Undercurrent

by Tricia Rayburn

  I was halfway around the room’s perimeter when a searing pain exploded in my head. It started between my eyes and shot back, like an electric drill burrowing into my forehead, through my brain, and out of my skull. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from crying out and fell against the wall to prevent myself from collapsing. The pain was blinding, the urge to close my eyes overwhelming, but somehow, I held them open. I wasn’t in the middle of the room, but I was still exposed to anyone looking this way; I didn’t want to alarm them before the white light faded.

  Which it did, finally, several seconds later. Just in time for me to see Parker follow a girl into the hallway.

  I started after them, glancing once behind me. Across the room, Parker’s dad still talked with the Princeton recruiter like nothing was wrong, like Parker had just excused himself to give his dad time to seal the deal.

  But something was very wrong. Because I’d felt pain like that before. I knew what it meant.

  Zara was here.

  I burst through the gymnasium doors. My head snapped to the right, then the left, but the hallway was empty. They were already gone. I tried to listen for her, to feel her presence, but all I heard was the buzzing of conversation from inside the gym. All I felt was the pain still throbbing, less intensely, inside my head.

  Using that as a guide, I headed in the direction of the main entrance, thinking Zara would want to take Parker out of the school and away from witnesses. The ache dulled then sharpened. When it became more bearable, I quickened my pace until it struck again, slowing me down. Twice it seemed to disappear completely, so I backtracked and turned left instead of right, right instead of left. Eventually, the pain strengthened and steadied, and I stopped.

  I was so worried—and terrified—it took me a second to realize where the pain had led me.

  The natatorium.

  Through the glass door I watched Parker take off his shoes and socks, roll the cuffs of his pants to his knees, and sit at the edge of the Olympic-size swimming pool. Zara was nowhere in sight, and for a brief moment I thought—hoped—that she’d left him alone. But as he lowered his legs into the water, she came out of the girls’ changing room, wearing a black bikini and a sheer black sarong. Her dark hair hung loose down her back and the sides of her face, hiding the gleaming silver eyes I knew were aimed right at him. She touched Parker’s shoulder, made sure he appreciated her appearance before slowly untying the sarong and letting it drift away from her waist, down her legs.

  The pain swelled against the base of my skull and started down my spine. I twisted the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. She’d locked the door.

  I opened my mouth to yell but stopped when she sank slowly into the water, keeping her back to me. Once all the way in, she turned toward him, placing her hands on the tile on either side of his legs. His torso blocked her face, but I knew that her silver eyes were warm and cold at the same time, her pink mouth was partially open in invitation, and her head was coyly dipped to one side.

  I knew she looked just like she had when she’d targeted Caleb, then Simon, in the woods. When her beauty had been like a pendulum that hypnotized with a single swing. Later Simon had told me how strong her power over him was, and the one thing that had snapped him out of it.

  Me. I’d yelled his name and broken her spell.

  But Parker didn’t love me the way Simon did—the way Simon had. I wasn’t even sure he liked me that much. My voice wouldn’t have the same effect on him.

  I still had to try.

  “Parker!”

  Nothing.

  “Parker!”

  Still nothing. His head lowered as hers lifted, and stayed there as they kissed.

  I banged on the glass with both fists. Pounded harder when she helped him take off his jacket and pull off his T-shirt. As he started to slide across the pool’s edge, toward her and the water, I spun away from the door and across the hall. I opened the glass display case and grabbed trophies, plaques, and medals. And then I hurled them, one after the other, at the natatorium door.

  On the third trophy, the glass cracked. A gold medal finished the job, sending shards flying on both sides of the door.

  “Stop!” I yelled, lunging across the broken glass. I threw one arm through the opening and fumbled for the knob. “Get away from him!”

  My hand shook, making my fingers slip off the knob. I was still trying to get a good grip when another hand—larger, wider—gently squeezed my arm.

  “Vanessa?” Parker asked.

  My head snapped up. Through a haze of fear and pain, I registered his green eyes, narrow with concern, and then her… brown eyes, wide with shock.

  “Georgia?” I said.

  The girl Parker had just been making out with stood a few feet behind him, soaking wet, shivering, clutching her sarong to her chest. I saw her face for the first time and was stunned when her eyes weren’t silvery blue, when she didn’t look anything like I’d imagined.

  Even now my head pounded, but this girl wasn’t Zara. She was Georgia Vincent, a smart, pretty junior who was in my study hall… and who apparently had a thing for Parker.

  “Yes?” She shot him a confused look.

  “I’m so sorry.” I tried to pull away. “I thought you were… I thought he was…”

  “It’s okay,” Parker said gently. “Everyone’s okay.”

  My arm, suspended above the broken wedges of glass still in the door, was tired, heavy. I wanted to yank it back and use whatever energy I had left to run down the hall and out of the building, but Parker’s fingers tightened around my flesh, refusing to let go.

  “Actually,” Georgia said, “I’m not. What was that, Vanessa? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said, not believing it myself. “I just… thought you were someone else.”

  “An ax murderer?” She held out both arms, exposing her practically naked body. “Look at me. Where would I hide it?”

  I lowered my eyes and stared at the floor.

  “Whatever. I’m going to dry off and get my clothes.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, flirty. “Come with me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Parker said.

  Her bare feet slapped the tile floor as she stormed away. I waited until I heard the changing room door open and close

  before daring to look at Parker.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “You mentioned that. And don’t be. You saved me from doing something I would’ve regretted the second I’d done it.”

  “I yelled and knocked first.” As if that made it better.

  “The pool’s right next to the English wing. The glass is soundproof.”

  His eyes held mine. I wanted to look away as much as I wanted to stand exactly like that. For better or worse, my aching arm made the decision for me.

  “Sorry… do you mind?”

  He glanced at his hand, then immediately released his fingers, like he was surprised to find them still touching me.

  I stepped back, the soles of my shoes crunching against the broken glass. “I should go. Find someone to help clean this up, I mean.”

  “Don’t.”

  I stopped.

  “It’s still going on, isn’t it?” Parker asked. “The networking thing?”

  I nodded.

  “Why don’t we just hang here for a while? I mean, we might not be able to keep out all the recruiters who are probably scouring the halls for us right now”—he nodded to the hole in the door—“but I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

  I was. Partially because he wanted me to, partially because it might give me a chance to explain my strange behavior without revealing too much, but mostly because I was completely drained. I doubted I could even make it back to the gymnasium without napping first.

  When I didn’t make a move to leave, he unlocked the door, opened it, and offered his hand to help me walk across the shards of glass on the other side.

  I followed him to the edge of the pool, where his cl
othes still sat. He put on his T-shirt and gave me his jacket. When I thanked him but declined, he left the jacket on the floor and continued walking toward the deep end of the pool.

  “He’s all yours!” Georgia shouted, fully clothed and hurrying toward the natatorium entrance. “And by the way—he doesn’t live up to the hype!”

  He stopped at the bottom of a diving board ladder. Coming up behind him, I raised my eyebrows.

  “Your first dissatisfied customer?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I’m still waiting on the report from another one.”

  I was grateful when he started up the ladder so he couldn’t see my face burn. Strangely, despite the embarrassing reference, I felt a tiny rush of energy. It started at my toes and seemed to swim up, through my veins. It was enough to make me take a metal step in both hands and climb after him.

  I’d made it as far as the second step when I pictured Simon waiting for me on the other side of the iron fence surrounding Winter Harbor’s Camp Heroine. For a second, I clung to the cool metal and considered climbing back down.

  “There is a girl,” Parker called down.

  And there was another rush. It made my skin tingle—and me keep moving.

  “Remember that day in the water polo lounge? When you asked me if I was seeing anyone?”

  “Yes?” I focused on my movements. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot.

  “Well, I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. Not technically, anyway. You know Amelia Hathaway?”

  “Sure,” I said, grateful when he didn’t mention my spying on them in the library a few weeks ago.

  “We hooked up at a party over the summer and I thought I wasn’t interested in anything else—until I was. We hung out a few times, and while I liked her more and more, the feelings weren’t exactly reciprocated.”

  “That’s too bad.” Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot.

  “It was. Especially because when she insisted she didn’t feel the same way, I just stopped caring about what I did and who I did it with.” He grabbed the railings at the top of the ladder and hoisted himself onto the board. “Until now.”

  Right hand, left hand, right foot, left—

  I stopped, my hands on the railings, Parker’s hands on mine. I peeked down, saw how far away the floor was, and didn’t resist when he helped me up onto the board. We faced each other, our bodies separated by inches, our fingers overlapping on the railings. The combination of his nearness, a lifelong fear of heights, and standing twenty feet above the pool should’ve made me too terrified to breathe, but I felt surprisingly steady. Strong.

  The feeling only intensified when Parker spoke again.

  “I don’t know what you thought was going on in here,” he said quietly. “But I know you were worried about me. Whatever it was, you thought I was in some kind of trouble and wanted to help. Just like that night in the harbor… right?”

  I swallowed, nodded, looked past his shoulder to the water below.

  “Vanessa, no one’s ever cared about me that much before. And I’m not sure why you do, but I’d love—”

  “Parker.” My voice was a whisper.

  “No, please. Let me get this out before I lose my nerve. We don’t know each other that well, but I’d love to—”

  “Parker.”

  He stopped. His fingers pressed against mine as he turned and followed my gaze.

  He leaned over the railing. “Is that—Doesn’t he look like—”

  “Yes,” I said, tears filling my eyes.

  It was Matt Harrison. The Bates recruiter. Floating on his back, and drifting toward the center of the pool.

  As Parker waved and called out, trying for a response, I sank to my knees, knowing he wouldn’t get one.

  Because Matt Harrison was dead.

  And smiling like he’d never been happier.

  CHAPTER 22

  AFTER ALERTING SCHOOL security, Parker and I spent an hour talking to the police. He tried to get me to go before they arrived, to save me from having to deal with the messy aftermath, but I refused. He did most of the explaining anyway, but I wanted to confirm that we’d been together when we found the body. If he’d said he’d been alone, the police might’ve suspected him of being involved, and I couldn’t allow that.

  I stayed for another reason, too. While Parker filled in his dad and President O’Hare, both of whom looked more concerned about how they were going to handle this potential bad publicity than the fact that a college recruiter had just died on the premises, I excused myself to call my parents—and then went outside instead.

  Hawthorne and the Boston Police Department must have had some sort of pre-arrangement, because by the school’s main and rear entrances, life continued undisturbed. The networking event had ended, and seniors and recruiters mingled in separate groups on the steps and sidewalk, the recruiters talking about where to grab an early dinner, the students eavesdropping in hopes of “accidentally” joining them. They appeared to have no idea about what was transpiring on the other side of the building. And besides a few straggling underclassmen, there was no activity by the rear entrance.

  I was about to go back inside and try tailing a police officer until he was alone when a white truck got my attention. It was parked half in, half out of the narrow delivery entrance drive-way several yards down the block from the building’s rear doors. COLONY BAKERY was written on its sides in blue script, and a darkened strobe light sat on the dashboard. As I approached, I could hear the static of walkie-talkies, men speaking in hushed voices. The truck took up most of the driveway, blocking my view of what was going on behind it, but I caught quick glimpses of red medical bags, a stretcher.

  “You lost?”

  I jumped at the woman’s voice. She stood just behind me, wearing dark pants and a long white baker coat, and carrying three water bottles she’d apparently just bought at the deli next door. A Commonwealth Emergency Medical Team badge peeked out near the collar of her jacket. Seeing my eyes linger there, she quickly fastened her button with one hand.

  “Nope,” I said too brightly, nodding to the truck. “Just hungry. Do you have any scones?”

  “There’s a bakery across the street.”

  “Yes, but the scones in there are hours old by now. The ones in your truck are probably right out of the oven.”

  She gave me a slow once-over. Then, deciding I was simply annoying and not a threat, she brushed past me. “This is a private entrance. You’ll want to move along.”

  I’d been two feet down the driveway and now moved to the sidewalk. I took a book from my backpack, leaned against the wall, and hoped I appeared to be reading while waiting for someone. Each time I heard footsteps heading down the delivery driveway or a truck door open, I casually peered around the corner. The next EMT I saw was another woman, and the two after her were older married men.

  But the fourth was promising. He was young, probably in his early twenties, and his left ring finger was bare.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, swapping the book for a notebook and pen.

  “What’s up?” The upper half of his body was behind the open passenger’s-side door as he leaned inside the truck.