Killer. (Book Six)

Twelve: Off With Her Head!

Wednesday evening, Emily placed four cream-colored dinner plates around the square farmhouse table in the Colberts' dining room. When she got to the silverware, she paused, puzzled. Did knives go next to forks, or spoons? Her own family's dinners were casual free-for-alls. Emily and her sister Carolyn often ate later than their parents because of swim practice.

Isaac strolled in from the kitchen, his eyes looking extra blue in his shrunken V-neck sweater and dark denim jeans. He took Emily's hand and pressed something smooth and round into it. She stared into her palm. It was a teal blue ceramic ring. "What's this for?"

Isaac's eyes were bright. "No reason. Because I love you."

Emily pressed her lips together tightly, overcome. No one she'd dated had given her a gift before. "I love you too," she said, and slid the ring onto her pointer finger, where it fit best. She couldn't stop thinking what had happened between them yesterday. It felt surreal...but wonderful, too—a great distraction from thinking about A's return. All day at school, she kept sneaking into the girls' bathroom, inspecting herself in the mirror, looking for changes. It was always the same Emily staring back at her, with the same sprinkling of freckles, the same wide brown eyes, the same slightly upturned nose. She kept waiting to see a special glow or a knowing smile, something to indicate a transformation. She wished she could grab Isaac's shoulders, kiss him hard, and whisper That she wanted to do it again. Soon.

A loud crash in the kitchen shattered Emily's thoughts into a million pieces. Not that she'd date tell Isaac now, of course. Not with his parents around.

Isaac took the silverware from Emily and started placing it next to the plates—spoons next to knives on the right, forks alone on the left. "You look nervous," he said. "Don't worry. I told my parents not to bring up Ali's trial."

"Thanks." Emily tried to smile. Prying questions about Ali's trial were the least of her problems tonight—she was more worried about what exactly Mrs. Colbert had heard about yesterday. When she'd arrived at the door, Mrs. Colbert had greeted her stiffly, as if she wasn't pleased to see her. And after Emily came out of the powder room just now, she swore Mrs. Colbert was watching her judgingly, as if she thought Emily had forgotten to wash her hands.

Emily scurried into the kitchen to help Isaac's mom carry the pot roast and casserole dishes of broccoli, garlic mashed potatoes, and rolls to the table. Mr. Colbert blustered into the dining room, loosening his tie. After the family said grace, Mrs. Colbert passed the pot roast in Emily's direction, looking at her squarely for the first time of the evening.

"Here you go, dear." The corners of Mrs. Colbert's mouth curled up. "You like meat, don't you?"

Emily blinked. Was it her, or did that statement seem...loaded? She checked Isaac for his reaction, but he was innocently selecting a roll from a wicker basket. "Uh, thanks," Emily said, pulling the platter toward her. She did like meat. The kind you, um, eat.

"So, Emily." Mr. Colbert dug a large spoon into the bowl of potatoes. "I asked some of my catering employees about you. Apparently, you have a reputation."

Mrs. Colbert snorted quietly. Emily's fork clattered to her plate. The only sound in the room was the vent fan over the stove. "I-I do?"

"Everyone says you're a great swimmer," Mr. Colbert finished. "Nationally ranked in butterfly? That's amazing—it's a tough stroke, right?"

"Oh." Emily took a long, shaky drink from her glass of water. "Yeah." What had she expected, that Mr. Colbert was going to ask her what it was like to make out with girls? "It it a tough stroke, but for some reason I'm naturally fast as it."

"And then Mrs. Colbert murmured something else under breath. Emily could have sworn it was, "You're naturally fast, all right."

Emily lowered her glass. Mrs. Colbert chewed calmly, watching Emily. It felt like her eyes were beaming into Emily's skull. "What was that, Mom?" Isaac asked, squinting.