I shook my head hard, trying to force his face from my mind. Trying to shake him away so maybe the shudders would stop running down my body.
But I was still shaking when I turned onto Fear Street. Overhanging trees made the night even darker.
Keith’s house was in the middle of the block. I eased the car up the gravel driveway. The crunching of the tires on the gravel sounded so loud against the silence outside the car.
The house is a long, low ranch style that stretches at the top of a sloping lawn. It was dark except for a yellow light on the far-right end. The family room, I thought.
A gust of cool wind greeted me as I climbed out of the car. It felt good on my hot cheeks. My legs were shaky as I climbed the front stoop and knocked on the door.
I can’t believe I came here to accuse Keith of murdering Jeremy. This is all so unbelievable.
Unbelievable—but happening just the same.
I knocked a little harder. I didn’t want to ring the bell and wake everyone up.
I heard footsteps inside. And then the door was pulled open, and Mrs. Carter, Keith’s mom, stared out at me with sleepy eyes. She was in a long, loose housedress. She carried a TV remote in one hand.
She squinted at me. “Poppy? So late?”
I nodded. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter. I—I—”
“We haven’t seen you in a while.”
I blinked. Didn’t Keith tell her we broke up?
“I . . . I know.” I peered behind her. The entry hall was dark. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you. I—”
“No, I was up. Watching a movie. For some reason, ever since we moved to Fear Street, it takes me hours to get to sleep.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Awkward. She always had a million complaints. Keith said she was a total hypochondriac. It drove him crazy because there wasn’t really anything wrong with her.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I repeated. “But I really need to talk to Keith.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“It’s kind of an emergency,” I said.
She backed away from the door so I could enter. The house was very warm and smelled of roasted chicken. “He’s asleep,” she said, studying me. “But I can wake him. Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
I closed the front door behind me. I stood in the entryway, trying to organize my thoughts. Trying to keep all the fear and suspicion and doubts and anger from swirling around me, capturing me, holding me in this trembling cloud of total confusion.
What am I going to say to Keith? I can’t just say, Did you attack Ivy and Jeremy? But what can I say?
I listened to Mrs. Carter’s echoing footsteps going down the long hall to the bedrooms. I shifted my weight. Crossed and uncrossed my arms. Toyed with my bouncy curls for a bit.
Waiting . . . waiting . . .
It was taking a long time. Was she having trouble waking him up?
Was she keeping him in his bedroom until he explained to her why I was here? That would be like her.
Waiting . . .
And then the scrape of her slippers on the hard floor. And she reappeared in the entryway, her long housedress sweeping around her, her face knotted in confusion.
“I . . . I don’t understand it,” she stammered. She squinted hard at me. “Keith isn’t in his room. He’s gone.”
43
Poppy Narrates
She shook her head. A lock of blond hair came loose from her ponytail. She raised a hand and struggled to put it back in. “I don’t understand it.”
“You thought he was home?”
She nodded. “We had dinner. I actually cooked tonight. And then he said he was going out. But . . . I thought he came back. I thought I heard him.”
She motioned with one hand. “Come sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
I wanted to leave. But she was staring at me with such intensity. And I could see she was mystified about Keith. And a little scared. So I followed her into the family room.
We sat down on brown leather armchairs facing each other. “Do you have any idea where Keith might be?” she asked. She suddenly sounded like a helpless little girl. Like she didn’t know how to deal with this at all.
I shook my head. “No. No clue.”
“Well, why did you come to see him, Poppy?”
I let out a long sigh. “Do you know about Jeremy and Ivy?” I asked.
She thought for a moment. “No. No, I don’t. Have I met them?”
“Probably,” I said. “They’re good friends. Keith didn’t tell you—”
“He doesn’t really confide in me,” she interrupted. “Keith is very private. He doesn’t share much. And ever since we moved here, he’s been even more secretive.”
“Well, it’s not a nice story,” I said. “Ivy was attacked in her home. Someone put acid in her shampoo. She has serious burns all over her head.”
Mrs. Carter leaned forward, her mouth open in shock. “I can’t believe anyone would do that.”
“Jeremy had severe allergies.” I forced myself to finish the story. “Someone filled his room with hornets, and he was stung to death.”
She gasped. “Your friend? He died?”
I nodded. “It’s horrible. Horrible.”
I could see she was thinking hard. “You don’t think Keith had anything to do with any of that, do you, Poppy?”
I took a breath. “Keith was very messed up when I broke up with him. I—”
“You two broke up? I didn’t know.”
“Well . . . we did. And he acted very weird about it. And . . . and . . . This is very hard, Mrs. Carter. I mean, I don’t want to think Keith has attacked my friends. But I just wanted to ask him.”
I swallowed hard and raised my eyes to her. “Keith couldn’t be responsible—could he?”
She stood up and clasped her hands in front of her, pushed them together as if she was praying. Her answer to my question surprised me: “Keith has had episodes before. But I know he’s been taking his meds.”
I couldn’t keep the shock from my face. Episodes? Meds?
Keith was definitely a private person. I realized he didn’t share anything with his mother, and he hadn’t shared anything with me.
“He’s not a killer,” Mrs. Carter added, crossing her arms tightly in front of her. “No. Keith . . . Keith is afraid of the world. If you broke up with him, it probably was very difficult for him to accept. Rejection has always been hard for him. But . . . but he’s not a killer. I know it can’t be Keith.”
I stood up, and to my surprise, she wrapped me in a hug. She pressed her cheek against mine, and I could feel her body trembling.
“I’m worried,” she said softly when she finally let go of me. “I’m very worried, Poppy. Where can Keith be?”
A gentle rain came on as I drove home. The raindrops ran down my windshield, lighted by oncoming cars, and they looked like jewels, a sliding curtain of jewels. The raindrops almost hypnotized me. I guess I wasn’t in my right mind.
I don’t think I even realized I was driving. I just stared at the flashing raindrops sliding down the glass, lighting up with each passing car.
It was too much for me, too much for my brain to handle. Ivy burned with acid . . . Jeremy murdered . . . Keith disappeared.
Keith . . . I’d spent so much time with him. But there was so much I didn’t know. Could Keith be dangerous? Was he paying me back for breaking up with him? I couldn’t answer these questions, and I was too frightened and confused to even think about them clearly.
Somehow I made it home. Pulled into the drive, glad to see that Lucas’s car was gone. Maybe the police came and chased him away. Maybe they arrested him. I didn’t care about Lucas. He was just a creep. I didn’t want to let him into my thoughts.
The house was dark and quiet, so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I tiptoed to my room. No way I wanted to wake Mom or Heather and be bombarded by a hundred questions.
It was after midnight, bu
t I was too wired to feel tired. Will I ever sleep again? The faces of my friends flashed before my eyes. Ivy . . . Jeremy . . . Keith . . . They wouldn’t go away. They were haunting me. One face after another. And then Jack’s face lingered, his arrogant smile, his penetrating eyes . . . Jack.
He was trouble from the start. It was Jack who got us doing the stupid pranks we pulled. Was it possible that he was the one who had turned deadly?
“I have to get some sleep,” I said out loud, interrupting my tumbling thoughts.
I changed into my long nightshirt. Brushed my teeth. Looked at my disheveled hair in the bathroom mirror but didn’t do anything about it.
Back in my room, I made my way to my bed, still trying to force the faces from my mind. I reached down with both hands, pulled back the covers—and started to scream.
44
Poppy Continues
My scream cut off with a gagging sound and I started to choke. I staggered back from my bed, back from the ghastly, horrifying scene I had uncovered.
Mr. Benjamin, my pet bunny, cut to pieces. His body shredded, his blood spread over my sheet, a dark red puddle. My poor bunny . . . poor Mr. Benjamin . . . murdered.
How? Who?
I couldn’t hold it in. I screamed again. Mom and Heather burst into my room. I pointed wildly, my mouth open but unable to speak. I forced down the sour taste of vomit in my mouth.
I watched them approach the bed. Mom uttered a quiet gasp and covered her face with her hands. Heather screamed and spun away, unable to stand the horror she saw.
The three of us backed away from my bed. Mom shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she saw. Heather’s chest was heaving up and down. She was wheezing with each shallow breath. “No,” she muttered. “No. No way.”
We huddled out in the hall. An awkward three-way hug didn’t last very long. Mom’s eyes grew wide. “This means someone was in our house,” she said, her voice trembling. “Someone came into our house and did this.”
Heather hugged herself tightly. “I . . . I thought I heard footsteps. In the hall. But I thought I was dreaming it.”
Mom grabbed Heather’s arm. “You heard someone?”
Heather nodded. “But I didn’t really wake up. I was half asleep . . . dreaming.”
I started to sob. “Poor Mr. Benjamin. Who would do that?”
I saw that Heather was crying, too.
“We have to call the police,” Mom said. “Someone very dangerous is out to harm everyone. Someone cruel and sadistic . . . and crazy.”
Keith, where were you tonight? I wondered. I started back to my room.
Mom grabbed my arm. “Don’t touch anything,” she said. “The police won’t want you to touch anything.”
“I just want to change,” I said. “I don’t want to be in a nightshirt when they get here.”
“Just be careful. Don’t touch a thing.”
I wiped tears off my cheeks as I stepped into my room. I tried to avoid looking at the bed. Just being in the room gave me cold shudders.
Who was in here? Who hated me enough to kill my pet rabbit? Who hated all of us?
I reached for the top dresser drawer to pull out a T-shirt. And something caught my eye. A folded-up sheet of yellow paper on the dresser top. I gazed at it. I didn’t remember putting a sheet of paper there.
I grabbed it. Unfolded it. And read the words printed neatly in red ink:
The Shadyside Shade strikes again.
Part Four
45
Poppy Narrates
The next morning, I joined Mom and Heather at the breakfast table, but I couldn’t eat. I’d tried to sleep on the couch in the den, but the cushion had buttons on it that hurt my back.
I couldn’t sleep anyway. I kept rolling from my side to my back, but the horrifying picture of my murdered rabbit stayed in my mind no matter how I turned.
“I don’t want to go to school,” I said, cupping my face in my hands.
“You have to go,” Mom said, buttering a burned piece of toast. “You didn’t go yesterday.”
“I can see everyone staring at me,” I said. “Everyone watching me . . . afraid of me . . . accusing me. They all think I’m a killer, Mom. They all think—”
“They don’t know that you’re a victim, too,” Mom said. “They don’t know what happened here last night.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. I picked up the cereal spoon and tapped it tensely on the tabletop. Heather kept sipping her coffee, watching me, not entering the conversation.
“After the fake robbery, I went berserk,” I said. “I threatened my friends. I said I’d pay them all back, but I didn’t really mean it. I’d never hurt anyone. You know that. But everyone thinks I’m doing these things to get revenge.” My voice cracked. “Everyone thinks I’m a murderer. Everyone thinks I killed Jeremy.” I tossed the spoon onto the table. “I can’t go, Mom. It’s just too horrible. No one will talk to me. No one will even come close to me. They’ll just stare.”
“You have to go,” Mom said softly. “You can’t let this defeat you. You have to show everyone at school that you’re not guilty. If you stay home, they’ll just suspect it’s because you are guilty and you can’t face them. You have to stand up to them, Poppy.”
I was gripped with fear. Every muscle in my body was clenched. My throat was so tight, I started to choke. “Listen to me,” I said, when I could finally speak. “The real killer is at school. I know it. The person who killed Mr. Benjamin last night is there. And that person is dangerous, Mom. Dangerous and crazy.”
“The police will find him,” Mom said. “Or her.”
“You can’t be a detective,” Heather chimed in. “You can’t solve it or find the one who’s doing these things. You can’t be responsible for that. You just can’t.”
“I know,” I muttered. “I was just saying . . .”
“Go to school and see how it goes,” Mom said. “If it’s unbearable, you can always come home.”
I sighed. “What’s happening is unbearable,” I said. “It’s all unbearable. And frightening. And crazy.”
“I’ll hang out with you at lunch,” Heather offered. “That way you won’t be alone. It won’t be awkward.”
I patted her hand. “Sounds like a plan,” I said.
Mrs. Gonzalez, the Shadyside High principal, was waiting for me at the front doors. She led me past a group of cheerleaders, who grew quiet as I passed by. “Come sit down.” She motioned me into her office and closed the door behind us.
Is she going to suspend me from school?
That isn’t fair. I haven’t done anything.
I sat down on the edge of the chair facing her desk. Her desk was cluttered with files and papers. A framed photo of a yellow Lab sat on the corner. She stood behind her chair and studied me.
Mrs. Gonzalez is a tall, middle-aged woman, straight black hair mixed with streaks of gray, pulled back into a single braid. She has big black eyes and wears a lot of mascara to bring them out. Always comes to school in designer suits and stylish skirts and tops. The teachers at Shadyside wear jeans, but she would never be seen in them.
Her expression is often stern, not unfriendly, just kind of businesslike, but no one has anything really bad to say about her, and the teachers seem to like her.
“I like that scarf you’re wearing,” she started. “You always wear scarves, don’t you?”
I nodded. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“Someone once gave me an Hermès scarf, and I treasured it. That color is beautiful. Perfect with your blond hair.”
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t really want to talk about scarves.
“Poppy, this must be a hard time for you,” she said, gripping the back of the chair. “I heard the whole story. I’ve talked to Ivy. She’s back today, by the way.”
“Oh. Good,” I said awkwardly.
“We have a grief counselor here today for anyone who feels they want to talk about Jeremy.” She waited for me t
o reply, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence grew awkward.
I lowered my head. “I’ll really miss him,” I whispered.
She nodded. “A roomful of stinging hornets. It must have been horrifying.” She sighed. “I can’t imagine.”
She turned the chair and sat down. She folded her hands on her desk and stared at me with those dark eyes. “Poppy, this is hard to talk about. But you do know there are students here, even friends of yours, who think you were responsible.”
“I know,” I said. “But I didn’t—”
“I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me. I thought you might want someone outside your family to confide in.” She fumbled with some papers. “I don’t know you very well. I guess I know you best from the plays you’ve been in and the Drama Club. But I’m here if there’s anything you want to say or anything I can help you with.”
Does she expect me to confess?
Am I supposed to say yes, I’m the one? I’m the killer?
Thank you for letting me get this out in the open. Thank you.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my eyes down. “I’m just so sad . . . so devastated. Ivy and Jeremy were my best friends. And now . . .”
She cleared her throat. “Why do you think people suspect you?”
“Because I threatened them,” I blurted out. “Because I said I’d get revenge against them.” I pounded my fists on the chair arms. I was losing it and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give anything away to this woman. She wasn’t my friend. She wasn’t really here to help me.
“But I was just angry,” I said. “You say things when you’re angry, right? You say things you don’t mean.”
She nodded. “That’s very true. We all do that.”
“Well, that’s what I did. And now everyone thinks I’m a murderer. Meanwhile, the real murderer is walking around, laughing because everyone is blaming me.”
That seemed to get to her. Her eyes went really wide and her mouth dropped open. It was as if she had never thought of that. Never thought that the murderer was probably in school today.