Truly, Madly, Deadly

NINE

Sawyer stumbled back, foot over foot, clutching her towel around her but feeling the icy chill of the cold locker room air as it crept up her naked thighs. She swallowed repeatedly and knew that she would have to open her locker—what she would find, she wasn’t sure—wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Steeling herself, she used numb fingers to spin her locker combination, slowly pulling open the door. She let out a great whoosh of calming air when her locker contents appeared undisturbed—the usual jumble of school clothes tossed in a careless heap, a sneaker jammed with her bra, her jeans inside-out and balled up.

Looking over her shoulder, she quickly shuffled the wrinkled clothes out, putting her hand through the hole in her jeans.

Hole in her jeans?

“Holy shit!” Sawyer spat out the words—in anger or sheer surprise, she couldn’t be sure—and held what was left of her jeans out in front of her. The waistband was still intact—the rivets, the zipper, the zippy little 7 logo—but that was it. The denim was shredded and wagged in long, primitive tongues, the fabric edges already starting to fray. The crotch was torn out completely, and one of the pockets fluttered down like a broken moth when she shook the tattered fabric. She dropped the jeans and went for her T-shirt, her sweater—both had met the same fate, as had her running clothes. Her bra was a mess of overstretched cotton, the inner pads busted embarrassingly open, spilling out their little tufts of fluff. Her panties were gone.

Sawyer’s stomach twisted, and she felt the need to vomit; she doubled over, hand still clutching desperately to keep her towel closed, and dry heaved, coughing until her eyes watered, her nose ran.

“It’s just a stupid prank,” she whispered when she could catch her breath. “A stupid prank. Probably Maggie.”

She used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes and nose, and stood up straight, feeling the burning anger roil through her.

“Bitch.” She said the word through clenched teeth, yanked out her sneakers, and slammed her locker shut. She listened to the phone ring after she speed-dialed Chloe.

“Speak and ye shall be heard,” Chloe said, smacking on something on her side of the phone.

“You’ll never guess what that—that bitch Maggie did!”

“Regale me.”

“First of all, I’m in the locker room. Second of all, I’m wearing a towel.”

“Okay…”

Sawyer took a lung-cleansing breath. “Ask me why I’m wearing a towel.”

“I’m assuming it had something to do with a shower, but why, Sawyer, are you wearing a towel?”

“Because Maggie shredded my clothes!”

“Shredded them?”

“Shredded. Think coleslaw. Sans mayo.”

“She shredded your clothes? Were you wearing them at the time?”

Sawyer sunk down on a bench, scooching forward so her towel would blanket her naked skin against its cold aluminum. “No, I was in the shower. I ran late today and Maggie was there—here—before I got in the shower, then when I got out, she had spray-painted my locker and shredded my clothes.”

“Like coleslaw?”

“Like coleslaw.”

“That bitch!” Chloe spat.

“I know.”

“We have to stop her. We have to fight back—fight fire with fire.”

Sawyer hung her head. “I don’t want to do that,” she muttered. “Maybe I’ll just put a complaint in with Principal Chappie.”

“A complaint? As in a note in his complaint box? That’s a horrible idea, Sawyer. Horrible! That’s not fighting fire with fire; that’s fighting fire with paper. Fire kicks paper’s ass!”

Sawyer sighed, fingering the fringed end of her towel. “I need to get going.”

“Do you want me to bring you some clothes? I can be there in a few minutes.”

“No, that’s all right. If I don’t get on the road now I’m going to be stuck in traffic.”

“Not if you hit the freeway naked,” Chloe giggled.

Sawyer smiled in spite of herself. “Thanks, but I’ve got a towel.”

“Très chic.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Sawyer hung up her phone and plodded to her locker, shoving the shredded remains of her clothes into her backpack and pressing it against her chest. She tried to inch the towel down for a more demure look; it was either a school-wide glance of butt cheek or super cleavage, and she decided to go with the latter as she sucked in a deep breath and peeked out the locker room door. Luckily, the school was nearly deserted, so Sawyer picked her steps carefully, trying her best to stay close to the walls and out of public view. There was a student council meeting going on in the English room, desks dragged into a semicircle, students semi-interested in their speaker, and Sawyer tiptoed past, feeling both the draft from her nakedness and the heat from her embarrassment. She made it to the school’s double doors and was ready to take off in a full sprint when someone yanked the door open.

“Cooper!” Sawyer folded over herself, hands splayed over her toweled private parts.

Cooper paused, obviously taken aback. “Um, hi?” He tried his best to avert his eyes, finally staring up at the ceiling. “Did I—did you—I’m sorry, I just have no idea what to say.” His head inched downward, and Sawyer caught him eyeing her towel. “We just didn’t have this kind of thing at my old school.”

The shake started low in Sawyer’s gut and before she could stop it, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was pinching her naked knees together. Cooper’s eyes went big.

“Are you okay?”

Sawyer just nodded, unable to speak. The laughter was wracking her whole body, the terror of the situation replaced by the sheer ridiculousness of it. “I’m wearing a towel in the middle of school.”

“Yeah.” Cooper shrugged out of his hoodie and looked away while Sawyer slid into it. He started to laugh with her when she didn’t stop. “Um, do you always run around school buck naked?”

Sawyer wagged her head before a snort escaped. That made her and Cooper laugh harder. Finally she straightened up, taking deep gasping breaths.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head.

“Don’t be,” Cooper quipped, his eyes running over her bare legs.

“Someone shredded my clothes. I was in the shower, and they shredded everything. My track clothes, my school clothes, everything.”

Cooper went suddenly serious. “Sawyer, that sucks.”

“Almost as much as making a break for it in a school-issued towel.”

“And a fine sweatshirt.”

“Yeah.” Sawyer giggled again. “Thanks for that.”

Cooper jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Can I drive you somewhere? To the mall or something?”

“No. The only thing better than cruising around here in my all together would be hitting the mall this way. I’m just going to head home.”

“Oh, right. Sure.”

They stood in awkward silence for a beat.

“So, maybe, once you get some clothes on we could go out or something sometime.”

Sawyer’s cheeks burned despite her lack of clothing, and her heart did a traitorous double thump. Before she could open her mouth, before she could say that she would love to, she was pelted with bitter guilt. A kiss—two kisses—she could pretend didn’t happen. But she couldn’t fall for Cooper. She was supposed to be in love with Kevin. She was supposed to be the mourning girlfriend. Still, the zing she felt while looking into Cooper’s eyes was undeniable, and she wanted to say yes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I”—she looked down at here bare toes on the cement—“I have to get going.”

She pushed past Cooper and took off at a sprint, pumping her legs until the heat roiled through them, ignoring the searing tears on her bare feet as she cleared the blacktop. When she was safely in the driver’s seat of her car, engine on, heat on full blast, she started to cry. The tears came slowly at first, little rivulets of angry sobs, but as she thought over the notes, the flowers sent to her house, the shredded remains of her clothes, the tears got heavier, her breath got shorter. Her body hiccupped, caught in the wretched fist of guilt—and fear.

At home, Sawyer changed into sweats and pulled her shredded clothes from her backpack. As she did, a single white business card floated out of her bag, settling on the floor like a flag of surrender. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, rubbing her thumb over the raised gold insignia of the Crescent Hill Police Department. She sucked in a slow breath and dug out her cell phone; she yipped when it chirped in her hand.

“Oh, crap, Chloe, you scared the shit out of me.”

“And a holy hello to you too.”

“I’m sorry.” Sawyer tossed Detective Biggs’s card on her bureau and flopped onto her bed. “I’m just completely freaking out.”

Chloe clucked sympathetically. “Oh, sweetie. Maggie is really getting to you.”

Sawyer nodded. “I’m thinking of calling the police.”

“On Maggie?”

Sawyer pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. She struggled with how much to tell Chloe. She didn’t want her best friend to worry about her. She also didn’t want to have to tell Chloe everything—everything she’d been hiding. “Just…there’s a bunch of stuff going on and Maggie, well, she—it’s complicated, Chloe.”

Chloe paused, considering. “If you can’t explain it to me, how are you going to explain it to the police? I mean, what are you going to say?”

Sawyer sat up, hugged a pillow to her chest. “I’m not exactly sure.” She stopped then, holding the words in her mouth. “Maybe I’ll tell them that someone is stalking me.”

The words were out and hung in the air, oppressive, real. Sawyer felt the itch of tears at the corners of her eyes, the pound of the headache that came with, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He knows stuff about me, Chloe, about people—people in my life.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m blowing the whole thing out of proportion?”

Chloe’s breath sounded weighted. “I don’t think you’re blowing anything out of proportion.”

Sawyer thought back on the notes now safely tucked away in her underwear drawer—the notes and the peanut butter label.

“He sent me a peanut butter label after Mr. Hanson died.”

Chloe gasped. “Sawyer, that’s evidence! You’ve got to turn that over to the police!”

“It’s evidence against me, Chloe. I’m the one with the label.”

“But he sent it to you. You have to tell them that! They’ll believe you. I mean, why would anyone believe that you wanted to hurt Mr. Hanson?”

“Because…” She paused, sucked in a deep breath. “The other day, after class. I think he—I think he may have—like, come on to me. What if the police think I”—she dropped her voice, swallowed heavily—“killed him?”

“Wait, what? Mr. Hanson came on to you? Like hit on you?”

“That’s not really the—”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sawyer? God, I can’t believe you had to go through something like that alone. I mean, are you sure?”

Sawyer’s stomach wobbled. “No. I mean yes.”

“He is—was, I guess—really friendly. Maybe you misinterpreted it? What happened exactly?”

Anger pricked in Sawyer’s gut, and she felt herself narrow her eyes. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you—or prove anything to my best friend. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“No, of course I believe you, sweetie. I was just asking because—”

The anger blossomed. “Because the medication makes me a little loopy? God, Chloe, I thought you would be the one person to understand.”

“I do, Sawyer, and what I was going to say was that, you know, he drove Libby home that one time, and he is always super helpful with the honor society. He talked to everyone.”

“Was always super helpful.”

“What?”

Sawyer licked her lips. “He was always super helpful. I’m sorry I’m snappy. It’s just—I almost wasn’t sure it was a pass either. But I know how I felt and it was gross. I felt gross afterward. Like I needed a shower. Or a shot of penicillin.”

“Are you going to tell the police that?”

“No. I can’t, Chlo—they’ll think I did something to him.”

“But the note! And Kevin! He was your boyfriend. Why would you kill your own boyfriend?” Chloe’s voice hitched on a sob. “You loved him. He was crazy about you.”

Sawyer wanted to confide in Chloe, but how could she after she’d kept Kevin’s feelings, his abuse, hidden for so long? The lie—even the simple lie of omission—sat in Sawyer’s gut like a fat black stone. “Yeah,” was all Sawyer could answer.

The next morning Sawyer dressed quietly and slipped out the door while Tara and her father were still sleeping. By 7:00 a.m. she was parked in front of the Crescent Hills Police Department, listening to her heartbeat and watching the automatic glass doors of the station swing open and shut as officers came and went. Her hands felt clammy gripping the steering wheel, and her fingers itched to click the key in the ignition, to start the car and drive away.

On a deep, steadying breath, Sawyer got out of the car and stepped into the police department, blinking in the harsh, fluorescent overhead lights. She wasn’t sure what she expected of a police department, but this wasn’t it. The main office was relatively quiet and heartlessly businesslike, with wall-to-wall gray industrial carpeting and dusty silk plants interspersed between modern metal desks manned by uniformed officers. Sawyer started to nervously tug at the strap of her purse.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“May I help you?”

The officer who smiled down at her had a head of close-cropped dark hair that made his bright green eyes stand out. He was tall and pale and there was something incredibly familiar about the lopsided smile he offered.

“Can I help you?”

Sawyer bit her lip. “Um, maybe? Yeah. I guess.”

“Okay…how about we start with your name?”

“I’m Sawyer.” She wasn’t sure if she should put out a hand to shake or just wave. She chose the latter. “Sawyer Dodd.”

“Are you a student, Ms. Dodd?”

Sawyer nodded, not sure why that would matter. “Yeah, at Hawthorne.”

The officer nodded and smiled. “I thought I recognized you. My brother goes to Hawthorne. I’m Stephen Haas.”

“Haas? You’re Logan’s brother.” Sawyer did a mental head slap. “Detective Biggs mentioned his partner but I didn’t realize—I didn’t put two and two together, I guess. I remember Logan saying that his brother was a cop, though.”

“You can call me Stephen.” He nodded, offered Sawyer a hand. “So, you are a friend of my brother’s?”

Sawyer nodded. “Kind of. He has the locker under mine, and I drove him home from school once.”

Stephen cocked that half smile again and pointed at her, green eyes narrowed. “Ah, that’s right. You’re that Sawyer Dodd.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“My little brother kind of has a—let’s just go with mammoth—crush on you.”

Sawyer’s cheeks flushed red, and she felt the heat go to her ears. “Oh.”

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, right. Actually, I was looking for Detective Biggs. Is he in?”

Stephen checked his watch. “He probably won’t be in for another couple of hours. Is there something I can help you with?”

Sawyer chewed her bottom lip. “Well not to be rude but no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, let me put it this way: Detective Biggs won’t be in for another couple of hours, and even then, it’s pretty likely you’ll be talking to me. I’m his liaison.”

Sawyer smiled in spite of herself. “Liaison? That sounds very French.”

“And masculine, right? Why don’t you follow me over to the conference room and you can tell me what’s going on. I can start the case file for Detective Biggs.”

Sawyer’s fingers still worked the strap of her purse, and she felt herself shift her weight from one foot to the other. “Well…”

But Stephen Haas’s face was so earnest, so open, that Sawyer smiled thinly and followed him into the conference room.

“So,” he said, whipping out a yellow legal pad, “what can I help you with?”

Sawyer’s eyes followed the blank lines on the notebook, and she licked her parched lips, fisted her hands, which seemed clammy once again. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she began, feeling her mind whirl with everything that had happened—and how preposterous it would sound. “Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing.” She stood. “You know, I should really just go.”

Stephen laid a gentle hand on her forearm. “Sawyer, if whatever is bothering you is enough to make you drive all the way down to the police station at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s something I want to hear about. Besides”—he flashed that sweet, relaxed smile of his—“I’ll be the judge of whether or not we send in the SWAT team or the guys in the white coats with the straitjackets.”

Sawyer sunk back down, still nervous, but feeling a genuine smile twitching at the edges of her lips. “Well, Detective Biggs came to my house a few weeks ago—just after my boyfriend, Kevin Anderson—died in a car accident.”

Stephen nodded. “Kevin Anderson. It was a drunk-driving accident, right?”

Sawyer pinched her lip. “Yeah. But they think someone else was in the car. Someone who escaped. They think it was me.”

Stephen’s eyebrows rose. “And was it?”

“No. No. We got in a fight that night and when I left him, he was drinking but he was alone.”

“Okay. But I don’t see how this is—”

“And the Monday after his funeral,” Sawyer went on, her eyes fixed on the faux wood grain veneer on the conference table, “I got a note. It said, ‘You’re welcome.’ And there was a newspaper article with the note—it was the one about Kevin’s death.”

Nate leaned back in his chair, sucking in his breath and tapping the end of the ballpoint pen on the still-blank notepad. “Sounds like a prank to me. A prank in really bad taste.”

“And then my Spanish teacher was killed.”

“Uh, Mr. Hanson, right? Logan told me about that. But he wasn’t murdered; he died of an allergic reaction.”

“Yeah, but then I got another note. Oh, and before that, we were at a party and someone attacked my best friend, Chloe Coulter.”

“Can you spell that last name?”

Sawyer bit her nail. “Maybe you shouldn’t write that down.”

Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t I write it down?”

“It’s just—we were out, late—and Chloe’s parents don’t know.”

“If this was an attack, Sawyer, this is pretty serious. Tell me what happened.”

“It was serious. Someone tried to cut the brake lines on Chloe’s mother’s car. And Chloe walked outside—”

“Where did this happen?”

“Oh, at the Rutgers’ house. But maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Let me guess. This girl’s parents didn’t know they were hosting a party?”

“It was a guy, actually, Evan. Evan Rutger. And no.”

Stephen sucked in a breath. “Okay. Just tell me what happened and we’ll figure out who to talk to—if anyone—after, okay?”

Sawyer nodded. “Okay, I guess. Anyway, someone hit Chloe in the head.”

“Was she injured badly?”

“Not very. But enough. He drew blood.”

“So you know it was a male.”

“No, not—I mean, that’s what Chloe said, but she also said she really didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Did anyone call this in?”

Sawyer shook her head again, feeling slightly ashamed. She should have made Chloe call the police that night. “No. Chloe didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Okay, so your friend got attacked. Did she receive any of these notes?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Has anyone messed with your car? Have you seen anyone who fit the description of Chloe’s attacker?”

“No.”

“So there really isn’t any reason to believe that the same person is targeting both of you?”

“No.” Sawyer frowned. “I guess not.”

Knowing that her best friend wasn’t a target of Sawyer’s admirer should have made her feel better, but the thought that two horrible people out on the loose in Crescent Hill wasn’t any more comforting.

“So you said you got a note after your teacher passed away.” Stephen cocked his head. “Did you bring any of these notes?”

Sawyer wagged her head. “No. I didn’t really plan on coming here this morning.”

“Do you recognize the handwriting, or was there a postmark? Anything recognizable?”

“No.”

“Well, Sawyer, I understand your concern and I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, but I really think this is just—”

“A coincidence? A prank? Someone sent me flowers too, at school. And then someone spray-painted my gym locker—right after making coleslaw out of my clothes while I was in the shower.”

Sawyer listened to the tension rising in her voice and cringed inwardly. Everything she was saying did sound preposterous, coincidental—like a prank. Someone was playing with her—was capitalizing on the horrid things that had happened and trying to freak her out. Sweat beaded along her upper lip and she sighed.

“Maybe you’re right. This is probably just a really bad prank.”

Stephen pressed his lips together in a sympathetic smile and patted Sawyer’s hand as it rested on the table. Her eyes followed his hand.

“I’m sorry that someone would do this to you, Sawyer. Kids can really suck. And from what I hear from my brother, your class has a particularly mean streak.”

Sawyer thought of Logan sitting in her car in his sweatpants and forced a smile. “I guess so.”

“He’s mentioned some kids—your late boyfriend included, sorry—who have pretty much tortured him from the time he set foot on campus.”

Sawyer dug her fingernail into the table’s veneer.

“Is there anything else I should know about these incidents? I’ll write a report just so we have something on file, should there be any more—”

Sawyer’s eyes flashed and her whole body stiffened, the thought of another note, another murder, like a steel fist to her gut. Stephen seemed to read her immediately. “Not that there will be any more incidents.”

She thought of the peanut butter label and shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Call me Stephen. Or Officer Haas, at worst. Not sir.”

Sawyer nodded wordlessly and stood when Stephen checked his watch. “Shouldn’t you be getting to school? If you leave now, you can just make the last bell.”

“Yeah.” Sawyer gathered her purse. “Thanks.”

As she left the police station she felt an overwhelming sense of relief—fueled by stupidity—and the tiniest bit of calm. Yeah, she convinced herself as she drove the distance to Hawthorne High, it’s just a prank. A stupid, bad-natured prank. I’m not responsible for anything.

She repeated the mantra even as she guided her car into the parking lot and pulled it into park. She gathered up her backpack, a twinge of confidence bolstering her movements. Just a prank…The words resonated in her head and seemed to fill her with a modicum of calm. But somewhere, deep down, Sawyer knew the calm wouldn’t last.