Part 22 (2/2)

Colby said, ”She's shaking her head no.”

”Did you see someone break into the house a few days ago and search the upstairs?”

”She's shaking her head no again, but this time she's frowning, too.”

”Did you keep a diary?”

I looked over my shoulder at Colby and his confused expression as he tried to read her. ”I think she's nodding,” he said finally.

”I need to know where it's hidden,” I said.

”She's shaking her head no.”

”I need to read it, Kayla. Someone broke in here looking for it. There must be something in there.”

”She's covering her face.” Colby squinted as he watched her. ”I think ... she's embarra.s.sed. She doesn't want anyone to ever read the diary. Yeah, she's nodding to that.”

”I have to read it,” I pleaded. ”Don't you want me to figure out who did this?”

”She's pointing to herself,” Colby said.

Meaning she wrote it and even she can't figure out who killed her.

”But maybe I'll see what you couldn't,” I said. ”I may have information you don't. And when it's put together ... I could figure out who it is.”

The room was eerily silent for a long moment. ”What's she doing?” I asked.

Colby shrugged, puzzled. ”Just standing there. Maybe she's thinking.”

I wrung my hands as I waited. She needed to agree. Had to. My access to her friends was cut off. This was the only angle I had left. ”Please ...” I whispered.

Colby shot up and jumped off the bed. ”Under there!”

”What?”

”She's pointing under the bed!”

That made no sense. People would have found it under the bed. This house was empty when we bought it. Still, I threw my weight against the frame and moved the bed a few feet over.

Colby pointed enthusiastically at a spot on the floor. ”There! She's pointing there.”

At ... nothing? I got down on my knees and ran my hand over the hardwood. Maybe a loose board? I pounded my fist around haphazardly until the pressure on the end of one board caused the other end to lift up. I gasped.

Colby reached over me, his nimble little fingers pulling up the board in seconds. And there, underneath, was a black leather-bound journal. I picked it up slowly, then clutched it to my chest. I stood and spun around, ready to thank Kayla for trusting me. But the energy leaked out of the room, the temperature rose, and I knew she was gone.

Her secrets hadn't died with her. They'd been buried within the house the entire time.

I pulled an all-nighter. A feverish, determined, adrenaline-fueled night of reading. As everyone in town closed their eyes, mine raced across Kayla's looping script. While the house slept, I learned Kayla's deep, dark secrets. I knew why she hadn't wanted anyone to read the diary. Many of the entries were sociopathically devoid of empathy for other people. But I held back all judgments and read each one as evidence.

By morning, I had the quirks and curves of her handwriting memorized. She used a numeric code, giving everyone in her life a sequential number, starting with the first time they were mentioned in the diary. Her parents were 1 and 2 and so on. I'd figured out the ident.i.ties of the main players, taken notes, worked on a chart, and finally discovered what Kayla hadn't.

I knew who'd killed her.

My phone chirped and I gave it a glance. Donovan calling again. This was call number ... four? Five? Plus countless texts. I hadn't returned one of them. He hadn't lied to me, but he sure hadn't shared everything he knew, either. And I didn't know why.

Plus, since I'd found the diary, I'd been kind of busy.

But now ... I had time to answer his call. Tell him everything I read. Ask him why he hadn't told me the big reason he'd dumped Kayla. My thumb hovered over the b.u.t.ton, but the phone went silent.

Just as well. This was something better done alone.

I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror. Dark bags circled my eyes and my hair was a frizzy mess. But I didn't want to waste any time showering. I wanted to get this over with. The digital clock on my desk read 9:00 a.m. A little early for a Monday with no school. We had the day off due to some teacher conference. But I didn't want to wait. Not now that I was so close to finis.h.i.+ng this. To giving Kayla the closure she sought - and to saving my family.

Going downstairs in the same clothes I wore yesterday, plus the haggard look on my face, was begging for parent trouble. So I stripped off my s.h.i.+rt and reached around the pile on the floor for whatever was closest. My hands brought up a tight green long-sleeved tee. Good enough. I pulled it over my head and was about to leave the room when I saw my jewelry box.

I carefully lifted the agate pendant out and held it up to the light. It was a beautiful brown stone with streaks of orange and yellow. It had always reminded me of a sunset, but I didn't choose it now for its looks. It was a truth charm. And that seemed fitting. I clasped it behind my neck.

It was time to confront a killer.

I checked to make sure the recording function worked on my phone's app, then slipped it into my pocket. I slung my empty backpack over my shoulder and headed downstairs. The TV was blaring SpongeBob, so I knew Colby was down there. I was disappointed to find my father sitting beside him on the couch. It was so much easier to lie to Marie.

”Where are you headed this early?” Dad asked. ”No school today, remember?”

He wore a Celtics T-s.h.i.+rt and his flannel pajama pants. His arm was draped up over the back of the couch and Colby was tucked up against him, warm and safe. The sight tugged at my heart. I wanted so badly to join them. To sit mindlessly on the couch, giggling at SpongeBob and Patrick's escapades.

Hopefully I would do that, very soon.

”To Alexa's house,” I answered, averting his eyes. ”Study session. Plus a ... um ... group project.”

”I hope you won't be gone all day,” he said, disappointment lining his voice. ”I was hoping for some family time.”

”Me, too,” I said. I put my hand on the k.n.o.b of the front door and didn't allow myself the last glance over my shoulder that my heart wanted. ”I'll be back.”

Several minutes later, I parked my car and walked up to the door of Kayla's killer. I pounded my fist on the wood. And waited for footsteps.

A few moments later, a shuffling came from within the apartment, and the sounds of someone fumbling with the lock. I slipped a hand into my pocket and hit the b.u.t.ton on my phone. Recording. Ready to provoke a confession.

Kane opened the door with a sleepy but open face that shut down as soon as he saw it was me. He wore blue athletic shorts and a thin white unders.h.i.+rt. Running a hand through his bed-head mop of hair, he squinted at me and frowned. ”You look like a girl who's been up all night.”

I straightened my shoulders and stared him right in the eye. Confidence bloomed inside me like an awakening flower. With a strong voice I said, ”I have.”

”Well, I'm sorry your guilt is interrupting your beauty sleep, but I'm not interested in whatever apology you came here to give.” He started to close the door in my face.

I slammed my palm against it and pushed my foot in the opening. ”And what about your guilt, Kane?”

He reopened the door a slice. ”What are you talking about?”

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