn’t—”
“I’m not done!” He holds out a hand. “I’ve been there, kid. I road that damn bull seven seconds, got thrown, and it nearly killed me. I wish I could help you. I wish I could say I believed you. But I’ve never seen such an open-and-closed case.”
“You don’t know—”
“Goddamn it, I wish I was wrong! Every fucking time you’ve walked through that door, I’ve opened the damn file and looked for something. It’s not there. I don’t know what to tell you to do to stop the hurting. Time’s the only thing.”
Emotion sinks into Matt’s chest, stretching his ribs, crowding his heart. Tears threaten to fill his eyes. He swallows the knot in his throat. “You didn’t know Eric. He—”
“I can’t help you, Matt. I’d give my left nut if I could.”
Matt fights the sense of hopelessness. Then he remembers the reason he’s here. “Did you send a cop to talk to the Chambers?”
The detective shakes his head.
“A cop car pulled up there. I thought—”
“Don’t be bothering the Chambers. If there’s another complaint, I’ll have to get a restraining order. I don’t want to do that. Got me?”
“Who complained?” Matt asks. “Cassie?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I just think…”
Detective Henderson stands up. “Try not to think. Find something to occupy your time. Get a girlfriend.”
Matt thinks about Leah. He almost wants to tell the detective about the dreams, about her dreams and having Eric’s heart. His gut says it’s useless. The detective would really think Matt has lost it. How can he make the detective believe him?
Coming up empty, he stands up, turns to go. Then turns back around and looks the detective dead in his eyes. “Was your brother trying to kill himself?”
“No, he was an addict.”
“Maybe that’s why he wanted to kil
l himself.”
The detective shakes his head. “He just didn’t know the cocaine was bad.”
“But he knew it was dangerous. He was probably looking for a way out.”
“It wasn’t—” The detective’s eyes widen as if he realizes what Matt’s doing.
Matt’s spine stiffens. “How do you know?” he pauses. “You just know, don’t you? Because he was your brother. Like Eric was mine. We were identical twins. I could almost read his mind. Eric didn’t do this to himself.”
Detective Henderson rakes his palm over his face.
Matt continues. “I’ve heard of cases that were ruled a suicide then later proven differently. I know it’s possible. And I’m not going to stop looking for proof. I understand that you aren’t investigating. I don’t like it, but I understand. But can I come to you when I find something? Will you see me? Listen to me?”
The man closes his eyes, then opens them. “I’ll see you, but it has to be proof. Solid evidence. You understand what that means?”
Matt nods. “Thank you.” He decides to leave on that.
“Kid?”
Matt turns around.
“I’m serious about staying away from the Chambers. The cop car you saw … It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” Matt asks.
“It’s Officer Yates’s car. He’s engaged to Ms. Chambers. Cassie isn’t even there. She’s living with her father in California. Yates says Cassie’s mom blames you for Cassie leaving. The reason I called your mom was because Yates saw you hanging around and came to me. So don’t go looking for trouble. Stay away.”
“You’re wrong.” Matt words are as stiff as his backbone right now. “Cassie’s back. And while you still don’t believe me, she lied to you. Eric went to her house that night he was killed.”
The detective frowns. He’s already heard this, but Matt doesn’t care. He’ll keep telling the truth until someone listens.
“Eric told me he was going there. He had no reason to lie. I was going to order some takeout that night. He said not to include him because he and Cassie were going out.”
“And she says he never showed up.”
“And you believe her?”
“Her mother confirmed it.”
“Then she’s lying too.”