Keeping Secrets Page 38

  But now I’m wondering if there might be another way to save her. Now I’m wondering if I should just burn this tape and save her from yet another starring role as the poster child for bad choices. Or if maybe I should turn it in, so they can add it to the stack of evidence and make sure Jason pays.

  But the weirdest thing is, I feel like it’s Marc who can finally help me. Out of all the people I know, he’s the only one who can help me decide.

  I reach for the thickest branch, grabbing hold of it with both hands even though it would be a whole lot easier just to go downstairs and use the front door. But I know this is probably the last time I’ll ever do this. And because of that, I want to get it just right.

  I swing my body toward the trunk, gripping it between my knees and hugging it firmly as I shimmy all the way down to the ground, so quickly and effortlessly it’s as though Zoë’s right there beside me, nodding encouragingly and cheering me on.

  Then I run to the corner and wait, blowing on my hands since I forgot to wear my gloves, and jumping from foot to foot in an attempt to stay warm. And when a bright red MG pulls up and brakes right beside me, it’s a moment before I remember it’s Marc’s.

  “Hey,” he says, leaning over and opening the door. “You okay?”

  I nod my head and climb inside, grateful for the warmth of the car and the strange comfort he provides. “I’m sorry about earlier, I just—”

  But he just shakes his head and lifts his hand to stop me. “No worries,” he says, pulling away from the curb and turning onto the next street.

  But I don’t want to be cut off like that. I mean, I owe him an apology. Lots of people owe him an apology. But I can only speak for me. “I finished her diary,” I tell him, forcing myself to look right at him, even though it makes me feel a little uncomfortable. “I guess I got a little caught up along the way, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry I doubted you, and I’m sorry my sister doubted you, and I’m sorry this whole stupid town doubts you. But right now I need your advice, and you’re the only one I can trust.”

  He parks in a spot that faces the lake, and we remain in the car, gazing quietly at the water before us until I take a deep breath and remove the tape from my pocket, presenting it in the palm of my outstretched hand.

  “Where’d you get that?” he asks, his eyes turning dark, just like the other day.

  “From Teresa,” I say, my voice steady and sure, despite the erratic beating of my heart. “She swiped it from Jason’s.”

  He grabs it, surrounding it with his fist and lifting his arm as though he’s gonna toss it out the window or something. But just as quickly his body crumbles, his back hunched over in despair and defeat. “I should’ve known,” he finally says, his head against his hands, his knuckles pressed to his forehead. “I should’ve fucking known.”

  “Known what?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper.

  “That he kept a copy.” He raises his head and stares at the lake. “I have now truly failed her in every single way.”

  “Don’t,” I say, reaching toward him, my hands fumbling, unsure, watching as he drops the tape onto his lap, his hands rubbing his eyes so roughly it scares me. “Don’t say things like that. No one could have saved her, and it’s time we all realized that. You read the diary, you know what I’m talking about.”

  But he just turns to me, his face red and raw, his eyes filled with pain. “That day at Teresa’s?” he says. “When you were wondering what Jason gave me? What I had in my pocket? It was this. It was another copy of this.” He picks up the tape and shakes his head. “I knew something happened that day, but Zoë refused to tell me. Then about six months after her funeral, when the guy’s finally caught and the whole media circus is getting a second wind, he calls me up to tell me that he’s got something I might want, and how he’s willing to sell it for just the right price. Only the price kept changing. And every time we’d meet he kept dicking me around for more and more money. Just naturally assuming that my parents’ wealth had anything to do with me. I had to sell off all the bonds my grandparents gave me, using up all the money I was saving for Zoë’s memorial. But that day at Teresa’s, he finally settled. And I just kept telling myself the whole entire time that even though it may not be the memorial I’d planned, I was still preserving her memory.” He laughs then, but it’s not a funny laugh. It’s more the cynical kind. The world-just-keeps-getting-worse-and-worse kind.

  “Why didn’t you just go to the police? They could’ve handled it for you,” I say.

  “Maybe I should’ve.” He sighs. “But at the time, I just couldn’t risk it. I mean, for Zoë, not me. You hear what people say, and I couldn’t stand to put her through that again. Believe me, my life isn’t all that important anymore. I only wanted to protect her.”

  “Don’t say that,” I urge, gripping his arm, but he won’t look at me, he’s back to facing the window again. “Zoë would’ve hated to hear you talk like that,” I add. “You know it wasn’t her fault, you know she never consented.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs. “People believe what they want, and I just couldn’t put her through that again.” He turns to me, his eyes clouded with anguish.

  “How much did you give him?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You don’t want to know. Let’s just say it was enough to wipe me out until I turn twenty-one and take control of my trust.”

  “What kind of memorial were you planning?”

  He looks at me and smiles. And it’s so nice to see his face like that I wish it could last. “A little bench. Placed right over there,” he says, pointing toward the lake. “Right in front of the water, where we always used to sit. So that people can come and relax and feed all of her ducks for her.”

  I reach toward him then, cupping my hands around his cheeks, bringing his face toward mine. Then I close my eyes and kiss him. But not the same kind of kiss as before, not like I’m trying to claim something that was never meant to be mine. I kiss him lightly and quickly and briefly, because he loved my sister. And because he’s paid such a high price for it.

  When he drops me back at my house, he looks at me and says, “So what should we do with the tapes?”

  I take a deep breath. “You know, there could be other copies,” I say. Then I tell him about Jason and Teresa.

  “Oh, God.” He shakes his head and looks away.

  “But I still think I should hand it over.” And when I say that, I realize how I suddenly feel sure of myself for the very first time since I got involved in any of this. “Because what happened to Zoë isn’t her fault. The only thing she’s guilty of is having a dream. And I think we owe it to her to believe that.”

  He nods, then hands me the tape, and as I open the door and crawl out of the car, I say, “But last night, when you said that about ‘hurting me too’? What did you mean?”

  He looks at me, his eyes wet with tears. “I failed her, plain and simple. And by allowing myself to get involved with you, I failed you too.” He gazes down at his hands, balling them into tight fists before letting them release and relax. “I still love her, Echo. And I miss her so much. I’m sorry I let things progress like I did. I should’ve known better.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and stares off into the distance.

  “Thanks for sharing her,” I say, smiling as he turns toward me, his eyes full of questions. “You were right, I didn’t really know her. But now I do.” 225

  He presses his lips together and nods, and as I shut the door and turn away, I remember how there’s still one last thing. So I knock on the window, and as he rolls it down, I say, “Hey, what was the surprise? You know, the thing you were holding for Zoë? For when she came back?”

  He looks at me and smiles. “You’re leaning on it,” he says. Then seeing my confusion he goes, “All those days when I was unavailable and not answering her calls? I was actually holed up in my garage, working on this car. I bought it off my uncle, cheap, just so I could fix it up for Zoë. I thought a g
irl like her deserved something special, something nobody else had.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, standing back to admire it, taking in the spoke wheels, the wood dash, the cherry red paint job, and black, convertible cloth top. “She would’ve loved it.” I smile.

  But he just shrugs.

  “So what are you gonna do with it?”

  He shakes his head. “It mostly just sits in my garage, I barely ever drive it. Yet I’ve been unable to part with it, though I guess it’s finally time. You want it?”

  I gaze at the car, part of me wanting to claim it, knowing I may never own a car as amazing as this. But the other part knows it can be put to much better use. “Why don’t you sell it and buy her that bench?” I say.

  And when he looks at me he smiles. And he’s still smiling as he drives away.

  Thirty-five

  Echo’s Diary

  Do not disturb!

  Jan 10

  Today the bench was finally unveiled, so we held a big party for Zoë. And even though some people still insisted on calling it a memorial, I refused to see it that way. We did that already, over a year and a half ago. So this was more like a celebration of her life, not another remembrance of her death.

  At first my parents acted all weird around Marc, but probably just out of habit. Because now they finally get that no matter how much he loved her, he just couldn’t save her. None of us could. And trying to blame anyone other than her killer is just a total waste of time.

  So after a few awkward moments, my dad grasped Marc’s hand, his jaw going all tight and determined as he struggled not to cry. And my mom, off the happy pills for almost three months now and no longer scared or enslaved by her tears, hugged him tight to her chest while she smoothed his hair and whispered into his ear that it will all be all right.

  Then my mom wiped her face and my dad nodded his head, and they reached for each other, holding hands and leaning together, finally finding strength in the one place it’d been waiting all this time.

  And as I watched them standing there, looking so complete, I realized our family sessions with the Dr. Phil wannabe probably weren’t as stupid as they seemed.

  That day, right after I said good-bye to Marc, I walked into the house, only to find both my parents sitting in the living room, totally hysterically panicked, with the cops well on their way.

  Apparently my mom called a bunch of times, just wanting to check in and see how I was feeling. But when I failed to answer she grew concerned and came straight home to find an empty house and no note.

  Well, naturally she assumed something horrible had happened, since Zoë’s murder pretty much guaranteed that we’ll never reside in that safe, protective bubble again. And so she called my dad, and he notified the police, and then they both sat in the den, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I felt awful that I’d put them into such a panic, and it took me awhile to calm them down, but when I did finally get a chance to explain, I made sure to tell them only what they needed to know, while preserving the rest for Marc, Zoë, and me.

  Then I reached into my pocket and handed over the tape (making no mention of the diary), while cautioning them about what it most likely contained. Then I sank onto the couch in total exhaustion, relieved to let them take over and handle these things for a change.

  I also explained how the way we were living was no longer working, and how I needed them to finally figure things out. Because while all the late nights and fights would never bring Zoë back, they would eventually destroy what little we had left.

  Zoë’s killer was recently convicted. Apparently he’d made a longtime habit of targeting small-town girls with big dreams, promising the moon before taking their lives. Seven victims later and the creep still didn’t even own a camera. And the Web page he’d set up was a total fake.

  But the good news is he’ll never see daylight again. He’ll never be able to betray someone’s faith, the way he did with Zoë.

  And as for Jason? Well, the charges are all lined up, with separate trials for the drugs, the videos, and the underage girls. And with such a strong case against him, they won’t have to rely on Carly and Zoë to convict him.

  Still, pretty much everybody around here knows, and the gossip is worse than ever. But I no longer care. I’m just glad I didn’t lose my best friends, Abby and Jenay, and was even lucky enough to find some new ones in Marc and Teresa.

  Jenay showed up at Zoë’s party with Chess. And Abby, having decided that her nerves and self-consciousness were solely to blame for their awkward first kiss, showed up with Jax. And after seeing how good they are together, how truly well matched they are, I’m glad she ignored my bad advice and decided to give him another chance.

  Parker came too, only he brought his new girlfriend, Heidi. And even though things are still a little uncomfortable between us, I was glad he made it.

  And when Teresa walked up alone, everyone turned and stared. But since I know full well what it’s like to be the center of unwanted attention, I waved her over and told her to join us.

  She and Sean broke up, like the second the story broke. And her parents were so angry at what she’d done and the danger she’d put herself in, and yet hugely relieved that she’d made it out basically unharmed, that they went out and bought her a brand-new car—a black BMW, loaded with the most modern GPS tracking system so they can monitor her every move. Even though, technically, she’s not even old enough to drive it yet.

  And after Paula passed out little Baggies full of Wonder bread, and Abby and Jenay lit the candles, Carly tried to read a poem she wrote especially for my sister, only she had to stop halfway through when she broke down in tears.

  Just a few days after the whole Jason story leaked, she showed up at our house, begging our forgiveness, unwilling to leave until she was convinced that she had it. But she and I are okay now. I mean, we’re not exactly friends, but now we can at least say hey when we see each other at school.

  Then Marc docked his iPod and turned up the sound, and everyone gathered around the new bench, Marc on my left, my parents on my right, as we listened to Coltrane, tossed crumbs to those fat, greedy ducks, and remembered Zoë.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to: My readers, whose letters, e-mails, and posts to my bulletin board mean more to me than they probably realize; Kate Schafer, who believed in Echo’s story and is everything I could want in an agent and more; everyone at St. Martin’s Press, including but not limited to Matthew Shear, Jennifer Weis, Stefanie Lindskog, Anne Marie Tallberg, and Abbye Simkowitz, for their support; my father, who gets to my book signings early; and, as always, to Sandy, for everything.