I’m trapped.
I move back toward the window, keeping an eye on Clara’s bathroom stall. The door is still closed, but it doesn’t appear as though she’s even in there. I bend down to look for her feet and legs, but it’s just empty, like she snuck out. Or maybe she’s standing on the toilet. I don’t know. I just need to get out of here.
I hoist myself onto the corner sink and stand up, wondering if I’ll be able to fit myself through the window. The bottom of my sandal slips against the porcelain; my foot lands in the basin, making me have to grasp the window ledge to keep from falling. I secure my elbows on the ledge and crank the window open, my ankles shaking slightly, like I could topple over at any second. I look back at Clara’s stall, but I’m not up quite high enough to see down into it, to see if she’s inside.
I take a deep breath and try to refocus. The warm breeze through the window eases me a bit, makes me feel a little less trapped. I continue to crank the lever, but the glass only opens to halfway. “Hello?” I call out.
But instead of the beach, it’s just the ocean outside, like the bathroom itself is floating in the middle of the sea. In the distance, I can see someone grappling in the water, trying to stay afloat. I can’t see his face, but I know. I can feel it. It’s the guy from before—the one carrying the bouquet of lilies. He stops struggling when he sees me, the bouquet of lilies floating up beside him. I feel myself freeze over. I shout out to him and try cranking the window open farther, but it won’t budge. And he’s starting to sink.
I peer down at Clara’s stall, wondering if she can help, but when I look back out the window to check on him, he’s already gone.
I take deep breath, my head all dizzy from the rocking of this bathroom, the way the ocean pulls it from side to side. I climb down off the sink, eager to gain a solid footing. There’s something on the floor in front of Clara’s stall now. A doll. I’m thinking it’s the doll that hung in front of the exit door, the one hanging from the rope.
I climb back down, wondering if Clara has left it for me. Blood drips down over the doll’s face from my lip. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, noticing how the doll looks just like me—dark hair, light skin, tilty golden-brown eyes. There are pins stuck into the doll’s body, like somebody’s warped idea of voodoo, like this isn’t real—a twisted mirage of some sort.
The bathroom has gone dead quiet now. Even the dripping from the faucets has stopped. I peer up toward the window, wondering if the guy with the lilies is just outside, hoping he won’t be able to climb his way in.
I wrap my hand around the doll just as Clara grabs my wrist, stopping me. Her blue-gray hand reaches out from underneath the bathroom stall door. She clenches me hard, pinching my skin. Making me scream.
twenty-six
My scream wakes me up. I’m still in my bed, still in my robe. And the hourglass is still by my night table, all the sand drained down to the bottom. I sit up and close my dream box, confident that the images of my dreams lie inside. A dribble of blood rolls off my upper lip. I grab a wad of toilet paper from the pocket of my robe, thankful that I planned ahead.
I reach under my pillow for my folded piece of paper and press it into my palm, wondering what the truth really is. I close my eyes, conjuring up the images from my nightmare. Clearly the image of Clara was some corpselike version of her—the result of not being able to save her. I picture the blood rolling down her limbs, onto the floor, wondering how or why she’s bleeding. Was she stabbed? Did someone cut her? Maybe it has something to do with the doll. But what’s weird is that the doll looked just like me, and there were needles sticking right through it—long, pointed pins pierced through the heart. Like maybe I’m the one in danger.
I take a deep breath, thinking about the Polaroid camera. It seems so obvious that it might have something to do with the photographer who lives next door. But is that too obvious? Maybe he’s the one with the lilies. Maybe before I find Clara and surgically attach her to my hip, I should pay him another visit.
I glance at the clock. It’s a little after three. I change from my robe into a bathing suit, throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, slip into my flip-flops, and stuff the chunky crystal rock Jacob gave me into my pocket, suddenly remembering the mirror in my dream. I close my eyes and picture the words written in red across it—Clara’s name plus Friday’s date, which means that I have less than forty-eight hours to figure everything out.
Or else Clara will die.
I’m almost out the door when Drea and Amber ambush me. “We seriously need to talk,” Drea says.
“Only if you can walk and talk,” I say. “I don’t have time to waste.”
“Where are you going?” Drea asks, following me down the deck stairs.
“To that photographer’s place.”
“The skeevy guy with the tentacles?” Amber asks.
“The one and only.”
“Cool!” Amber exclaims.
“It’s not a game,” I say.
Drea sighs. “No kidding.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“We went to the police.”
“And?”
“Fish,” Amber says. “Big and holy mackerel.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s something huge-fishy going on.”
“Well, yeah,” I say.
“No,” Drea says. “They were asking us all these weird questions about Chad.”
“Like what?”
“Like, how long he and Clara have known each other; how long me and Chad have been dating; if Chad has a temper; if I think he might be the one doing all this to Clara.”
“What?” I ask, stopping short.
“Fishy . . .” Amber sings.
“I don’t know what she told them,” Drea says, “but right now, I’d just like to smash her giggly little face.”
“Has Chad gone to the police yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Drea says. “But I don’t know. I haven’t seen him anywhere.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” I say, “but right now I have to go.”
“I feel horrible, Stacey,” Drea continues. “I had to tell them how Chad and I got into a fight, how I caught them all cuddly together.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry, but at least Chad isn’t going to end up dead in less than forty-eight hours.”
“We have a T.O.D.?” Amber asks, arching her eyebrows.
“Huh?” Drea and I say in unison.
“Time of death,” she says, rolling her eyes like it’s obvious.
“Friday,” I say. “I dreamt it.”
“And you dreamt that it was the photographer guy.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m just going on a hunch.”
“Personally, I think we’d be better off going after Casey,” Drea says. “We saw him ripping apart his ex earlier—completely yelling at her in front of everybody.”
“Why?”
Amber shrugs. “Something about her getting all jealous and possessive of him. She must have seen how soaking he is on me.”
“Yeah, right,” Drea says, flashing her the okay sign.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t have time. Are you guys coming with me or not?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the fortune cookies in China,” Amber says, pulling one from her pocket. She cracks it open and reads the fortune aloud: “Life’s a stitch and then you sew.” She laughs and stuffs both cookie halves into her mouth.
twenty-seven
We climb the stairs of the photographer’s cottage and ring the doorbell a couple times, but he doesn’t answer. I open the screen door and try knocking. Still no response.
“Maybe he’s on a shoot,” Drea suggests.
“Shoot my ass,” Amber says.
“Seriously?” Drea asks.
“Tell me,” Amber says, “why would a photographer for Vogue ever want to take pictures of Clara?”
“He obviously has bad taste,” Drea says. “I mean
, if it is him.”
Amber takes off her earring, a long and thin sterling silver zigzag. “Cover me,” she says, jabbing the point into the lock and maneuvering it around.
“If that doesn’t work, I have a credit card,” Drea says.
“With you?” I look at her outfit—a tankini top with surfer shorts, no visible pockets anywhere.
“Oh yeah. I never leave home without it.”
“Got it,” Amber says. The lock clicks, and she turns the knob. “We’re so in.”
We follow Amber inside, locking the door back up behind us. Just like before, the place is completely dark, the shades all pulled down and no lamps in sight.
“Is he a troll?” Drea asks.
“Maybe Clara lives here.” Amber makes a troll of a face, complete with droopy eyes and a tongue that sticks out over her bottom lip.
“Let’s go check out the darkroom.” I lead them in there and click on the light, feeling that cold, familiar chill run across my shoulders.
The room is set up just like before—the red lightbulb shines down over a clothesline with pictures attached, a workstation full of bins and solutions, and racks that line the walls.
“What are we looking for?” Drea asks.
“Anything that looks suspicious—pictures of Clara, any Polaroids, anything that seems odd.”
“Where do we begin?” Amber picks a photo up off the floor. She flashes it to us; it’s a picture of a dog taking a whiz on the beach.
“Vogue, I think not,” Drea says.
“Hey, check it out.” Amber plucks a photo from the clothesline. “I think I recognize this girl. I think she works at the Clam Stripper.”
Drea and I join her to look. It’s a picture of some girl wearing a short sundress on the beach.
“Oh my god,” Drea says, her gaze wandering down the line. The clothesline is full of snapshots of girls—unsuspecting females on the beach, swimming in the water, and rubbing suntan oil onto their legs.
“What a perv!” Amber bellows.
Drea has already made her way down the end of the clothesline. “Oh my god,” she says. “There’s some of me. And this one’s of Stacey.”
Amber and I join her to scavenge through the clothesline of photos. There’s got to be at least two hundred pictures here and twenty-two of them are of us—Drea, playing in the water with Chad, cuddling up beside him, and rubbing suntan oil over her stomach and legs; Amber, patting some guy’s dog and playing beached whale; and me, sitting at the shoreline with Jacob and wading in the water. There’s also a handful of Clara: Clara at the Clam Stripper, Clara tanning on the beach, Clara with an ice cream cone. The thing is there’s nothing unique or unusual about them—they’re just like all the rest.
“I feel so dirty,” Drea says, covering her mouth. “Look at this one—you can see my tan lines.” Drea points to the strip of white across her back upper thigh.
“With an angle like that,” Amber says, eyeing the picture, “I’d say the tan line is the least of your problems.”
“These are just like the pictures left in Clara’s room,” I say, interrupting them, “. . . the ones in the envelope.”
“Don’t compare us to her,” Drea snaps.
I take a deep breath, holding myself back from bopping her head off. “All I’m saying is that those pictures were candid—like these. She had no idea she was even being photographed.”
“Right,” Amber says, “which brings us back to my perv theory.”
“I don’t think it’s him,” I say.
“Are you blind?” Drea asks, gesturing toward the clothesline of photos.
“If it was him, then he’d have way more pictures of Clara than just three. He’d have a whole shrine dedicated to her.”
“Let’s not forget about the whole envelope of Clara shots left in her room,” Drea says.
“Exactly,” I say. “Someone who takes that many peeping-Tom pictures of one individual—while she’s in her cottage, changing her clothes, and getting ready for a shower . . . you’d think he’d have kept a bunch for himself. I mean, if he’s that obsessed with her . . .”
“Maybe he does have a bunch,” Amber says. “Maybe they’re just hidden somewhere.”
“So let’s get to it,” I say.
While Drea collects the photos of us into a stack and searches around for more, Amber announces that she’s off to snoop through his medicine cabinet and “bedroom goodies.” Meanwhile, I resume rifling through the darkroom. I dig my way through camera equipment, development chemicals, and photos of all genres, from apples to zebras—quiet literally.
“This is useless,” I hear Amber shout from the other room. “No Polaroids, no more pictures of Clara, no dead bodies in the closet.”
“She’s right,” Drea says, itching at her sides. “Let’s get out of here. I feel all skeevy.”
At that moment the back door shuts, like someone just came in.
“Oh my god,” Drea mouths. She stuffs the photos of us up the back of her tankini.
“Wait here,” Amber whispers. She tiptoes toward the doorway and peers down the hallway. “In the kitchen,” she mouths, hearing the tinkling of a dish. “Come on.”
“No way,” Drea mouths.
“Now,” Amber whispers. She takes a right down the hallway, heading for the front door. I follow, grabbing Drea by the arm as I exit the room. The floorboards creak beneath our steps. My heart quickens; my stomach churns. I hear more noise in the kitchen, like the slamming of a microwave door. Meanwhile, Amber’s fingers are working the front lock. She turns it—click.
“Hey there,” he says.
We all freeze. I grit my teeth and turn to look. He isn’t there. I look back at Amber, her eyes wide and expectant.
More noises continue in the kitchen—utensils against a plate, maybe, the sound of a carbonated drink bubbling over. “Yup. Just got back,” his voice continues.
“He’s on the phone,” Amber mouths. She turns back to the door, opens it wide for all of us to exit. And we’re out. We’re free.
twenty-eight
After getting a relatively safe distance away, we slow our pace to a brisk walk, not even realizing that we’ve already passed our cottage.
“Wait,” Drea says. “Where are we going?”
I shake my head, my heart still pounding. “That was just a little too close.”
“But we made it,” Amber says.
“Because of luck,” Drea gasps. “Because the guy got hungry and he needed to call somebody.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“What are you guys talking about?” Amber asks. “We made it out of sheer talent.”
“I don’t know,” I say, leading us back in the direction of the cottage. “Maybe he wasn’t really on the phone. Maybe he just wanted us to think he was.”
“And why would he ever do that?” Amber asks.
“I don’t know. It just seemed a little too easy.”
“Easy or not,” Drea says, repeatedly wiping her palms on her surfer shorts, “I couldn’t be happier to be out of that creep’s place. I think I need to bathe for at least an hour.” Drea grabs the photos of us from the back of her tankini. “I mean, what do you think he does with all these pictures?”
“What do I think he does with them or in front of them?” Amber snatches the photos from Drea and begins flipping through them.
“Nix the bath,” Drea says. “I need to stand in a car wash for the next six hours.”
“Fine,” I say. “You disinfect, I’ll think, and then we’ll decide our next move. But first, let me feel the photos.” I go to take them from Amber.
“Sick,” Amber says, stepping away.
“You know what I mean. I want to feel them for vibrations.”
“There are much easier ways to vibrate,” she says, handing the photos over anyway.
I run my fingers over the surfaces.
“Well?” Drea asks.
I concentrate harder, closing my eyes and running my fingers over each
one. “Skeevy,” I say.
“No kidding.” Drea shudders.
“Major skeeviness, like he knew that taking pictures of us was wrong, but it’s like it didn’t matter.”
“Um, yeah,” Amber says, “because he’s a psycho-perv.
Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“Which is why you were able to,” Drea says to her.
“It’s weird, though,” I say, ignoring their banter. “The pictures of Clara, the Polaroid ones left in her bedroom, they felt different—cold, like death.”
“What about those photo-duds we found on the floor?” Amber asks. “The maybe-an-arm and could-be-a-butt-cheek snapshots? Did you happen to feel those?”
I shake my head. “I picked them up, but Clara took them right away. She thinks that someone planted them there.”
“What do you mean?” Drea asks.
“She thought it was too weird that someone would fill an entire envelope full of photos and then just drop a couple in their path.”
“That’s actually not a bad point,” Amber says. “Even for a skank. But why would someone plant them? You couldn’t even tell what they were.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What I don’t get,” Drea says, “is if it’s the skeevy photographer who’s doing all this, why did he use a Polaroid camera for some photos but not all? The only Polaroids we found were the ones left in her bedroom.”
“Right,” I say. “So maybe it isn’t him.”
“Or maybe he is,” Amber says. “If I were gonna take crazy stalker photos of someone, that’s what I’d use. It’s way too risky to take the film to be developed someplace.”
“Brilliant, Einstein,” Drea says, “but he obviously develops his own film. Was the creepy darkroom not a big enough tip-off for you?”
Amber middle-finger scratches the side of her nose in reply.
“You know she’s planning on going on the fundraiser cruise tomorrow,” Drea says.
I nod. “Which means that I’ll have to go, too.”
“We’ll all be going,” Drea corrects. She reaches out to touch my forearm, reminding me that I’m not alone in this.
03 - Silver Is For Secrets Page 14
