Love Bites Read online

  “Oh!” Jamie’s blue eyes widen. “Oh, shit. But… well, that’s not very likely, is it? I mean, how many people live in this area? What are the chances it’s your friend?”

  That’s another good thing about Jamie. He’s logical.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s not really her.”

  “No, it’s her!” Gabby insists. Her round face has turned very pink. “I’m certain of it.”

  “Look,” I say, “why don’t we go over to Gramercy Park? I’m sure we can ask around and figure out the name of the victim.”

  Gabby shakes her head emphatically. “No. Way. I’m not going to the scene of a murder. No chance.”

  I bite my lip. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m not too excited about going to the scene of a murder all by myself either. Yes, I know the cops are there. But don’t they say that murderers hang around the scene of a crime? And what if it turns out to be Sydney? I don’t want to be there alone.

  As if reading my mind, Jamie says, “I’ll go with you, Brooke.”

  I look at him in surprise. “Yeah, but… the crowds…”

  “You shouldn’t go by yourself.”

  I don’t want to admit how grateful I am for his offer, especially since the victim is almost certainly not Sydney and we’re just being silly and overreacting. But at this point, I have to know. I have to go there myself and verify that my friend is not lying dead in Gramercy Park.

  Gabby heads home, extracting a promise that I’ll text her the minute I verify the identity of the murder victim, while Jamie and I head out in the direction of the park. He walks slow, leading with his cane, then leaning heavily on it, dragging his left leg more than his right with each step. I never got the full story out of him—why walking is such a struggle for someone otherwise very fit—but he once mumbled something about a car accident when he was in high school in which he broke his back. It’s something I’ve gotten used to: the fact that when I’m with Jamie, I have to walk slower than I usually do.

  I like it, actually. Everyone in this city walks so goddamn fast—it’s nice to have an excuse to slow down for a change.

  “It’s not her,” Jamie assures me for the second time. “The chances of it being her are astronomical.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “Astronomical.”

  “Really,” he insists. “There are eight million people in this city, so the chances of it being her are about one in eight million.”

  “That’s definitely not true,” I retort. “Because only half of those eight million are women. And probably like a third of them are elderly or children. So it’s probably more like one in three million.”

  “One in three million? Well, that’s almost a guarantee, isn’t it?” He rolls his eyes as he swerves to use a curb cut.

  I know he’s being sarcastic, but right now, it feels like there’s no chance it could be anyone but Sydney. “Can we talk about something else?”

  He nods. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know.” I chew on my lip. “Tell me about this girl you went out with tonight.”

  He groans. “No, let’s not talk about that.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He pauses for a moment, catching his balance and readjusting his grip on his cane. “It was just… not good, okay? It was one of those blind date things.”

  “Oh no. How did you allow that to happen to you?”

  “Because,” he says, “one of my friends pointed out that it’s been six months since I’ve been out with a girl. And even longer since I’ve been… uh…”

  I lower my voice and whisper, “Sexually active?”

  He smiles crookedly. “Yeah, that. Thanks, Brooke. I love talking about this, by the way.”

  “I can tell.” I poke him in the arm, briefly feeling his firm biceps through his rolled-up flannel shirt. Ooh, nice. “So what was so awful about it exactly?”

  “No chemistry.” He shrugs. “We met at the restaurant, and I think the second we looked at each other, we both thought, ‘No, not for me.’ But by that point, we were in too deep. We had to go through with it.”

  “I had no idea you were so superficial, Jamie!” I gasp. “What was so objectionable about the way she looked?”

  He thinks for a minute. “What got me, I guess, was that she had on way too much makeup. I mean, so much. I felt like if I kissed her, it would all wipe off on me and I’d go home looking like one of those punk singers who wears mascara.”

  I laugh. “And what did she find objectionable about you? I’d say you’re not hideously ugly. I mean, you don’t have any gross deformities that I can see.”

  Jamie makes a face at me. “Gee, thanks. Let’s just say I don’t think she was charmed when I tripped and nearly fell on my ass while walking over to say hello to her. You should have seen the look on her face.”

  I bat my eyelashes at him. “I would be charmed.”

  “Well, you’re one in a million.”

  “Good thing I’m not one in three million, or else I’d be murdered.”

  We’re about a block away from Gramercy Park and I can tell Jamie is getting tired. He’s leaning more heavily on his cane, and I can see the muscles in his arm straining. He doesn’t look like he can make it much farther. Just as we’re starting to see the cop cars, he stops and collapses onto the bench for a bus stop.

  “Give me fifteen seconds,” he says as he releases his grip on the cane and rubs his left forearm.

  “You can have thirty,” I say. I crinkle my nose at an unpleasant smell that clings to the bus stop. “But you may need to get a hepatitis vaccine after sitting on that bench. Ew.”

  While Jamie is resting for a second (well, thirty seconds), I look over and see the crowd accumulating around the park. I see the yellow police tape, the flashing lights, and then dozens of pedestrians that the police are doing their best to herd in the opposite direction. It looks like we’re not the only ones who came here to see what happened.

  Even though I know Jamie is right that the chances of Sydney being the victim are remote, my stomach flips. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone to see if she texted me. Nothing.

  I send Syd a quick message: If you get this, please text me. Seriously! Some girl’s been murdered in Gramercy Park and if you don’t text me back, I’m going to tell everyone on Facebook that it’s you!

  There. That should get her attention.

  Jamie struggles back to his feet, but he doesn’t look enthused about the idea of diving into the crowd surrounding the park. Gramercy Park is a small park that spans a few short city blocks, and is restricted to the general public by metal bars. You actually need to be a resident of the area to get inside, which Sydney happens to be. Another reason why the chances are better than one in three million that she’s lying dead in the park.

  “All right.” He sets his jaw. “Let’s do this.”

  We cross the street, but it’s quickly obvious we’re not going to get very close. And it’s clear the cops aren’t answering questions for random curious civilians. I crane my neck, trying to see if I recognize anyone, but I don’t. Maybe it’s not Sydney.

  “Step back, everyone!” a cop yells at the crowd. “You’re going to have to step back right now!”

  I’m looking at all the yellow tape and the crowds, and I start to get… the weirdest feeling. It’s hard to even describe. It’s this prickling sensation on the back of my neck like little needles poking me. I feel a chill go down my spine.

  Somebody is watching me.

  It’s such an odd thing to think. There are dozens of people standing around here—it’s not like I’m alone in my bedroom. Yet, I have this sudden feeling of absolute certainty that there is someone out there who is watching me—just me.

  They are waiting for me.

  “Maybe we should go,” I murmur to Jamie. “I think you’re right. It probably wasn’t her.”

  “Seriously?” He frowns. “We just got here.”


  “I know, but…” I grab his arm with more force than I meant to, which causes him to tighten his grip on his cane, trying to maintain his tenuous balance. I shouldn’t have done that, but I’m starting to freak out. “I just want to go home.”

  His brow creases. He gets it. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Let’s go then.”

  My heart is pounding and all I can think about is getting back to my building. That prickling in the back of my neck won’t go away. I need to get inside—somewhere I can’t be seen.

  “Brooke!” I hear a tearful voice behind me. It takes me a second to place the voice, and when I do, I realize that I’m not going anywhere. Not right now. This night has only just begun. “Brooke! Oh my God, isn’t it awful?”

  I glance at Jamie, whose blue eyes widen. I steel myself for what’s about to happen and whirl around to face Tracy Miller. Tracy is an equally gorgeous albeit dark-haired version of Sydney. If Sydney were a Barbie doll, Tracy would be the brunette Barbie. Tracy worked with Sydney at the fashion magazine, and I know her from a few chance encounters at bars near where Sydney works. Tracy’s leaky mascara and bloodshot eyes aren’t a good sign.

  “Was it…?” I can’t even say the words.

  Tracy’s eyes fill with tears. “They found Sydney in the bushes with… with her throat slashed.”

  No. Not Sydney. Jesus…

  I cover my mouth, feeling my knees go weak under me. So much for one in three-million. “Do… do they know who did it?”

  Tracy shakes her head. “Not that I know of. But… she was dating that guy, right? The tall, dark, and handsome one?”

  I frown. “Do you know his name?”

  Tracy shakes her head again. “I already talked to the detective. She was so secretive about him…”

  I feel the tears pricking at my eyes. I can’t believe this just happened. My friend Sydney was murdered in a park five blocks away from where I live. I’ll never see her again, except maybe in a coffin if they can get her presentable enough for a viewing. I’ll never again get to be kept waiting twenty minutes for her to show up for dinner. I’ll never get to laugh at her raunchy jokes again. I’ll never be told not to pitch a dying duck again.

  “I need to sit down,” I whisper to Jamie.

  He nods, and uses his free hand to steer me away from the crowd, back to the smelly bus stop where he’d rested a minute earlier, back when we were still joking about the whole thing. I wish I’d turned around and gone home back then. I could have waited until the morning to hear this.

  I nearly collapse onto the bench and Jamie plops down next to me. He doesn’t say much, just keeps me company, rubbing my back gently while I cry. I drop my face into my hands, sobbing as I think about how unfair the whole thing is.

  And the whole time, the sensation never leaves me that someone is watching me.

  Chapter 2: Tom Blake

  October, 1905

  This afternoon, as I leave the schoolhouse, the feeling that someone is following me is as strong as it has ever been. I stand with my back to the bushes, scanning the surrounding areas, but see only my classmates. There is someone there. I am sure of it.

  I am not crazy.

  I am concentrating so deeply on the task that I nearly jump five feet when Mary Eckley taps me on the shoulder.

  “Tom?” Mary’s reddish-brown eyebrows knit together. “Are you all right?”

  I nod, shaking off the feeling of doom that has been following me around like a shadow the last few months. I can’t allow Mary to think any less of me.

  “I was just…” I force a smile. “I was looking for you.”

  Mary rewards me with a smile of her own. “Well, look at that—you’ve found me.”

  Mary Eckley is the prettiest girl in the entire school. My friend Harry says it’s Emma Alcock, but I know it’s Mary. Nobody else has hair so red and shimmery in the sun. Nobody else has freckles on her face that I could spend all day staring at till I’ve counted every last one.

  “Now I have to ask,” Mary says, “why are you looking for me?”

  “Uh…” Mary’s green eyes stare straight into mine. At a time like this, I would have given anything for my father’s dark, leathery skin that has one hue: tan. No matter how much time I spend in the sun, my skin never tans. I am white like snow. And when all the blood rushes to my face, I am certain Mary can see it in my cheeks.

  “Are you going to walk me home?” Mary prompts me. “Doing your duty to make sure I arrive home safely, Mr. Blake?”

  Mary lives only a few blocks away from my own home, and there was a time when we were much younger when we used to walk home together from school daily, chattering excitedly the whole way. I used to capture butterflies so that she could marvel at the color of their wings before I released them back into the sky. But that was a long time ago—before I started noticing the way Mary filled out her faded yellow dress with the white collar. I still walk her home about once a week, but now I struggle to find words to say in her presence. I spend most of the time wondering if she wishes she’d stayed behind with her girlfriends.

  “If that would be all right with you,” I manage, “I would very much like to walk you home.”

  Mary nods solemnly. “It would be all right with me.”

  She waves to her girlfriends, who are gathered in front of the schoolhouse, intently watching our interaction as they giggle amongst themselves. I hear one of them exclaim to another, “Tom is so handsome!” And I have to look away from Mary so she can’t see how crimson my face has become.

  Mary is holding two schoolbooks of her own, both worn nearly to ashes, having been passed on to her from four older siblings. Without her asking, I take them from her, adding them to the pile of my own books that I’m already carrying. The books are not heavy, but walking next to Mary has made my hands grow sweaty and it is hard to keep a hold on the texts.

  “You’re so quiet, Tom,” Mary comments finally.

  I don’t know what to say to that, which doesn’t improve the situation.

  “Not in school,” she amends. “In class, you always know the right answer. Always raising your hand. But now, here with me…”

  I struggle to find something to say to make it better. The capitol of Massachusetts? Easy. The generals of the Civil War? I know them all by heart. But whenever I look at Mary, my mind goes blank. “I like your dress,” I finally say.

  Mary bursts into laughter, throwing her head back so that I can see all her molars. “That’s all you can come up with? You like this dress? It’s older than either of us!”

  Of course Mary’s dress would be another hand-me-down. The stitching is fine, but worn. It must have once been as yellow as a sunflower, but now the color has nearly faded to gray.

  No, I don’t particularly like the dress. That isn’t what I meant to say.

  “I like you,” I blurt out.

  I can see now that Mary has the same problem as me—pale skin that advertises all her emotions. When I get up the courage to look at her, I can tell what I said has not displeased her. Maybe just the opposite.

  “Well,” she says, “if you like me so darn much, why don’t you ever hold my hand?”

  My heart is beating quickly in my chest. I transfer the textbooks to my left arm, so that my right is free. I surreptitiously wipe it on my slacks, then take Mary’s cool, slender hand in my own.

  We walk the rest of the way home holding hands. Holding onto four bulky textbooks with only my left arm free is a struggle though. I do my best, not wanting to do anything to break the spell and lose my new privilege of holding Mary Eckley’s hand, but halfway to her house, I lose my grip and the books go spilling out all over the pavement. Mary laughs and scoops up her own books.

  “I’ll take those,” I offer, holding out my hand to grab them from her.

  “Please, Tom,” she says. “I’m hardly helpless. I’m the daughter of the sheriff, after all.”

  William Eckley is the sheriff of Richmond County and has been for as long as I can remember. He’s
a good sheriff—lots of authority and can be tough as nails when he needs to be, but is generally well-liked by all.

  I don’t understand why it bothers me that Sheriff Eckley is Mary’s father. I am, above all, a law-abiding citizen of the county. I have committed no crimes in my lifetime and have no intention to ever do so. I come from a good family and there’s no reason for the sheriff to disapprove when I ask for Mary’s hand.

  But somehow, whenever I think of Sheriff Eckley, a chill goes down my spine.

  About a block away from Mary’s house, I let go of her hand. Mrs. Eckley might be hanging laundry outside the house and I don’t want her to see I have been touching her daughter. I’ll likely have to call on Mary formally and announce my intentions to the Eckleys, but it’s too soon to think about that now. Mary and I are both still in school, and I have no money to buy a house if I am to marry her.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Eckley is hanging the wash in front of her house when we come around. The Eckleys have nine living children, Mary being fifth oldest. I take a step away from Mary, wishing I hadn’t relinquished her books. I don’t want Mrs. Eckley to see me allowing her daughter to carry her own schoolbooks home.

  “Well, if it isn’t Tom Blake!” Mrs. Eckley exclaims, rewarding me with a broad smile that reminds me of Mary’s. Mary has clearly gotten her hair color and freckles from her mother. “Thank you for making sure our Mary got home safely.”

  “Uh… you’re welcome, ma’am,” I say, and Mary giggles softly.

  Mrs. Eckley’s eyes twinkle. “I hope you’ll come join us for dinner one night in the near future, Tom.”

  I nod. “I… I will.”

  I glance over at Mary, who is shifting her books in her arms. The binding slipped on one of her textbooks and I can see it is close to splitting in two. I look down at my own books, still gleaming and new. I don’t have eight siblings like Mary does. In my home, there’s only me.

  “Listen,” I murmur to Mary. I hold out my books to her. “Let’s trade.”

  Her eyes widen. “Tom! I can’t take your books.”