Kill Me Once, Kill Me Twice Page 4

  My sweet Keith. Our families have lived across the street from each other our entire lives. His parents got married right after high school, and they’re still ridiculously in love. A couple days after my mom’s funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Stout sent Keith over with burgers and fries from The Batter’s Box. He came back the next day with hot dogs and peanut butter pie. That weekend, when my dad was still too heartsick to get off the couch, Keith mowed our lawn and trimmed the bushes in our front yard. And that was that. He’s been around ever since, my gentle, lumbering, candy-coated boyfriend.

  “Vinnie Morrison is going to be executed next month,” I say. “But what if…” I pause for emphasis. “What if he didn’t kill Lily? What if he’s innocent?”

  “Why would you think that?” Courtney asks.

  “Over 19,000 people are murdered in the U.S every year. All those murders can’t be solved correctly. What if they got the wrong guy for Lily’s murder? What if the real killer is still here in Ryland?”

  “Like who?” Keith stuffs another square of pizza in his mouth. Sausage, pepperoni, and bacon. The half with mushroom and onion is for Courtney and me.

  “I don’t know. It could be anyone.” I pretend to think. “Even, like, Principal Duston.” I gauge their reactions, and when they give me dubious looks, I add, “He’s from Ryland. He knew Lily. I think they were the same age.”

  Keith nods. “He is a hardass. I could see him killing someone.”

  “I know, right?” I knew I could count on him.

  “No way. It was Vinnie Morrison,” Court says. “He confessed, remember? And they found Lily’s diamond necklace in his apartment.”

  I drop the daisy charm on the necklace I’ve been fiddling with. Of course. They had a confession—and evidence. Convicted and sentenced to death. The average death row inmate spends fifteen years between sentencing and execution. Vinnie Morrison has been on death row for almost eighteen years, and not once has he claimed to be innocent. He admitted he killed her.

  “You’re just worried about the scholarship,” Court continues. “You always doubt yourself about tests and stuff, and you get yourself all stressed out. That’s why you still won’t take your driver’s test. But you deserve this scholarship, Ever. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. You’ve been working for it your whole life. All that studying. All those AP classes. Just for this. Don’t blow it now.”

  Court’s right. Not completely right—I won’t take my driver’s test because I don’t want to die in a car accident for a third time—but I do get stressed out about everything. And I do deserve the scholarship, much more than that bullying, cheating, drug-dealing vandal Ash Morrison.

  Now I understand what happened at the interview. I was nervous, stressed out, and I’d just had the death-memory of Lily’s murder. I must have projected my memory of the crossed-hatchet tattoo onto Principal Duston’s wrist when he extended his hand to help me up from the floor.

  Yes. A projection. That’s all it was.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m just worried I won’t get the scholarship.”

  “You’ll get it. Especially now that your competition is Ash Morrison,” Courtney says. “Hey, have I shown you guys the banners for the Training Camp? They turned out really good. Look.” She whips out her phone to show us the design.

  Courtney and I are Batgirls, the pep squad for the baseball team. In addition to supporting the players, our big project every year is running the Little Warriors Training Camp. It started about twenty years ago when the Warriors baseball team hosted the elementary school kids after school one afternoon for skills practice and a fun game. Since then, the Training Camp has grown into a day-long, community-wide event. Courtney is the head Batgirl this year and is therefore in charge of the camp, and she takes her job very seriously.

  I want to discuss the Lily Summerhays murder some more, but Courtney and Keith continue chatting about the Training Camp, and spring break, and graduation. Courtney asks me if I’ve asked my dad yet if I can go up to Chicago with her for her birthday on the Fourth of July. She wants to see the fireworks at Navy Pier.

  “No, not yet,” I say, and then she’s off chatting again, this time about how much she hates one of the girls on her travel softball team. I don’t bring up Lily Summerhays, Vinnie Morrison, or Principal Duston again, and neither do my friends. They’ve forgotten all about it, and I should too.

  But still, after they leave that night, I can’t sleep. Dad’s not home, but that’s not why. The hamster wheel is squeaking in Joey’s room, but that’s not why, either. I get up and open my chemistry textbook and try to study, but nothing sinks in. I straighten my room, even though it’s already clean. I stack my Griffin University brochures by size, big to small. I separate my blue pens from my black pens. I remake my bed, making sure the sheets are perfectly smooth, then get back under the covers. I recite death stats in my head and assure myself that I’m doing nothing that jeopardizes my health and safety.

  I still can’t sleep.

  Finally, I grab my phone and open the browser. But the screen is too small, so I pull my laptop into bed with me. It used to be my mother’s, and even then it was old. Now it’s ancient.

  I turn it on. There’s one image I need to find, and then I’ll be able to sleep. But I don’t even know if such an image exists.

  I find it, finally, after an hour of browsing. An old newspaper photograph of Vinnie Morrison from behind as he was led out of the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit after his conviction, hands cuffed behind his back. Something was on his wrist. A tattoo.

  Vinnie Morrison has a tattoo on his wrist. Good. All that worry for nothing. I can sleep now.

  But—wait.

  No. Stop. Do not look again. I need to stop and put the laptop away and go to sleep and forget about this whole thing. Now.

  My fingers ignore my brain. They click the magnifying glass icon to enlarge the image and zoom in on the tattoo.

  No dual gray blades. No red handle crossing over a yellow handle. Morrison’s tattoo is solid black. Three capital letters in a fancy script: ASH.

  I sit back with a huff. That is most definitely, one hundred percent, absolutely not the hand that gripped a pink paperweight in its fist, growled, “You left me no choice,” and slammed the paperweight into Lily Summerhays’s skull.

  Vinnie Morrison did not kill Lily Summerhays.

  I don’t want to know this. I hate that I know this.

  But I do know it.

  I could just say nothing. Do nothing, keep my mouth shut, win the scholarship. Go to Griffin University. Give my mom what she wanted. Give Lily what she wanted. Give myself what I’ve always wanted.

  Vinnie Morrison didn’t kill Lily, but he was still a criminal. He probably would have ended up killing someone anyway. And Ash must have cheated his way to the final round of the scholarship selection, tricked Miss Buckley somehow, lied to her, maybe even seduced her. He certainly didn’t get there through years of hard work like I did.

  The Lily Summerhays Memorial Scholarship belongs to Lily, and Lily is me. The scholarship is mine.

  That’s it. Decision made. Over. Done. I feel good about this. I close my laptop, pull up the covers, and close my eyes. Sleep.

  I dream of hatchets and sparkly pink paperweights. Electric chairs and lethal injections.

  When the early morning sun shines through my bedroom window, I wake up knowing four things.

  1. I cannot let Vinnie Morrison be executed for a crime he did not commit.

  2. Principal Duston is a killer, and he’s walking around free. Ryland is not the safe town I’ve always thought it was.

  3. Lily Summerhays deserves justice. Lily is me, so I deserve justice too.

  4. Once I prove Principal Duston is the real killer, I am probably going to lose the scholarship.

  Chapter Eight

  Lily ~ Eighteen Years Ago

  The crowd at The Batter's Box was subdued that night, and although I usually liked the diner’s baseball theme, tonight it s
eemed too cheery and victorious. My friends and I sat in our usual booth in the back. Neal Mallick never had a lot of friends, and he’d never hung out at The Batter’s Box, but now that he was dead, his absence felt almost tangible.

  He was the first member of our class to die. No one I knew personally had ever died before. Other than myself, but that didn’t count. All four of my grandparents were still alive, even. My mom’s parents lived in a condo over in Eastfield, and my dad’s parents lived in a retirement community in Tennessee.

  Diana sat across the booth from me with her boyfriend, Brandon Lennox. Her eyes were red and puffy and he was missing his usual lopsided grin, but otherwise, they looked like they’d stepped off the cover of Teen Vogue. They always looked like supermodels even when they were fighting, which was most of the time. But tonight Brandon kept his arm tight over her shoulders. Back together apparently, when they’d just broken up again last week.

  I was squeezed between Javier Soto and Seth Siegel. The only reason my parents let me leave the house tonight was because Seth picked me up. My mother loooooved Seth Siegel. Partly because he was a lot taller than me and had an adorable dimple on his chin, but mostly because his father was the mayor of Ryland and his mother co-chaired the Miss Teen Ryland committee with her. I actually liked Seth. He always made silly faces from his position in right field to make me laugh because he knew how bored I was watching the games. I went to a couple of homecoming dances with him, and we had casual plans to go to prom together in May. But even though he—and my mother—wanted more, I drew a solid line at friendship. I didn’t want any commitments that would tie me to anyone, not if I was going to travel the world.

  Will Duston dragged over a chair to sit at the end of the booth. Usually, I’d make fun of his stupid toothpick and he’d make fun of my hair. But Will saved my life this morning—saved me from being reborn in Ryland—so this time I greeted him with a small nod. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Red.” His gaze caught mine and held it. “You doing all right?”

  I nodded, surprised at his concern.

  “Dude, you were a rock star this morning,” Javier said, giving Will a fist bump. “I still can’t believe any of that happened.”

  “I can’t believe we just saw Neal at school yesterday and now he’s dead.” Diana sniffled and laid her head on Brandon’s shoulder.

  Seth snorted from the far end of the table. “I’m gonna miss that little turtle.” I shot him a glare. People always teased Neal because he looked like a turtle, with his big eyes and big glasses and wide mouth, shuffling down the hall and slouching under the weight of his big green backpack.

  “Don’t be an asshole, Seth.” Will punched him in the arm. “Neal tutored a bunch of our team in school. Without him, they wouldn’t have a GPA high enough to be eligible to play. You’re one of those guys. We kind of owe everything to Neal.”

  Flushing, Seth gave a guilty nod. In the past twelve years, the Ryland Warriors baseball team won the state championship seven times. Coach Nolan, forever a Warrior, had turned down an offer to coach at Indiana State University. Some of the players got baseball scholarships to college. And Brandon Lennox was legendary in Indiana. His unbeatable batting skills had led the Warriors to the Indiana state championship the past three years, and he was expected to do it again this year. He was being scouted by both the New York Yankees and the Houston Astros. They wanted to sign him right out of high school.

  “It’ll be weird going to the movies now,” Diana said, dabbing her eyes. “He always put extra butter on our popcorn.”

  Will popped a toothpick in his mouth, then concentrated on tearing a napkin into shreds.

  I wished I could tell them that Neal was okay, that his soul, or spirit or essence or whatever, had already found a home in the nearest new body. But really, I had no idea if what happened to me happened to anyone else. Maybe everyone else became angels in heaven. Maybe they became nothing. I could only say for sure what happened to me.

  “What’d he look like, Lily?” Tilting his head, Seth hung his tongue from his mouth and rolled his eyes back in a pathetic attempt to look like a dead body.

  “Was he all bashed in from the train?” Diana whispered.

  “It didn’t look like a train hit him,” I said. “He wasn’t that banged up or anything. He looked… like Neal.” I didn’t want to describe how

  bloated

  his body was,

  how hollow

  and haunted

  his eyes were.

  “I just wish we knew what happened to him,” I said. “Why he was on the bridge.”

  The waitress, a short, red-cheeked woman named Bubbles who was married to the owner’s son, came over to refill our drinks. “I heard he was wasted,” she said in her squeaky voice. “After work he met up with Vinnie Morrison behind the theater and bought a bunch of stuff from him. Coke or pills or something.”

  “Neal Mallick? Drugs?” I said. “No way.”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard,” Bubbles said. She shook her head, her brown curly hair swaying, and put a protective hand on her belly. “All I know is, the cops really need to do something about that Vinnie Morrison before my baby is born.” She sauntered off.

  “Well, I heard it was suicide,” Brandon said.

  “He was going to MIT next year,” Javier said, shrugging in his too-big shirt. “Why would he kill himself now?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t handle the pressure,” Brandon said.

  “Nah,” said Seth. “They officially declared it an accidental death.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “My dad’s the mayor,” he said with a shrug. “The cops told him. Neal finished his shift at the movie theater, and on his way home he slipped off the bridge, hit his head on a rock or something, and drowned. His parents didn’t know he never made it home until the cops called them this morning from the creek. They assumed he was in bed sleeping.”

  The others nodded, satisfied. I asked, “But why was he on the bridge in the first place?”

  “Seth just told us,” Javier said. “He was going home. He lives on the south side of town, so he took the shortcut across the bridge instead of walking the extra mile down Taft Avenue.”

  “Not Neal,” I said. “He always took the long way around. Even during the day. He’d never take the bridge—alone—in the middle of the night.”

  “How do you know so much about him?” Will asked. “I don’t remember you being friends with him.”

  “We talked sometimes.” I couldn’t tell him that Neal was the only one I talked to about my past deaths. “He was a nice guy. A good listener.” A good secret-keeper too.

  A sudden pang hit my heart. I never dated anyone because I didn’t want any commitments to hold me back from traveling around the world, but now I wished I’d gone on a date with Neal. I wished I had asked him out—he would have been too shy to ask me—and we’d go out to dinner and then for a long, long walk under the stars, just talking and talking and talking. I wished, at the end of the night, that we parted with a sweet, slow, tender kiss. And now we’d never get that chance.

  “Well, Neal did take the bridge last night,” Brandon said, “so you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.”

  “I guess not.” I plucked a stubby fry from the basket and dipped it in Javier’s ketchup as my friends’ conversation drifted from Neal Mallick to their college plans. Diana described the matching comforters she wanted for our dorm room at Griffin University: white with blue and purple paisleys.

  Diana would have to find a new roommate if I went to CFGU. I hoped that new roommate liked blue and purple paisleys.

  I could only half-listen as everyone discussed their after-graduation plans. My mind kept returning to Neal Mallick. His death had been declared an accident, but the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have taken that bridge to get home. Never.

  I ate the fry, and it was

  cold.

  My pa
rents said I was irresponsible and reckless, and they always accused me of looking for trouble when there was none and making their lives miserable. That was probably true. And if I wanted them to trust me enough to let me go to Carroll-Freywood Global University, I needed to stay out of trouble.

  But I owed it to Neal to find out what really happened to him. Why had he been on Railroad Bridge in the middle of the night?

  I reached for another fry, only to see Will Duston watching me, his icy blue eyes narrowed.

  Chapter Nine

  Ever ~ Present Day

  “Hello, kids,” Keith’s dad greets Joey and me Sunday morning from his corner table at The Batter’s Box, where he’s flipping through a pile of check stubs and holding a stubby pencil in his stubby fingers, making stubby check marks on his bank statement. “You looking for Keith? He should still be home, sleeping.”

  “Morning, Mr. Stout,” I say. I know Keith is still sleeping. He usually sleeps past noon on days he doesn’t have school or baseball practice. “Joey and I are here for breakfast. I didn’t feel like cooking.”

  “Sit wherever you want,” he says, waving absently. “Bubbles will take your order in a sec.”

  Almost half the tables and booths are occupied. Joey scrambles over to an empty booth and climbs in, excited for a pancake breakfast at The Batter’s Box. A rare treat. The Stouts never charge me—I’ll be a member of the family one day, they say—but it makes me uncomfortable to accept their service and food for free, so I rarely come without Keith. But I’m on a mission today.

  “Hey, Mr. Stout,” I say casually, “you knew Lily Summerhays, didn’t you?”

  He grunts a little, then strokes his thick mustache. He’s doughy and soft, like a banana nut muffin fresh out of the oven, and Keith is already starting to look like him. “Not well. She was seven or eight years younger than me. She came here a lot with her friends. My dad ran the place back then. I was assistant manager. Nice girl. Shame what happened to her.”