Shutter

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I duck down a narrow road that runs parallel to Julian’s street, and then cut over, crossing two intersections, finally arriving by his house. The yellow police tape flaps in the wind, gets caught up in the bushes.

  I grab my camera, feeling totally self-conscious. Standing at the corner of the property, I aim my lens at the front entrance, careful not to get the police tape, angling instead on the bright red door and the matching shutter beside it. An ivy plant snakes up the clapboard shingles. I retreat back a little, able to get that too, as well as a patch of wildflowers growing among the weeds.

  I take a handful of more shots before pausing to check them out. The photos are just what I intended. They give the illusion of home.

  My next series of photos uses a wider angle; it’s the same view of the house, but also with the police tape; the overgrown lawn; and the wide, gaping hole in the porch lattice, like someone kicked it in.

  I move around to the side of the house and aim my camera lens into the living room window, focusing on the navy blue sofa with the plaque hanging over it. The plaque looks to be about two feet wide: blue and yellow embroidered letters that spell out the word FAMILY.

  Click, click, click.

  I step back for a wider view, capturing a shot that includes the overturned end tables with the dumped-out drawers and a broken ceramic lion.

  Snap, snap.

  I continue to the window of Julian’s room, zooming in on the storybooks sitting on Steven’s bed, capturing the bright red and yellow book covers; the top one shows a dancing pig. There are bookmarks sticking out from the pages of the other books—like a well-loved stash of library loot.

  I zoom out for the next shot, getting the rest of the room—the broken dresser, the hole in the carpet, a crack in the wall, and a corner of Julian’s bed—imagining sleeping here. Steven’s obviously been gone for years, but I wonder if his ghost still lingers.

  I move around to the rear of the house, suddenly feeling like I’m being watched. There are houses surrounding the yard on all sides. The curtains shift in the first floor window of the apartment building directly beyond Julian’s fence. Meanwhile, a police siren blares, and my whole body trembles. I take a deep breath, telling myself that I haven’t done anything wrong (aside from trespassing, maybe). Still, I need to be quick.

  Like the front, the backyard is overgrown with weeds. A metal shed sits in the center of the lot with its doors splayed open, facing me. There’s also a large sandy area with an uneven rock border. I wonder what the space was used for. A grill? An old patio or sandbox?

  I edge closer for a better look, but then come to a sudden halt.

  Julian’s here.

  The breath in my lungs stops.

  He’s crouched beneath a picnic table with his back toward me.

  My gut reaction is excitement to see him. But then my brain kicks in and confusion takes over. What is he doing? Why is he here?

  The table is tucked in the corner of the lot, behind the shed. The benches have been pulled away. There’s a shovel in Julian’s hand and a wide gaping hole in the ground.

  I take a photo of the mound of dirt beside him.

  The shutter clicks.

  He looks back at me.

  I stare at him through the lens of my camera, desperate to see things clearly, angling close on his face. It’s covered in stubble. His lower lip trembles.

  But still I’m just as confused.

  Julian crawls out from the table. He stands, dressed in the clothes I first saw him in—the hooded sweatshirt, the dark gray pants. He looks like he did that day, at the convenience store, with his cowered posture, when I asked him if he was okay.

  “What are you doing here?” I look beyond him at the table. It’s big, at least eight feet long and four feet wide. There’s a collection of items by the mound of dirt.

  And that’s when the answer clicks.

  I move closer for a better look and scoot down beside the hole. He’s been digging up what was buried: a bracelet, a child’s shoe, a wedding band, and some old pill bottles.

  They’re all caked with dirt.

  I zoom in close on the ring, imagining it on Mrs. Roman’s finger, wondering when she buried it. Five months ago? A couple of years after Steven’s death? Did her husband notice when it went missing?

  Did he notice the missing shoe? It’s a brown lace-up bootie, about the size of my hand, and with a bright red rubber sole.

  “Is that Steven’s?” I ask.

  Julian nods, following my gaze. He comes and sits beside me on the ground. “I was probably seven or eight when I buried it.”

  “And the bracelet?”

  “It was a wedding present to my mom from my father. She obviously didn’t want to be married anymore.”

  “Looks like she didn’t want to be taking pills, either.” I point my camera lens at the collection of items. Julian doesn’t comment, and so I take a couple of snapshots, trying to capture the sparkle of the amber beads through the layers of dirt. They must’ve been beautiful once.

  I peek down into the hole, curious to know what else might be buried, able to see something down there, sitting at the bottom. “What’s that?” I ask him.

  Julian doesn’t answer. He’s turned away. His knees are tucked against his chest.

  I reach into my pocket for my phone, click on the flashlight app, and aim it into the hole. “It looks like an underground steel pipe.” My mind zooms to Peter Hayden. Is it possible that there’s a connection? Does Julian know something key?

  “What is it?” I insist, pointing the flashlight in deeper. The rod has an iron base with carvings of some sort. Rosettes, swirling vines? The object has a long slender neck and a dishlike platform at the top.

  I flash back to years ago, as a kid, digging up old silverware in our yard. Dad said that before there were banks, people used to bury their treasures on their property.

  “Julian?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know.” I peer back into the hole, and then reach in to grab it.

  But Julian stops me before I can, grabbing my arm, yanking me back. My phone slips from my grip and falls into the hole, about three feet down.

  “What is it?” I insist.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I nod. My heart pounds.

  Julian pulls on some gardening gloves, repositions on his knees, and lifts the object out. It’s an iron candleholder, about fourteen inches long. There’s a round crevice at the top for the candle’s base.

  “Did your mom bury that?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. His eyes lock on mine. “I did.”

  My mind reels, imagining what kind of symbolism it held. Did his father used to burn candles in Steven’s memory? Was Julian forced to sit still until the candle burned out?

  There’s a smear of something on the platform top.

  Dark red.

  Like dried blood.

  I look back at Julian’s stark white face. “Is this…? I mean, it can’t be.”

  The murder weapon.

  “It was an accident,” he says; his voice breaks over the words.

  The light behind my eyes goes dim. The ground tilts. The world around me whirs. How can this possibly be? And what about Peter Hayden? It was supposed to be him. This was supposed to get fixed.

  “My father and I were fighting,” Julian continues.

  But I almost don’t want to hear the words.

  “I’d just come home from mowing the neighbor’s lawn,” he says. “My father was already drunk. And my mother was dead. She was lying in the bathtub, having taken all her pills. Dad said that it was my fault. He came at me, blaming me, calling me a no-good son of a bitch.”

  I clasp over my mouth. Every inch of me feels like it’s racing—like a motor’s been clicked on inside my heart, revving up my nerves, rattling every bone.

  “He swung at my head with his beer can–holding hand. I swiped it away; the can went flying. It didn’t en
d there. He came at me again, pinning me against the wall by driving his fingers into my throat. I fought back, wrapping my hands around his neck.”

  “Julian,” I whisper. Tears slide over my lips. I can taste the salt inside my mouth.

  “His fingers eased from my neck,” he continues. “His mouth arched open, and he let out a sputter. But I couldn’t do it—couldn’t stand to see him in pain. I let go and turned away. But then he came at me again. I grabbed the only thing within reach. Before I knew it, everything went quiet. He wasn’t breathing. I went into a panic. I left the house and drove around. When I got back, I buried the evidence, called the police…”

  “And gave them the whole beach story.”

  He nods. “It just seemed easier to say I was at the beach all day. I even went to the beach the following day, so desperate to make the story true. The police seemed to believe me. Everything was going fine on the outside, but I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t eating. I just kept looking over my shoulder, convinced I was being watched. They did an autopsy and found the prints around my dad’s neck.”

  “Did they know they were yours?”

  “No, and still everybody seemed to assume that my parents were the victims of their own murder-suicide. But then the UPS guy came forward. He told the police about the fight with my dad. Everything turned upside down after that. My only hope was that they hadn’t found the murder weapon. But then they got my prints.”

  “So that’s why you came here, isn’t it?” I ask, thinking aloud. “Not to dig up the past, but to get the murder weapon, to hide it someplace more secure. It’s why you’ve stuck around so long.”

  “It’s not the only reason.” His body twitches. “Your friendship’s meant everything to me. I mean, meeting you, it’s almost made things worse. As if things could’ve gotten any worse. Not only have I lost my parents, but I’ll also be losing you.”

  I reach out to take his hand—to pull off his glove and weave my fingers through his—able to feel his body shake. “You don’t have to lose me.”

  “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

  I wipe my eyes. “No more lies.”

  “So, what do we do?” His eyes are red. His face looks pale.

  I picture him and his brother in the backseat of his mother’s car just minutes before it crashed. “We deal with things once and for all.” Still holding his hand, I reach back into the hole for my phone. I click it on.

  “Day. No.”

  “Yes,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze. “You’re no longer on your own, remember? Trust me.”

  I can tell he wants to—can see it in his hesitation. His lip quivers. His chin shakes. But still he doesn’t utter another word.

  And so I press my mother’s number. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Monday, October 26

  This is my last journal entry in this notebook—not because the pages are all filled, but because I’m giving it to Day. It’s all dug up here. There’s nothing left to bury.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  When I get home from school, Mom is already here. She’s in the kitchen. I can hear the clanking of dishes. I drop my bag and head in to join her.

  “Hey,” she says, looking up from a saucepan. There’s a wide smile across her glowing face.

  I glance over at the table. The crystal glasses are out. The napkins are folded into origami-like swans. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “I won Pandora’s case,” she bursts out. “She was released from prison two hours ago.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding.” Mom does a little cheer thing with her balled-up fists, punching the air and shimmying her hips.

  “Congratulations!” I smile at her excitement; she hasn’t seemed this happy in months.

  “So, we’re celebrating. I’ve made fried ravioli. Dad’s coming to dinner, too.”

  He’s been coming for dinner at least once a week, including last Friday night, when we ordered all of our favorite Thai dishes, just like old times (and when Dad ate his meal with a fork).

  Will the two of them get back together? The vote is still out on that one. But it almost doesn’t even matter. They’re getting along. We’re getting along. And I’m spending time with both of them.

  After dinner, in my room, I pull Julian’s journal from my backpack. It’s filled with entries about his childhood, as well as about his time spent on the run. I run my fingers over the cover, thinking how differently his life could’ve ended up had the car accident never happened, had his father come home on time that day, or had his parents reacted differently to Steven’s death.

  I’ve added photos of Julian to my project: a snapshot from the train depot; pictures of him in the backyard, washing with the hose; and then a photo I snuck at the beach on our date, when he couldn’t have looked more beautiful.

  “Are you ready?” Mom calls me.

  I’m not really sure. I haven’t seen Julian since the night he turned himself in, the same night he dug the hole, and I have no idea what to expect.

  “Visiting hours are at seven,” she continues, “but we have to get there early to register.”

  Mom’s read Julian’s journal too. As soon as she heard his confession to the crime, she insisted on taking the case.

  I grab the photo album I put together. It’s filled with images I thought Julian would like: shots of the ocean at sunrise and sunset, pictures of the moon shining down over Zigmont Beach, and photos of forget-me-not flowers.

  I go downstairs and hug Dad good-bye, promising to stop by his apartment tomorrow to fill him in.

  “Nervous?” Mom asks, as we climb into her car.

  “Nervous, anxious, excited, scared. I don’t know what I’ll say to him.” All I know is that Julian needs friendship and trust the most right now, and so that’s what I intend to give him.

  “No matter what happens with his case, I know he feels grateful to you.”

  I feel the same. “I learned so much by helping him.”

  “Well, then maybe you should tell him that.”

  Julian’s not being kept at the Fairmount County Juvenile Detention Facility like before. He’s been moved to the detention center in Chesterville, known for its high security, a little over an hour away.

  We enter the facility through a set of iron gates. A tall brick wall topped with barbed wiring surrounds the entire place. I gaze out at the grounds. There’s a grassy field and a basketball court, as well as a track for running and an outdoor patio space.

  Mom parks the car. It looks crowded here tonight. There’s a long line for security, but Mom gets us through it pretty quickly by flashing her bar card.

  “Are you ready?” she asks, leading me into one of the visiting booths.

  I sit down beside her and look toward the long glass window, itching my palms, taking deep breaths, and waiting for Julian to finally arrive.

  He appears a few moments later, dressed in an olive-green suit. His skin is smooth. His hair’s been cut. The scar beneath his eye has finally healed.

  He smiles when he sees me.

  I smile too. “I’m ready.”

  THE END

  I would first like to thank my brilliant and amazingly talented editor, Tracey Keevan, for her invaluable feedback, critical suggestions, and attention to detail. This book is so much stronger because of her. A big thank-you also goes out to Ricardo Mejías for his careful read, and for knowing all the right questions to ask.

  Thanks to my agent, Kathryn Green, for her literary guidance and advice. Twelve books together later, I’m enormously grateful for all she does.

  Thanks to friends and family members, who are a constant source of support and encouragement. Thank you for reading my work, coming to my events, bringing me coffee (tall, black, no sugar, with a sprinkle of cinnamon), and keeping me inspired. I am truly blessed to have you all in my life.

  And lastly, a very special thank-you goes to my readers, who continue to support me and cheer me on. Thank
you for reading my books, attending my workshops, coming to my events, entering my contests, sending me your letters and artwork, making book-inspired videos and playlists, choosing my work for your school projects and reports, etc., etc., etc. I’m so truly grateful. You guys are the absolute best.

  Also by

  LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ

  Welcome to the Dark House

  Return to the Dark House

  LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ is the author of Welcome to the Dark House, Return to the Dark House, and the Touch series, as well as Project 17; Bleed; and the highly popular Blue Is for Nightmares; White Is for Magic; Silver Is for Secrets; Red Is for Remembrance; and Black Is for Beginnings. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston. For more information, visit www.LaurieStolarz.com.