by Norah Wilson
The torture chair went flying back against the wall and Alex found herself on her feet with all those eyes staring at her.
She bolted.
Mrs. Betts called after her, but Alex had to get out of there, now. Had to get some air.
She’d never felt so panicked—so scared—as she ran out of Harvell House. She had never in her life felt so alone as she jumped down the steps. And as she raced along the walkway, her fingers found and clutched the little diary in the pocket of her hoodie.
Chapter 4
The Bitch Is Back
Brooke
Brooke Saunders kicked her shoes off the moment she hit the bedroom. Sighing, she closed the door behind her and dropped her book bag. She’d cut out of History—her last class of the day—early, pleading a migraine. But she didn’t need Tylenol for a non-existent headache. She just needed a little alone time. God, it seemed like forever since she’d enjoyed just being by herself.
And not just since she came here, just over five weeks ago. Since... forever. Well, at least since her mother had married Herr Kommandant.
It used to be just Brooke and her mom, Gracie, ever since her dad split when she was seven. Not that her mom didn’t have the occasional boyfriend, but they came and they went and they never posed a serious threat. Not until her mother caught that stupid case that brought her in contact with stupid Kendall McLeod, Detective First-Grade with the NYPD. After that, after all the skirmishes over curfews and attitude and language and every last damned thing, she’d taken to staying out until all hours of the night. Which meant she had to tolerate the company of friends and would-be-friends and yeah, some downright creeps, just so she wouldn’t have to endure Herr Kommandant at home.
And she was not going to think about him now, or her mother or any of that stuff. She’d only get pissed off. And she had plenty enough to get pissed about already.
Of course, her mother had a few things to be pissed about too. Namely, the credit card bill from last month with the incriminating charges on it.
Brooke had come to town three days before school started—lying to her mother about the start date. But she hadn’t exactly been searching for solitude then. She’d checked into one of those odiously dated but affordably-priced cabins down by the river and invited Seth Walker to join her. She would have preferred the new Best Western, but she’d thought that if she kept the expenditure small enough, it wouldn’t come to her new stepfather’s attention back in New York. She should have known better.
Not that her mother would be overly shocked to learn she’d been sharing a motel room with a boy. Over this past summer, when Brooke started avoiding home for days at a time, her mother had handed her an appointment card for their family physician, instructing her to get herself on the pill and for God’s sake to please be careful and to always protect herself. With that vote of confidence, Brooke had promptly given up her virginity to the first sufficiently hot guy who’d cared enough to chase her—a French pre-med student she’d met after crashing a party. Of course, he’d stopped chasing as soon as she stopped running. And she’d stopped putting out.
But Seth, a native of Mansbridge, was different. The two of them had been hot and heavy last spring, before she’d had to go back home, but Brooke stupidly hadn’t wanted to take it any further than their make out sessions in Seth’s cramped Mustang. Instead, she’d gone home and wound up sleeping with a jerk she hadn’t given a crap about.
When she’d called, Seth had come running. All he’d had to hear was “motel” and he’d been there, panting after her. Except he hadn’t been too pleased about the fact that she’d come back unencumbered with her virginity. Not that he was so put off that he hadn’t availed himself of what she was offering. He’d availed himself plenty, for the whole three days, until she moved into Harvell House. And then he’d fallen off the face of the earth.
That’s right. He’d gone to ground. It had been five weeks now, and still she hadn’t heard from him. And this despite the messages she’d left on his parents’ voice mail. Worst of all, she’d sent a friend request to his stupid new Facebook page, and he was giving her the inbox rot. And she knew he was around. He’d changed his profile picture twice. Jerk. And duh—she’d seen him twice at the mall. And she was sure it was him at the wheel when his Mustang had rumbled past her last Thursday night. She’d been to the bar—thank you, fake ID—and had the cab driver drop her a few blocks from Harvell House so she could sneak back in. She’d taken off her shoe and thrown it after him, but her aim had fallen short.
Well, screw Seth Walker. When she caught up with him, she’d tear him a new one. In the meantime, she wasn’t wasting another second thinking about him. Especially when she had the place to herself.
She flopped down on her bed. It took some doing, but eventually she calmed herself down and emptied her mind of the Seth/Herr Kommandant/Mother noise. That’s when she heard it.
Silence.
Oh, man, that was good! She listened to it some more, sinking into it. Before long, though, she felt the tug of sleep. Felt it and sat right up. No way was she wasting quality alone time by sleeping. She could do that any time.
Besides, there was something she’d been meaning to do... She got up and crossed to Alex’s corner of the room. That girl was acting strange. To hear her, you’d think she’d turned totally straight-edge. The Alex Robbins Brooke knew from last year was seriously hardcore. Yet she’d kept up the act—if it was in fact an act—for almost six weeks now. Could it be for real? In Brooke’s experience, no one did that kind of one-eighty without a damned good reason. And Brooke was going to sleuth it out.
She started with the tried and true spots—under the mattress, under the bed, tucked under the socks in the dresser drawer—but they yielded nothing. Nor did the drawer of the night table by Alex’s bed or the pockets of her jackets hanging in the shared wardrobe. She was about to give up the search when her gaze fell on the narrow, single-shelf bookcase that doubled as a headboard for the twin bed. All the beds had them. Brooke thought it was the hokiest thing she’d ever seen, a misbegotten marriage of office furniture and bedroom furniture, but Maryanne loved hers, filling it with things she’d brought from home.
Geez, that girl was different, always talking to herself. And she didn’t swear. Ever. Wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouth full of it. God knew Brooke had done her best these past weeks to try to drag a cuss word out of her.
Brooke turned her attention back to the bookcase thingie at the head of Alex’s bed. Alex actually used hers for the purpose for which it was intended, to wit, stashing her textbooks. Except one of the books didn’t look like the others lined up there... She leaned in to examine the spine.
A diary! That’s abso-friggin’-lutely what it was!
Heart beating unaccountably fast, Brooke reached for the little tan-colored book. Damn, it was old. How long had Alex been keeping it? Since kindergarten?
She flipped the cover open, her gaze racing over the yellowed page. Within seconds she realized it wasn’t her roommate’s diary. It belonged to some chick named Connie. She turned the first page, then another and another.
“Holy shit!” Brooke sank down on Alex’s bed, completely engrossed. So engrossed that she failed to heed the sound of feet on the stairs and the creak of the floorboards right outside the door. The echo of those sounds only registered when the door flew open and Maryanne breezed into the room.
Breezed in and then froze.
“Brooke? What are you doing over there? And is that a diary?” Her voice rose with accusation as she looked down at the handwritten pages. “You’re reading Alex’s diary?”
“It’s not Alex’s.”
“But you got it out of her things.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “So sue me.”
“Have you been looking through my things, too? Is that why you skipped out early? To snoop?”
Brooke felt her face flushing, but managed to give Maryanne a coolly derisive smile. “Sweetie, I haven’t seen
anything about you so far that’s remotely interesting enough to make me want to look through your things.”
Something flashed in the other girl’s eyes, and Brooke almost regretted being such a bitch. Almost.
“So my stuff is safe, but Alex’s is fair game?” There was no mistaking the coldness in Maryanne’s voice. “Why’s that, Brooke? Because Alex is obviously sad? Hurt over something? Pain interests you?”
Brooke stood, huffing out an angry breath. “Because she’s acting all straight-edge all of a sudden and I want to know why.”
“How about maybe she grew up a little over the summer?”
“Yeah, right. That must be why she went out and got that new snakebite, to prove how grown up she is now. And here I was thinking she’d done it just to be all scener-than-thou with the scene crowd.”
The other girl’s face went blank. “Snakebite?”
“Duh. The lip rings, one on either side. Looks kinda like a—”
“Snakebite,” Maryanne finished.
“I’m telling you, that girl is hardcore. I don’t know what this act is about, but don’t expect it to last for long. Alex Robbins is a party animal.”
“So it’s okay to read her diary?”
“I told you, it’s not her diary! It’s way old. Belongs to some chick called Connie Harvell. I think she must have lived right here, at Harvell House. And omigod, you should read it! I just read a page or two, but—”
A thump interrupted them. Both girls looked up to see Alex standing in the open doorway. The thump they’d heard was her book bag hitting the floor.
“That’s mine!” An ashen-faced Alex flew across the room and tore the diary from Brooke’s unresisting hands. She stood there, chest heaving, looking every bit as badass as her reputation. “What the hell are you doing with it? With any of my stuff?”
Because she couldn’t resist, Brooke turned to Maryanne. “Yeah, what are we doing with Alex’s stuff?”
“What the—” Maryanne sputtered. “I wasn’t doing anything with her stuff and you know it!”
Brooke laughed. “Just teasing. God, girl, you have to learn to chill or you’re going to be one big fat target, living in this house.” Then she turned to Alex. “So this is yours, huh?”
“Yes.” Alex thrust out her chin, a clear giveaway.
“Funny, because it seems to belong to a girl named Connie Harvell, who used to live here decades ago. So I’m thinking, maybe you found it laying around the house somewhere. But a document like this—an artifact like this—I don’t think you can claim ownership. In fact, we should probably turn it in to Mrs. Betts.”
At the mention of the housemother’s name, Alex paled further. “No! You can’t do that. Connie... Connie wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Brooke lifted an eyebrow. “You seem to know Connie pretty well. Have you read it all the way through yet?”
Alex’s lips thinned. Brooke took that as a yes.
“Hey, maybe we could read it together,” Maryanne suggested. “From the beginning.”
From the horrified expression on Alex’s face, you’d think Maryanne had suggested they slide a particularly nasty porno movie into the DVD player and pop some popcorn.
Losing patience, Brooke snapped, “Face it, Alex, you gotta share. You can’t keep it to yourself any longer. ‘Finders, keepers’ doesn’t apply here.”
Alex gripped the book tight to her chest. “Are you kidding? You’ll just be all sarcastic like you always are. Connie Harvell had a tough life and a tougher death.”
Tougher death? What the hell was in those pages?
“I won’t have you mocking her. You hear me, Brooke?” Alex continued. “I swear to God, I’d rather give the diary to that judgmental old bat, Mrs. Betts.”
Brooke felt her face slacken with shock and hurt. “You think I’d really do that? I mean, I know I can be a bitch, but dude. Poke fun at a dead girl?” She shook her head. “Screw this.” Scooping up her shoes, she stalked toward the door.
“Wait!”
Brooke stopped at Alex’s command, but didn’t turn. If she turned around now, they’d see the emotion she was blinking back.
“Don’t tell Mrs. Betts.”
Brooke paused long enough to suppress any hint of tears, then turned, arching a brow at Alex. “I guess that’s your decision, isn’t it?”
Alex’s face darkened. “Dammit, Brooke, this is blackmail!”
“Blackmail?” She lifted the other eyebrow and pretended to consider the accusation. “Lemme see... I threaten to reveal the existence of the diary—no, the historical artifact you found and force you to turn it over to Mrs. Betts unless you agree to let us read it, too.” Brooke tilted her head. “Gosh, I guess you’re right. That’s definitely blackmail.”
“Bitch!”
Brooke smiled. “Well, I guess that’s my cue.” Turning, she headed for the door again.
Alex’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Wait.”
Brooke turned expectantly.
“Okay, dammit!” Alex exhaled and drew a deep breath. “Okay, we can read it together. But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to read it where it was meant to be read.”
“Where’s that?” Maryanne asked.
“The attic.”
Brooke and Maryanne looked toward the ceiling.
“Trust me, there is an attic. I’ve been there. But we can’t go until after lights out, after everyone’s asleep. No one’s supposed to go up there.”
“There’s always been a lock on that door,” Brooke said.
“It’s broken. Probably been broken for ages and nobody’s bothered to try it.”
Brooke felt her pulse quicken. Finally. A little excitement. Granted, it was more in keeping with a tweener sleepover involving a Ouija board than she’d like, but at this point, she’d take her thrills wherever she could get them.
“Deal,” she said. “Now I’m gonna go get high before I have to read that stupid book they gave us in English class.” She didn’t actually have any on her, but she knew where to get some in a hurry. “Anyone care to join me?”
“Oh! Um... uh... no thanks,” Maryanne said.
But it wasn’t Maryanne’s face Brooke was watching when she’d thrown that offer out. It was Alex’s. And the desire to say yes—or hell yeah, or I’m in!—might as well have been written on her forehead with a fat black marker. But she fought it down. The evidence of her turmoil was there in her tensed muscles, her tightly fisted hands. Then her fingers unclenched.
“No, thanks,” she muttered, looking away. “Gotta hit the books.”
Brooke smiled. “Another time, maybe.”
And as she turned to leave, she had the satisfaction of seeing Alex bite her snake-bitten lip.
Chapter 5
Ascending in the Night
Alex
Alex trembled inside as she climbed the steep stairs ahead of Maryanne and Brooke, but she moved quickly, decisively. No way would she let the other girls see the fear she bit back as she climbed up to the darkened attic. But that wasn’t the only reason she moved so quickly. Alex knew that if she stopped, she just might not go on. Might never return to that horrible place.
She’d have felt infinitely safer doing this in their shared bedroom, but at the same time that seemed wrong somehow. She had to honor Connie’s words, and she knew the only way to really do that was to read them in Connie’s prison. She wrapped her hand even more tightly around Connie’s diary, deep in her hoodie pocket.
Behind her, Maryanne carried a thick white candle. They would light it only when they got inside the attic door. Just an extra bit of precaution to avoid being caught. Maryanne had lifted the candle from the house kitchen. She’d been on clean-up duty tonight with a couple of first-floor girls. Two Grade Nine newbies from Fredericton who looked scared shitless to find themselves housed at Harvell.
Not that the candle was likely to be missed, at least not for a while. It was obviously an ornamental thing meant to be tucked into a Christmas cente
rpiece and never lit. In fact, no candles were ever lit at Harvell House. It was forbidden, no doubt for insurance reasons. Even during the power failures that often came with winter storms, no candles were permitted. Instead, they broke out the flashlights until the backup generator could restore electricity. All of which meant if they got caught with this candle, lit or unlit, they’d be in trouble for that alone, never mind the reaming out they’d get for entering the off-limits attic. Maryanne had to know this, yet here she was. And when Alex had instructed her to snag the candle, she’d done so with much less coaxing than Alex would have imagined. Actually, with no coaxing. Maybe Maryanne Hemlock wasn’t such a chickenshit after all.
And Brooke... she might not be a chickenshit, but she sure could be a shit.
Anyway, there was nothing to worry about. They weren’t going to get caught. It was well past midnight, late enough even for the wild girls to have crept back in on a school night. Lights out was ten o’clock, Sunday through Thursday and midnight on weekends, but Alex knew from experience that rule didn’t carry a whole lot of weight. Especially with her old crowd, or what remained of it. One had graduated, one was back in juvie out west, and one just hadn’t been heard from. That left Alex, Kassidy and Leah.
Kassidy and Leah. Alex felt the tension pouring in even just thinking about them. They’d been on her case since they’d come back to Harvell. They’d expected the same old hard-partying Alex. They’d fully expected her to have transferred down to their room by now, not to mention to have skipped classes with them—gym at the very least. They’d also expected her to join them that first night drinking down by the river with the college crowd. But she hadn’t gone. She hadn’t had a drink at all since that first day back. And she hadn’t asked for a new room assignment.
She had changed. She wanted to believe that. Needed to.
Fear would do that to a person, Alex knew. Scare them straight before something horrible—or more horrible—happened. But what could be more horrible than what she’d already gone through? Waking up half-naked on a hard floor, knowing she’d been raped. And remembering none of it.
