Blackwood Read online

  Jackpot.

  The room even smelled like Phillips. A peppery clean scent. Wait – since when did she know what Phillips smelled like? She refocused on the task before her, fighting off a blush.

  Phillips' room was shockingly messy for a room that hadn't been lived in for three years. CD cases, books, and laundry were strewn across the space. A big duffel bag lay across the unmade bed, a vintage Ramones poster hanging over it. She picked her way around the mess and peered into the bag's open top.

  An iPod rested inside, earbuds still connected. There were also a couple of slim paperbacks and a bunch of clothes. That was it.

  She snared the iPod – it would give her something to listen to in the bath. She should have time to sneak back in here and put it away. Besides, Miranda's mom had taught her that while eyes were important, music was the real window to someone's soul. Phillips had heard voices talk about her. She deserved some intel of her own.

  Miranda hurried back to the guest room, crossing into the bathroom and starting the tap. She changed into the robe, dumped in the bath salts, and leaned against the sink to wait for the tub to fill.

  She thumbed through the music, putting in the earbuds. There were a lot of artists she'd never heard of, but several that she liked. The Black Keys, Neko Case, The Dead Weather. She sorted by favorites and turned up a playlist called North Carolina Stuff – The Rosebuds, The Bowerbirds, Ryan Adams. Maybe listening to it had been like a connection to home for him.

  No Blondie, but she approved of the bands she knew. She hit shuffle mode and play and learned something else about Phillips. He kept the volume cranked way too loud. Jumping at the blare, she dropped the iPod on the vanity. Retrieving it, she looked up into the mirror, expecting to see nothing of note. Just her own tired face. Frazzled hair. Dark circles. Etcetera.

  The strawberry-colored snake crawled along the top of her cheek toward her temple. Unmistakable. A birthmark, but not hers. Her father's.

  No one heard Miranda's scream.

  8

  Dead Man

  Phillips shimmied inside carrying a plastic clothes basket filled with Miranda's things, while his mom held the door for him. The house was dark and quiet. Had Miranda gone to bed already? It was getting late, and she must be exhausted. A twinge of disappointment spiked through him. He dismissed it.

  You're just helping her. You don't need to say goodnight to her.

  But his mother must have read his mind – she was way too good at that – and she clucked, closing the door. "We have to take her things up regardless, just be quiet."

  The thought of seeing Miranda asleep made Phillips uneasy in a different way, but he followed his mom to the staircase. No more voices yet, but they could return at any moment. The sound of running water met them halfway up the steps. At the top, his mom looked over and said, "You wait out here."

  "What? Oh." Phillips stood in the hallway outside the guest room, balancing the basket. Waiting.

  He heard his mother say, "Oh, honey." The water turned off and an awful gasping keening sound like death rose up in its place. Miranda.

  He dropped the basket, rushing through the guest room to the bathroom. The water surged at the lip of the tub, sloshing onto the floor. Not full enough to completely overflow, so this hadn't been going on that long.

  This was Miranda in tears. He took one look at Miranda in a fuzzy blue robe big enough to swallow her, rocking back and forth on the floor, heaving like waves in the ocean, while his mother ineffectually patted her back and tried to lift her face, and he knew.

  This was heartbreak. Miranda, heartbroken right in front of him.

  He went down on his knees in front of her and joined his mother's tentative chorus of coos with words. "Miranda? We're here, what happened?" His mom shot him a confused expression, and he clarified, "Is this about your dad or… did something else happen?"

  His mom mouthed "oh," understanding, and getting more worried. She stood. "Phillips, you stay with her. I'll be right back. I'm going to get a glass of water and call your father to make sure nothing has… changed."

  Phillips put his hand on Miranda's shoulder and tried her name again, "Miranda? What is it? You can trust me."

  But if she heard a word he said she gave no sign of it.

  He shifted his hand and his fingers tangled in the cord of his earbuds. "Are those mine?" he asked. "Did you go in my room?"

  She rocked for another moment, then stopped and tipped her face up at him. Her green eyes were wide and bloodshot. In the years he'd been away, Miranda had become, well, beautiful.

  "Are you mad?" she said, through ragged breaths. "I just borrowed them."

  He needed to keep her talking. "Did you find anything interesting in my room?"

  She scowled.

  Definitely beautiful.

  She said, "Of course not. I was looking for some music. To listen to in the bath…"

  "And my taste in music made you completely wig out?"

  He thought he'd messed up and she was going to start howling again as a flash of pain crossed her features. She put her hand up to smooth the hair back off her cheek, and he did it for her.

  "So, I get most of them," he said, "Battlestar Galactica, those Whedon shows, Supernatural, but… why do you own season one of The Vampire Diaries?"

  She blinked, but he couldn't tell if it had worked until she said, "You snooped in my room?"

  He had her.

  "I had to help pack your stuff." He wrinkled his nose. "You have a thing for brooding vampire brothers?"

  "You've seen it?"

  Keep her talking. He shrugged. "Study lounge has a TV. Doppelgangers are hot. I'm not proud."

  She sniffed. "The town reminds me of this one. Repressed and… full of secrets. Everybody in everybody else's business." Her eyes widened. She was still scared. "Wait, where's Sidekick?"

  "He's in the car – I'll go get him."

  But Phillips sat down across from her, and they stayed that way, silently, until he heard his mom's footsteps start up the stairs. She'd be back any second. "What happened?" he asked.

  Miranda blinked at him again, hesitating, and he saw the exact moment when she made the decision to tell him.

  "This," she said. She pointed to the top of her cheek.

  It wasn't that Phillips had memorised Miranda's face or anything like that, but he knew in an instant the birthmark didn't belong. And that it was the snake he yelled at her about all those years ago. The flurry of voices had been so intense he didn't really remember what they'd said and barely what he'd repeated. The main reason he left school was because he couldn't stand the idea of listening to the jerks there taunt her with ammunition he had provided.

  "Where did that come from?" he asked.

  "I think it's my dad's. I need to see the body."

  His mom called out, "Here's the water coming right up."

  Phillips considered the options. "Pretend you were sad about your dad and go to bed. I'll come get you later."

  "To go where?"

  "To see the body." He reached out as his mom crossed the threshold, and plucked the glass of water from her hand. "Now drink this," he said, holding it to Miranda's lips to make sure she did.

  • • • •

  Miranda was convinced she'd never be able to get to sleep, not while she expected Phillips to come in and wake her. Visions of drooling on her pillow danced in her head. She didn't know if she snored or talked in her sleep or anything else embarrassing. No one had ever told her, but who would have? Her dad? Sidekick?

  She patted the dog's head where he lay sprawled next to her on top of the covers. Sara was nice enough to let him sleep with her, even though they didn't have any pets that lived in the house. Miranda rubbed Kicks' belly, glad to have him with her while she tried not to obsess over the thing on her skin…

  When Phillips shook her shoulder an hour later, Miranda could tell by the reluctance on his face he'd been trying to wake her for a while. "We can do this tomorrow," he said, the wh
isper apologetic, "if you need the sleep more. I just figured you'd want some privacy. If we go now no one else will be there."

  Miranda rubbed her eyes and yawned, which sent Phillips to his feet and scrambling a few steps back.

  Oh-kay, so I do look scary when I wake up.

  She matched his whisper. "You're right. I don't want anyone else there. But…" She climbed out of the bed, already dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. "This means we're breaking in?"

  "Don't worry about it," Phillips said. "I've got experience."

  The more she learned about Phillips, the more of a mystery he became. "Why'd you start doing all that crime stuff?"

  "Later. We'll wake up mom," he said. "We'd better go, sleeptalker."

  Miranda thanked the low light in the room for concealing the way her cheeks flamed traitorously. Don't ask what you said, don't ask what you said… "What'd I say?"

  "Later," he said.

  She slipped on her sneakers. "What about Sidekick?"

  Whispering with Phillips like this in the middle of the night was kind of fun, like a secret mission or a conspiracy. Then she remembered why they were doing it, chasing the fun away.

  Phillips must have seen the change. "He'll be quiet if he stays here?"

  She leaned in to pat his head. "Stay," she told him, halfwishing she could crawl back into bed beside him and forget about doing this.

  She didn't expect it when Phillips reached over and touched her cheek. "It'll be OK," he said.

  "Good lie."

  He motioned for her to tiptoe out of the room in front of him, and once they were both through he pulled the door closed. He took the lead on the steps, signaling her to follow his path exactly. Not a creak sounded on their way down. And then came the discovery that he'd moved his mom's car already, so the noise of it starting would be a distant cough from the house. Once they were settled in and heading downtown, a song she'd never heard playing from a custom mix CD in the stereo, she said, "You're good at this, 007. Why?"

  He didn't answer, just tapped his fingers along to the song. The lyrics were something about a guy being handcuffed to a fence in Mississippi. Finally, he said, "I wanted to get sent away."

  "Oh. Why?"

  "Because I couldn't stand it here."

  She got it. "Repressed town. Everybody in everybody else's business."

  He said, "In that show the whole town isn't the problem – it's the supernaturals killing people and screwing things up."

  They were passing a spot where the Sound became visible, the water sparkling in the moonlight. "You don't think the townspeople would be nosy without vampires?" Stop talking. "And I kind of envy the vampires. A secret life where you can tell everyone exactly what you think of them and then make them forget? Not caring what people think because you never have to deal with them unless you want to? It appeals."

  "But then you miss everything," he said, though he didn't sound like he believed it. "You miss getting to know who the people around you are. A lonely way to live." That he sounded like he believed.

  "Well, I don't want to drink anybody's blood," she said. "Hey, why do you know so much random stuff like matchlocks and music and The, ahem, Vampire Diaries?" I never met anyone like you.

  He didn't answer for a long moment, pulling the sedan up to the curb so the weepy hanging branches of a big tree offered cover. Not that there was anyone else on the street to see them. He turned off the car, and looked over at her.

  "I had too much I didn't want in my head. I thought maybe if I…"

  "Filled it with other stuff it would crowd out the bad," Miranda supplied. It made sense. "Did it work?"

  He flashed a smile. She pretended not to notice the way it made her feel fluttery, like a silly girl. This was probably how Blue Doe felt all the time, light and airy, like her head was a bubble and might float away.

  "I don't know yet," he said. "Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "Next street over."

  He hopped out, walking around behind the car to open her door before she could, as she calculated where he meant. She planted her feet on the pavement. "But that's the funeral home. I can't afford a funeral. And who would come?"

  "I'd come, but no, they won't have one unless you want it. This isn't New York – we don't have a real morgue here, just the funeral home our county medical examiner runs. They'll be storing the… your dad's body in the cold room here until they can get it schlepped off to one of the universities for the autopsy."

  "How do you know this?"

  "Police chief's son, remember?"

  That hardly explained it, but she nodded. "Let's go then," but her stomach hardened into a small, heavy stone. The funeral home. She stayed quiet while they walked there, and he didn't push her to talk, so quiet must have been required anyway. The night lacked the humidity of the day, the streets empty like so many people's lives on the island were right now.

  The funeral home's front porch came into view, the place the men and the smokers hung out during the big town social events that occurred whenever someone died. Funeral visitations were like church – a chance to see and be seen, and without all the pressure to be godly that came along with sermons. A flood of images rushed over Miranda from her mother's funeral, the people who'd shown up with whispers and fake sympathy for her and her father. People who'd done nothing but gossip for years about why that nice Anna-Marie Johnson – even if she was an out-of-towner, with no family of her own to speak of – had to go and marry a Blackwood. And how her girl, that Miranda, she wasn't ever going to amount to anything now.

  "Miranda?" Phillips whispered, turning to see why she'd stopped. "You OK?"

  Miranda drew in a shaky breath, and caught up with him. "How do we get in?"

  "Around back," he said, frowning at her in concern.

  "I'm fine," she said.

  He led them to the rear entrance without another word, but when they stopped, she could see the wrinkles of that frown still on his forehead. They vanished as he took out a long skinny piece of metal. "Where do you get something like that?" she asked.

  "This?" He raised his eyebrows. "eBay."

  Miranda trusted him, she did, but… "What if someone's here? Maybe I should just wait until tomorrow."

  He stepped back, off the sidewalk into the parking lot so the whole back of the funeral home was visible. She went along, curious. He pointed to the upstairs. "When Marlon is here, the TV in that room is always on. See how dark it is?"

  She nodded, and he hesitated. "What else?" she prodded.

  "Marlon's wife is one of the missing. There's no one in the funeral home for embalming or viewing, just your dad. I checked the obits for the last week online. So he's at their house. Not here."

  "OK," she said.

  "But we don't have to do this." He watched her. "Not if you don't want to."

  If she balked at this point, she'd have to explain the reason – that she was afraid. She'd rather get this over with than that. She touched her cheek. "No, I need to see him."

  Phillips had the door open within a minute, saying simply, "Old lock."

  He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and shined it up the hallway in front of them. Powder blue walls, worn navy carpet, framed seascapes lining the walls. Another wave of memories threatened to overwhelm Miranda as she walked inside and smelled that too-clean smell, the smell of terrible things being covered up, a smell meant to pretend this was somewhere besides the house where death lived. Somewhere besides a place that would ruin your life.

  She drew in another shaky breath, glad that Phillips couldn't see her in the dark.

  They made their way up the hall and through a small kitchenette where unfortunate scuttling met them, then Phillips "unlocked" another door. They passed into a hallway, the beam from the flashlight tunneling through absolute darkness, and she imagined they were traveling to the underworld. With each step, the floor creaked. Miranda was comforted by the fact that Phillips didn't know this place well enough to avoid the noisy ones.


  At the end of the dark hall, he opened a heavier door and let her go in first. He joined her and flipped on a light. The suddenly bright room was cold and reeked of formaldehyde.

  The flat black sheen of a body bag dominated the center of a metal table. Miranda approached it like she was levitating, unable to feel her feet moving, but getting closer just the same.

  "It's freezing down here," she said.

  "Actually, it's 39.2 degrees. Not freezing."

  She stopped at the side of the table. "Shouldn't it be freezing?"

  "Freezing would be ideal, but this is a funeral home, not CSI. The cold still majorly slows decomp." Phillips swung around the table's other side and checked the surfaces nearby for something, then held up a thin file folder and flipped through it.