“I can’t…” Casey said. “I have to go.”
“But your arm. Your face.”
“Lillian. I have to go.”
Lillian stared at her for a few more moments, then sighed. “Okay.” She stepped behind a bush and pulled out Casey’s backpack. “I hope I got everything. There’s no first aid equipment.”
Casey’s eyes stung.
“Rosemary will keep them busy for a while,” Lillian said. “We told them you were out, but that we were expecting you back late. They seem to have settled in for the wait.”
Casey dropped her chin to her chest. “I wanted…I didn’t want…”
“I know, sweetheart.” Lillian squatted, knees popping, and laid an arm over Casey’s shoulders. “We’ll see you again. And whatever your trespasses, my dear, whatever it is you’re running from, we hope you’re soon running back.”
Casey swiped the tears from her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and they came away, wet with tears and blood. She wiped them on her pants. “Tell Rosemary…”
“I’ll tell her, darling.”
Lillian stood and helped Casey back to her feet.
“The bike is there,” Lillian said, pointing to the side of the house. “It’s yours now, if you can…” She gestured at Casey’s arm.
“I can’t take your bike—”
“You can. You will. Go.”
A light flickered in the back room, and Casey jumped further into the shadows. Lillian waited quietly, but nothing else moved.
“Go, sweetheart,” she finally said.
“I never paid you.”
Lillian laughed quietly. “My dear, you’ve paid us in more ways than one. Now go.”
Casey hitched her bag onto her back, wincing as the strap scraped her shoulder, and stumbled to the bike. She swung her leg over the seat and rode quickly away from the house, not looking back, her right arm cradled against her stomach. She didn’t reach up again to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Forty
It was dark in Eric’s back yard. Dark and quiet. A neighbor’s garage stood open to the night, the car cold. She rolled her bike into the dark space, where it would sit, camouflaged among the family’s bikes, one a tiny pink two-wheeler with training wheels, streamers dangling from the handlebars. No one would notice the old Schwinn before she had a chance to take it.
Hunkered down in the garage, she gingerly pulled her shirt over her head, wincing as the material came away from her sliced shoulder. The blood had begun to clot, and the wound started bleeding again as she tore the fabric from her arm. Ripping the shirt with her teeth, she awkwardly tied a strip around her arm to staunch the bleeding.
She unzipped her bag, pulled out a dark, long-sleeved shirt, and eased it over her head. A rake hung on the wall just above her, and the nail was long enough to accommodate her pack, as well. She hefted it up, snagging the nail. The bag was inconspicuous there. Just one more thing, amidst the tools and sports equipment.
Casey looked at her bag. At her bike. She should just go. Just leave. Take off into the night. But even if she did, even if she somehow avoided the cops in Clymer, could she live with that? Could she live with letting Ellen’s death be branded a suicide? Could she let Eric wonder forever what had happened—either with Ellen or Bone and Taffy?
Besides, there was no guarantee she could avoid the cops, traveling on a bicycle.
Casey stepped carefully from the garage. There was no good hiding place for her in there. She considered Eric’s yard, with its shrubbery, but knew it would be a foolhardy spot to wait for him to come home. His house was the same. Even if she could find a way in, she would be discovered when someone—whoever it was—came to hunt her down.
But what if she didn’t find a way in.
The houses on either side were dark, and Casey could see no tell-tale signs of activity. No dogs had as yet noticed her presence, and she was hopeful none would.
She eyed the trees around Eric’s house. Not huge. But large enough. Sticking to the shadows, she made her way to the side of the house, where a mid-sized maple grew only feet from the building. With a leap, she grabbed onto a lower branch and walked her feet up the trunk until she could swing herself up to straddle the branch. She lay against the tree limb, gasping, focusing past the pain in her arms and back. She had to move. She grabbed a close branch and eased herself upward, climbing until she was level with the roof.
The branches here weren’t thick, but were at least as round as her legs. Leaning forward onto her stomach, she shimmied toward the roof of the house, the wood bending under her weight. The branch cracked with a loud pop, and dropped several inches. She froze, waiting to plummet to the ground, but the branch stopped, whether by its own strength or the support of another. When she was sure it was done moving she inched forward again, the branch bending until she was within reaching distance of the roof.
The limb cracked again, and with a lunge she grabbed onto the edge of the roof and scrabbled upward. The branch flicked back up, as if she’d never been on it.
Casey looked around the roof for a good spot, and scooted on her stomach to the opposite side, the driveway side, where she could see when Eric arrived. A chimney sat close to the peak of the roof, and she pulled herself into its shadow, where she brought her knees to her chest, fitting herself into the darkness.
It would take hours for Eric to be done with the police. By the time they finished at the scene and took his statement it would be the middle of the night. Casey settled down for a long wait, aware of the rustling leaves, the sound of faraway dogs, and the occasional car passing the house. Only when her legs began to cramp did she allow herself to move, and then just a minute amount, enough to stop the pain.
She leaned her head against the bricks of the chimney. Her kidney ached. Her lip throbbed. It had stopped bleeding, but she could feel the blood, crusty and already scabbing on her mouth.
The dead man’s blood hadn’t had a chance to begin clotting.
Casey shook her head. She couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about those eyes, blanker even in death than they’d been in life. The knife, left on the ground beside the Pontiac, holding both Bone’s prints and hers. Taffy, who would be waking up in police custody.
Lights danced across the backyard, and Casey brought her head up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. She peeked around the edge of the chimney. Not Eric’s car. A police cruiser. The doors were opening. Eric was stepping out. Eric and the chief.
“Check the yard,” Reardon said to an officer, who climbed out the driver’s side. “We’ll check the house, make sure she’s not hiding here.”
Casey eased back behind the chimney. Pulled her knees to her chest. Squeezed her eyes shut, childlike. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
Long minutes passed. A breeze blew across the roof, sending leaves past her, skidding across the roof, and she shivered.
She opened her eyes. The officer’s flashlight was coming back now. She could see the beam as it bobbed and weaved across the branches of the tree, across the roof, just beyond her toes.
A door slapped open. “Well?” Reardon.
“Nothing, sir. She’s not here.”
Silence.
“Eric said she ran, sir. She could be long gone already.”
Casey could feel the chief’s doubts. His inability to believe that she had left town so quickly, leaving no clue as to where she’d gone. “Yeah, well, Eric doesn’t know everything, does he?”
Footsteps sounded on the driveway, and the chief’s voice was louder. “You know what I want, Eric. She shows up, you tell her to come in. It will be better for her if she tells me the story herself.”
“But I told you—”
“You hear what I’m saying?”
A pause. “I hear you.”
“Good. We didn’t need this, Eric. Our town doesn’t need any more death.”
“Yes. I know.”