Beneath Her Skin, Gregg Olsen [ereader with android .txt] 📗

one. What exactly could she do? Jake was in a holding cell for something he didn’t do. Katelyn had been very fragile. And it was true that she might be dead because of how they had emailed and taunted her over that stupid beer-and-cigarette photograph she handed over to the principal for revenge. What had seemed like only a pinprick of revenge had turned into one enormous gash.

“You know, Mom,” Starla said, looking for words that would hurt and resonate, “I used to think you were pretty and stupid; now I’m thinking you’re just pretty stupid.”

Mindee, however, remained stone-faced. Her daughter was at least a little bit right.

“I have to tell the truth. The whole truth,” she finally said, starting toward the door.

Starla stopped her mother. “The whole truth?” she asked. “Wait a sec. Not the whole truth.”

Mindee knew what Starla was getting at. Starla in a very real way was Mindee’s creation, the girl she wanted to be. The girl other girls dreamed of being. She’d put everything she had into Starla, and she wasn’t about to pull the plug on her ambitions.

“Not everything. Don’t worry. I’ll take the blame here. I’ll leave you out of it.”

“Even if you have to go to jail?” Starla asked in a manner that both suggested a possible outcome but also a kind of contract between the two. She’d seen her mother cheat her no-good boss, Nicola, out of tips a time or two. She’d seen how she’d once told Jake she was going to visit a sister in Tacoma—when the truth was that she had no sister in Tacoma but rather an old flame she sought to rekindle.

As Starla and Mindee gathered their things, Teagan appeared in the doorway. He was visibly upset by the conversation coming from the kitchen, the latest in many from which he was routinely excluded.

“I heard what you were talking about,” he said.

“Fine,” Starla said. “Then you’ll know what not to talk about. We’re going to the police. Mom screwed up big-time and she’s going to do what’s right. For once.”

Mindee hooked her purse on her arms. She looked weak, ready to crumble.

“Yeah, your sister is right,” she said.

Teagan stopped her. “But it isn’t right for you to take all the blame.”

“Let Mom handle it,” Starla said, trying to untangle mother and son. “You can come with us or you can stay here. You choose.”

Teagan put on his jacket, his gloves and his hat.

The same things he had worn that night.

Teagan despised his family, but doing the right thing seemed like a step toward something better than the direction in which they’d all been going since his father abandoned them. He’d been unable to sleep, pay attention in class or do anything whatsoever. He needed to come clean. He needed to save himself.

Because he couldn’t save Katelyn.

Teagan looked at his mother, his eyes welling with tears and the muscles in his throat so taut he could barely speak.

“Mom,” he said, “there’s something you should know.”

God knew where Hayley was, though Taylor had no doubt who she was with. Colton, of course. It was always Colton. Her mom was in the master bedroom working on her least favorite task in the world—paying bills. Her father was in his office Skyping with a spiky redhead with a bird-beak nose, who insisted she was the daughter of Richard “Night Stalker” Ramirez.

As if that were something worth telling the world about. Jeesh! Anything for fame.

Taylor poured herself a glass of water and sipped it at the kitchen table. A digital clock made to sound like an analog clock ticked away the seconds as she thought about Jake’s arrest, Katelyn’s death and the reporter from the North Kitsap Herald who seemed to lurk around Port Gamble like a crime groupie.

She texted her sister and waited for a reply. Nothing. For the first time, she noticed a copy of her dad’s magazine called Justice; it was open to an article about weapons.

Taylor sipped her water, her eyes gliding over the glossy pages. She was just about to dismiss the rag, thinking Vogue was so much more interesting, when a headline leaped out at her. All thoughts of haute couture dropped away, and a dark feeling swept over the fifteen-year-old. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. There was something wrong about those words—something that wasn’t the least bit funny. The letters appeared to pulsate on the page.

Taylor shifted in the kitchen chair. Her heart rate started to accelerate. She could feel something happening, a feeling that drew her eyes to the article for further scrutiny.

Taylor finished her water and reached for a pen and the cube-shaped notepad next to the kitchen phone that only rang with robocalls around election time. No one ever called a house phone anymore.

GUNS: THE KEY TO JAIL

The words shifted and moved across the small square of paper. Taylor had experienced that before, but never with such velocity. The movement was so fast that it almost made her sick. It was as fast as a merry-go-round at nano speed, a spinning bottle in Truth or Dare whirling in a blur, or the wheels of an overturned car spinning in a ditch.

The frenetic movement was probably necessary. So much was at stake.

The words that formed were unmistakable, and suddenly Taylor knew what happened to Katelyn.

She just knew.

JAKE. HE’S NOT GUILTY

Jumping from her chair, Taylor looked up at her mother who appeared while all that was happening on the square of paper.

“I thought you might find that article interesting,” Valerie said, her words oddly tentative. “I left it there for you.”

Taylor pushed herself from the table and headed for the door.

“Thanks, Mom,” she gasped.

Valerie reached for Taylor’s shoulder, but missed.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere,” Taylor said, her eyes catching her mother’s briefly. “I don’t have time to talk. There’s something I need to do.”

* * *

She ran as fast as she could. Cold puffs came from her lips like a steam