For almost two years it was good, through the wedding and everything. It didn’t even change when Luke came along, a whole month early.
Four months after that, though, everything was different.
“I suppose you’re going to be hanging around the house all day,” Jeff said, not bothering to disguise his disappointment.
Shelly was about to say yes, she’d be home, and that she’d try to stay in her room, when they both heard the upstairs toilet flush.
Company.
Who would it be this time?
Julie, the mall security guard who liked vodka with her morning coffee?
Lily-Ann, the one with the impossibly sweet southern drawl and the husband in Kuwait?
Iris, who didn’t say anything at all?
The Thai woman, who had probably been very pretty many, many years ago?
Or a new friend who only needed a place to crash for the night?
What they saw in him she had no clue. Maybe there was something irresistible about short, skinny, thirty-five-year-old white guys with entry-level jobs and limited vocabularies that she wasn’t old enough yet to understand and prayed to God she never would be.
What he saw in them—other than their low standards—was a good question too, but not one that she was ever going to ask.
Shelly decided that it would be best if the mystery guest remained a mystery. She knew Jeff felt the same way.
“I was going to spend the day at the library,” Shelly said, and when she saw the way Jeff’s eyes lit up she added, “but I need money to get there and back. And to get something to eat.”
Jeff reached for his wallet. “Twenty bucks enough?”
Upstairs, someone sang an Adele song, off-key but with heart.
Shelly smiled. “Make it forty.”
As soon as Shelly flopped down in her usual seat at the back of the bus, a ringtone went off. She knew it had to be hers—there were no other passengers—but it was such a rare occurrence that she looked around, just to be sure. She took her phone out of her backpack, flipped it open, and saw the caller’s number displayed on the screen. She didn’t recognize the number, but since there was a number, she knew it wasn’t going to be that caller. Then Shelly remembered Eric, the jock from the seminar, hit the button, and said hello.
But it wasn’t him, either.
“Hi, Shelly? This is Fatima. I was in that class with you at the Community Center?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Shelly said. “You were the one in the hijab.”
“Wow, most people call it a headscarf.”
“I guess I paid attention in social studies.”
“Look, you’re probably wondering why I’m calling you—”
“Actually, I’m wondering how you got my number.”
“I got it from Ms. Owens after the session. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Well, to be honest—”
“It’s just that I saw how you reacted, and I was kinda hoping we could talk.”
Shelly sat up. “Reacted to what?”
“Remember when Ms. Owens was talking to the security guard about what some of the others—the ones who got dropped—wrote in their essays? She said something about this girl who got these phone calls?”
“Go on,” Shelly said.
“When I was getting your number, I asked her about it, and Ms. Owens said that the girl was on these meds and was always hearing phones ringing.”
“Fascinating. Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s just that when Ms. Owens mentioned that girl to the guard, I don’t know, you got all . . .”
“What are you trying to say?”
Fatima paused, and Shelly could hear her draw in a shaky breath. “I don’t know why you’re picking on people, but it’s wrong and I—”
Shelly laughed. “You think I’m picking on people?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Fatima said. “I mean, the way you acted was really weird, and it got me thinking that maybe—”
“I’m not picking on anybody. I swear,” Shelly said, holding her hand up as if Fatima could see it.
“And the way you were staring down that guy in our group—”
“Eric?”
“Plus, in the parking lot? The way you were yelling at him?”
“We were talking.”
“It sorta sounded like the voice on the phone, only not all changed and stuff—”
Shelly stopped. “What did you say?”
“—and the words were different, and you were shouting—”
“Okay, hold on.”
“—so, not exactly like it, but with all the computer enhancements it could have—”
“Fatima, shut up for a second, will ya?”
“See? The way you’re yelling? That’s what made me think it was you.”
Shelly held the phone away from her face, took a moment to breathe, pressed her thumbnail in deep, and tried again.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that you said you heard a voice—”
“The computerized one? Yeah, when I got the phone calls. That’s why when I heard Ms. Owens talking about somebody getting a strange call, I looked up. And that’s when I saw you acting all, you know . . .”
“Weird,” Shelly said, finishing the thought. “When you got these phone calls, what did the caller say?” There was a long silence that served as an answer, then Shelly said, “I got those phone calls too.”
“I doubt it,” Fatima said. “I’m sure it wasn’t anything like the calls I got.”
“Macaroni and cheese?”
“Oh my god.”
Shelly smiled. “What are you doing today?”
Fifteen
ERIC WAS BACK FROM THE GYM AND ABOUT TO SHOWER when the texts sent to his still-confiscated phone started coming in on his iPad.
The first one was from Yousef.
WTF?
Ten seconds later, there was one from Emma.
???????????
Then one from Tabitha.
CUTE!
Maya sent a stupid yellow smiley-face emoticon with an I-don’t-get-it expression.
It was the fifth text, the one from Duane, that made his heart stop.
RULE #1: DON’T TAKE PICTURES WHEN YOU’RE STONED.
No.
His hand shook as he tried to get his fingers to obey, hitting the wrong keys, tapping on useless apps.
No, no, no, no, no—
He held his breath, waiting the two years it took for his stupid damn email account to open.
Please, no.
The same EarthLink account email, sent to him and to all 184 contacts on his phone.
The subject line read, ERIC HAMILTON, PHOTOGRAPHER.
Inside, no text, just a photo.
Oh, shit.
A black rectangle at the top, a rough white area in the middle, a dark brown bar along the bottom—and that was all.
His knees buckled, and he dropped to his bed, his stomach bunching up, a dull roar in his ears. He sat there, staring at the screen. Then his phone rang, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do. On the sixth ring he answered, knowing already the voice he would hear.
“You have until Thursday. Then I send out the other photo.”
For ten minutes, Eric sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, his body numb, a little voice in his head droning on.
What the hell were you thinking?
It wasn’t enough simply doing it. No, you had to go and document it.
For what?
To prove to yourself it really happened?
A souvenir?
As if you wouldn’t remember it for the rest of your life.
Except you’d give anything now to forget it.
Damn.
There are probably laws about having a picture like that, even on your phone.
Swear you deleted it, she had said.
So you swore that you did.
It was gone now—deleted, dumped, erased, wiped clean.
Your copy,
anyway.
The caller? She still has hers.
And if you don’t do what she says, everybody you know will have a copy of their own.
Eric found the balled-up paper in the bottom of his backpack and punched in the number.
Sixteen
SHELLY LED THE WAY THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR. “I’VE got us booked in here for two hours, every day for a full week.”
“We only need it till Thursday,” Eric said, following her into the small room.
Fatima nodded, looping a shoulder strap of her backpack on the arm of one of the chairs, sliding the Jumbo Fun Time Sketch Pad! on the table. “After Thursday, it won’t matter.”
“Well, we’ll keep the room reserved anyway,” Shelly said. “In case we need a place to hide.”
The six Theodore J. Marello Memorial Study Labs that split the reference area of the main library all had the same spartan features: floor-to-ceiling glass on both sides—which, the librarian reminded Shelly, allowed everyone to see anything that was going on—and regular walls between the study labs, lined with bulletin-board material to help with the soundproofing. The rooms were seldom used—the metal chairs were cold and hard, the lighting weak, and there were no outlets to plug into. But they were free, and there was a big-enough table, and even with all the glass it was still more private than meeting at Starbucks.
Fatima tore out a sheet of newsprint from the sketch pad and tacked it to the wall. “I guess we should start by telling each other all about ourselves.”
“Guess again,” Eric said.
“Yeah, let’s not do that,” Shelly said. “I’m not big on sharing.”
“Fine. What do we do, then?”
Fatima and Eric both looked at Shelly, their eyebrows arched.
Shelly sighed and shook her head, suddenly in charge. “We all got the same call, right? Let’s start there. Fatima, when did you get the first call?”
“Last Monday. Right after Family Guy. A rerun, obviously.”
“Which one?” Eric asked.
“The one where Brian owes Stewie money.”
“Best episode ever.”
“Oh my god,” Fatima said. “I was laughing so hard—”
“Fine, two thumbs up,” Shelly said. “Can we stay focused here? What time was this masterpiece over?” She popped the cap off an orange marker and wrote WHEN on the paper. Under that, she put three bullet points.
Fatima glanced up at the ceiling. “Maybe nine?”
Shelly put F 9 after the first bullet and S 9:30 after the second.
“Looks like she started with me,” Eric said. “I got my first call two weeks ago. Wednesday night, around ten. It sounded like a prank, so I hung up. Then he—sorry, she—called again a few minutes later. That’s when she said, ‘I know your secret.’ But that time she hung up on me.”
“Smart,” Shelly said, adding Eric’s details to the list. “Hanging up like that, she got in your head.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really? I bet you couldn’t wait till that last call came. And don’t worry, she got in all of our heads.”
“I can’t believe you hung up,” Fatima said. “Weren’t you even curious?”
He shrugged. “Not really. I mean, calling with that I-know-your-secret stuff? That’s something you do when you’re in fourth grade. You could say that to anybody and they’d freak.”
“That’s pretty much what I did,” Fatima said. “I ended up just about begging her to tell me what she knew. And then, well, she did.”
“I didn’t have to beg,” Eric said. “She called back, then sent me an email from a bogus EarthLink account.”
“And something in the email proved she knew your secret?”
Eric nodded.
“All right, let’s go there next.” Below the bullet points, Shelly wrote WHAT.
“We’re going to tell what our secret is? I don’t think so,” Eric said.
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Shelly said. She crossed out WHAT and wrote EVIDENCE. “She’s got something on each of us—”
“No kidding.”
“—but it’s gotta be something that’s really obvious.”
“If it was obvious, then it wouldn’t be a secret.”
Shelly ignored him. “Whatever it is she’s got on each of us, it’s gotta be self-evident.”
Eric looked at her. “Self-evident? Can you just say what you mean?”
“No, hold on, I got it,” Fatima said. “You’re saying that whatever evidence she has, it has to be something that she doesn’t have to explain to people. Right?”
Shelly closed her eyes and smiled. “Exactly.”
Eric knocked on the table. “Why?”
“Because she’s not gonna want to be there to have to explain it to them,” Fatima said. “She just wants people to look at it or read it or whatever and know right away what the big secret is.”
Eric took a second, then nodded. “Okay. Go on.”
“For me—and this is all I’m going to tell you—she’s got information.” Shelly wrote the word on the paper.
“Vague much? Everything is information,” Fatima said.
Shelly played with the marker as she thought it through, pulling the cap off and snapping it back in place. “She knows something about me,” she finally said. “Is that good enough?”
Eric waved his hand, moving her along.
“A book,” Fatima said. “She has a book of mine.”
“Like a journal?”
“Sorta. But not really. Can you just put down ‘book’ for now?”
Shelly added it to the list, glancing at Eric as she wrote. “Your turn.”
“I don’t see the point of this,” he said. “How can knowing what she has help us figure out who it is?”
“It might not,” Shelly said. “But we don’t have much to go on, do we? It’s a piece of the puzzle, that’s all. Maybe an important piece, maybe not. Later it might make all the difference. Or none. Look, you don’t have to be specific. I wasn’t. Is it bigger than an X-box?”
He sighed and rubbed the hint of stubble on his chin. “It’s a picture.”
“A painting, a photograph . . . ?”
“A photo.”
“Digital?”
“Yeah,” he said, dropping his hands hard onto the arms of the metal chair. “A digital photograph. Happy?”
“Yes, thank you,” Shelly said, writing it all down. “Now the harder question. How’d she get it?”
“No frickin’ clue,” Eric said.
Fatima tilted her head. “I thought you said she took a picture of you.”
“She has a picture. She didn’t take it.”
“So she wasn’t there?”
Eric looked down at the table, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he smiled. “No, she wasn’t there.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said, his eyes shifting back and forth.
Shelly watched him, nodding, then said, “So I’m guessing that you know who took the picture and you’re positive that whoever took it didn’t give it to the girl who’s calling us. Am I close?”
“Close enough, yeah.”
“Since it’s digital, she might have hacked into your computer—”
“It was on my phone,” he said. “You can’t hack into a phone.”
“Yes, you can,” Fatima said. “My cousin? Hassan? He’s, like, a computer expert. I’ve heard him say that there’s ways to do it but it’s really complex. You gotta be linked into a network or something.”
“Okay, that’s one way the caller could have gotten the picture,” Shelly said, adding it to the paper. “Did you loan your phone to a friend or something?”
He laughed. “They have their own.”
“Fine. Ever lose your phone anywhere?”
“No, I’ve always got it. My mother has it now, but before that, I always had it.”
“You never left it anywhere accidentally, even for a minute?”
�
�Well, yeah, sure. But it was never more than, I don’t know, five minutes? She couldn’t get to it that quick.”
“You’d be surprised at what can happen in five minutes,” Shelly said, more to herself than to the others. “So it’s possible she stole it. How long for doesn’t matter.”
“My book got stolen,” Fatima said. “She took it out of my locker.”
“Excellent. Now we know she goes to your school,” Eric said.
Shelly shook her head. “No, it only means that she got into the school building. You have to wear a uniform or something?”
“No,” Fatima said, making a face. “It’s just Springtown. A regular high school.”
“So any girl could walk around there and nobody would notice.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“And do you always lock your locker every time?”
“No one does. We got, like, two minutes between classes. You don’t want to spend half of it dialing in the combination. You close it almost all the way and it’s good enough.”
Eric looked at Shelly. “What about you? How’d she get this . . . information?”
“She didn’t have to break in, if that’s what you mean,” Shelly said. “I don’t know how she found it.”
“Could I find it?”
“No,” Shelly said, and before Eric could ask another question, she said, “We know more or less what she has, and for you guys, how she got it. All that’s left is to figure out who she is.”
“Who she is is a psycho,” Eric said.
“That’s a what,” Shelly said, “and given some of the girls I’ve met, it doesn’t narrow it down much.”
Fatima said, “Let’s make a list of everyone we know and see who we all know in common.”
“That’s crazy,” Eric said. “You know how long that would take?”
“True, but it’s the right idea,” Shelly said, “and there’s an easier way. We each make a list of the things we do and compare that—say, like, sports, church, community service, clubs . . . that kind of stuff.”
“It’s the same thing you said the other day in the parking lot.”
“You mean the same thing she shouted,” Fatima said.
“Yeah, she was loud.”
“I could hear her way back at the building. It shook the glass.”
“Tell me about it. I was standing right next to her.”
Cold Calls Page 8
