The Face by R.L. Stine, Bill Schmidt Page B

beside the canvas bag. I pulled it open wide so she could see. “Look!”
    Her hands stayed in her hair, tugging tensely as she peered down into the bag. “No,” she whispered. “No.”
    â€œIt’s the wire,” I told her, even though she already knew. “The leftover wire. And the wire cutters.”
    â€œBut, Martha—”
    â€œI killed Sean,” I said in a low, flat voice. A dead voice. “Here’s the proof.”
    â€œBut, why—?” Adriana demanded, holding on to her hair as if grasping a life preserver.
    â€œI don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember. But here’s the proof. I killed him. Then I hid the rest of the wire in my bag.”
    Adriana lowered her eyes to the bag. Then she shut her eyes, and I saw her whole body shudder. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
    â€œTell Mom and Dad,” I replied. “I’m going totell Mom and Dad. I guess they’ll have to take me to the police.”
    My words made Adriana jerk back. She fell onto my bed, her hands flying up. “But
why,
Martha? Why did you kill him?”
    â€œI don’t remember,” I said, shaking my head, trying to force back the tears.
    â€œI saw you two fighting,” Adriana remembered. “That night in the cabin. You and Sean went into the back room. I passed by and I saw you arguing. What was it about?”
    I shrugged. “I wish I knew. I just can’t remember. He kissed me, I think. Or maybe I kissed him. And then we were fighting. And then …” My voice trailed off.
    I took a deep breath. “I don’t know anything for sure. I only know that I’m a murderer.”
    â€œNo, you’re not!”
    Another voice invaded my room.
    A boy’s voice. From the bedroom doorway.
    I turned to see Ivan stride in. His black hair disheveled. His dark eyes wild.
    â€œIvan—!” Adriana cried, jumping up from the bed. “How did you get here? What are you doing here?”
    â€œI followed you,” he told his sister. “Martha’s parents let me in just before they left.”
    â€œBut what do you want?” Adriana demanded shrilly. “Martha and I need to talk. We don’t need you to—”
    He waved his hand hard, a rough, sweeping motion intended to shut her up.
    His eyes blazed excitedly as he turned to me.
    Has he been drinking? I wondered. Is that why he seems so out of control?
    Why did he follow Adriana?
    Why did he come here?
    â€œI—I heard what you were saying, Martha,” he stammered. His dark eyes burned into mine. “You’re wrong. You’re not the murderer.”
    â€œHuh?” I gasped in shock. “Ivan—what do you mean? Why do you say that?”
    He took a deep breath. His chest heaved up and down. Despite the cold of the night, his forehead was drenched with sweat.
    â€œI know you’re not the murderer, Martha,” he repeated. “Because I am. I murdered Sean.”

chapter 23
    â€œN o!”
    Adriana let out a wild shriek and lunged across the room. She grabbed Ivan by the shoulders and started to shake him wildly.
    â€œNo! Why are you saying that? Why?”
    He tossed her aside easily. She collided with my dresser, her face twisted in surprise, in fear.
    â€œYou’re not a murderer!” she screamed at her brother.
    â€œYes!” he insisted. “I did it, Adriana. I have no choice now. I have to tell the truth. I can’t let Martha think she was the one.”
    Adriana uttered a loud gasp. She opened her mouth to protest, but changed her mind. I saw her shoulders slump, the color drain from her face.
    Ivan perched on the edge of my desk. His hand nervously brushed the small, black goatee under his chin. He raised his eyes to me. “I couldn’t let you think you were the one,” he said softly.
    â€œI—I—” I sputtered. I didn’t know what to say. I glanced at