Killing Britney Read online

  twenty-four

  The party that weekend was crazy insane. Saturday night at Troy’s place and the music was shaking the walls. His mother’s Wind in the Willows collector plates rattled on their nails—two had already fallen loose, and there were shards of ceramic everywhere, which nobody bothered to clean up. Troy didn’t care, so why should anyone else?

  The Raccoons had won again, trouncing their crosstown rivals, the Eisenhower Generals.

  Britney had been distracted throughout the game. All she could think about was the murders. She felt, everywhere she went, that people were staring at her and whispering about her, that she was being evaluated for weakness and someone, she didn’t know who—Bobby? Someone else?—was waiting for her to let down her guard, at which point they’d attack.

  In preparation for the celebration, Erin had spent all afternoon making Jell-O shots in the school colors, red and gold. She’d made six pans’ worth, almost a hundred shots, but they were a huge hit and even this copious amount had only lasted half an hour. The red ones turned your tongue crimson and the yellow ones turned your tongue brown.

  “Come on, Britney,” Erin said. “If there’s anyone who needs a drink right now, it’s you.”

  Britney wasn’t so sure. “Do you have any idea how upset I am?” she asked.

  “We’re all upset. That’s why we’re escaping into alcohol.” Erin winked at Britney.

  Against her better judgment, Britney consented to a Jell-O shot. “I want a red one,” she said. It was the first time she’d had alcohol since her mother died, but given what she’d been through over the past couple of weeks, she felt, maybe Erin was right, maybe she deserved to let go a little bit.

  She didn’t feel the effects right away, but later, when she found herself on Jeremy’s shoulders, her legs braced under his massive biceps, trying to topple Daphney off Digger’s shoulders, it hit her that she was in an altered state. She felt bold. She felt free. She was laughing and shrieking and the voice in her head telling her to dread everything and everyone, to be vigilant because danger was always around the next corner, had stopped.

  She grappled with Daphney, the two of them pushing and pulling and straining for leverage and trying to avoid knocking their heads on the overhead light. Daphney had played this game many times before. Britney saw that she knew all the moves: how to twist her arm so it remained lower than Britney’s, where to turn and when to dodge so that Britney lost her equilibrium. But for Britney, it was another first—one of the many things she would never have been willing to do if she had remained sober.

  She didn’t last long up in the air, but when she fell, she jumped right up and was ready to go again.

  It was fun. Everybody formed a circle around the fighters and cheered.

  By her third match, Britney finally got the hang of it. She toppled Cindy, but then she lost to Jodi and the crowd started to find other things to do, so they all retired and sat gossiping on the couch.

  “Hey, doesn’t that guy who died this week’s sister go to La Follette?” asked Daphney.

  “I think she does,” Jodi said.

  “Melissa,” Britney said. “She’s a friend of mine.” Then, embarrassed, she modified this. “I mean, we hung out sometimes. Things like that. I still drive her to school every once in a while. She’s okay.”

  “So, did you know this guy who died?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “God,” said Cindy. “It’s spooky. First Ricky, now your friend’s brother. How can you handle it?”

  The girls were all waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, I know one way,” said Erin, coming to her rescue. “Drown your sorrows!” She held up her can of Bud Light and rattled it teasingly.

  Britney felt a little woozy. When the other girls headed toward the kitchen to see what their boyfriends were up to, she told them to go without her. “I just want to sit here for a while,” she said.

  She scanned the party, sizing up all the usual suspects: the Hummus guys, the preppies, Art Richter, that drug dealer, wondering, Is it him? Or is it him? What about him? Is one of the people in this room with me the one I need to watch out for? None of them appeared to be paying any special attention to her, but how could she be sure?

  The music seemed too loud, and it sounded distorted. When the school president, Travis Lawson, leaned in to pat her on the shoulder and say, “How you holding up?” he came in and out of focus, making her head spin. She wished that she hadn’t had that Jell-O shot.

  She heard a lot of shouting coming from the kitchen. She concentrated, trying to pick the sound apart and figure out what was going on. It was chaotic: dull thuds and cackles, and she thought she heard Cindy shrieking.

  Running in to see what was going on, she found the hockey players and their wives in a circle around the island counter, hunched over and chanting, “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

  Britney screamed, “What happened? Did you get him?”

  There was sudden silence. They all turned toward her like she was crazy.

  Then Troy started laughing. They all started laughing.

  “Relax, Britney,” said Erin. “We’re doing body shots.”

  Jeremy leered at her. “You want to do one?” he asked.

  Now she could see what was going on. Cindy was laid on the kitchen counter, her halter top pulled up to expose her stomach. Digger had a shot glass full of dark liqueur in his hand and he was precariously trying to balance it on Cindy’s belly button. Britney watched as Erin, her hands clasped behind her back, bent over Cindy and clenched the shot glass between her lips, flinging her head back and downing the liquid in one quick swallow.

  “See?” she said as she pounded the empty glass down on the counter. “It’s fun. You should try it.”

  “What? Did you think someone was trying to kill me?” asked Cindy, and everyone laughed again.

  Britney felt so dizzy.

  “I don’t feel so good,” she said.

  Then she collapsed onto the floor.

  twenty-five

  At about the same time that Britney was swallowing her Jell-O shot, Melissa sat at Fresh Grounds with Bobby Plumley, killing time until Adam got off work. She hovered over her hot chocolate like it was a campfire. He was drinking a triple-shot latte, which she thought was a crazy thing to do at nine-thirty at night—then again, this was Bobby Plumley; she’d seen him do a lot weirder things than this.

  She was telling him about the discovery she’d made at Karl’s apartment. She hadn’t discussed it with anyone all week. The truth was that she trusted Bobby, and with his hacker skills and his sharp mind, she figured he could help her figure the whole thing out.

  “The letters aren’t even the most disturbing thing,” she whispered, leaning across the table so no one could hear but him.

  “Well, tell me, then,” he said. “Or do you want me to guess?”

  He was in one of his moods, snapping at everything she said and generally being unpleasant. He’d chosen a particularly obnoxious T-shirt to wear today: I’m Running Out of Places to Hide the Bodies, it read.

  Throughout the week, Melissa had been shaking uncontrollably at random times—while taking her vocab quiz in Ms. Straub’s class, while waiting in line for the chin-up bar in gym. It was as if whenever she thought she had finally put Karl out of her mind and escaped thinking about those spooky letters from Britney’s mother, her body rebelled against her and forced her morbid fears back into her brain.

  “Okay, so inside the shoe box, under the letters, there was … this thing.” She cast Bobby a long, meaningful look.

  “Jesus, Melissa, either tell me or don’t tell me, but stop toying with me, all right?”

  “A photograph,” she said. “There was a photo of Britney.”

  “So?”

  “She was naked in it.”

  Bobby smirked and stared at her, like he was still waiting for her to get to the point.

  “I’m serious,
Bobby, it’s really disturbing.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked. He seemed pissed. He got this way whenever Britney’s name came up in conjunction with another guy.

  “Oh, grow up, Bobby. This is important. Don’t you think it’s weird?” Melissa reminded herself to stay calm, to regulate her voice so that she didn’t draw attention to their conversation. “Britney’s mother’s writing letters to my brother—after she’s supposedly already dead—and Britney is sending him nude photos of herself.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s a little weird.”

  “So, what do you think it means?”

  “How should I know?”

  She shot him a knowing look. He knew as well as she did how stormy Britney’s relationship with her mom had been.

  “I mean,” he said, “it’s obvious. Either her mom’s still alive somehow, or Britney was having an affair with your brother.” He squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Or both,” said Melissa with a grimace.

  “Have you told her father?”

  “Adam told me I shouldn’t. There’s another thing. I found a gun in Karl’s room too, and Adam says he thinks it belonged to Mr. Johnson.”

  His right eyebrow rose until she couldn’t see it anymore behind his shaggy hair. “You told Adam about all this? Why? When? You’ve been hanging out with him?”

  Crossing her arms, she stared Bobby down.

  He tipped his head like he was putting all the pieces together. His eyes slowly narrowed into tiny slits. “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yeah.” She couldn’t help smiling. Since that first kiss on Monday night, she’d seen Adam every single day. Not just at school. Everywhere. Every chance they got, they found each other. It was amazing. The only bright spot in her life at the moment.

  “Figures,” said Bobby.

  He stared into his coffee cup for a while and then downed his drink in a single shot. Before he became obsessed with Britney, Bobby had had a crush on Melissa. They’d even kissed one summer night a year and a half ago out at the Sanctuary, but though she liked and respected him, she hadn’t been able to muster the interest necessary to date him. There just weren’t any sparks. They’d managed to move on from that awkward kiss and stay friends, but she knew Bobby still thought about it sometimes.

  After a while he asked, “Can I see the gun?”

  “I gave it to Detective Russell.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I do that?”

  Bobby sulked for a while, and then he said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust Adam as far as I could throw him.”

  “You sound jealous, Bobby.”

  Bobby shrugged. “What does Britney say about him?”

  “Nothing. She told me he got in a whole bunch of trouble when he was living in New Hampshire, but she didn’t say she hated him or anything.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Bobby asked. He was suddenly interested in the conversation, hunched forward and eager to hear what Melissa had to say.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I just said, I don’t know.”

  “You hooked up with the guy; don’t you think you should learn a little about him?”

  Sometimes being with Bobby was so exasperating.

  “You know, Bobby, if you dislike him so much, why are you here? Why are you waiting around for him with me?”

  “Because I don’t have anything better to do. And now that I know he got in ‘trouble’”—he put quotation marks around the word with his fingers—“in New Hampshire, I want to keep my eye on him.”

  “Well, don’t do me any favors.”

  “I’m not planning on doing you any favors,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She could feel her blood rising in her chest. Fighting with Bobby Plumley. She felt bad enough about her brother’s death, and now she had to put up with this. What a way to spend a Saturday night!

  Bobby motioned with his head toward the door.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said. And then almost as an afterthought, “Hey, I was just messing with you, okay?”

  “Sure, Bobby, whatever.”

  The plan was to go to a concert at the Tick Tick Boom club. Some local band that none of them had ever heard of before. Black Breasted Robin. Amoeba had been helping sell tickets for the event, and Adam had heard from the guys at the record store that the band was good. He’d procured three free tickets that afternoon—one of the perks of the job—and they’d all been looking forward to checking out the show.

  Now, though, Melissa was dreading it. The only reason she didn’t back out was that she was afraid of the dark places her head might go if she sat home alone with herself too long.

  The three of them piled into Bobby’s red pickup.

  It was going to be a long, long night.

  twenty-six

  Madison Arena was an odd place to meet, but since Melissa wanted to know what her friend had to tell her, she hadn’t thought twice about making the trek over at twelve-thirty the next night.

  Now she was there, in the middle of the rink, slipping back and forth across the red line and waiting. It was freezing. She could feel the chill from the ice right through her snow boots.

  Her friend hadn’t shown up yet. This seemed odd too.

  She figured the news must have something to do with her brother. What other reason would there be for all this secrecy? Whatever it was, it better be good because the hockey arena was spooky all empty and dark like this. It was full of shadows, and when she’d shouted, “Hello? I’m here!” as she’d walked in, her voice had echoed for a long time against the concrete walls.

  The scoreboard that had been shot up still hung there in tatters. It looked like a gutted animal. A wide circle of ragged holes marked its face where the shot had lacerated the sheet metal facing. Red and green wiring dangled from it. Attached to one of these wires was a rectangular box full of lightbulbs; it read Visitors across the top.

  She wondered if she should whip out her cell and try to track down her friend. The longer she waited here, the more spooked she got. Fumbling in her purse, she finally found the phone. She flipped through the names until she found the one she wanted.

  Just as she was about to push send, a door crashed shut. The sound reverberated around the large empty space.

  She dropped her phone.

  Reaching down to pick it up, she was startled again when the floodlights all came on at once.

  She called out, “Hello?”

  She was blinded by the bright white glare from the ice and, when she looked up, from the lights overhead.

  There was a low humming, like the sound of a car idling, coming from the goal end of the arena.

  By the time Melissa’s eyes adjusted, she saw that the Zamboni had been driven onto the ice. There was movement behind it, and she called out again, “Is that you?”

  Someone ran around the edge of the Zamboni and jumped into the cab, so fast that Melissa couldn’t catch who it was—all she saw was a flash of black snowmobile suit.

  Standing at center ice, she cursed herself for having come here tonight.

  The Zamboni slowly began to roll forward.

  She stood stock-still, watching, waiting, hoping beyond hope that this was some sort of exhibition, a dramatic entrance meant to impress her.

  And then the Zamboni began picking up speed. It was headed straight for her.

  She ran.

  But it was hard to run. Her boots had no traction, and the ice was slick.

  She made it to the edge of the rink, but where was she supposed to go from there? It was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high ring of glass. Think fast, think fast, she told herself as she jumped out of the way of the huge machine plowing toward her. She barely dodged it. It crashed into the wall, leaving a dent but not shattering the glass, not breaking through the thick wood railing.

  And then she was off again, sticking close to the wall, trailing her ha
nd along it in search of an opening. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing—even the penalty boxes were closed off to her. They’d been locked from the inside. There was no escape.

  Thinking that the Zamboni must have left an opening where it came in, she raced toward the place where she’d first seen it. She slipped and fell face-first, slid a good twelve feet, arms stretched out in front of her.

  It was gaining ground.

  She tried to scramble up onto her feet, but she kept slipping again, kept falling. She was flailing around.

  Then the Zamboni was right there behind her.

  She pulled herself forward, tried to crawl away, but it was faster than her. It was right on top of her. She rolled to the right to evade its massive wheels.

  As it caught her left foot, she screamed out in pain. The crunching of bones and muscle made a grisly sound, but she didn’t have time to check out her wounds. She’d barely escaped, and the Zamboni was turning around now.

  On her feet again, she limped toward the goal end of the rink. It seemed so far away. Miles and miles away. She was breathing heavily. Her foot throbbed, and she had a cramp in her side.

  She was moving so slowly, then she was on her face again, pushed there by a nudge of the Zamboni against the back of her thighs.

  This time she didn’t have the energy to spin out from under it. Her right foot was the first thing to get caught in the rotor blades under the tractor’s back end. They sliced her rubber boot to shreds and tore through her flesh.

  So tired, exhausted now, she knew she couldn’t escape. But she didn’t give up. She kept struggling, clawing at the ice and pulling against the twirling blades sucking her in.

  “Why?” she screamed “Why are you doing this? I never did anything to hurt you!” Her voice was swallowed up in the revving of the blades.

  From the cab of the Zamboni came this response: “You really don’t know why I’m doing this, Melissa? But I thought you knew everything. Use that big brain of yours. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  twenty-seven

  The snow had begun to melt in the few days of unseasonably warm weather that blew through during the second week of February. Islands of slush had formed in the layers of ice, dry-bed rivers, like ant trails, wending between them. The snowbanks had begun to shrink, hardening into small craggy mounds, encrusted with black honeycombs of dirt.