Six Months Later Part 17

"Wait, Maggie, don't go."

She sighs, turning a little away from the door but still not enough to really look at me. "It's really early, Chlo. I've got t-to get to school."

"I know, and I know you've got every reason to not be speaking to me, but I need to talk to you."

The quiet is so painful that I search for noise. I hear the hum of the fridge and the soft rumble of a car on the next street over. Finally, I give up on her response, filling the silence with my own words.

"I'm desperate, Maggie. You're the only one I trust."

She studies me for a long moment and then jerks her head back toward her car. "You c-can ride with me if you want."

"Great," I say, grabbing my coat and my backpack from the rack. I'm moving fast, wanting to seal the deal before she changes her mind.

"This doesn't mean we're okay," she says, and I ratchet down the smile that's threatening to split my face in two.

"I know. I know that."

"Okay."

We don't say anything else as we get in the truck. Maggie drives an ancient pickup with like a hundred and sixty thousand miles on it. Her uncle used it for his electrical contracting business over a decade ago, back when money was really tight. Which means there are no bells and whistles. Crank windows, vinyl seats, and a standard transmission.

Maggie taught me to drive stick shift in this truck. Or tried to, anyway. I've never been much of a driver. One of the many reasons why I've logged so many hours in the pa.s.senger seat of this hunk of junk.

I listen to the familiar sounds of Maggie's keys in the ignition and the engine coming to life. I know it's ridiculous being so giddy over a six-minute ride in a rust bucket, but for the first time since this started, my morning feels right. Normal.

I expect her to back out, but she pauses, hand on the gearshift.

"So what d-do you need to talk to me about?"

I take a breath and brace myself. "When I tell you this, you will think I'm crazy."

"I already think you're crazy," she says, and there isn't any humor in her eyes.

"This will take it further," I tell her, "which is why I haven't told anyone."

Except Adam. But I can't talk about Adam. Every time I even think about Adam, I feel my throat close up and my eyes get teary and I just can't go there. Not right now.

She backs out and sets an easy pace through the neighborhood. And I fall silent, watching the bare branches of the trees slip by my window.

"Are you going to t-tell me?"

"I think someone's been messing with my memory." I glance sideways, but Maggie's focus is on the road.

She looks a little pinched around the lips but not astonished. And not amused.

The truck rolls to a stop at Beecher, and she turns left instead of right. This way will add three minutes to our trip. She is buying me time to talk.

I go on in a rush, letting the words tumble out as quickly as my lips and tongue will form them. I don't just tell her that I can't remember. I tell her about the CT scan and the therapy sessions and the stack of college applications that paralyze me with fear. I tell her about the strangeness of Blake's kisses and Dr. Kirkpatrick's phone call and about Daniel. I even talk about Adam, though it's a fleeting mention that I rush right over.

When I look up, I realize we're in the historic neighborhood. One street over from Belmont Street. We are also late for school, something that doesn't concern me half as much as it probably should.

Maggie parks the truck on the side of the road and palms her keys, turning sideways in her seat.

"We're n-not friends anymore."

This isn't exactly shocking, but hearing it doesn't feel good. I push away that aching hollow in my chest and try to find words. "I know that. I just don't know why."

"I think I believe you," she says. "But it doesn't change anything. I c-can't get into all the things that you did, b-but you made choices, Chloe. Maybe you don't remember them now, but you made them."

"And that's just that? We're not friends. And that's forever?"

"I thought so," Maggie says, and for the first time I can see the pain behind her eyes. Reddish blotches appear on the pale skin beneath her eyes. It is a telltale sign that she is upset.

She shakes her head then, and her face goes hard once more. "I d-don't want to get into all of that right now. I'm n-not ready."

I nod, but I'm not ready to let it go. Everything in me is clinging at this tendril of possibility now. "But maybe someday?"

My voice sounds pitiful, even to me. She turns away from me, looking out the window. I can see the backs of the Belmont Beauties even from here.

"All of that c-can wait," she says. "But I need to show you something. And I d-don't think it can wait."

Mags and I have done a lot of crazy things together, but not in my wildest dreams did I ever think we would skip school to sneak into the Millers' house. Mainly because I could never imagine the place being empty. Not reliably empty at any rate.

Now, we slink quietly along the hedges at the back of the house, the back door and windows strangely curtain-free.

"Watch the street," she says as we step onto the back porch.

She pulls out a large circle of keys from her purse and starts flipping through them.

"What are you, a cat burglar now?"

"They're my uncle's. He's fixing a problem in the k-kitchen. L-lighting or something."

"He won't miss his work keys?"

"He's hunting today."

Terrific. We're using stolen keys from a guy who owns six hunting rifles and a couple of crossbows to boot. I'm just about to tell her this is a bad idea when she finds the right key, the door opening with a soft creak.

"Get in," she says, and I follow her command, slipping into the dim kitchen.

I've only been in the Millers' house for a few parties. It was completely different then. The kitchen used to look like the after picture on a home decorating show, with pitchers of fresh flowers and color-coordinated dish towels hanging from antique hooks. Every nook and cranny had some sort of homey, artsy touch. And now it's just...blank.

The shuffle of my sneakers across the wood floor seems to echo off the walls. Even the air feels different, cold and dry and empty.

Maggie doesn't allow me much time to dwell. She rushes through the kitchen and dining room, to the wide, oak-railed staircase. We climb the stairs, and my palm grows slick on the banister. I know where she's taking me. And something inside me doesn't want to go.

We open the six-paneled door at the end of the hallway, and I feel as if I've stepped through a curtain of ice. The barren room gapes at us through the open doorway. Pink walls and a wooden floor. It is stark and terrible, nothing but dry bones stripped of their living, breathing parts.

I want to leave.

I can see a dark rectangle in the floor, the s.p.a.ce where Julien's bed must have rested, protecting the wood planks from the sunlight that must have poured through her three windows on clear days.

"Over here," Maggie says, and I jump a little.

She's standing inside the empty closet, crouched low to the ground. She looks up, wrinkling her nose. "I came with him when he b-bid on the house. Had to get my allergy shots afterward."

"Why were you up here?" I ask, rubbing my arms.

"Bored. Curious. I don't know. I don't even know why I opened the closet, but when I d-did, I found this."

I move closer, rubbing my arms where goose b.u.mps have sprouted. I can see the pale lines of pencil mark even before I crouch down near Maggie to read what has been written on the wall.

I wasn't crazy before.

Someone did this.

Chloe knows.

Three rows of neat, girly print whispering secrets that were never meant to be seen. But all that bleeds away from my vision, leaving two words burned into my mind. Chloe knows.

School has been a special version of h.e.l.l since I walked through the door. The bell rings, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Again. I've really got to get a grip. I've spent the entire day tensing at every slammed locker, going cold every time someone mentions something I can't remember. Which in my present condition happens about every twelve seconds.

A soph.o.m.ore darts past me, and I clutch my books to my chest and try not to yelp. What period is it, anyway? I squint at the clock and the rapidly emptying hallway. Usually someone chats with me all the way to my next cla.s.s, but today I'm a social leper.

Then again, yesterday I broke up with Blake. Popularity is a fickle thing, I guess.

Kristen Simpson stops at a door up the way and gives me a wave that says, Hurry up. Mind you, last year, Kristen wouldn't have spit on me if I was on fire, but today any friendly face is welcome. I smile at her and start in that direction. Computer lab.

Also known as the one cla.s.s I share with Blake and Adam. I stop short in the hallway and wave Kristen along. I can just imagine how great that cla.s.s would be, them shooting each other hateful glares. Me wishing I could disappear into the cracks in the floor.

I can't deal with seeing them right now. h.e.l.l, I can barely deal with walking today because my mind has one track, one subject, one single line of repet.i.tion.

What do I know about Julien?

Is she hurt? Did her parents force her to leave to protect her? Or did someone else force her? And why would I know anything about any of it?

The bell rings, and I duck into the nearest bathroom and drop my backpack onto the floor. I brace my hands on a sink and stare at my reflection. My eyes look empty, but I think they should be full-full of all the things I've seen but can't remember. Things about Julien.

A new thought forces my hands to go tighter on the sink. What else am I hiding? And does anyone know?

I think of Dr. Kirkpatrick's phone call to Daniel, whoever he is. I know it's crazy to think it's Blake's dad, but I keep going back to it. Even as neurotic as I am, I can't seriously believe that my boyfriend and his dad are both involved in a memory-altering conspiracy that somehow forced Julien and her family out of town.

I stop cold as the facts ricochet around my head like bullets. My name on Julien's wall. My therapist's phone call. The missing file on my computer. The text on Blake's phone.

My stomach rolls, my palms going slick against the porcelain.

All these crazy things are hinged to a single axis, the six months I can't remember.

The door bangs open, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Hey, you," Abbey says, but her bright smile vanishes almost instantly. "Oh, Chloe, you look like you've seen a ghost."

I try for a smile, but it's a sad imitation at best. "I've been sick. I think maybe I tried to come back too soon."

"Do you want me to help you down to the nurse's station? You poor thing!"

"No, I'm fine," I say. "I think I'll just get a drink of water and head back to cla.s.s."

"Are you sure?"

I nod and give her a cheery salute as I head out the door. And I do get a drink. I get a drink right before I slip into the parking lot. I made it through three periods. That's got to count for something, right?

The winter sun is gleaming with brute force today, warming my skin despite the chilly breeze. I zip my coat and plunge my hands into my pockets, knowing it's going to be a long walk home.

And maybe home isn't the best plan. Now that I'm thinking about that missing file again, I doubt my computer is safe at all. If Blake has been in my room, messing with my computer, I have no idea what kind of tracking software he could have installed.

I could call Dad; he wouldn't make a big deal out of skipping out a few periods early. Maybe he'd even take me back to his office and I could snag one of the spare computers there. But then what? Dad tells Mom, and Mom forces me back to the doctor for a battery of tests since I'm not feeling well.

No. I need answers that a doctor isn't going to have. A block later, a plan forms in my mind and my pace quickens. I cut across Parkview and then take a left on Jenner Street. The small brick building peeks out at the end of the road.

There used to be a sign at the edge of the parking lot. Most of it blew away in a windstorm a few years ago. And apparently our town's economy is still in the c.r.a.pper because it hasn't been replaced yet. All that's left to read are the letters BRARY followed by a very 1980s graphic of a stack of books.

I pull open the doors and breathe in the smell of old copies and older books. I can't remember the last time I came to the library, but I love this place. I always have. When I was little, Mom would bring me here. I'd curl into one of the leather armchairs at the ends of the aisles to read picture books, and she'd browse the cooking section. Everything looks older now. Faded and worn down like the sign out front.

It's sad, really. The library is a relic of a time long gone, a time when the Ridgeview mayor believed new books were as important as putting pretty planters down the main drag every April.

I wipe my shoes on the mat and peer around. The place looks utterly deserted. A sign on the desk informs me that Mrs. Nesbit, the librarian, is filing in the reference section if I need her.

I don't.

I need a computer.

A pair of reasonably new Macs are stationed across from two study tables. I remember Mrs. Nesbit came to the high school to meet with the technology club last year when they were installed. I saw them all talking in the computer lab once, and it was crazy. I mean, she's got to be like a hundred and thirty years old, but I'm telling you, she can talk downloads and upgrades like a pro.