Part 20 (1/2)
”Maybe she's being blackmailed? Maybe she wants more money? Who knows what drives people to crime?”
”Typically, what drives people is pretty transparent. I mean, I've met the lady. She doesn't really have an evil vibe.”
He's got a point, but I've got more than a point. I have freaking evidence. Sort of.
”Adam, she was talking to someone about Julien. Someone named Daniel. As in possibly Daniel Tanner, one of the sponsors of our little study group.”
”Or as in Daniel Smith down at the post office or Daniel Starinsky who runs the gas station by the school. Do you know how many Daniels are in Ridgeview? For all we know, Julien has another doctor named Daniel and she was talking to him.”
I push a piece of pancake slowly through a river of syrup. ”You think I'm grasping at straws.”
Adam reaches across the table, fingers covering my hand. ”You want to know what happened to you, and I get that.”
”But?”
”But you're too ready to point the finger. Maybe at people who didn't do anything wrong.”
”She sounded nervous, Adam. Why would she be nervous about me talking about Julien if she hadn't done anything wrong?”
”Maybe she was upset. Julien was in our group, Chlo. Maybe she got attached to her, and she's worried about how upset she thinks you are about it.”
His points feel like they're picking mine apart. And not doing a bad job of it either. ”Fine,” I say with a sigh. ”I'll let it go.”
Adam smiles, but there's something a little wary in his eyes when he shakes his head. ”No, I don't think you will. I'm pretty sure you don't let much of anything go.”
”Careful. Being this smart can't be good for your bad boy rep,” I say.
He steals one of the sausage links beside my pancakes, and the conversation s.h.i.+fts. He points out the beams in the ceilings, and I talk about an article I read on the mood impacts of decor like this, with vintage photographs and household items displayed as artwork. It's the first time I've felt normal since I woke up in the cla.s.sroom.
The drive home is long and quiet. He keeps the radio low, and I use the seat belt in the middle so I can curl up under his arm. I find a jagged scar, just above his wrist, tracing it with my fingers while I watch the road unfold before us.
For a while I think of what I should call this. Is he my boyfriend? It feels like such a small, childish word for the way I feel. And some part of me knows I should be afraid of this, this feeling of absolute rightness I have being pressed up against him.
But then he kisses the top of my head, and I smile. After that I don't think much at all.
I'm half-asleep when I speak again, a sudden thought stirring me from my drowsiness. ”I haven't remembered anything.”
”What's that?” he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest next to my cheek.
”All the times we kissed today, I didn't remember anything. I usually remember things when you touch me.”
”Only me?”
”Only you,” I say. ”But today I didn't. I didn't remember anything.”
”Maybe the wrong part of your mind was engaged tonight,” he says, tickling my side until I laugh out loud and smack his arm.
But he's got a point. With his lips against mine, my mind definitely doesn't function at its highest level.
He walks me to my door but hesitates when I lean in for another kiss.
”Did you turn into a pumpkin?” I tease.
”Cute,” he says. ”I just haven't met your parents yet. Seems a little rude to make out with you on the doorstep.”
He's smiling, but that same tight look is back on his features. He looks around the road and then back at me before pressing a quick kiss to my lips.
”Sweet dreams, Chloe.”
I nod through a yawn then snag his hand as he's turning away. ”You're still going to help me get to the bottom of this, right?”
”How can I resist an offer like that?”
I kiss him again, lingering a little before I draw back. ”You can't. I won't let you. I'll see you soon?”
”Not soon enough.”
I'm not sure my feet even hit the ground as I walk inside. I'm floating on a bubble of hormonal giddiness. I swear, I should have chirping birds trailing behind me.
I glide into the kitchen, smile so wide my cheeks hurt. It dies on my lips when I flip on the overhead light, illuminating my mother leaned against the sink.
”I think we need to have a little talk.”
Chapter Eighteen.
There are no little talks with my mother, and this one is no exception. It's like sitting through a eulogy or a recitation of the local phone book. Except I'd prefer either of those things over this.
She doesn't yell either. Just drones on and on about the endless depths of her disappointment and my failure to live up to my potential.
”Are you even listening to me?” she asks.
Not really.
”Yes.”
She shakes her head, signaling the move into act three. The Guilt Effect. ”Chloe, when you tell me you're out with friends to study, I believe you. That trust is broken now.”
”I said I'm sorry,” I say, pressing my still-tender lips together. ”I'm not sure what else you want me to tell you.”
”Well, I'd ask you where you've been, but I'm not even sure I want to know.”
I look up then, and there's no mistaking the way she's looking at me. I haven't checked a mirror to be sure, but I know there's no chance my hair and lip gloss are anywhere close to being intact.
”It's not as bad as you're obviously thinking,” I tell her, hoping it will appease her.