“It’s Allie,” he said, taking shortcuts to the west side of town. “I called her when I got out of practice. She sounded loaded.”
I gripped the side of the car as we pushed fifty in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone. “Every ten miles of speeding only buys you one minute,” I said.
“And in this case, every minute counts.”
“Where are the other Tragically Normals?”
“Who?”
“Kate and Cheyenne.”
He shrugged. “Let’s hope they’re at Allie’s house, because from the way she was sounding, she should not be alone.”
Darkness came early these days, and when we arrived at Allie’s house, the sun was over the horizon and the streetlights were on. Matt took my hand and together we rushed up Allie’s brick-and-white colonial home. There were no cars in the driveway, no sign of parents.
“You sure she’s here?” I asked, following him around to the back after the doorbell got us nowhere.
“She said she was home.” Cupping his hands on a downstairs window, he peered in and said, “The TV’s on.”
I tried opening the sliding door, but it was locked. Every door was locked.
“I wish you’d heard her, Graves. It was like she was possessed. Kept talking about people watching her and there being no safe place for any of us and how all the walls were crumbling down.” He backed up to examine the upper windows. “She sounded so much like Erin. Paranoid.”
I had a flash memory of Allie turning off the light and quietly exiting Boo’s prep room. That big Betsey bag. Ugh. Why didn’t I think to check it? “Matt, we have to get in there. Or call 911. She might have taken something bad.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . call her. I’ll tell you later.”
Matt tried calling her on his phone. No answer. Then, placing two fingers in his mouth, he produced a whistle of such high-pitched frequency that he could have set off alarms.
“Allie? You in? It’s me, Matt.”
A light flicked on and the curtains at an upstairs window parted slightly. A silhouette of a girl with long, dark hair appeared. Talk about ghostly.
Matt cupped his hands to his mouth. “Open up, Allie.”
She shook her head slowly and let the curtains fall.
In frustration, Matt tried the sliding door again, while I headed around the house to the garage, finding one of the two doors unlocked. Lifting it open, I fumbled for a light and yelled for Matt.
“Awesome,” he said. “I’ve been in this house before. That door in the corner leads to the kitchen.”
I went over to the door and turned the handle, and much to my relief, it opened. We ran in, shouting Allie’s name.
He dashed up the stairs while I turned on lights. Everything appeared to be in order. I wondered when her parents would be home and what could be the reason for Allie’s odd behavior.
Matt reached the landing and froze. Allie was singing. Or crying. It was hard to tell. “Oh my God. Lily,” he said. “Come here quick!”
I found him standing in the doorway of Allie’s bedroom, and there on the floor, next to a pile of clothes, was Allie Woo, pale, bloodied, and meticulously braiding her hair.
She lifted her gaze to me with dull, faraway eyes. “Oh, good, you came, Lily. I was so hoping you’d join us.”
My hand reached for Matt, who gave me a be-strong squeeze before letting go and squatting next to Allie. “What’s up?”
She giggled.
The room was a disaster, as if Allie had emptied every drawer and her entire closet of their contents. Dresses lay ripped to shreds. Heels were broken off their shoes. A pair of pink underwear dangled from a ceiling fan.
Allie curled into a fetal position and began rocking.
“We need to call an ambulance,” I whispered. “She’s cut herself.” I pointed to the floor where a large maroon stain was spreading over the cream-colored carpet.
“Jesus,” Matt said, looking rather sick himself. “Allie. Why’d you do this?”
“You can’t call the police,” Allie said. “They’ll just arrest you.”
There was some truth to that, I thought, taking out my phone and dialing 911 anyway. And that probably explained why Kate and Cheyenne were staying away.
Some friends.
The dispatcher got on and I gave her Allie’s name and approximate address. Then I gave ours: Lily Graves and Matt Houser.
“There’s a suicide attempt,” I said. “Come quick.”
I described the scene as best as I could—possible drugs or intoxication, a seventeen-year-old girl, approximately one hundred and fifteen pounds and kind of out of it.
Matt held up her wrists to display superficial horizontal cuts. Enough to cause a lot of capillary bleeding and tons of pain, but not life-threatening.
I covered the receiver and said, “Tourniquet.”
He ripped a strip of white cotton from an already destroyed T-shirt and tied it at her right elbow, pulling it tightly. Then he did the same to her left. Allie, meanwhile, had gone limp, her arms flopping to the side.
“Do you think she’s going to make it?” he asked, cradling her.
I put my nose to her mouth.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked.
“Sniffing for formaldehyde.” I exhaled in relief. “Vodka. And plenty of it.”
“Allie. Why?” He brushed back her hair, much like my mother had done for me only minutes before. “You’re better than this.”
But Allie was out cold. I put two fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse that was stronger than I’d expected.
“She feels guilty. She blames herself for something that’s not her fault.” I lifted my fingers from her neck and touched his cheek. “You know what that’s like, right?”
Matt nodded and stroked Allie’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong. You have to let it go and go on the best you can.”
He could have been advising himself.
Red and white lights flashed in the hallway. I ran downstairs and unlocked the front door for a crew of emergency technicians who arrived with radios crackling.
“She’s upstairs,” I said.
A woman in a white EMT uniform took me aside. “Wait here. We’ll need to ask a few questions.”
After several minutes, Matt came down and folded his arms. They were splotched with blood. “They’re taking care of her. I think she’ll be okay.”
“Absolutely,” I said, rubbing his back. “It was great the way you were talking to her. I’m sure she heard you.”
“I hope so. I’m sick of all this death and cutting.” Impulsively, he wrapped me in a hug and said, “Don’t you start freaking out too, okay?”
“Come on.” I tried to make light of it, but the truth was that I had fallen for Matt Houser. Hard. I liked that he’d been a good enough friend of Allie’s to check on her after practice, that he didn’t flinch at blood or hesitate when it came to doing what he could to stem the bleeding. But mostly I liked that he was holding me tight and, every once in a while, brushing his lips against my hair.
“Hey,” he murmured, “you’re shaking.”
Was I? I didn’t like to consider myself the quivering female. Then again, there was something about being with Matt that allowed me to unravel. He was strong and he understood what I was going through. I wanted to lean against him and bury my face in his neck, to forget the blood and violence of the past few days. And I might have done just that if Detective Zabriskie hadn’t chosen that moment to walk through the front door.
He took one glance at us in a clutch and said, “Why am I not surprised?”
Matt said, “Take it easy, dude. This time we’re the good guys.”
Allie was transported to Potsdam Regional Medical Center. I overheard the EMT tell Zabriskie that she appeared to be suffering from acute alcohol intoxication and would be fine after she had her stomach pumped, though she might be admitted to the psych ward overnight for observation. Her parents, at a fund-raiser one town over, had been notified and were on their way.
After Matt and I gave our written statements and we were driving back to my house, I had a thought.
“Do you have Kate Kline’s number?”
Matt reached in his pocket and handed his phone to me. “Here. Why?”
“She won’t listen to me, but she’ll listen to you.” I looked up her number. “When she gets on, tell her that Allie tried to kill herself tonight and that the cops are at the hospital where Erin wants her and Cheyenne to go and do the right thing.”
“Erin?” Matt grimaced. “She’s dead.”
“In body only. In Kate’s imagination, I have no doubt she’s very much alive.”
When we got to my house, Matt parked the car and made the call. I could hear Kate’s voice from my side of the truck.
“Allie tried to kill herself tonight,” he said somberly. “She’s at the hospital and so are two detectives named Zabriskie and Henderson. You and Cheyenne need to get in your cars and go over there and tell them what happened on Saturday night.” He paused. “Why?”
I couldn’t believe she was being so stubborn about this—especially after what had happened to Allie.
“Because,” he said, “that’s what Erin wants. And she won’t rest until you do. Enough is enough, Kate. This needs to end.”
Kate said nothing. Then she hung up.
Matt tossed the phone on the seat. “I tried.”
“If she doesn’t go to the cops, then she has no soul. Speaking of which, is that who I think it is?”
I jutted my chin toward something black, camouflaged under the majestic oak by our driveway.
“It’s a motorcycle,” Matt said.
“It’s not the bike. It’s him,” I said, pointing to the small orange glow ebbing in the shadows, indicating the lit end of a cigarette. “That’s Stone Bone.”
Matt gaped. “How can you tell?”
“Because he left a message in the guest book last night saying I had something he wanted.”
“What’s that?”
“A coffee cup he was using that I gave to the cops for fingerprints.”
Matt shook his head. “You are such a badass.”
I tried to stop grinning at him stupidly.
“Think I’ll go introduce myself,” Matt said, sliding out of the truck.
I watched as he coolly approached Stone Bone and coaxed him out of the shadows. Greetings were exchanged. They joked around and laughed. I sat there, totally confused. Were they friends? Had I been suckered into believing otherwise?
Matt lifted his right hand for a high five and Bone didn’t leave him hanging. Fast as lightning, Matt delivered a neat uppercut with his other fist, smack into Alex’s jaw so hard I heard the crack. Stone Bone went flying into his bike, which promptly fell over with a crash. He cursed and thrashed about.
Now I knew why left-handers didn’t live as long as right-handers.