“Sir, this isn’t a formal investigation, and your daughter agreed to answer—”
“My daughter is just a teenager—she’s only seventeen.” Dad stepped forward, towering over the detective. “Did you tell her it was off the record? I’m sure you did. She doesn’t know how these things work, but I do.”
My brows rose. Knots formed in my stomach. Had I done something wrong by talking to the detective? As I chewed on my thumbnail, my gaze bounced between the two men. “Dad, I was—”
“Do not say another word, Samantha,” he said, and his tone was like an icy breeze on my skin. “If you want to question my daughter, you do so with my permission and with fair warning. If not, the next time you even come within twenty yards of my house, you better have a warrant.”
My mouth dropped opened. A warrant? Why would he need a warrant? I wasn’t a suspect. Suspects got warrants. Panic clawed at my insides as I stood on shaky legs. Was I a suspect?
Detective Ramirez cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he was calm and unaffected by my father’s orders. “I understand, Mr. Franco. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I know my way out.”
Dad folded his arms, and without another word, Detective Ramirez left. I sat back down, dizzy. “Dad, he was just asking questions. It wasn’t a big deal.”
He crossed the room, dropping down so that he was at eye level with me. “You don’t understand how the police work, princess. You’re a child, and with everything that has happened to you, it would be easy for them to confuse and manipulate you.”
Indignant anger filled me. “I’m not stupid. Just because I can’t remember anything doesn’t make me a helpless child. He was just asking me questions about Cassie. I want to be able to help the police.”
“I know.” He sighed and then reached out, pulling my hand away from my mouth. “You’re still a nail biter. Your mother hates that.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, squeezing my knees with my hands.
He stood and walked to the mantel above the fireplace. His spine was unnaturally stiff. “I know you’re not stupid, Samantha. You’re a clever girl, but I don’t want you talking to the police again, okay? Not without me around. Do you understand?”
“Why? What’s the big deal? I don’t have anything to hide.”
He turned halfway around, smoothing a hand over his hair. “The big deal is that you were most likely the last person who saw Cassie—you were probably with her when…when whatever happened to her occurred.”
“I know! And that’s why I need to talk to the police.”
“No. That’s why you can’t talk to the police!” He dropped his hand to his chest, and I was suddenly worried he was going to have a heart attack. My dad looked fit and trim, but I imagined he was under a lot of stress with work…and me. “The last thing you need to be doing is talking to the police. Right now, if it turns out that she was murdered, you’re their number one suspect.”
Chapter eleven
Suspect? Murderer? I’d been right about the looks I’d thought I’d seen in Veronica’s and Candy’s eyes. Suspicion. My heart was pounding as I paced my bedroom later that night on an empty stomach. The thought of food made me want to hurl, so I skipped dinner. Suspect. Murderer.
Those words were foreign to me. Not in the sense that I didn’t understand what they meant, but because I couldn’t associate their meanings with me. The words shot across all my nerves, like tiny shards of glass, fraying them, slicing them open.
Did my dad really think that was why Detective Ramirez was questioning me? Because the detective thought I’d killed Cassie? And did my friends think the same thing? They couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. I’d been hurt, too, obviously. Bad enough that everything that was me, all that I knew, was gone.
And I could never kill a person. Didn’t they know that?
There was still a chance that what had happened had been some kind of freakish accident. I knew enough to know there’d be an autopsy done to determine cause of death.
Stopping in front of the mirror in my closet, I swallowed the lump of fear that rose in my throat before it could consume me. My reflection stared back at me, cheeks pale against the cinnamon tone of my hair. With my face devoid of makeup, I looked a lot younger than I did in the photos. There was a skittish glint to my eyes, one I doubted the old Sammy sported.
“I would never hurt Cassie,” I said, needing to hear someone, even if it was me, say it.
My reflection tilted her head, lips curving up in a mockery of a smile. “Liar.”
Gasping, I stumbled back, tripping over the stupid teddy bear on the floor. I hit the side of the bed hip-first. Fresh pain exploded as my pulse pounded wildly.
There was no one in the mirror now.
Body shaking, I tucked my legs under me and stood. The movement jarred the bed and the table beside it. Already off-kilter from when Del had messed with it, the music box fell to the floor, uttering two weak, broken musical notes that sent chills dancing down my spine.
I picked up the box, turning it onto its side. An opening on the bottom had popped out when it fell, wide enough to fit half a deck of cards. The slot looked empty, and in a daze, I closed it and placed it back on the table.
A sick, twisting feeling built in the pit of my stomach as I turned around, pushing the long strands of hair out of my face. Sharp tingles traveled down my back, and I was suddenly too hot and the room was too small.
My reflection had spoken back to me.
That was officially crazy sauce.
I started pacing again, avoiding my reflection just in case it decided to have another impromptu conversation. What just happened could not have been a memory, and there was no way I could explain it as anything other than a good ol’-fashioned delusion.
I’d imagined calling myself a liar after I said I couldn’t hurt someone. Nice, really nice. Tucking my hair back, I dragged in a deep breath, but it got constricted in my chest. Needing to get out of the room and possibly even the house, I threw open the door and rushed out into the hallway.
Rounding the corner, I smacked right into a rock-hard body with enough force that the poor guy let out a grunt and hit the floor. Thrown off balance, I toppled down on him. In a second, I recognized the clean, citrusy scent.
Carson.
Our bodies were pressed together in all the wrong places. Or the right places, depending on how I wanted to look at it. Not that I thought it was right. It was definitely wrong, especially the way his chest felt incredibly muscled under mine, his stomach like steel. Heat zinged through my veins.
Carson’s hand curved around my waist as his head lifted slightly. We were so close I could see the darker flecks of blue near his pupils. So close that his warmth breathed new life into the dark, empty spaces inside me. My gaze fell to his lips, and I wanted to know so, so badly how they felt. To taste his kiss. To let go of all the strings tethering me to the old Sammy and lose myself in him. Funny how all my worries about being insane suddenly went out the window.
Those lips spread into a crooked half smile. “Hey there, Sam….”
“Hey,” I whispered. “Were you coming to see me?”
His smile spread into a full one, and my heart skipped a beat. One of his front teeth was chipped at the bottom. “I was actually here to see Scott, but…”
“Oh.” I felt like the biggest dork ever. “Then you better get going.”
“Yeah, I should.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, and my stomach tightened. “But you’re going to have to get off me first. No rush. Just saying.”
My cheeks caught fire. “Good point.”
“It is,” he murmured.
I still hadn’t moved. The apocalypse could be going down outside and I would remain right where I was. My body pressed against Carson, his hand tightening on my waist.
So caught up in whatever this was, neither of us heard my brother until he spoke. “Do I want to know what you guys are doing?”
Carson chuckled deeply, and I felt the sound in every cell. “We’re just wrestling.”
“Really,” Scott replied drily.
I rolled off Carson and pushed to my feet. “I ran into him—in the hallway and knocked him down.” I felt the need to explain. “We weren’t wrestling…or doing anything.”
Scott’s lips twitched as if he was fighting a grin. “It’s all right, Sam. I’d rather see you rolling around with Carson out in the open than Del.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s not—”
“Hey!” Carson said, dropping his arm around my shoulder. “We have your brother’s permission.”
“Man, you must really hate Del,” I said, ignoring the way the whole left side of my body was pressed against Carson’s.
Scott rubbed the heel of his palm over his temple. “Yeah, well, I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t,” he replied, and then turned around, heading back into his bedroom.
I wiggled out from under Carson’s arm. “Well, I’ll see—”
“Hey.” He caught my arm, stopping me. “Where were you heading in such a hurry?”
“I was just going to…take a walk.”
“It’s almost nine.”
I shrugged, and my stomach took that moment to grumble. “Or get something to eat. Maybe some ice cream. I saw a carton of double chocolate earlier. I can’t remember the last time I ate ice cream.” I was rambling, but I couldn’t stop. “Granted, I can’t remember much of anything, so that doesn’t say much. Yesterday I discovered I love hamburgers without tomatoes. No pickles, but extra bacon.”
Carson’s grin grew the longer I talked. “How about cheese?”
“I’m ambivalent toward cheese.” I grinned. A few days ago, I had one of those moments where I couldn’t stop talking with Del, and he’d been less than amused by it.
Carson let go of my arm. “So, back to the ice cream…you sure you saw some?”
“Yep.”
“Mind company?”
My heart got all kinds of happy at that suggestion. “I thought you were here to see Scott.”
“He can wait.” Carson nudged me with his shoulder. “Can’t he?”
I peeked at him, deciding that sharing some ice cream wasn’t a cardinal sin and I could use the distraction. “Sure.”
Carson followed me downstairs and through the rooms. It took me a couple of moments to find the bowls and silverware. Then I dug out the ice cream. He piled his bowl high with mound after mound of chocolate goodness. I added three large scoops to mine, and then we sat at the bar, facing each other.
“Where are the parents?” he asked, smashing the ice cream with the back of his spoon.
“I don’t know where Dad is, but Mom’s in bed.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I think that’s all she does. Was she always like that?”
He glanced up as he took a bite. “I didn’t see her often. She kind of has a problem with me being in the house, so I usually try to limit my visits.”
I frowned. “Why?”
He smashed some more of his ice cream. “Your mom isn’t big on me hanging out in the house because of my dad.” Pausing, he shrugged. “She probably thinks I’m going to steal some of her art.”
I clenched the spoon so tightly I wouldn’t have been surprised if it bent. “That’s so messed up. Your dad is no different than mine. They just do different jobs. I don’t get what the big deal is.”
He had that look again—the one that made me feel as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t even begin to figure out. “You know what I always thought was funny?”
“What?”
“From what Scott has said, your dad was very much like mine, before he met your mother. Didn’t have a lot of money, came from the working class and whatnot, so I could never figure out how he ended up with your mom.”
And that was a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. “Me neither, because Mom comes from—”
“Old money, and they tend to stick together. Maybe he just swept her off her feet.”
I started to grin at that, picturing my dad winning my mom over through all kinds of romantic gestures, but then I thought about how they were now. There was more romance between me and my hairbrush than between those two.
Carson took a huge bite of his ice cream. “This is good stuff.”
Watching him dig in, I waited until most of my ice cream melted, and then I twirled my spoon around the bowl, turning it into something like pudding. When Carson laughed, I grinned at him. “I think I like it like this.”
“Yeah, you did that as a kid. Drove your mom insane.”
Chocolate slipped off my spoon, plopping into the bowl as I studied him. “Were we really best friends?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we were…inseparable for a long time.”
As I’d done a thousand times since learning Carson was the answer to my security question, I tried to picture us doing things together—running, playing, getting into trouble. Sadly, like everything else, the memories just weren’t there no matter how hard I tried. If I was being honest with myself, I think it was the possibility of those memories that I missed the most.
“You have that look on your face,” he said, brushing his hair off his forehead with his free hand. “You’re not happy about something. Bad company, eh?”
“No. Not at all,” I assured him. “It just sucks not being able to remember anything. I think…I would’ve really liked those memories.”