Possess

going to pass out. “Yeah, thanks.”
    Thanks? Did she really just thank him? Bridget, you complete loser.
    “Bridge?” her mom called from the kitchen with the worst possible timing in the world. “Dinner’s ready.”
    Sunday night’s shepherd pie dinner at the Liu house was the most awkward social experience of Bridget’s life.
    Everyone avoided everyone else. Her mom studiously avoided both Matt and Sergeant Quinn, and treated Bridget and Sammy like they were the only ones in the room. Sergeant Quinn was having difficulty keeping his eyes away from her mom, but he avoided his son’s eyes like the plague. Matt stared directly at his plate, occasionally nudging Bridget with his elbow or knee to make sure she remembered he was there. As for Bridget, she didn’t care if everyone in the room fell off the face of the Earth. All she could think about was the tingling on her lips where Matt had kissed her.
    “Why’s no one talking?” Sammy asked. He’d separated his shepherd’s pie into piles of mashed potatoes, ground beef, carrot, onion, and “other” and was taking bites of them in order, progressing counterclockwise around his plate. “Are we mad?”
    “No, Sammy,” her mom said. “Of course we’re not mad at you.”
    “Not mad at me,” Sammy said, scooping a bit of other into his mouth. “Just mad.”
    Bridget worked her way through her dinner as fast as was humanly possible. She wasn’t the only one. Her mom, Matt, and Sergeant Quinn were eating like they were racing to the finish line. She kept trying to remind herself that beyond her brother’s eccentric eating habits, beyond the squicky flirting between her mom and Sergeant Quinn, beyond her own disturbing desire to pull Matt down on her bed and smother herself in his crisp, orangey cologne, there was a reason she’d brought him to her house. They needed to look for a secret stash of notes that might or might not exist. No pressure.
    “How are you doing, Bridget?” Sergeant Quinn asked, breaking the silence.
    Bridget had no idea what he was talking about. “Fine?”
    Her mom cast a sideways glance at Sammy. “We were worried, you know.” She lowered her voice. “About Peter.”
    Bridget dropped her fork. She’d totally and completely put Peter’s murder out of her mind. What kind of a friend was she?
    “Sammy,” Matt said calmly. “Did you show your mom your baseball mitt? The one we broke in for you?”
    Sammy’s face lit up. “No!” He jumped out of his chair. “You’ll love it, Mom. Matt says it’s made just for me.”
    Bridget caught Matt’s eye as her brother ran out of the room. “Thank you,” she mouthed. The last thing she needed was for Sammy to overhear a conversation about Peter’s death.
    “Steph—” Her mom caught herself. “Sergeant Quinn told me that Peter’s death was very much like . . . like . . .” Her mom’s hands shook so violently she had to drop them into her lap.
    “It was a completely different crime scene, Annie,” Sergeant Quinn said. He reached his arm around her shoulders, then froze, casting a furtive glance at Matt and Bridget. He settled for a friendly pat on her mom’s shoulder instead. “Whatever sicko killed the Kim boy, it was just a coincidence, Annie, that it was anything like . . .” He looked at Bridget. “Like David’s murder.”
    Bridget recalled the stricken look on Sergeant Quinn’s face the night before when he arrived at St. Michael’s. He knew as well as she did that the murders were exactly the same. Freakishly the same. No coincidence about it the same.
    “I’m just sorry that Bridge—” She choked on her daughter’s name. “That Bridget had to be the one to find
him.”
    Bridget stiffened. Peter Kim’s mangled, blood-soaked body flashed before her. His eyes wide open, staring upward, reflecting the horror of his last moments. His mouth gaping in a silent scream. The deep red gash across his throat that exposed the sinewy gore beneath.
    Bridget’s fingers curled around the seat of her chair, fingernails digging into the coarse underside. It was her fault, her fault that Peter was dead. Father Santos had said as much. Peter had been obsessed with her, in love with her since before she even knew what those words meant, and she’d just ignored him. She should have been kinder, more understanding. She should have texted him back last night, calmed him, told him that Matt Quinn meant nothing to her.
    She felt a warmth next to her skin as Matt