by Sara Shepard
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY EVENING, CAITLIN STOOD IN the girls’ locker room, shaking out her arms and legs and jumping up and down to keep warm. Her uniform had been freshly washed, and it smelled like fabric softener. Her socks were pulled up, her shin guards in place. She’d checked the hair band on her ponytail at least six times to make sure it was secure. Monk, her monkey keychain, was tucked into her gear bag, and she had a stash of blue-raspberry Gatorade for time-outs.
It was go time. The biggest game of her high school career. Outside the locker room, she could hear the stadium filling up. Before she changed, she’d met the UDub recruiter, a sporty-looking woman in her thirties named Monica. If she played well during this game, she’d be guaranteed a spot on next year’s team.
And if she didn’t . . .
Caitlin shut her eyes. She didn’t want to think that way.
She sat down and massaged her ankle, trying to ignore the twinges of pain she’d felt in the past few days. All of a sudden, she felt someone staring at her from across the room. Ursula, also in her soccer jersey and shorts, smirked at her from the water fountains.
“You feeling okay?” she teased, her gaze dropping to Caitlin’s ankle.
“I’m fine,” Caitlin said tightly.
“Good. I’d hate for you to mess up!” Ursula sang. Then, halfway out the door, she stopped and whirled around. “Oh. I forgot. Someone is looking for you.”
Caitlin frowned. “The UDub recruiter? I already met her.”
“No . . .” Ursula smiled, smug. “Actually, it was a cop.”
Caitlin’s heart stopped. “W-why?” she blurted.
“Oh, I guess the Nolan stuff,” Ursula said. “They’re totally getting in everyone’s business.”
Then she skipped out of the room. Caitlin’s heart pounded. Had they matched her handwriting sample? Stop thinking about it, she told herself. She’s just trying to get in your head.
Setting her jaw, she shouldered her gear bag and stormed out of the locker room and into the long, echoing hallway. Kids and their families crammed every nook. Ursula had run up to her parents and was boasting about something to her dad, a squat man in a T-shirt that said AAA POOL CARE AND LANDSCAPING.
Then Caitlin looked back and forth for a police officer, praying he wasn’t staked out here, hoping to catch her. When someone pulled on her sleeve from behind, she wrenched away, her heart leaping into her chest.
“Whoa!” Jeremy backed up, a startled smile on his face. “Sorry!”
Caitlin’s shoulders dropped. “I didn’t see you.” Then she peered at him. “What are you doing here?” As far as she knew, Jeremy had never been to a soccer game—not even one of Josh’s.
Jeremy cocked his head. “This is it, right? The big game? I wanted to cheer you on.”
“Oh.” Caitlin smiled nervously, then peered around the hall and out into the small courtyard that led to the field. Was Josh here? She hadn’t seen him, and they’d barely talked all week. But it seemed crazy for him not to come—he knew how much this meant to her. What if he was watching them right now?
“Uh, let’s go somewhere else,” she said, suddenly feeling paranoid.
She took Jeremy’s arm and led him outside and under the bleachers to a dark, secluded spot. Metallic sounds of people walking up and down the stands echoed from above. A group of kids burst into laughter. Then someone said, “Whoa!” and a river of cola-colored liquid seeped through a hole in the stands, almost on Jeremy’s head.
“Oops,” Caitlin said, shifting him out of harm’s way. “Soccer games are hazardous, you know.”
“Nervous? Excited?” Jeremy asked, his eyes shining.
“A little of both, I guess,” Caitlin admitted. She felt her cheeks redden. “Thanks for coming to this. It means a lot to me.”
“No problem. Actually, I brought you something.” Jeremy rummaged in his pockets and extracted a long, thin object. Caitlin studied it for a moment, then realized it was a pen. Not just any pen, either—a Dungeons & Dragons pen.
She looked up. “Was this the pen I lent you?”
Jeremy nodded. “The one that was Taylor’s. I thought you should have it back.”
Caitlin smiled, her eyes welling up for a second before she blinked the tears away. “Thanks.”
“I should add that it’s brought me good luck through the years,” Jeremy said. “I used it on my driver’s test. I used it on finals last semester. I had it in my pocket when I had my nationals debate with the Model UN. I feel sort of . . . safe with it. Although maybe that has something to do with the fact that it used to belong to you.”
He was looking at her so sweetly, so earnestly, like she was the most important thing in his entire life. Caitlin felt her throat close, but her heart open. All of a sudden, what she needed to do seemed abundantly clear. Yes, it would be messy, but it was what she wanted. And if she’d learned anything from Taylor—or the fact that the police were breathing down her neck—it was that life was short.
She peered around to make sure no one was watching. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.
For a moment, Jeremy was stiff, his eyes wide open. But when he kissed her back, his lips were soft and warm. Caitlin inhaled the grassy scent of his clothes. She ran her hands through his hair, which was so much longer than Josh’s sporty-boy buzz cut. Tingles ran up and down her body.
When they pulled away, they both grinned. “I’m sorry,” Jeremy blurted.
Caitlin gave him a crazy look. “For what? I was the one who kissed you.”
“Oh.” Jeremy lowered his eyes. There were two blooms of red on his cheeks. “Well, yeah. I guess you did.”
The whistle blew on the field, and they looked at each other again. In a few minutes, Caitlin’s game would be starting. But something else suddenly dawned on her, too. She felt . . . lighter, somehow. Freer. Jeremy’s kiss had opened up a whole new world, and she no longer felt bogged down. If she played well, great. But if she didn’t . . . maybe it would still be okay. After all, she’d already won something today, no matter the game’s final score.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THURSDAY AFTER SCHOOL, PARKER HOVERED outside Elliot’s office. The sun streamed in through the windows, making dappled patterns on the carpet. Traffic swished by out the window, creating soothing, soporific white noise. Elliot hadn’t noticed her yet, but instead was staring very intensely at something on his computer screen. Parker wondered what it was. A psychologists’ forum? The Seattle Times? Porn?
Then Elliot glanced up. He paled and jumped, then smiled awkwardly. “Parker!” he said in a loud voice. “I didn’t see you there! Come in, come in!”
Parker slouched into the room, pulling the hoodie securely over her head. She slumped down on the couch and hugged a pillow. She could feel Elliot looking at her.
“Is everything okay?” Elliot asked with hesitation.
Parker shrugged. He could probably sense how antsy she felt. How prickly. She’d hesitated at the front door of the building for at least ten minutes before actually stepping inside, unsure she wanted to face his questioning during this session. Because she knew there would be questioning. Even crazy Parker was accountable for her meltdowns.
Elliot sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, Parker. I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about the cemetery.”
“No,” Parker barked. She covered her ears. “No, no, no.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Elliot rose from his seat, stepped forward, and gently lifted her hands away. He met her eyes, his bow-shaped lips curving into a smile. “Listen. We don’t have to talk about it. I promise. We can talk about something else.”
Parker blinked. “W-why don’t you want me to talk about it?” she demanded.
“Because obviously you’re not ready,” Elliot said, raising his palms. “And that’s fine. You have your reasons for not liking cemeteries. We can explore that, or we’ll talk about something else. I’ll never push you on anything.”
P
arker sat quietly for a moment, letting this sink in. It felt like reverse psychology, but annoyingly, it was working. “It’s like something prevented me from going in there, a mental block or something,” she stated, trying to make sense of her emotions. “You know how psychics can tell if a place is cursed or tainted or if something bad happened there? It’s a feeling like that, maybe.”
“What do you think happened there?”
Parker shrugged. “I don’t really know. People died, obviously. Maybe that’s all.”
Elliot nodded, but it looked like he didn’t completely believe her. Parker wasn’t sure she believed herself, in fact—but she knew she didn’t want to walk through those gates.
“Are you angry at me for taking you there?” Elliot asked, looking worried.
Parker shook her head. “Not exactly,” she said quietly. “I mean, I guess I felt a little ambushed. But I didn’t know I was going to react that way until I was actually there.”
“What did the reaction feel like?”
Parker shut her eyes. “I wish I could explain it. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Parker.” He smiled, looking straight at her. No one ever looked straight at her these days. “We can take our time.” He paused and looked down at his hands. “There’s no rush.”
They smiled at each other, and Parker’s heart did another leap. It wasn’t like her to make emotional confessions to people. Even the old Parker kept her emotions pretty close to the vest. But she needed someone in her corner besides Julie.
Then he jumped up. “You know, I have a book on articulating emotions that might help you. Hang on—it’s in reception. Let me grab it.”
He swept out the door quickly and was gone. Parker sat back, her heart still hammering. But she felt good, too—it really felt like Elliot got her.
She looked around his office, thinking how little she knew about him. There wasn’t a lot out on his desk—just an old-fashioned banker’s lamp, an empty in-box, and a molded-plastic flower with a solar panel that wiggled its leaves in the thin sunlight. Who was Elliot Fielder? What made him tick? Did he have family in the area? Was he married? What did he like to read? What sort of music did he have on his iPod? What was he looking at on his computer when she came in? Wouldn’t anyone wonder about some basic facts? Elliot knew so much about her, after all, it seemed only fair to reciprocate.
She glanced through the crack in the door again—he was still looking through the books on the main bookshelf. Quietly, she stood and moved to his computer. As she wiggled the mouse, the National Geographic nature-photos screen saver disappeared, and a log-in screen popped up.
On a whim, she picked up the keyboard and turned it over. When she worked in the attendance office her sophomore year, she’d taped all the passwords she had a hard time remembering there. Great minds must think alike because there was a piece of paper printed with small, tight print.
FIELDER_E/pr0m3th3us_b0und
Before she could think about it twice, she typed it in.
A photograph filled the computer screen. At first, Parker blinked. She immediately recognized the location. It had been taken in the Arbor Mall just outside the food court. A girl in a black hoodie sat alone at a table, sipping Coke from a straw, her long hair peeking out over the collar of her sweatshirt.
It was . . . her.
She clicked on an arrow icon. Another picture sprang up—her again. She was sitting on her mom’s porch, smoking a cigarette, her hoodie pulled over her face. Another arrow click. The next photo was taken from a vantage just across the street from the school as she disappeared through the big double doors. Another showed her in sneakers and shorts and that same hoodie, jogging by the lake.
It hadn’t been her imagination at all. Someone had been following her. Elliot.
“What are you doing?”
Elliot stood in the doorway, a paperback book in one hand. His face was as white as a cloud, his eyes suddenly hard. She shot up, knocking something off his desk by accident, but she didn’t stop to pick it up.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. “What the hell are these pictures doing on your computer?”
“That computer is full of confidential information,” he said, slapping the book down on the couch and taking a step toward her. “Do you realize how much trouble I could get in if you saw the wrong thing?”
She gave a high bark of laughter. “The wrong thing? Like the fact that you’re stalking me?”
He moved faster than she would have expected. Suddenly his hand was like a vise around her wrist. “You have to listen to me, Parker.”
But before he could finish his sentence, a scream tore from her throat. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She barely knew who she was. Panic seized her, and all she knew was that she had to get away. She kicked Elliot’s knee with all her strength. A dull crack filled the air. His hand unclenched, and she bolted for the door.
Then she ran and ran, until her lungs heaved painfully in her chest and her legs felt like rubber. If she could have, she would have run forever—away from Elliot, away from Beacon, and away from her horrible life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OKAY. DEEP BREATHS. IT IS all going to be okay.
It was Friday afternoon, and Mackenzie sat in a gray institutional hallway in the University of Washington’s music building, cradling her cello against her chest. It was almost time for her audition—which meant that right now, Claire was in there, wowing the judges. Mac hadn’t seen her go in, but Claire’s audition time was branded into her brain. She wondered if Claire was nervous. She wondered if she’d feverishly washed her hands at least three times before she went in there, a little tic Claire had before every audition.
Because Mac was the last audition of the day, no one else was in the hall with her. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but panic bubbled up inside. She knew, deep in her bones, that she hadn’t practiced enough. She’d been so worried about Nolan and the investigation. She’d spent so much time with Blake.
But even now, thinking about Blake tugged her lips into a smile. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to see if he’d responded to any of her texts. When she arrived on campus, she’d texted him, Here goes nothing/everything. But he still hadn’t texted back. It was so unlike him. He knew she had her audition today. Then again he was working—maybe it was busy at the cupcake shop?
Suddenly, a change in the draft pushed the door to the recital hall open just a bit, and a familiar melody wafted out. Mac blinked for a moment, listening to Claire’s precise notes and emotional phrasing. The piece she was playing was familiar, and suddenly she understood why. It was her piece. The Tchaikovsky.
Mac leaped to her feet. This couldn’t be happening. Claire was supposed to play Popper. Blake had said she was. But did she really have to ask why she’d switched all of a sudden? Only, how did she know what piece Mac had chosen? The only people she’d told were her parents—and they wouldn’t say anything—and Blake.
Blake. Mac’s heart stopped. She looked at her phone again. Still no text back. No, she told herself. It couldn’t be. Blake wouldn’t betray her like that. Claire had found out another way.
“Miss Wright?” An iron-haired woman in a tailored suit stood in the doorway with a clipboard, peering over the top of her glasses. “Are you ready?”
Mackenzie felt as if her cello weighed five hundred pounds as she carried it into the recital hall. The stage was brightly lit, and she could barely make out the five panelists a few rows back. The Juilliard accompanist, a balding, dark-skinned man wearing a button-down shirt and tie, sat at the grand piano on the stage with her. Otherwise the hall was empty. She started to unpack her instrument and set up her things, her hands trembling violently.
“My name is Mackenzie Wright. Thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice wavering. But then something came over her. Forget Claire, a voice said. Forget everyone. Think about your talents. Think ab
out how much you want this.
She took a deep breath and started to play.
There was no applause after each piece, but it didn’t matter. She knew she was acing it. She didn’t miss a note of the Elgar or the Beethoven, and her rendition of “The Swan” soared elegantly from her fingers. Before the final song, she swallowed. “Excuse me,” she said to the accompanist. “I’d like to change my last selection, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He looked surprised but smiled. Mac took a deep breath. It was now or never—and she wasn’t going down without a fight. She looked at the judges. “I know I put on my form that I’d be playing Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo capriccioso, but instead I will be playing Popper’s Spinning Song for you.”
She raised her bow, holding absolutely still for a long moment. Then, nodding at the pianist, she launched into one of the most difficult pieces in the cello repertoire.
The song started with a frenzied succession of high-pitched notes. It was deadly fast and sent the cellist’s hands flying up and down the neck of the instrument at roller-coaster speeds. Mackenzie had always thought the song was kind of annoying, but it was one of the best songs to show off with, and now, as she played, a strange thing happened. For the first time, she found the playfulness of the piece. Instead of sounding strained and manic and frantic to her, it sounded fun. Flippant, and careless, and energetic. She almost laughed out loud as she played. For just a moment, nothing could touch her.
When she was finished, she sat still, almost breathless. She didn’t know if it would be enough to get her in, but she knew one thing: She’d just had the best audition of her life.
“Thank you, Miss Wright. That was beautiful,” said a voice from the panelists. “You’ll be hearing from us soon.”
Mac almost skipped out of the recital hall. “Yes,” she said, pumping her fist in the hallway. She looked at her phone again, but still no text from Blake.
