Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six(89)

The house had quieted down. There were just a few people in the kitchen as they came down, practically carrying Libby between them.

“She is wasted,” someone said with a derisive laugh.

Mickey was in the hallway, fresh beer in hand, watching as they took Libby out the front door. He was dressed in fresh clothes, looked relaxed and happy, just another party, another Saturday night for Mickey. He and Hannah locked eyes. His face. She had never forgotten it—a lidded look of apathy, almost a dark glee. It sent a little pulse through Hannah.

He did it, she thought. He raped her.

But then the look was gone, and it was just Mickey sheepish and embarrassed. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

At the sight of him Libby started shrieking. “You raped me! You bastard!”

But people were drunk, and the music still blasted, and as Hannah and Cricket dragged her out into the night, no one acknowledged her or even looked in their direction for very long.

“Shh, shh, Libby,” said Hannah. “You’re okay. You’re just really drunk, okay?”

In the car, the girl just passed out cold across the back seat. Hannah covered her with a sweatshirt from the trunk—one of Mickey’s. They drove her home.

“He’s a monster,” said Cricket. “How could he do this to me?”

Hannah blew out a breath. “To you?”

Cricket gave her an incredulous stare. “You don’t believe her. She was all over him. She’s wanted him for years.”

They drove in silence, the radio off, Libby breathing heavily in the back, the car winding through the dark rural roads. Just around a bend, a doe ran out into the street, pausing in the beam of Hannah’s headlights as she put on the breaks. She honked her horn, and the doe bounded out of sight. She drove more slowly. They did not need to have a car accident right now.

“You always cover for him,” said Cricket. She was resting her head against the window, looking like a sad clown with the mascara rivers and her hair wild.

“That’s not true.”

“He told me about Boots.”

Their mother’s cat. The cat had been ancient, no one even knew how old. Boots was mean, only liked Sophia. He bit and hissed and smelled horrible.

“Boots ran away.”

“He didn’t. Mickey told me what happened.”

Hannah gripped the wheel, stayed silent.

“He killed it, right?” said Cricket when Hannah didn’t say anything.

“It was an accident.”

She didn’t like to think about that, how she found Mickey in the garage with his friends, blood on his hands. And that smile, that same lidded look of dark glee. What? It was a science experiment. Now we know. Cats do not have nine lives. It was better if Mom thought the cat ran away. Hannah had almost convinced herself of that.

“It wasn’t an accident,” said Cricket. “You know it wasn’t.”

Finally, they pulled in front of Libby’s house and brought the car to a stop in the short driveway. Hannah half helped, half dragged Libby from the back seat. The house was dark and quiet, the porch light burning. Hannah knew where she lived because she used to go to Camp Fire Girl meetings there; Mrs. Cruz, Libby’s mom had been the group leader.

“Help me,” said Hannah, breaking Cricket from her fog of self-pity.

Cricket came and helped Hannah drag Libby up the walkway.

“Stop,” said Libby in a hoarse whisper. “Let me go.”

“You’re almost home,” soothed Hannah.

They were sweating from the effort in the spring evening when they got to the front door, which they found unlocked. Together they struggled to get her inside, knocking loudly against a console table, tripping heavily over a runner. Finally, they lay her down on the couch. As they were doing that, a light came on and Libby’s mom came down, even roused from sleep she looked pretty, put together in a floral robe, thick hair nearly perfect. Mrs. Cruz taught ballet at a studio in town.

“What’s going on?” she asked, flipping on the living room lights.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cruz,” said Hannah. “We were at a party. I think Libby had too much to drink.”

“What?” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “Libby doesn’t drink. She’s sixteen.”

Hannah nodded. “She did tonight. Maybe that explains why it hit her so hard.”

Mrs. Cruz moved over to her daughter, kneeling down beside her. “Libby? Libby honey.”

“Mom,” Libby said, and started to cry. Mrs. Cruz took her daughter into her arms.

“She got sick,” Hannah said. She was only half aware that in putting Libby in the shower, she was washing away evidence of Mickey. “We cleaned her up and brought her home.”

Mrs. Cruz turned angry eyes on Hannah. “Whose party was this? Were there adults present? I thought she was at her friend Beth’s studying.”

“We have to go, Mrs. Cruz,” said Cricket, pulling Hannah out the door. “We’re past curfew to bring Libby home. I hope she feels better.”

Libby drew her mother’s attention by throwing up again, and Mrs. Cruz turned back to her daughter. Cricket and Hannah ran for the car, got in and drove off quickly.

They drove in silence, Hannah’s mind spinning. Mickey, Libby, Boots, the house, the party, how screwed they were.