Page 92 of Confessions

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea to discuss—”

“Kevin got too serious,” Brenda cut in. “Besides, he’s too old for her.” With a shrug she walked past Ben and Carlie. “I’ll let you two work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Carlie protested. Heat climbed up her neck and she was suddenly aware that coming here was a big mistake. “Look, maybe Brenda and I should take off.”

“You just got here.”

“I know, but—” She waved in the air.

“You weren’t invited.”

“Right.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze held hers and her mouth turned to cotton. The sounds of the night, deep croaks from hidden bullfrogs and the soft chirp of a thousand crickets, were suddenly muted. The fragrance of wild roses soon to go to seed, filtered over the acrid odor of burning wood and exhaust.

“Let’s go check out the action. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Brenda and I were just taking a turn in the boat. We heard the music....” It was a little bit of a lie, but she couldn’t admit the reason she’d shown up here was because of him.

“You want a beer?” His gaze was neutral, and yet she felt as if he were challenging her.

“I guess.”

With a shrug, he turned and walked barefooted along the dusty path. Nervously, Carlie followed him to what had once been a backyard. Gravel had been strewn near a dilapidated garage, and several cars, pickups and motorcycles had been parked in the rutted lane. A stack of bleached cordwood partially covered with blackberry vines, seemed to prop up a sagging wall of the garage. Kids sat on bumpers of cars, on the drooping back porch or wandered into the house through an open door. A rusted lock was sprung and lay with an equally neglected chain that had slid to the floorboards.

“Who owns this place?” she asked.

“One of the guys here—” Ben took the time to point to a pimply-faced boy of about nineteen who was trying to build a fire in an old barbecue pit “—lives in Coleville and claims his uncle is the Daniels’s heir who ended up with the cabin. He says the uncle is trying to sell it.”

“And he doesn’t care if your friend has a party?”

Ben slanted her a sly grin. “What do you think?”

“That the uncle doesn’t have a clue.”

“Smart girl.”

Ben introduced her to some of the guests, most of whom were a little older than she was—kids who worked in the mill or the logging company or the Dari-Maid, some with full-time jobs, others who were spending their summer back in Gold Creek until they returned to college in the fall. She knew some of them of course, but there were a lot that she’d never seen before.

Brenda had already grabbed a beer and was trying to make conversation with Patty Osgood, the reverend’s daughter. Patty was a couple of years older than Carlie, but already had enough of a reputation to turn her father’s hair white, should the good reverend stumble upon the truth.

Patty sat on the edge of a stump, her long, tanned legs stretched out from shorts that barely covered her rear end and a white blouse knotted beneath her breasts. Her flat abdomen and a flirty glimpse of the hollow between her breasts left little to the imagination.

Patty wasn’t a really bad girl, but she liked to flaunt the gorgeous body the good Lord had seen fit to bestow upon her—and hang the consequences. She’d dated a lot of boys in town, but now her eyes were on Ben.

“Well, well, well...” Erik Patton said when Carlie and Ben moved in his direction. Erik dragged on his cigarette and shot smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I didn’t think you’d ever show your face at a beer bash again.” Leisurely, he plucked a flake of tobacco from his tongue and eyed his friend, Scott McDonald. Both boys had been friends of Roy Fitzpatrick and believed Jackson Moore had killed Roy last fall. Most of the citizens of Gold Creek agreed, though Jackson had never been indicted. Only a few people in town believed in Jackson’s innocence. Carlie belonged to that small minority and it obviously bothered Erik, who had given her a ride to the Fitzpatrick summer home on that fateful night.

Goose bumps rose on her arms. “I was just—”

“Save it, Surrett,” Erik said through a cloud of smoke. “We were all there. We know what happened.”

“Jackson didn’t—”

“Oh, sure he managed to get Rachelle to claim they’d been together all night, but we all know that’s a pile of crap. She just made up the story to give him an alibi.”

“She wouldn’t!”

&nbs