“Scary lady,” I muttered.
“Archetypal wicked stepmother. And I was in her way.”
“I get that.” For Allyson in Arizona’s situation, read Jim in mine.
“So they packaged up Raven’s condition with more fancy labels. One morning I woke up and he was gone.”
“Away to school?”
“Allyson was busy reading the news on TV, my dad was in Europe at a conference. That left the home help to tell me the name of the school where they’d taken my brother—the Lindsey Institute. She said he’d be back eventually.”
“Ouch. Peter said you were the only one who knew how to get through to Raven. How did you do that?”
“I focused on what he’s good at,” she explained, as if the answer was plain for anyone to see. “He likes drawing.”
“So you drew?”
“Yeah, and I showed him pictures—sometimes photographs, sometimes paintings. There’s a big art gallery in the city—I took him there. He likes Andy Warhol—the way he repeats silk-screen images over and over. Marilyn Monroe. Elizabeth Taylor. The soup cans.”
“I’ll remember that,” I promised, shocked when my comment brought tears to her eyes. “When this is over, I’ll take him to see the Andy Warhols.”
Arizona broke down, choking back sobs. “Without me there to protect him, they’ll lock him up and throw away the key,” she wept. “After the divorce, I know that’s what they’ll do!”
“Look,” I said, pulling Raven’s crumpled drawing from my pocket. I’d kept it there as the one concrete thing to hang on to. I unfolded it and gave it to her.
Her hands trembled as she studied every line of the sketch. “Thank you,” she whispered over and over. “Oh, Raven, poor baby. What’s going to happen now?”
When the going is tough, you grow a tough shell to help you deal with it—that’s what I’d learned these last few hours. But then the drawing of a house on a screwed-up piece of paper makes a crack in the shell and the light pours in. I saw a new Arizona—one I wanted to help at last.
“So you have to tell me about Kyle Keppler,” I insisted as we walked under the aspens on Foxton Ridge. “What do I need to know?”
She veered off the top of the ridge, down the dark side of the hill. “It’s complicated.”
“How complicated? Listen—you told me you didn’t know the name of Mike Hamill’s repair shop, but that’s where your boyfriend works. So how come you kept that from me?”
“I didn’t want Kyle to be implicated.”
“Officially he isn’t, so you did a good job,” I muttered.
“And by the way, did you know that he’s now denying you were ever his girlfriend?” This obviously hurt her and I was sorry. “Your car is still in the workshop, so I was able to figure out a few things for myself.”
“That I did take it in for repair that day? That, afterward, my dad and Allyson didn’t care enough to want it back? Also, they hid all the photos and sent my clothes to the charity store. What else?”
“Both you and Kyle were covering up—I don’t know what. Anyway, why did you need to keep his name out of it?”
“Because what we had—our relationship—was a secret.”
“Brandon Rohr knew,” I told her. “He told me.”
Arizona slowed down, wrapped her hand around a slender tree trunk, and gazed up at the dark canopy. “Brandon swore to Kyle that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Kyle’s his buddy; he trusted him.”
“Mistake! Even I don’t trust Brandon, and he’s Phoenix’s brother, for Christ’s sake. He dances to his own beat.”
Arizona swung around the tree trunk and we came face-to-face. “Go ahead, give me some reasons why I wouldn’t want people to know about me and Kyle.”
“Numero uno—he’s so not your type.”
“Wrong side of the tracks?” She almost smiled.
I nodded. “Plus, he’s prehistoric.”
“Twenty-two,” she confirmed. “And?”
“He’s so not your parents’ type either.”
“Would I see that as a problem?”
“OK, no. So now you tell me—what else?”
“How about—he already has a girlfriend?”
I groaned. “Jeez, Arizona. Who is she?”
“Her name is Sable. She doesn’t live in Ellerton.”
“Wait. Let me fill in the rest for myself. Sable is Kyle’s girlfriend—they’re childhood sweethearts. He cheats on her and swears you to secrecy. But why would you agree?”
“I didn’t know about Sable until after Kyle and I were an item. By that time I was hooked.”
“I don’t see it, Arizona. Sure, Kyle is easy on the eye, but what else?”
“You mean, what did we talk about? Oh, come on, Darina, when did talking become so necessary?”
I laughed. “You may find this weird, but actually talking is cool.” I was thinking of me and Phoenix, naturally. Although I wasn’t liking the way Arizona had started patronizing me again. “You should try it some time.”
“OK, you’re right. And when I met Kyle at a party in Centennial I was at a point when I really needed someone to lean on. And I don’t mean just physically. We danced and we talked—yes, actually, he does do words of more than two syllables.”
“Did you tell Kyle about Raven?” I asked the litmus question. If yes, then it had been true love.
“Eventually I told him—we’d been together two months and I was feeling totally safe with him. That was when he opened up too and told me about Sable.”
“Thanks for that, Kyle,” I grumbled for her, taking on the sarcastic role. “Arizona, you needed that piece of information like a hole in the head.”
“Sable Jackson, the girl from Forest Lake.” Arizona closed her eyes at the memory. “It turns out she and Kyle were engaged.”
“Oh God, Arizona!”
“I know—stupid, huh? I should’ve walked away. But it gets worse.”
“How worse? Isn’t this as bad as it gets?”
“Fast forward another couple of months. I’m still into Kyle in every way. In spite of Sable, I escape from the house and spend every waking moment with him. I hang around after school outside Mike Hamill’s place, waiting for Kyle to get out of work. One day we drive out to Amos Peak to be alone. It’s our favorite place, and that’s where I put pressure on him, give him an ultimatum, and he tells me he can’t give Sable up—not ever.”
“Does he tell you why not?” I’m hating Kyle Keppler more every second.
“She’s pregnant,” Arizona said with the longest sigh. “It’s going to be a Christmas baby. They set their wedding for the last week in October.”
“So now that baby is nine months old, maybe ten.”
At that moment, I realized I was out of my league and needed Phoenix for advice. Arizona and I headed down from the ridge, where Lee met Arizona and led her into the house to talk again with Hunter. Phoenix had been given the order to see me safely home.
“I can’t believe it,” Phoenix mumbled after I’d given the breathless account of everything Arizona had told me. “And where does this other woman live?”
“Out of town, in Forest Lake. I guess Kyle Keppler went ahead and married Sable around the time Arizona died.”
“And Arizona hid this stuff because she didn’t want his name dragged in. How does that follow?” Phoenix paused before we got in the car, assessing what I’d just told him, turning it around in his head. “What was she doing—protecting him?”
I nodded, suddenly struck by something. “The way she protected Raven all those years. That’s what Arizona does when she loves someone—she builds a ring of silence around them.”
“But this puts Kyle in the right place—Mike’s Motors, at the right time—the afternoon Arizona drowned. Plus, he has a motive.”
“For killing her?” I popped my lips then breathed out sharply. “Is that what we’re looking at?”
“If it’s not suicide, then it’s murder.”
“Or an a
ccident?” But then I remembered how Arizona had revisited the scene and felt someone was there, out at Hartmann, and how she’d felt a wave of fear. “It sure feels like murder,” I agreed.
Phoenix hung his head, deep in thought. “And this guy, Kyle—he sounds mean enough?”
“He hangs out with your brother, rides a Harley Dyna, stands around six feet four. That’s all I know.”
“So don’t go near him,” he begged, grabbing my hand. His voice grew urgent and intense. “You hear me? Do what you have to do to help Arizona, but stay away from Kyle Keppler.”
The next day, Sunday, I was grounded.
Jim and Laura sat me down at the kitchen table and laid out the new boundaries. It went something like this:
Jim: “Your mother and I have been talking. We want to straighten out a few things.”
Me: “Go ahead—straighten.”
Jim: “We need an agreement from you that you won’t leave the house at night.”
Me: “When you say ‘night,’ what exactly are we saying? Would that be post-midnight, or post-ten p.m.? Eight p.m.? Earlier maybe?”
Laura: “Cut it out, Darina. Listen to what Jim has to say.”
Jim: “This is a dangerous town. Look at what happened to Summer. We…your mom is crazy with worry. She needs to know where you are—at school, at a friend’s house, here in your room.”
Me: “That would be a twenty-four/seven curfew then?”
Jim (grinding his teeth): “We also need you to show more respect.”
As soon as he introduced the R word, he lost me. I went off into wondering where Phoenix was and what Arizona was doing right now. I remembered the last flash of Beautiful Dead action I’d been involved with the night before. The memory flooded back…It was Lee Stone who had broken up Phoenix’s “Keep Away from Kyle Keppler” speech. He’d run up the hill to tell Phoenix that Hunter needed him, that there was a bunch of weekenders at the Government Bridge camping ground who had drunk too much booze and were planning a late night ghost-busting trip up to Foxton Ridge.
“Do you have any names?” I’d asked, thinking maybe they would include Charlie Fortune and some other Ellerton vigilantes who every now and then decide to big themselves up by coming out to Foxton to nail widespread rumors of ghosts and weird happenings.
“Sorry, I don’t.” Anyway, Lee pointed out he was new around there and names wouldn’t mean much to him. “Hunter said they’re not from Ellerton.”
“Wow, your fame is spreading,” I’d muttered as Phoenix kissed me good-bye. “Soon the whole county will come looking.”
I’d sounded flippant, but now I was seriously worried. The number of vigilantes who believed something weird was happening out at Foxton was growing. There was talk in the bars of figures seen on the ridge late at night, then came the story about the county surveyor who had been scared half crazy…and now the weird wind that had spooked Jenna Hall’s horse. I wondered how long Hunter and the Beautiful Dead could keep the secret of their existence safe—
“Darina?” Laura brought me back with a jolt. “You hear me? We’re grounding you for the whole day.”
Parents do that; they gang up against you by using the big “we” all the time, like they’re a huge army defending an empire and you’re one small foot soldier.
“We want you to clean your room and then start on the kitchen,” she went on. “We want you to eat Sunday lunch with us then do all your schoolwork before supper. Did you hear what we said? You’re not to leave the house.”
How many years was it since Laura had laid this one on me? What made her think it would work now? Still, I decided not to put my head up above the stockade to get shot at—just for today I would stay grounded because I needed thinking and planning space.
I whizzed the vacuum cleaner over my rug. Do I take Phoenix’s parting advice and go to Brandon for more help?
I wondered.
“If things turn ugly, go find my brother,” Phoenix had said as he ran down the hill with Lee.
Emptying my trash can into a black bag, I decided no. Brandon shared information with Kyle Keppler, I recalled, and no way did I want that to escalate. I’d agreed with Phoenix that I’d stay away from Kyle, so did I go out to Forest Lake and track down Sable instead? Taking out the trash, I decided yes, because we were running seriously short of time since Hunter’s punishment. Yes, for sure—then I tried to work out how I would find her address.
So maybe I would drive out to Forest Lake on the off chance, buy a cup of coffee in a diner, ask a few harmless questions…
“Hey, Darina, how did Miss Jones react?” Jordan cornered me after school the next day. “Did she rip you to pieces for dropping out of the concert so late into rehearsals?”
I was looking for a quick exit, wanting to head out to Forest Lake to follow my plan. “She laid the guilt thing on me,” I muttered. “But I don’t care. I wanted out.”
“I don’t blame you. I know how hard it is for you—since Phoenix.”
“Thanks.” Don’t be nice to me, Jordan! Sympathy gets to me and makes me crumble.
“No way do I agree with Hannah,” she went on.
That’s better—give me a sly, manipulative comment to grab hold of. “Why—what does Hannah think? That I’m a wuss for dropping out, that I only ever think of myself and anyway I owe it to Summer, blah-blah?”
“All of the above,” Jordan nodded.
As it happened, Hannah was walking out of school with Logan. They were arm in arm, real cozy. I raised an eyebrow in their direction. “Since when?” I asked Jordan.
“Why—do you care?” She smirked.
“No way!” The old saying about protesting too much sprang to mind. My “no way” had at least ten exclamation marks after it.
“Huh,” Jordan said, splitting off and leaving me free to head for my car.
I took another glance at Hannah and Logan. She had her mouth to his ear, whispering something. He shot a look in my direction then laughed. I got in my car and left.
Forest Lake was an hour out of Ellerton—a town that lived on its past, with an actual narrow-gauge steam railway, a museum, and a row of shops selling handcrafted saddles and Stetsons. Not many tourists make it this far, though. The main street was deserted that Monday afternoon. I parked my car, walked past a shop selling Native American jewelry and greetings cards, then into the only diner in town, where I ordered coffee and sat by a window overlooking the quiet street. Now that I was there, coming seemed like a dumb idea. With nothing better to do, I texted Laura to say I was at Jordan’s house, doing schoolwork.
An old guy came in and ordered fresh doughnuts to go. A skinny white-and-brown dog walked along the sidewalk. Once in a while, a car drove into the parking lot of the convenience store opposite.
“Do you need anything to go with your coffee?” the waitress asked from behind the counter.
“No—thanks. Actually, I’m looking for Sable Jackson but I didn’t bring her address with me.”
“Sorry, I can’t help. I don’t know any Sable Jackson.” The waitress wiped the top of the counter. “We do have a Sable here in town, but she’s Sable Keppler.”
“Sure.” I kicked myself for the mistake and tried to cover up with an embarrassed laugh. “She married Kyle last year. I came over from Ellerton. I guess I’ll drive on back and pick up her address.”
“No need.” More wiping—this time of the silver espresso machine. “You’ll find Sable’s house right behind the main street, number 505—turn left at the lights.”
I was up and out of there, my coffee undrunk. “Thanks!” I called over my shoulder. I jumped in the car and drove to the lights, throwing a left as the waitress had told me. I crawled along a street called White Eagle Road, looking out for 505.
I wasn’t expecting much, but Sable and Kyle’s house didn’t even meet the image I had in my mind. Behind a wire fence lurked two German shepherd dogs standing guard over a rundown shack with a broken porch. There was a child’s stroller tipped o
n its side, grass growing up between the cracks in the yard. When I saw a woman talking to a man through the open door, I cruised on by.
So, from the glimpse I had, the woman was in her early twenties with straight black hair down to her waist, dressed in jeans and a white shirt—a smaller, less upmarket version of Arizona, I realized. The guy was also dark-haired…and definitely not Kyle Keppler.
At the top of the street, I turned the car and drove back down.
Sable and the guy were out on the porch now and the dogs were sniffing at the wheels of the Harley Softail parked by the door. He put an arm around her waist to kiss her good-bye.
So Kyle cheated on her and now she’s cheating on him. It was an obvious conclusion. But where did the baby fit in? What happened when Kyle found out?
The guy stepped down from the porch, set the stroller upright, then started the Harley. He yelled something to Sable above the roar of the engine.
I was too busy quietly spying to hear or see a truck turn off the main street and pull up outside 505. It was only when the door slammed that I switched my attention to the driver and saw that it was Kyle.
Whoa. Suddenly I was in the middle of a Jerry Springer situation—“My wife found out I’d cheated and is seeking revenge by openly sleeping around!”
I slowed to a stop and waited for the anger explosion.
Whoa again. Kyle picked his oil-stained denim jacket out of the back of the truck, unhitched a length of wire fence, and stepped into the yard. The dogs bounded up to him. He said hi to the Harley guy and stopped to talk. Then he turned and spotted my bright-red convertible with me inside. It took him awhile to compute—enough time for me to freeze and feel very afraid—then he got it: I was the nuisance kid who’d paid a visit to Mike’s Motors to quiz him about Arizona.
Kyle Keppler moved fast for a big guy. The dogs barked as he sprinted out of the yard, across the street. I stepped on the gas just as he reached my car and grabbed the door handle. For a split second he dug in his heels and hung on as my tires squealed from a standing start, then he let go.