The real killer

Breathing hard, Dave stopped beside Melissa’s bed. His dark eyes glared down at her. In the dim light from the window, she saw that he was even thinner, his scraggly hair falling past his shoulders now.

“Melissa,” he whispered, still trying to catch his breath. “You look so scared.”

“You—yes—” she stammered, finally finding her voice. She gripped the covers and pulled them up to her shoulders.

“So you think I’m guilty too,” he said, his voice filled with menace and disappointment.

“No, Dave—”

“That’s why you’re scared, huh?” he asked, leaning over her, so close she could smell onions on his breath. “You’re scared of me because you think I killed Josie?”

“No,” Melissa replied angrily. “I’m scared because you broke into my house. I’m scared because you climbed in my window like—like a burglar or something!”

He snickered. “Sorry.”

Melissa climbed out of bed and crossed the room to her closet, keeping her eyes on Dave. Feeling around in the dark closet, she found her robe, and pulled it on, struggling with one sleeve.

“Why’d you climb in here like that, Dave? What are you doing?” she demanded, clicking on the ceiling light.

They both blinked under the sudden brightness.

Dave looked terrible, she saw. His eyes were red rimmed, with dark circles under them. His hair was greasy and disheveled, his sweater and jeans wrinkled and filthy.

“I always wondered if you believed me,” he said, ignoring her questions. “I always wondered if you thought I killed Josie. If you thought I stabbed Erica. You said you believed me. But I always wondered.”

“I did believe you!” Melissa insisted, keeping her back against the wall, edging nervously toward the doorway. “You know I believed you.”

“I don’t know what I know,” he said bitterly.

“Dave, what are you doing here now? What do you want?”

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” he replied, snickering at his own joke. He dropped down wearily on the edge of her bed and wiped his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his sweater. “That tree isn’t easy to climb,” he muttered.

“Dave, why did you run away from school? Your mother called me. She—”

“She did?” He slapped his forehead. “She spoiled my surprise?”

Melissa groaned impatiently. “Dave, she sounded very worried about you. Very frightened.”

“You know Mom,” he replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Dave, why?” Melissa insisted. “Why’d you come back?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he said, suddenly turning serious. “I didn’t come here to scare you, Melissa. I’ve missed you, you know.”

“I-I’ve missed you too,” Melissa said awkwardly, leaning back against the wall, relaxing a little and sighing.

“I heard about you and Luke,” Dave said flatly, without any expression at all.

“Well...”

“I was kind of surprised,” he said, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Me too,” Melissa confessed. “But you didn’t come here because of Luke, did you?”

“I think I know who the real killer is,” he said abruptly, staring up at her, his dark eyes flashing to life. “I’ve had so much time to figure it out, so much time to think about it. I can’t get it out of my mind. I’m obsessed with clearing my name, with finding the real killer.”

“That’s why you’ve come back to Shadyside?” Melissa asked.

He nodded. “I want to prove that I’m not a killer. I want to prove it to you. To everybody.”

“Then why did you send me those disgusting valentines?” Melissa snapped, the words bursting angrily from her.

“Huh?” He jumped to his feet in surprise. “What valentines? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act innocent,” Melissa said sharply. “You know what valentines. The ones with the ugly threats. Just like you sent to Josie.”

“Huh?” He scratched his greasy hair, his eyes studying her face. “Melissa, you don’t think that I—”

“Come off it, Dave,” Melissa shouted. “You sent them to me. They’re in your handwriting.”

“Get real,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re messed up. Really.”

She glared at him angrily but didn’t reply, waiting for him to drop the innocent act and confess.

“Show them to me,” he demanded. “Get them. I want to see.”

“Fine. Here.” She pulled open the top drawer of her desk, grabbed the two valentines, and tossed them at him.

They fell to the floor beside his muddy sneakers. He bent to pick them up. Then holding them close to his face, he examined them carefully, reading each one again and again, squinting as he studied the handwriting.

When he finally finished and set the cards down on the bed, Melissa saw that he was breathing heavily, his eyes glowing with excitement. “Now I know who the killer is!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

“Who?” Melissa demanded.

He didn’t seem to hear her. Lost in his own thoughts, he hurried to the open window, and pulled his knees onto the windowsill as he reached for the tree branch.

“Who?” Melissa repeated. “Who is it, Dave? Tell me!”

Without replying, without a goodbye, he dropped out of view, scrambling down the tree trunk.

“Who is it? Who?” she called after him, leaning out into the cold, still night.

But he had disappeared into the darkness.

Дата добавления: 2015-07-20