Paper Valentine by Brenna Yovanoff

Author:Brenna Yovanoff [Yovanoff, Brenna]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9781595145994
Publisher: Razorbill
Published: 2013-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE SCRAPBOOK

CHAPTER TWELVE

The rest of the week passes in a hot, high-octane blur, fast and silent, skimming along like clouds in a time-lapse photo.

Even at two o’clock, when I go to get the girls from school, the streets seem unnaturally quiet, like everyone’s waiting for the apocalypse to come, or like the whole city is holding its breath.

Mostly, I’ve been staying in the house. My mom is weird about me going any farther than the photo shop, or even going into the backyard by myself if it’s after dark. Angelie calls a few times, but she’s stuck inside too, so we pass the time playing I Spy with all the stuff in our rooms, and texting back and forth with Carmen and Jessica and Connor.

Finny doesn’t call at all, which makes something tug in the center of my chest, but it’s also kind of a relief. I want to see him again and hold his hand and maybe make out a little, but the thing is, if he comes over, then Decker and my mom will have to meet him. And maybe Decker has tattoos all over his arms and shaves his head with a BIC razor. And maybe when I was little, my mom had five tiny silver studs in each ear and wore a motorcycle jacket, but now she wears blouses from Stein Mart and drives a Prius. And maybe I just don’t think they’re going to be overly excited about a boy who shoplifts from the gas station and is in all the slow classes at school.

It took a while, but the police have finally given an official statement, letting the press in on the bizarre nature of the crime scenes. It’s awful to have seen the actual details myself—this ugly, secret mix of blood and cheap colored plastic—and now every newscaster and reporter in Ludlow is talking about the Valentine Killer like he’s some kind of major figure or celebrity.

Every headline, breaking bulletin, and news feature seems to be basking in the horror.

It would be so tempting to put the awful things out of my mind. Tempting to ignore the way the cop cars crawl the streets, and the way the TV never, ever stops talking about the fact that two girls are dead.

Except I can’t ignore it because every time they talk about two girls, all I can think is that they should be talking about three, and because twice after getting out of the shower, I thought I saw a brown-haired shape reflected behind me in the door of the medicine cabinet. Each time, though, it disappeared. There and gone so fast that by the time I wiped the condensation off the glass, I was half sure I’d imagined it.

The air conditioner is still broken.

I find a few old blog posts and online write-ups about the Monica Harris murder, but Lillian’s scrapbook is the only account of what happened that feels truly honest. I read it through again and again, looking for some piece of insight or tiny detail that might link Monica to the other two girls.

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