The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  “It's true,” he continues. “Her death doesn't change who she was. I mean, I loved her. She was my little sister, but she was a pain in the ass. Totally spoiled and self-centered. Come on. Admit it.”

  Now I'm staring at Gabe. I never suspected he felt that way about Nicole because he was always so nice to her, at least when I was around.

  Gabe paddles toward me, until I have no choice but to look directly into his dark eyes. “Everything is weird, Sammie. The way she died. The way no one has been able to figure out what happened to her. The way no one wants to talk about it. The way everyone ignores us, pretends like it didn't happen. So I've had plenty of time to think things over. And it's been weird for a while now. Really weird.”

  His eyes are begging me to understand, to ask. My pulse is racing now and not just because he is so close. “What do you mean?”

  “You really want to know?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “Okay. Okay, good.” Gabe’s eyes continue to hold mine as he clears his throat. “You wanted to know about Nicole, so I'm going to tell you. I'm not sure what happened to her, but it started in freshman year with the usual stuff. Drinking. Experimenting, you know. Sophomore year? Drugs. Last year? Hard core partying. A DUI, probation. And then this summer, things got so out of control my mom asked me to come home because she needed help with Nicole.”

  “Come home?” Suddenly, I realize how much I don't know about Gabe's life. I want to know. Badly.

  Gabe looks away before answering. “Art school. Down in L.A. They let me do a deferred enrollment.”

  “How long were you home before Nicole died?”

  “About a week. Enough to see how things were. Not long enough to do anything about it, though. She wouldn't listen to me, refused to get help, wouldn't go to therapy. She got so bad, was acting so crazy, that my mom became convinced she was possessed. Which just made things worse.”

  It feels so unreal, to be talking to grown-up Gabe, here in a house I remember so well, with so much happening between then and now. “Seriously? Your mom believed that?”

  “She did. She still believes it. She thinks that's what happened to her. That the devil killed her, burned her alive. I'm glad my mom's at my aunt's. The last thing we need is her telling the neighbors crazy shit like that.”

  Gabe pauses, looks up at the sky, blinks. His eyes are shiny, and my heart does a strange little twist in my chest. “Well, this was way more information than you asked for,” he adds.

  I reach across the floats, squeeze his hand. What I really want to do is fling aside the rafts and throw my arms around him, but I resist the temptation and settle for a nice, safe gesture. I'm rewarded with a slow, warm smile.

  “You haven't changed,” he says. “Well, you have, on the outside. But inside, you're still the same Sammie. At least I think you are. Are you?” Now he's flirting. I'm sure of it. I feel weightless in the pool, my limbs as light as air.

  A radio starts blaring, full blast, from the kitchen. We both jump. The mood is ruined. The sliding glass door to the kitchen is open so there is nothing to muffle the sound.

  Gabe gets out of the pool, water dripping from his back, does a quick pat dry with a towel and then disappears into the house. When he comes out a few seconds later, he rolls his eyes. “So that's been happening, too. The radio comes on. So does the TV. Totally random, all hours. The toaster oven burned out even though no one turned it on, I swear. But just try and get an electrician to come out. They're totally booked.”

  Then I remember what my dad said. That his business couldn't keep up with all the calls about appliance fires. Then the shuttle caught fire less than an hour ago, for no apparent reason. And wasn't a vehicle just a big appliance on wheels? If that wasn't enough, there was what the kid on the bus had to say about stuff spontaneously combusting all over Hillside.

  “Sammie?” Gabe says, looking down at me from the edge of the pool.

  “When did this start happening? Stuff turning on like that?”

  Gabe hesitates, frowning. “Well, my mom says it was before Nicole died. Maybe a couple weeks before? I'm not sure.”

  I'm not sure what it all means, but I do know there's more to find out.

  “Can you give me a ride home?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he replies, looking slightly disappointed.

  I paddle toward the steps, the steps being the most dignified way out. Except I totally forget that my entire butt is on full display. And when Gabe hands me a towel, the hint of a smile is playing around his lips. His hand brushes mine and lingers there before he turns way, muttering something about finding the keys.

  Chapter 20

  When I get out of the car, Gabe says, “Can we keep in touch?”

  “Of course,” I say. My heart is pounding.

  I grab my backpack, but it's become unzipped, so everything tumbles out. Gabe reaches under his feet and hands me a tampon and a lipstick.

  When he sees my horrified expression, he grins, “Don't worry. I've seen those before.” And then his smile fades. “I used to buy them for Nicole.”

  I sigh. “I wish I had a big brother to do that for me.”

  Gabe’s dark hair is still damp from our swim. “Can I get your number?”

  I hold my hand out for his phone. It’s warm to the touch. I enter it, trying not to look at the other names there. Lots of names. Probably the names of other girls. Hotter girls, girls who get Brazilians and strut around in cheeky bikini bottoms. When I’m done, he sends me a message so I have his number, too.

  Then we hug, awkwardly and say goodbye. He drives off, but not before waving at the edge of the driveway.

  When I walk in the house, my dad is on the phone. He blows me a kiss and I blow one back, but I am annoyed because I can't ask him all the questions lining up in my head like airplanes at the airport on a foggy day.

  I decide I might as well haul the trash cans to the curb. Anything so my dad doesn't mess up his back even more. As I go back and forth, dragging bins to the curb, I wonder if I'll hear from Gabe, if he's seeing anyone and how long he plans to stay in Hillside. As I'm lining up the giant containers, a dog begins barking and out of the corner of my eye I see a large, gray form flying across the street

  I brace myself, hoping it doesn't bite, when my new neighbor Daniel comes running out of the open garage yelling, “Buddy! Sit, Buddy, sit!”

  When Buddy arrives, he ignores Daniel and instead of sitting, he leans his body against my legs and presses his head into my hand. I give him a good scratch. Buddy just leans in harder.

  “Stupid ass dog,” Daniel says, panting. He reaches down and grabs Buddy by the collar.

  “He's not so bad,” I say, laughing. He's a gorgeous animal, with greenish blue eyes and a sleek silver-gray coat.

  “I don't know who's more annoying, him or my little brother. At least Mitchell listens,” he says with a sigh. Now Daniel is crouching next to the big dog, patting his back, clipping him to a bright red leash.

  When he stands up, Daniel is taller than I remember. Taller than Madison. And he's nicely dressed. Casual, but put together. Then I remember hearing that Daniel is finishing out his senior year at a private high school in San Francisco. I cannot imagine commuting that far every day.

  One of my father’s work trucks pulls up. The driver waves hello. Then my father walks out of the house, grimacing, one hand on his back.

  “Mija, I need to go to the office and your mom's running late. Come with me. I don't want you home alone.” Enough said. I’m about to get in when Daniel speaks up.

  “Samantha can hang out with me, Mr. Reyes,” Daniel says. “Until you get back.”

  Which is how I find myself having a second iced tea of the afternoon in a house twice the size of mine.

  Mitchell is out on a play date and the parents are still at work, so we have the place to ourselves. Daniel isn't exactly warm and friendly, but he's polite. He sets out some fancy chocolate cookies on a plate. His mother, I think, taugh
t him well. When we've finished eating them in the kitchen that looks out to a Zen garden, he gives me the grand tour, Buddy padding along.

  It is one of those houses the magazines call “open floor plan” with high ceilings. All the furniture looks new, leather sofas, brightly colored easy chairs. It's like being inside a model home, it's that perfect.

  Daniel stops in front of a door at the end of a hall and pushes it open. “This is mine,” he says.

  I peer inside. Everything is in its place. The bed is made. No dirty laundry on the floor. No shirts hanging off the backs of chairs. The guy is a neat freak. It's a big room, but what catches my attention is the giant Mac sitting on a desk and all the video equipment lined up against a wall: cameras, tripods, light reflectors, lenses still sitting in boxes.

  “Wow,” I say. “Let me guess. Music videos?”

  Daniel crosses his arms, lips pressing together. He takes a deep breath before he answers. “No. Not music videos. Film. As in movies.”

  I can see I've managed to annoy him, but I'm not sure why. It's not like I suggested he's shooting porn. Buddy sighs and flops down at my feet.

  “Music videos are boring,” he says. His scruffy jaw is jutting now. “Cliched, over-edited, derivative.”

  Then he gives me a look, daring me to challenge him. I feel myself flinch, thinking of Destiny and how much she loves watching music videos, the more cliched the better, and how much time we've spent watching them together.

  “I get that,” I say carefully. He's not wrong, but I don't totally agree with him either. Still, I have no intention of getting sucked into the role of defender of every crappy music video ever made.

  I change the subject. “Film school?” I guess.

  Just like that the tension lifts, the mood changes. Daniel nods eagerly. For the first time, I can see the resemblance between the two brothers. It's kind of cute.

  “Oh god, I hope so. I'm already working on my applications. USC, AFI, UCLA. My parents aren't happy though. They want me to go to business school. They don't get the whole creative thing. If you don't make the big bucks the second you graduate, they're like, no way, it's too risky.”

  I laugh at this. Laugh because I have heard it all before. “Sounds like my mom. She's pitching a fit because I want to be a journalist.”

  “At least I have a shot at making some money,” Daniel says, then laughs. Then he squints, framing me between his fingers, pretending he's a director. “You've got the looks, though. Photogenic. I can see it. Definitely.”

  My jaw tightens. Why does everyone think being a journalist means you want to be on TV, or on radio? Both of which I suck at. “Newspapers,” I say.

  “People still read those?”

  This earns him a hard stare. This time, Daniel is the one to change the subject. “Hey. Just curious. You going to that Throwback Thursday party? The one at the skating rink? How lame is that supposed to be?”

  I shrug, wondering how he heard about it since he's new to Hillside. “Well, the guy who's organizing it is a friend, Alfie, so it should be pretty good,” I begin cautiously. “But only if you like disco and skating and wearing costumes because he won't let anyone in without a seventies costume.”

  “Kind of a weird time to throw a party. With the girl who just died at your school?”

  I sigh. “Maybe. Alfie thinks everyone could use a distraction, some fun. He's a life-must-go-on kind of guy. And nothing is going to happen to anyone with that many people around.”

  Daniel looks unconvinced. He picks up a giant camera lens and studies it. “You going?” he asks casually. As if he doesn't care about the answer.

  “Yeah, sure. All my friends are going.”

  Daniel sets down the lens, studies me. “I heard you're not allowed to go to parties.”

  My toes curl in my shoes. “Where did you hear that?”

  Daniel raises his eyebrows. “Where else? Your mom told my mom. Gotta be annoying as hell, being a senior and all.”

  “You have no idea,” I snap.

  I'm saved from saying anymore—like my mother's rules have turned me into an escape artist—because my father texts that he's home. I thank Daniel and as I hurry off, he calls after me. “See you around?”

  “Sure,” I say. Then he goes back into the house.

  A dry wind scatters leaves across the street. Fall is fire season in Northern California, reminding me of all those appliance fires around Hillside. They’re important somehow, I’m sure of it. I can't wait to find out what my dad knows about them.

  Chapter 21

  My dad is finally off the phone and my mom isn't home so the timing is perfect. I can have his attention without her butting in. Except I suddenly realize I can’t tell him the truth because he might think I'm crazy. Hey Dad, I suspect there may be a connection between those toasters starting on fire and girls dying. He'd be texting my mom in seconds, worried about my mental health.

  I decide a half-truth makes the most sense.

  “Hey Dad, you know how we did that story about spontaneous combustion for the school paper? That it’s an actual, real thing?”

  My dad is sitting in his favorite chair in the family room, his eyes closed. He likes a nap before dinner if he can get one. “Yes, but I have to admit, I haven't had a chance to read it yet,” he says groggily. “Sounds interesting though. I'm going to. I promise.”

  I kiss the top of his head. “That's okay. I need to do some research for another story we’re working on about spontaneous combustion. You know, talk to someone at the fire department, see if they think it's possible that's what's causing all the appliance fires in Hillside.” Then I wait, holding my breath.

  His eyes fly open and he stares at me. “That's funny. That's what an old buddy of mine says. Mike. Been with the fire department forever. He's a little out there. Thinks aliens are real, into conspiracy theories.”

  Mike. Mike Carter. Father of Kendall Carter, the kid on the shuttle bus. The same Mike Carter whose number I have on my phone. The man I forgot to call because I ran into Gabe.

  “But what he calls spontaneous combustion, I call something else,” my dad continues. “Sometimes it's as simple as a refrigerator sitting on power cords. Or plastic wrap getting sucked into heaters.”

  When my father starts talking about overheated capacitors, I clear my throat. “Is it okay if I look at the invoices? I’d like to see how many appliance fire calls you actually got.”

  Outside, the Japanese Maple trees have turned a bright fall orange. October is finally here.

  My dad frowns, thinking. For a second, I think he's going to say no. Then he continues, “Sure. Go ahead. Why not? Let me know what you find out because now you've got me curious.”

  “Thanks, Dad!” I sprint toward the door and jog toward his office.

  It's a little room off the kitchen, near the garage. It's a mess. Papers all over the desk, funny sayings tacked up on the wall. I trip over one of my dad's thick-soled safety boots lying around, the kind that protects against electrocution.

  My dad is so careful about that stuff he doesn't even wear his wedding ring out on the job. Instead, he wears a substitute made from silicone. He says even a low voltage charge could burn a finger right off a man's hand if he was stupid enough to wear a metal ring.

  I log into my dad's work computer. Finding my way around is no problem. When the office manager is out, I help him with invoices, ordering supplies, that kind of thing.

  I settle in at the desk. Then I sit there, thinking. What happened first? The death of Emily Miller, the first girl who burned to death, or the appliance fires?

  Emily died before the start of school, on August 15th. I confirm the date by checking the notes on my phone. Then I set up a search that also includes call sheets and enter in keywords like “appliance,” “fire” and a string of others. It takes just a few seconds.

  Nothing unusual turns up in the first seven months of the year. And then there it is. A call to Reyes Electric dated August 7th. A brand n
ew 65-inch TV burst into flames. There is also a special note that the job was “referred by Hillside Fire.” The extension cord leading into the outlet was brand new and undamaged. Weird. No known cause. The wiring of the house was old.

  I scan the rest of the results. Starting August 7th, my dad's business began getting more referrals from the fire department to inspect houses for “faulty wiring.” A blender, a curling iron, two refrigerators and a toaster oven had burst into flames. All had been plugged in at the time. The calls continue through August 15th, when Emily died, through September 6th, when Nicole died, and even as recently as September 26th, when Monica's burned remains were found in the school bathroom.

  When I ask my dad about all this, he nods, but to him, it doesn’t seem that unusual. “Some of those houses are really old, mija. The wiring is ancient. I've seen outlets with loose plugs, outlets so corroded they're practically crumbling, and power cords fixed with masking tape.”

  I go back to the computer and do a little more searching. No service calls to Nicole DeSilva's house, but I already know about the problems there. Gabe had said they'd been having problems with appliances acting strangely and while I was there, the radio had come on by itself.

  No results on Emily Miller. There is one for a house belonging to a Nancy Goodman dated September 24th, but I have no way of knowing if it is Monica's house. The appointment was canceled because the owner was a no-show.

  I pick up my phone (still no text from Gabe) and call Mike Carter. He immediately picks up, shouting “Hello!” in my ear. I introduce myself. He is even more enthusiastic than his kid.

  At first, he goes on about the shuttle bus going up in flames. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get a question in. When I ask him if there'd ever been an appliance fire at Emily Miller's house, he does not hesitate. “Hell yes, young lady. I'm going to tell you something I told that county investigator. Something funny was going on for sure at that poor girl's house. I got a call just three days before they found her burned beyond recognition. Her curling iron caught fire. Damn near burned her bedroom down. Apparently, she had a habit of fixing her hair while she watched TV, her father said.”