The Confession

  “No. Not really. You can set the table later, if you want.”

  “Okay,” I told her, blinking away onion tears. “I’m going up to my room. Maybe I’ll try to do my French before dinner.”

  I hurried up to my room. But I didn’t do my French homework.

  I sat on my bed and stared at the phone beside me on the nightstand. “Come on—ring,” I ordered it.

  The phone didn’t obey.

  Where is Hillary? I wondered, feeling all my muscles knot with tension. What is taking her so long?

  I glanced at the clock radio every two minutes. Five-thirty. Five thirty-two. Five thirty-four.

  She should be home by now, I told myself.

  I stood up. My legs felt rubbery. Weak. I started to pace back and forth, turning sharply. Not much room to pace in my little room.

  Where is she? Where is she?

  I started to feel guilty. I dropped Hillary off and then drove away.

  What kind of friend am I?

  I should have gone in with her. I shouldn’t have listened to her. I should have insisted. The two of us should have confronted Sandy.

  Not Hillary alone.

  My stomach started to churn. My hands felt cold as ice.

  I dropped back down on the bed. And stared at the phone.

  Come on—RING!

  The phone rang.

  “Ohh!” I uttered a startled cry. I nearly jumped to the ceiling!

  I grabbed the receiver before the first ring ended. “Hello?” I called breathlessly.

  “Julie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi. This is Hillary’s mom. How are you?”

  “Uh … fine, Mrs. Walker. Is Hillary—”

  “Do you know where Hillary is?” Mrs. Walker asked. “I told her this morning we were having dinner at six sharp tonight because her father and I have a meeting at seven. Is she at your house?”

  I swallowed hard. My mouth suddenly felt dry as sand. “No. No, she isn’t here,” I replied softly.

  A chill tightened the back of my neck. Where is she? Where IS she?

  “Did she stay late at school?” Mrs. Walker asked. “I know she had a problem about some transcripts.”

  “I … I don’t know,” I lied. “I don’t know where she is, Mrs. Walker. If I see her … ”

  “She’s probably caught in traffic. Because of the rain,” Hillary’s mother said. “Did you ever see such a downpour?”

  “It’s pretty bad,” I murmured, thinking about Hillary. Hillary and Sandy.

  “Well, see you soon, Julie. Bye.” Mrs. Walker hung up.

  I replaced the receiver. Shut my eyes. “Please be okay, Hillary,” I whispered.

  I dropped her off at Sandy’s.

  I dropped her off at a murderer’s house.

  And then I left her there to confront him. To tell him he had to turn himself in to the police.

  What have I done? I asked myself, feeling the panic rise up from my stomach. Feeling the cold terror sweep over my body, freezing me in place.

  I left Hillary alone with a murderer.

  Have I sent her to her death?

  Has Sandy murdered her, too?

  “Dinner!” Mom’s voice from downstairs broke into my frightening thoughts. “Dinner, Julie! Can’t you hear me? How many times do I have to call?”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m coming now,” I shouted down.

  I shook my head hard as if trying to toss out the terrifying thoughts. “Julie, you’re getting crazy,” I scolded myself, climbing to my feet.

  I was letting my imagination run away with me. Letting my wildest fears take over my mind.

  No way Sandy would hurt Hillary, I assured myself.

  No way. No way.

  He isn’t a killer. He killed Al. But that was different.

  I took a deep breath and stepped over to the mirror above my dresser. I stared back at myself, pale, my eyes troubled, my dark hair disheveled.

  “Julie—where are you? Dinner is getting cold!” Dad’s impatient call came from downstairs.

  “Com—ing!” I ran a brush quickly through my hair. Then I hurried down the stairs to dinner.

  I tried to eat Mom’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes. It was one of my favorite dinners. But tonight I had to choke it down.

  I talked about graduation and school stuff, and tried to sound calm and normal.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about Hillary. Hillary at Sandy’s house. Hillary telling Sandy she planned to turn him in unless he turned himself in.

  She didn’t call until dinner was over and the table had been cleared.

  I glanced at the clock as I ran to answer the phone. Seven-fifteen.

  When I picked it up, Hillary’s voice sounded tiny and troubled in my ear. “Julie—?”

  “Yes. Hi. What happened, Hillary? What’s the story?” I demanded breathlessly.

  “Julie—?” she repeated. She sounded so strange. So … frightened.

  “Yes? What, Hillary? What?”

  “Can you come over? Right now?” she asked, her voice tight, trembling.

  “Huh? Come over?” I gasped. “Why? What’s wrong, Hillary? What happened?”

  “Something terrible,” Hillary replied, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Something terrible, Julie.”

  Silence. I waited for her to continue.

  “What’s wrong?” I choked out. “What?”

  “I killed him,” Hillary whispered. So soft I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. “I killed him,” she repeated. “I killed Sandy.”

  part

  3

  Chapter

  23

  How did I ever drive to Hillary’s house? I don’t remember being in the car. I don’t remember if the rain had stopped or not. I don’t remember anything about the drive.

  Except my fear. And the sick feeling I kept swallowing down. And my cold, damp hands sliding over the steering wheel.

  What excuse did I give my parents for rushing out on a school night?

  What did I think about as I obediently hurried to Hillary’s house? What did I tell myself?

  I don’t remember anything. My mind is a blank.

  I think I wanted it to be a blank. I think I wanted to forget everything, to start my life all over again.

  I didn’t want to know that Al was dead. That Sandy had murdered him, strangled him in the alley with a pair of skates.

  And I didn’t want to know that another one of my friends had been murdered tonight. That Sandy was dead now, killed by my best friend.

  Hillary, I didn’t want to know.

  I didn’t want to remember.

  But you can’t keep your mind a blank forever. And as I stepped into Hillary’s house, wiping my wet shoes on the welcome mat, it all burst back on me—like a high ocean wave that sweeps over you and leaves you dizzy and gasping for air.

  And I uttered a choked cry. And threw my arms around Hillary’s shoulders. And pressed my cold cheek against her face, startled by how burning hot her skin felt.

  “I—I haven’t told them yet,” Hillary whispered.

  “Huh?” I let go. Backed up, feeling shaky, feeling as if I could start to cry—and cry forever. Forcing down the sobs that made my chest heave.

  And I saw Taylor and Vincent, standing awkwardly in the center of the living room.

  A white flash of lightning at the big front window made their shadows jump. But they didn’t move. Taylor wore a loose, red tank top over black pants. Her white-blond hair fell over her shoulders. She had her arms crossed over her chest.

  Beside her, Vincent brushed back his rust-colored hair. I saw that it was wet, as if he’d been out in the rain a long time. He appeared even more uncomfortable than usual. He pulled his big hands from his jeans pockets, then didn’t seem to know what to do with them.

  He flashed me a strange look—half-smile, half-question. As if to say, what’s going on here? Do you know why we’re here tonight?

  Of course I knew.

  It was Hillary’s tu
rn to make a frightening, painful confession. Hillary’s turn to throw us all into panic, into sorrow.

  “How’s it going?” Vincent murmured to me, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “I—I’m not sure,” I stammered, glancing at Hillary.

  She appeared surprisingly calm. But I could see that she’d been crying. When she caught me staring at her, she lowered her gaze to the floor, as if turning me away, shutting me out.

  “Sit down, guys,” she said softly. She motioned with both hands, toward the couch and chairs across from the fireplace.

  A roar of thunder made me jump. I accidentally bit my lower lip. I could taste the bitter tang of blood on my tongue.

  More lightning flickered, making our shadows dance. Vincent and Taylor dropped onto the couch. I sat on the edge of an armchair.

  Hillary stood facing us. Lightning flashed in her glasses. She tugged nervously at her braid, rolling her hand over it, twisting it between her fingers.

  “I … killed … Sandy.”

  She spoke the words flatly, slowly, without any emotion at all. Kept her eyes on the window.

  Lightning flashed again in her glasses. As if shielding her, hiding her gaze from us.

  Taylor gasped and shot up from the couch. She stumbled forward, hands raised as if to attack Hillary.

  I jumped to my feet too. I’m not sure why. Did I plan to protect Hillary from Taylor?

  I saw Vincent’s eyes bulge as he stood behind Taylor. He didn’t say a word. I don’t think he believed it.

  I’m not sure I believed it, either.

  So Hillary repeated it. “I killed Sandy. I didn’t mean to. But I killed him.”

  “Noooooo!” A shrill animal wail escaped Taylor’s lips. She dove forward and grabbed Hillary roughly by the shoulders. “Nooooo!”

  I tensed and moved toward them. Was Taylor about to lose it again? Would she start another fight?

  “Let me explain!” Hillary cried, raising her voice for the first time.

  Startled, Taylor let go of her and stepped back.

  “Sit down!” Hillary instructed sharply. “Let me explain. At least, give me a chance to explain what happened. It—it was so horrible!”

  I dropped back onto the edge of my chair. Taylor, trembling now, glaring at Hillary, backed away. She stood in front of the couch, refusing to sit down.

  Vincent uttered a sigh. Then he propped his head in his hands, leaning forward tensely, his eyes locked on Hillary.

  Hillary rubbed the red, angry-looking scratches on her throat. Then she clasped her hands behind her and paced back and forth as she told us what had happened.

  “I went over to Sandy’s after school,” she began, her eyes on Taylor. “I mean, Julie dropped me off. I—I—”

  Her voice cracked.

  She took a deep breath and began again. “I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. Knowing what Sandy did—knowing that Sandy murdered Al—it was ruining my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t think about anything else. It was driving me crazy.

  “Every time I saw Sandy, I felt like screaming,” Hillary continued. “Every time I saw him, I felt like crying. Like grabbing him and shaking him. It—it was too much to take. Too much.”

  She took another deep breath. She tugged at her braid and continued to pace.

  “So I went over to Sandy’s this afternoon to beg him to go to the police. To tell them the truth. If Sandy told them that Al was blackmailing us, that he was bullying us and threatening us, that Al was ruining our lives, maybe they would understand.”

  Hillary uttered a loud sob. It took her a few seconds to get herself back in control. “So I begged Sandy to go to the police. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He refused. Then I said if he didn’t go to the police, I would. When I said that, Sandy turned violent. He—he totally lost it.”

  Hillary pulled a wadded-up tissue from her jeans pocket. She lifted her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with it.

  “He—he went into a rage,” she continued, squeezing the tissue in her hand. “I—I couldn’t believe it. I never expected … ” Her voice trailed off. She dabbed her eyes again. The tissue was crumbling in her hand.

  “He picked up that heavy sculpture his mom did. You know the one of Sandy? He was screaming at me. Telling me I was going to ruin everything. He said he couldn’t let me destroy his life. He—he picked up the bronze head. He raised it up high. I think he wanted to hit me with it, to bring it down on my head.”

  Another sob made Hillary’s chest heave. But she continued to choke out her story. “I grabbed the bronze head too. It was so much heavier than I thought. Sandy and I—we wrestled around.

  “I was so scared. He really wanted to hurt me. He was so out of control. So panicked. I think Sandy really wanted to kill me!”

  I gasped. I wiped my cheeks. My face felt wet from tears. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying.

  Hillary dabbed her eyes one more time. Then she tossed the tattered tissue to the floor.

  “Sandy was screaming at the top of his lungs,” she continued. “He kept screaming, ‘You can’t ruin everything! I won’t let you ruin everything!’ Then—then …

  “Then I grabbed the heavy sculpture away from him. And it fell. It fell onto his head. I’m not sure how. It—it caught the back of his neck. Sandy let out a cry. Just a squeak, really. A horrible squeak. I’ll never forget it.

  “He crumpled to the floor. The sculpture fell with him. It landed on his head. It made such a terrible cracking sound. I—I guess I was in shock or something. I’m not sure what happened next. I guess I bent down. I pulled the bronze head off him. But …

  “But he wasn’t moving. The sculpture—it had cut open something in his neck. A blood vessel or something. Blood was spurting up from his neck—from his head. Spurting up like a water fountain.

  “I tried to stop it. Really, I did. But I was so panicked. I couldn’t find anything to wrap his neck with. I—I couldn’t find anything to stop the bleeding.

  “His skull—it was crushed. I knew it was crushed. And he just kept bleeding and bleeding. So much blood, I thought I could swim in it.

  “Sandy was dead. I—I killed him. And then … I ran. I just ran. Ran out into the rain. Ran and ran until I got home. And then I called you.”

  “Noooo,” Taylor moaned, hugging herself, hugging herself tightly, her eyes shut. “Noooooo.”

  “I killed Sandy,” Hillary repeated, her voice sounding dull now, hollow. Her eyes faded, lifeless behind her glasses. “It was an accident. But I killed him.”

  She turned to me. “I’m going to call the police now. I’m going to call them and tell them how it happened. But I thought … I thought you should know first. You’re my friends, and I wanted you to know the truth.”

  “But why?” I turned as Taylor uttered a shrill shriek. “Why? Why? Why?”

  Once again, she staggered toward Hillary. “Why did Sandy have to die? Why? Why Sandy?” she wailed.

  “Taylor, I tried to explain—” Hillary started.

  But Taylor’s cries drowned Hillary out. “You don’t understand!” Taylor screamed. “You don’t understand anything at all! Why did Sandy have to die? He didn’t do anything! He didn’t do anything at all! Don’t you understand? Sandy didn’t kill Al! I did!”

  Chapter

  24

  I suddenly felt so dizzy, I had to slump back in the chair.

  I was still shaking from Hillary’s story. Still gripped with the horror of what had happened at Sandy’s house. Still picturing their desperate fight, picturing Sandy on the floor, the spurting blood, the heavy sculpture cracking his skull.

  Still picturing Hillary’s terror—when Taylor changed it all. Changed everything. Everything. With just two sentences:

  “Sandy didn’t kill Al. I did.”

  “Is it true?” The words burst from my throat in a dry, tight voice I didn’t recognize. “You killed Al?”

  Taylor nodded. She glared at Hillary, her green eyes f
lashing with fury. “You killed the wrong person, Hillary.”

  “It was an accident!” Hillary protested. “A horrible accident!”

  I climbed to my feet. I slid an arm around Hillary’s waist and led her to the couch. Vincent grabbed her hand. He squeezed it soothingly.

  Hillary’s whole body was shaking, as if she had a high temperature. A small, square plaid quilt was thrown over the back of the couch. I pulled it off and wrapped it around Hillary’s shoulders.

  “Doesn’t anyone want to know why I killed Al?” Taylor demanded. I turned and saw that she had taken my chair. She leaned forward, hands gripping the chair arms. Leaned forward as if confronting the three of us on the couch.

  “I was going out with Al,” Taylor confessed. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Behind Sandy’s back. Well … it’s too late for me to feel bad about it—isn’t it?”

  She uttered a bitter sigh. “I’ve always had a weakness for dangerous guys. And Al was kind of dangerous. A lot more exciting than Sandy, anyway. I liked Al because he was bad, he was dangerous. But Al was also trouble.”

  She sneered, shaking her head, eyes lowered. “A few months ago, I stole some money from my parents. About a hundred bucks. To get Al out of a jam. What a mistake. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of.”

  She stopped talking. Her eyes watered over. Her chin trembled.

  We waited for her to finish her story. We waited a long time. She appeared lost in her own thoughts.

  Finally, she started again. “Al was such a creep. He demanded more money. And then more money. He threatened to tell my parents that I’d stolen money from them. Even though I stole it for him!”

  “Unreal,” Vincent muttered.

  He and I had our arms around Hillary, trying to calm her down.

  “Such a creep,” Taylor muttered. “I told him I never wanted to see him again. I never wanted him to talk to me again. But he forced me to meet him after we went skating that night. He pulled me into the alley. He said he needed another hundred dollars.

  “I told him no way! I said, ‘Go ahead and tell my parents. I really don’t care anymore.’

  “So then he started to get rough. He grabbed me. He slammed me against the wall at the back of the rink. I—I was really scared. He started to pull the skates from around my neck.”