"Don't you see?" Jessica whispered urgently. "It's just you and me now, Todd, right down the line. She did this. Elizabeth did this. No matter what she says . . ." Jessica's voice shook with emotion. "No matter what she says, it won't change the fact that Sam is dead and that she took him away that night. She left us both, Todd. She left us, not the other way around."

  Jessica lifted a hand to Todd's face, brushing away the tear that trickled down his cheek. He turned blindly toward her, and she kissed him, gently at first and then more passionately as he began to respond to her. "See?" she whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist. "It's just you and me."

  Chapter 5

  "You didn't have to do this, you know," Steven said to Billie on Tuesday night as they slid into a booth at the Dairi Burger. "I mean, drive all the way down here, and on a weeknight."

  "It was no big deal," Billie assured him. "I got the feeling when you called that you could use some company." She smiled playfully. "Hey, any excuse not to work on that physics problem set!"

  "Well, I really appreciate it," Steven told her. "I love my family, and I want to be there for them, but I needed a break, you know?"

  She nodded sympathetically. "It must have been a rough day for all of you."

  "I had to get out of the house for a while," Steven admitted. "Jessica split, too. God knows where she went or who she's with, though—she never tells anybody. I just hope she's not alone. I hope she has a friend . . . like I do." Reaching out, Steven squeezed Billie's hand. "Thanks," he said quietly.

  "Anytime."

  They gazed silently into each others eyes and, without warning, a new and powerful emotion flickered in Steven's heart. Suddenly he didn't care if he never let go of Billie's hand, if he never pulled himself from the warm, deep pool of her eyes.

  Finally, she broke the spell herself, her cheeks pink. "What are roomies for, right?" she said lightly. "Hey, let's order some food—I'm starving."

  Soon they were digging into grilled-chicken sandwiches, onion rings, and a couple of the Dairi Burger's famous shakes, thankful for the distraction. "Excuse me for gobbling," Billie said with her mouth full, "but it's been a long time since lunch."

  "And you played soccer this afternoon, didn't you?" Steven asked, happy to ease back into their comfortable patter.

  "Yep." She grinned. "Your team missed you, Wakefield. We tanned your hides, six to two."

  "Ouch." Steven winced. "But don't get cocky, Winkler. We play you again in a couple weeks, and I guarantee we'll have you begging for mercy."

  "I'll believe it when I see it," she said. "Oh, by the way, what's-her-name, Eve, said to tell you the prelaw study group is meeting tomorrow night instead of tonight."

  "Great," said Steven. "My poli-sci class this semester is intense—I'd be lost if I didn't get the chance to talk over the reading material with those guys."

  He and Billie sat, eating and chatting, for over an hour. It wasn't any different from the countless meals they had shared before. The only hint that anything unusual had passed between them was the pink glow still visible in Billie's cheeks.

  When they stood up to leave, he slung an arm companionably around Billie's slender shoulders. "You were just what the doctor ordered," he told her. "I feel about a million percent better."

  "Glad to hear it." She hugged him around the waist as they walked toward the exit. "So, while I've got you in such a good mood, how about knocking a hundred bucks or so off my monthly rent?"

  "Hey, I'm grateful, not stupid!"

  Laughing, they pushed through the door . . . nearly walking right into Elizabeth.

  "Liz!" Steven exclaimed in surprise. For a short while, he'd almost forgotten about his family's troubles. Seeing Elizabeth, alone and clearly holding herself together with supreme effort, brought it all back. Guilt-stricken, Steven pulled his arm away from Billie. "What are you doing here?"

  Elizabeth gave her brother a forced, hollow smile. "I'm a big girl, Steven," she reminded him. "I can go out at night if I want. Besides, I've got to start living my life again sometime."

  She attempted another smile, but it wasn't convincing. Steven stared at her helplessly, wishing he knew what to say or do to make things easier for her.

  Billie eased gracefully into the awkward silence. "You know," she encouraged Elizabeth. "You should come up and visit us on campus sometime. It would be a change of scenery, and we'd have fun—playing tennis, cooking dinner, short-sheeting Steven's bed. . . ."

  This time, Elizabeth's smile was genuine; Steven could almost see her relax. "Maybe I will," she said.

  "What are you doing now?" Billie asked. "Want to join us for a movie?"

  The haunted, defensive look returned to Elizabeth's eyes. "No, thanks. I—I've got to do this by myself." She pulled her shoulders up. "I think I should get used to being on my own. So long, guys."

  Steven watched Elizabeth enter the restaurant, fighting the urge to run after her, to shield her from the gossip and the curious, insensitive eyes he knew she'd have to face inside. He felt his throat choke with tears.

  Billie was watching him steadily. "She'll be OK," she predicted, placing a comforting hand on Steven's arm. "She's strong. Now you have to be strong, too—for her sake."

  "I know, but sometimes it's hard. God, it's so hard." All at once, Steven thought that if he didn't pour it all out, he'd burst. He had to tell someone what he was dealing with, the full horror of the situation at home: not only did Elizabeth face the very real possibility of being sent to a juvenile detention home, but his mother was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He had to tell someone. He had to tell Billie. He just couldn't carry the burden by himself anymore.

  "There's something I have to talk to you about, Billie," Steven whispered. "I swore to myself I wouldn't tell anyone, though, so you have to promise—promise you'll keep it a secret."

  He searched her face with urgent, desperate eyes. She looked back at him, her own eyes clear and warm with concern and affection. "I won't tell a soul. You can trust me," Billie told him, and Steven knew he could.

  Pamela sat slumped in a booth at the Dairi Burger, a burger and fries sitting untouched on the plate in front of her. She'd been at the restaurant for half an hour and kids were constantly walking in and out, but so far nobody had made the slightest move to approach her. She hadn't received a single hello or even a nod of recognition.

  This is definitely the place to go if you want to see and be seen in Sweet Valley. Too bad I'm invisible! Pamela thought with glum irony.

  Wistfully, she stole glances at a group of kids sitting nearby. They talked and laughed with that relaxed, unself-conscious manner of people who belonged. Those girls look so carefree and confident. What I wouldn't give to be like that.

  She sipped her soda, her gaze wandering until it came to rest on one other person who didn't fit into the high-spirited, congenial scene. Elizabeth Wakefield had just walked in, alone.

  She looked as lonely as Pamela felt. Like Pamela, Elizabeth's reputation preceded her, only hers was a little more positive. Even at Big Mesa, everyone knew that Elizabeth Wakefield was one of the nicest kids at Sweet Valley High—friendly and unpretentious. The kind of person who'd give you the benefit of the doubt instead of judging you on what other people said about you, Pamela reflected. The kind of person I'd like to be friends with . . . .

  Hey, maybe it's not such a crazy idea, Pamela thought. Maybe Elizabeth Wakefield needs someone to talk to as much as I do. No one else was making a move to go up to Elizabeth, that was for sure. Pamela took a deep breath, mustering all her courage. She'd do it—she'd go up to Elizabeth and introduce herself and invite her to sit down. . . .

  Too late. A take-out bag clutched in her hand, Elizabeth hurried back to the door, with her white face and limp hair looking like nothing so much as a frightened ghost.

  With a sigh, Pamela reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a copy of the Sweet Valley High student newspaper, The Oracle. Flipping it open, she skimmed the articles until she came to a calendar of weekly meetings and activities. I can't give up on my new school yet—I've got to get involved somehow, she decided, considering the possibilities. Photography club? Drama club? The tennis team?

  At that moment, Pamela looked up and caught the eye of a boy just entering the restaurant. Her face turned scarlet, his turned white and cold.

  Bruce hesitated, but only for an instant. Regaining his self-command, he swaggered across to the new take-out counter, Ronnie Edwards and Paul Sherwood following in his wake.

  Bruce didn't give Pamela another glance. Ronnie and Paul, meanwhile, leered in her direction, Ronnie making some remark under his breath that caused Paul to laugh loudly. Pamela cringed, not sure which was worse, being ignored by Bruce or being ridiculed by his friends.

  She'd dreamed of bumping into Bruce here, of getting a chance to talk to him and straighten things out. But now, as Bruce and his buddies waited at the take-out counter for their food, and people at other tables directed amused, disdainful looks her way, Pamela prayed that Bruce would just leave.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Bruce sauntered back out of the Dairi Burger, still without acknowledging her presence. Fighting back tears of hurt and humiliation, Pamela counted to twenty-five in her head. When she figured Bruce had time to clear out and it was safe to venture into the parking lot, she slipped from her booth and bolted for the door just as her eyes brimmed over.

  Elizabeth sat at the desk in her bedroom staring at a neat stack of unopened schoolbooks. It was almost eleven P.M. Back in the old days, she would've been getting ready for bed—putting on her nightgown, brushing her teeth, eager to fall into bed exhausted after a full day. But she knew there was no point in going through that routine tonight, at least not for a while. Lately, she put it off as long as she could. Why hurry to bed when she knew she wouldn't fall asleep—she'd just lie there, staring at the shadowy ceiling, thinking. And her thoughts were so much harder to bear after the lights went out, when she was left alone, in the dark. . . .

  This wasn't such a bad night, though, Elizabeth reflected with a tiny flicker of optimism. She was proud of herself for going to the Dairi Burger earlier that evening, for getting out and facing Sweet Valley even though she knew everyone from school—everyone in town, for that matter—was talking about her. It was the first time she'd ventured out in ages, except to go to court, and it hadn't been fun. But she'd survived.

  Pulling a textbook toward her, Elizabeth opened it up to the chapter Enid had marked with a scrap of paper. Every afternoon, Enid stopped by with Elizabeth's homework assignments. Elizabeth was determined to stay on top of her work so that she wouldn't be hopelessly behind her classmates when she returned to Sweet Valley High. Make that if I return to Sweet Valley High. If by some miracle I'm not convicted and sent to a juvenile reformatory. . . .

  She snapped the book shut. It was no use. How could she concentrate on biology when she might never again set foot in the halls of Sweet Valley High, might never see graduation day, never go on to college, never have a career as a writer, never realize any of the dreams she'd cherished over the years?

  Elizabeth pushed back her chair and looked slowly around her bedroom. All at once, everything there—each piece of furniture, every little knickknack—seemed unspeakably precious. She tried not to think about the room she'd live in at the reformatory, but she couldn't help picturing it—a barren cell, devoid of color and comfort, with no feeling of security, no privacy, no reminders of her happy childhood. . . .

  Standing up, Elizabeth walked to her nightstand and picked up a small silver picture frame. It held a photograph of herself and Todd, taken at a party at Ken Matthews's house just a few months ago. Maria Santelli had taken it, and in it Elizabeth and Todd were laughing—Winston had been telling some typically hilarious story. Todd had his arm around Elizabeth's shoulders and they were laughing. . . .

  We look so happy, Elizabeth thought, smiling through a mist of tears. "Oh, Todd," she whispered out loud. "I miss those days. I miss you."

  She put the frame down and sat on the edge of the bed. Opening the nightstand drawer, she pulled out a small leather-bound photo album. Elizabeth turned to the familiar scrawl on the inside of the front cover. "See, Liz? We're the dynamic duo! Since we were only born four minutes apart, we should never let anything come between us. Let's make up. Love, Jess." That was just like Jessica, Elizabeth mused, smiling sadly to herself. Manipulating me to get me to forgive her. Jessica had put this album together after they'd had a particularly bad fight, filling it with especially meaningful pictures of the twins together.

  The first snapshot was of Elizabeth and Jessica in diapers and tiny Santa Claus hats, posed in front of the tree on their first Christmas morning. In the next picture, they were at the beach and a little older, wearing matching ruffled bathing suits and carrying plastic pails and shovels. And here we are on our first day of kindergarten, Elizabeth reminisced, and at Grandma and Grandpa's in Michigan. Turning the page, she burst out laughing at a photo of her and Jessica dressed in bobby socks, poodle skirts, and cardigans worn backward for a middle school sock hop.

  In the last picture, the twins were standing with their arms around each other preparing to blow out the candles on the cake at their Sweet Sixteen birthday party. A solitary tear stole down Elizabeth's cheek. We were always so close, she thought, reaching for a tissue. I'll miss her so much. But she'll be better off without me. Without me around to remind her of the tragedy, she can get over it and get on with her life. . . .

  Elizabeth walked slowly around her room, stopping to touch and examine some of her more treasured possessions: a turquoise and silver bracelet Todd had brought back for her from his last article she'd written for The Oracle; a picture of her parents on their wedding day; a book of poems Enid had given her; a threadbare stuffed rabbit she'd owned since babyhood. Some of the items made her cry a little, but others brought a smile to her face. Most of my memories are so very, very happy. . . .

  At that moment, Elizabeth spotted something pushed far back on the top of her dresser—the crumpled corsage that had still been pinned to her prom dress when they pulled her . . . and Sam . . . from the wreckage of the Jeep.

  Elizabeth clutched the faded flowers, crushing them. The ocean of pain she'd been keeping bottled up inside suddenly burst from her. "Oh, God, what have I done?" she moaned, a terrible, anguished sob tearing at her throat. Burying her face in her hands, she fell on her bed, choking with grief.

  "Lincolnville," the bus driver's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, waking Margo, who had fallen asleep staring dully out the bus window at the black, star-filled night. "We'll take a fifteen-minute rest stop here, folks."

  What a treat, Margo thought disdainfully as she stepped out onto the sidewalk a minute later. She lifted a hand to protect her eyes from the gritty wind that stirred a few fallen leaves in the gutter. Another dirty, deadbeat prairie town that could be wiped off the map and nobody would miss it.

  Slinging her pocketbook over her shoulder, she sauntered at a leisurely pace toward the neon lights of a ramshackle variety store halfway down the block. A bell jingled as she stepped through the door. Ignoring the inquiring glance of a skinny, pimple-faced boy working behind the counter, Margo wandered over to the magazine rack. First, with an insolent snap of her bubble gum, she lifted out a copy of Sweet Sixteen, flipping idly through the glossy pages. Then she scanned the newspapers. Would any of them mention the incidents in Ohio, the jewelry theft or the "accidental" drowning of little Georgie? Had anyone made a connection between the two, or between Georgie's death and the death of Margo's foster sister in the fire on Long Island? Had they found the common denominator?

  Casually, Margo reached for the Chicago paper. She skimmed the headlines: nothing. The St. Louis paper also revealed nothing.

  Margo struggled to keep a smug, self-satisfied grin from her face. I got away with it! she thought jubilantly.

  "May I help you, miss?" a voice croaked behind her.

  Margo spun on her heel to find the boy at the counter standing right behind her. The idiot snuck up on me! she thought, her temper flaring. What's he doing, spying on me?

  "I don't need help," she snapped, replacing the newspaper with a quick, violent gesture.

  The young man wrung his hands in dismay as if he feared what Margo would say next. Margo caught herself, resisting the urge to tell him just how repulsive he was, shove past him, and exit the store. With a concentrated effort, she transmuted her scowl into a sweetly apologetic smile.

  "I am so sorry," Margo said. "You see, I've been riding on a bus all the way from the East Coast and I'm just so tired and grouchy, I can't stand my own company! Those buses sure don't do anything for your disposition. There's no excuse, though, for taking it out on you when you were being so nice. I hope you'll forgive me."

  The boy's face relaxed instantly. "Oh, don't worry," he said in a warm, hopeful tone. "You just go right on and enjoy your shopping."

  Margo sighed ruefully. "I'm not shopping, really," she confessed. "Just looking. I'm pretty hungry and bored, but money's awful tight at this point in the trip. I spent all my savings traveling out to visit with my grandmother before she . . ." Margo squeezed a tear into her eye. "Before she passed on," she finished with a delicate sniffle.

  The young man looked terrified at the prospect of Margo crying in his store. "I'm sorry. Here." He took a copy of Sweet Sixteen and handed it to her. Then he quickly crossed to the counter and reached for a paper bag, which he filled with candy and snacks. "And take these."

  "Oh, no, I couldn't—" Margo protested.

  "Go on." He pressed the bag into Margo's free hand and waved her toward the door.

  The driver pulled the door closed as soon as Margo jumped on board. The bus huffed forward and Margo collapsed into her seat. Unwrapping a candy bar, she bit into it with a smile, thinking how much better it tasted because she'd gotten it for free.