Page 10 of Undeniable

I tossed my backpack down at the foot of her bed and peered around the rest of the room. It was almost pristinely clean. Unlike my own room, there wasn’t any laundry on the floor or overflowing from the laundry basket in the corner. Her bed was even made and you could see the lines from the vacuum cleaner still running across the carpet. Lines I inadvertently disturbed as my boots dragged across them.

Her desk was the only sign that someone actually lived in the room. There were papers scattered over the wood surface and the laptop she and Forrest shared was open to a blank PowerPoint slide.

Our school project wasn’t as interesting as the rest of her room, and I found myself eyeing the posters on her walls and the framed photos sitting on her dresser and bedside table. Most of the pictures were of her and the volleyball team or her and Shelby. A couple of her family, but the one that made me do a double take was one taken about ten years before.

Ivy was red-faced, her hair wild in her ponytail as she smiled at the camera. Forrest was to her right and Brendon, who had only just moved to Willowwood, was to her left. I was standing behind her, already nearly a head taller than her, my own cheeks red from running around outside all morning.

My arms were slung over her shoulders and my smile matched Ivy’s—it was easy and pure joy. Time really did change everything.

Her closet to my right was partially open, and my curiosity got the best of me. Quietly, I pushed the door open farther and peered inside. Her clothes were color coded—like I expected anything different—and were organized by type of clothing item.

Down the hallway, I heard Ivy tell her mom that we’d be in her room, and I scrambled to close the closet door and sit down in the chair like she’d told me to. I was already on her bad side by just being me. I didn’t need anything else working against me.

“Oh, so you can follow directions,” she quipped when she walked in to see me sitting in the chair. She closed the door behind her and handed me my own water bottle. I thanked her and she nodded as she scooped up her handwritten notes scattered over her desk and moved to the bed.

“You look like hell.” Caught off guard by her comment, it took me a second to realize she was talking about me.

I tilted my head at her, but she was too busy organizing her notes to realize I was glaring. My jaw tensed in frustration, but I immediately regretted it—the movement only worsened the pain in my pounding head.

“Long night.”

She made a sound of disapproval in her throat but didn’t say anything more until she’d reorganized her papers.

“Did you come up with a person we could do the project on?”

“Umm… I had a few possibilities.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So, yes or no?”

I refrained from gritting my teeth but rubbed my hand over my jaw instead. I had a feeling it didn’t matter what I said, she was going to have a snarky, sarcastic comeback for it. Hence my nickname of choice for her: Killer.

“I know you’ve already decided, so does it matter?”

She regarded me for a second, then said, “Mr. Duncan.”

I laughed but stopped when I realized she was being serious. “From across the street?”

She nodded. “He was the principal for thirty years and he was a huge part of the community.”

“Sure, yes, but he doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. He is a hermit.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to smile at me, but it quickly faltered, like she remembered she actually didn’t find me funny or amusing at all.

“Yes, he’s a hermit unless you are Catherine Sharpe and Mr. Duncan is obsessed with your chocolate chip cookies,” she said matter-of-factly.

I laughed wryly and leaned back in her desk chair. A small smile finally curved her lips as she continued fiddling with the papers, making it a point not to look at me.

“So, you’re not above a little manipulation?”

She scoffed like I’d personally offended her. “I did not manipulate him. It’s quid pro quo—he gives us the interview and he gets cookies in return.”

I licked my lips, trying to tame the smile that wanted to break free. “I like your style, Killer.”

She narrowed her eyes at the nickname but quickly changed the topic to questions we’d want to ask the infamous Mr. Duncan during our interview. I tried to pay attention as she discussed the different aspects of his career we should touch on, but my head began pounding once again.

The weekend had really done a number on me, and as I contemplated the events, a thought, one I couldn’t properly shake, continued to make itself known.

“What did you do this weekend?” I asked. My timing was unfortunate because she was in the middle of talking, but she stopped and looked up at me from the notebook where she’d been taking detailed notes.

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