Shuffle: A Novel Part 3

Keys hung out of the empty lockers. Anyone could just come up, open a locker and stash whatever they wanted inside, returning the key when they came back to pick up their stuff. Technically you're not supposed to take the keys out of the library, but it's not exactly a regulated environment.

Callie's eyes were scanning the numbers. "109, 110, 111..."

Locker 112 was on the bottom row, close to the floor. We stooped down to take a look at it. It seemed just like any other locked locker. Callie tested the door, digging into the sides with her fingers.

"It's definitely still locked," she said. "Come on. I know what to do."

I knew what to do too. It's what we always used to do when we were hanging around the library after school, waiting for Mom to be done with work. We walked down the wide marble stairs to the reference desk at the south side of the open first floor. There she was, just like always.

"Hi Mrs. Beasley," we chorused.

Wendy Beasley's face broke into a smile. "Hi girls," she said, warmly. "I'm so glad to see you." I wondered if she missed us this summer, and I felt a little guilty for not coming by sooner. After all, it's not like she'd had the easiest year either. Her husband died in January of colon cancer. Our mother followed in March, her boss and best friend. And she was the one who discovered the body.

I thought for the thousandth time, Thank G.o.d it wasn't me... Maybe that's why Mom didn't kill herself at home.

She came around the desk and gave us both hugs. "What can I do for you girls today? Need some new reading material?"

She's not supposed to, but Mrs. Beasley always saves the best new crime novels for me.

"Actually," said Callie, "I'm a little embarra.s.sed. I was using one of the lockers upstairs and I seem to have misplaced the key."

"Pish tosh," said Mrs. Beasley, reaching over the desk to get the master set of keys from inside a drawer. "That happens all the time. No need to worry."

She bustled up the stairs in front of us and led us to the carpeted area by the restrooms and water fountain, where the lockers take up an entire wall.

"Which one do you need opened, Callie?"

Callie pointed casually to the bottom row. "112."

Mrs. Beasley froze. She drew in a sharp breath. "That's odd."

"Why?" asked Callie. She flipped open her police notebook and got out a pencil. "Has this locker been opened recently?"

"It's just... yes, actually. A few days ago, a young man came in here and told me the same thing you did, that he'd lost the key to his locker. It was 112. I remember precisely."

Callie started her squinting and lip-biting routine. "Description, please?"

"Is this some sort of police thing?" Poor Mrs. Beasley looked terrified. She'd been questioned a couple times about finding Mom's body, and I don't think she'd gotten over it yet.

"Yes," Callie said. "Sorry for the pretense, but I didn't want to involve you and I didn't expect this locker to have a history. Description, please?"

"Oh. Well..." Mrs. Beasley bunched her faded lips in thought. She was a few years older than our mother, but she took care of herself. Slim, attractive hairstyle. Makeup lightly and expertly applied in a way that I hadn't yet mastered. A lovely face. It brightened; she'd remembered something. "He was a young man, white, with dark hair and eyes."

My heart skipped a beat. "Was he thin?" I asked.

She nodded, considering. "I'd say so, yes."

"Did he wear a black leather bracelet around his wrist?" Callie was scribbling furiously. She glanced up at me, confused.

Mrs. Beasley laughed. "Oh Evi, I'll never remember that sort of detail. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. We were pretty busy that day. Sat.u.r.day, you know."

"Sure," I said. "Do you remember if he had an accent?"

"What sort of accent?"

I shrugged my shoulders, as if I were picking off the top of my head. "I don't know. English, maybe. Just trying to help."

"No," said Mrs. Beasley. "He sounded All-American to me. I'm fairly sure I would have noticed if he'd had an accent."

Curiouser and curiouser. Callie finished making notes and gestured toward the locker. "Could you open it again, please? Just for formality's sake."

Mrs. Beasley stooped and keyed open the locker. Its door swung open to reveal an empty interior. No surprises there. But Callie and I bent down to get a better look. She unclipped a flashlight from her utility belt and s.h.i.+ned it around inside.

I grabbed her arm and pointed. "Callie!"

She saw it too. Across the bottom of the locker, just visible in the harsh beam of the flashlight, was a faint, muddy shoe print.

Chapter 3.

I was quiet on the car ride home. Callie was excited, chattering away. She was sure that the Captain would rea.s.sign her to the case now that new evidence had been found. After we discovered it, she'd radioed in and photographs had been taken of the shoe print. It was measured by a specialist a Men's size 11, same size as the victim's feet. Mrs. Beasley had been asked by about five different cops for a description of the person who had come to empty the locker.

Black hair. Black eyes. White skin. Young. Thin.

Maybe I was biased by all the stuff that happened at school that day, but it sounded a lot like they were describing Arbor Vitae Damo da Rosa. Except for the accent thing. But he could have faked an American accent, or maybe Mrs. Beasley just didn't remember.

I knew he was hiding something.

Of course, part of my brain was telling me that I was being ridiculous. Just because I didn't like the guy didn't mean he was a murderer. Though if it were true, he would probably be the hottest murderer in the history of the universe.

I didn't like him... right?

Shut up, Evi's brain. You're being paranoid.

And just like that I went from scared back to merely annoyed. Arbor's insane s.e.xual energy was causing me to think about him when I really didn't need to be wasting time. I had too much homework to do, and what with all the exhausting police work I'd just accomplished, not enough hours in the day.

So I brushed thoughts of Arbor aside as we pulled into the driveway. I didn't even stop to check the voice mail on my phone before I unzippered my backpack and tackled my Math homework, while Callie started dinner. Soon the delicious smell of sauteed onion filled the kitchen. Sines and cosines were swimming before my eyes like women in one of those old Busby Berkeley musicals.

The night pa.s.sed as pleasantly as could be expected, considering all the work I had to do. I took a break around 8 o'clock to see if Ellen was on Gchat. We typed back and forth for a few minutes, and I couldn't help asking, When did you-know-who move here, anyway?

She typed back right away.

a Are you SERIOUSLY still thinking about him? You are not allowed to have a crush on him, Evi. Not after the way he treated you.

a I definitely don't. I'm just curious.

I wanted to tell her about the murder investigation, but I was sister sworn not to. So I left it vague. Luckily, Ellen's not one to pry. She knows the value of privacy, living in a small house with all those kids.

a Well, he only got here a couple weeks ago before the start of school. So, mid-August?

Hmm. Well, I knew it was a little ridiculous to think he was the killer. England is a pretty solid alibi, a.s.suming it checked out. But no, it made sense that he'd only been here a couple weeks. If he had been here since early July, he'd already have a girlfriend. And Britta would be out for her head.

I said goodnight and signed off. The rest of my homework would have to wait. I'm a horrible procrastinator, and this year I'd made a pact with myself to get all a.s.signments done as soon as possible. I guess that was already out the window. Le sigh.

I went downstairs and gave Callie a hug. She was watching a rerun of Law & Order, and kept remembering plot twists a few minutes before they happened on the show. I sat a while and kibitzed, then headed up to bed. It was only a little after nine, but I'd decided to get up early and do some work before school.

I s.h.i.+mmied into my pajamas and slid under the covers, utterly exhausted. Cool breezes came through the open window, caressing my hot face and making the curtains flutter rea.s.suringly. Mom never liked that I slept with the window open, thought I'd catch a cold. But I love the end of summer, when the wind brings a song into my bedroom at night. I sighed happily, listening to the rush of air and the chirping of crickets outside, and fell right to asleep.

A noise woke me. I blinked my eyes, came out of a kaleidoscope of confusing dreams. My mother, and school... She kept shouting, trying to tell me something, but the noisy students in the cafeteria were drowning out her words. It was still dark.

I rolled over, groaning. My alarm clock read 3:44 in glowing green numbers. Slowly, I sat up. What was that noise? I was sure I'd heard something.

Slowly my vision adjusted, and I could see the familiar contours of my room. Nothing seemed out of place. Posters of punk and metal bands on the wall. Solar system painted on the ceiling. My computer, screen dark. The mess of clothes on the floor. Jumble of old stuffed animals on the loveseat by the closet. I can never seem to throw them away. And then a My breath caught in my throat. The window was shut.

Something... someone... had just shut my window.

Holy c.r.a.p.

I pulled my blankets tight around me, aware all of a sudden that my flimsy pajama top didn't leave much to the imagination. G.o.d, what if someone was in here? Where could they be? There were so many shadows. They could have slipped inside the closet, or under the bed. Barely breathing, I reached over to my bedside stand and fumbled around for my nail file. It was the only thing I had in the room that I could reasonably pretend was a weapon.

Voice trembling, I spoke. "h.e.l.lo?"

Silence.

"Anybody there?"

No answer. Maybe there was no one to answer. Calm down, Evi, it's all in your head. Though... if I were a serial killer, would I answer myself? Probably not. Suddenly graphic scenes from all the horror movies I'd ever seen started running through my head. Texas Chainsaw Ma.s.sacre. Psycho. Halloween. And now I was the girl in her pajamas shakily asking the darkness, "Anybody there?"

You don't want to be that girl.

My palms were sweaty. The nail file was slippery and cold. Jamie Lee Curtis had at least had a knife.

"Screw it," I muttered. The silence and darkness were too oppressive; I couldn't stand it any longer. I did a flying leap out of bed and slammed up against the wall, scrambling for the light switch. I swear, those were the two longest seconds of my entire life.

I finally found the switch, flipped the lights on and turned around in the blazing brightness of my room, nail file at the ready. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears. I expected to see a man in a mask standing over me, ready to chop my head off. But there was no one there.

I let out a long, slow breath and sank to the ground, flooded with relief.

And then I laughed at myself. All that stress for nothing. There were tears in my eyes when I heard a knock at the door.

"Evi?" A tired-sounding Callie pushed her way in, blearily wiping her eyes. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I said. "Bad dream; I really freaked myself out."

"Oh." She put up a hand and rubbed the back of her neck, eyes still fighting to open. "All right now?"

"Yeah, thanks. Sorry I woke you up."

Callie yawned, mumbling something that sounded like "Taaahsokayguhnight," and shuffled back off to bed.

I couldn't go back to sleep right away. I went to my computer and turned it on. While it booted up I checked my closet and underneath the bed, turning on every lamp in the room for maximum brightness. Nothing. It really had just been a coincidence. The window had closed on its own.

s.h.i.+vering, I pulled a blanket around my shoulders and went to check out the window. It slid up easily and latched in the grooves designed to hold it in place. I was sure I'd heard that latching sound earlier when I'd opened it to go to bed. I tugged down hard on the window. It didn't give. Oh well, maybe I'd neglected to slide it up all the way. I'd been pretty tired, after all.

Wide awake now.

My computer finally finished booting up. It's pretty ridiculously old. I bought it secondhand last year with money saved up from babysitting. And a little help from my mom. It was only an hour and a half until my alarm was set to go off anyway. Might as well do some of the homework I had left.

I reflexively went on Google and checked my mail. n.o.body was in Gchat, not surprising, but I had a new message. Oh, Lord. It was from

"Please," I pleaded with the universe, "let it be weird spam."

I clicked it open and a couple lines of text popped up.

Dear Evangeline, Looking forward to our date at the library tomorrow.

- Arbor It had been sent at 3:00 a.m. "Oh my G.o.d," I breathed. I was really creeped out. First of all, how did he know my email address? I knew I hadn't given it to him at school. And secondly, who is up at 3 o'clock on a random Tuesday morning?

And thirdly, why did he think our meeting was a date? Unless the English use that word differently, or something. To mean, like, "appointment."

My brief panic died down. Jeez, I was really jumpy. He was probably just feeling guilty about how I'd overheard him and George. I was obviously upset; I'm sure he saw that. Maybe he was trying to be polite, to make it up to me so we could get through our Latin project with a modic.u.m of civility. And there are tons of kids at school who would have given him my email address. (Especially if he flirted with them while he was asking for it.) That didn't mean I had to encourage stalkerish behavior, however. I deleted the email without answering it and started doing some research online for a writing a.s.signment. Before I knew it, the sun was coming up. As I opened my window and stuck my head out, glad that the world was again bright and knowable, a horrible thought struck me.

What if the click of the window that woke me wasn't an accident... wasn't the sound of someone coming in...

But the sound of someone going out?

I told Ellen about the Arbor email on the way to school.

"What do you think? Creepy weird or well-meaning weird?" I asked.

She blew out her cheeks and shook her head. "I'm going to have to go with moderately creepy."