by Isla Jones
Blake shook her head. “I’ll tell you,” she whispered. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. I mean it Rachel, not a soul.”
Rachel agreed with a smile and lay down on the mat. Blake thought that that was a good idea—Rachel was in for one wild rollercoaster ride, so she might as well make herself comfortable.
The secrets, the concerns, the fears—everything Blake had bottled up came spilling out of her mouth faster than Rachel could send a malicious text. Blake told her every detail. She told her about the stranger, Theodore; the messy situation she’d gotten herself into with Hunter; sneaking into work after she’d been banned from returning; the pain of Bethany’s rejection of her; Sheriff Cotton ruling murders as animal attacks; and the strange note she’d found in her locker that morning.
At the end of her verbal tirade, Blake watched as Rachel processed the outburst. Blake noticed, with surprise, that even Rachel could only handle so much information at once.
Rachel sat up and folded her legs. Blake copied her, but tucked her feet under her bum instead.
“Didn’t you say that Zeke was afraid of something?” asked Rachel. “When you spoke to him, you thought he was scared?”
Blake nodded.
“What if he was afraid of that man? What was his name?”
“Theodore,” she said. “He said he was a friend of the family. Apparently, they go way back.”
“Strange, though, isn’t it?” Rachel, complacent, glanced around at the other students flipping and twirling around the room. “This guy Theo turns up around the same time that two Wolves are killed. The murders are covered up, Zeke is acting sketchy, and Bethany hasn’t mentioned anything about a family friend staying with them.”
“She hasn’t?”
Rachel shrugged. “Not a word about a visitor. She doesn’t talk about much, really. When we hang out, it’s mostly me doing the talking.” Rachel paused and bit her bottom lip. “It could be connected,” she said. “The murders, the weird guy who came out of nowhere, Zeke’s behaviour. All of it.”
“I think so,” agreed Blake, fiddling with the sloppy bun atop her head. “I don’t know if Theo has a direct link to the murders, but there’s definitely something off about him. When I speak to him, I feel as if it’s all a show—the charm and charisma, his fake smiles. None of it is real.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he’s around, I just feel … sick,” she said lamely. “It’s a strange feeling, but it makes me want to run for my life. Maybe he did kill the gang members.”
“The Wolves could’ve turned on themselves,” suggested Rachel. “What about Hunter? We know what he’s capable of now. He’s joined the Wolves—officially, it seems—and he’s running around beating people up.”
Blake scratched a peeling piece of the mat. “He did give Zeke a funny look when I was talking to him. It sounds lame, I know, but Hunter did not like Zeke and I talking to each other, that’s for sure.”
“You’re not convinced,” observed Rachel.
“No,” she admitted, shaking her head. “The note I found in my locker this morning, it means something now that I think about it. A warning or a threat.”
“What did it say again?”
“Just that whoever sent it is going to the reservoir party at six. Though, it was all over the place. It hardly made any sense.”
“It could be someone playing a prank, you know.”
Blake sighed and stretched out like a cat bathing in sunrays. “Maybe.”
“Want me to talk to Bethany about it?”
Blake’s forehead creased. “You’re friends still?”
“I did tell you that we went to the drive-in. And we talk over the phone sometimes.” Rachel combed her fingers through her latest weave—sleek brown hair with blond streaks through it. “Don’t act so betrayed, drama-queen.”
Blake flipped onto her back. “What do you even talk about? Her parents?”
“No, nothing like that.” Rachel picked at her manicured nails. “She’s quiet, most of the time. Then, when we talk it’s as if I’m speaking to a teacher about an assignment.”
“What does that mean?” Blake made a face. “She quizzes you on your grammar?”
Rachel shrugged. “She had questions about the town’s history—the witch hunt, where the accused lives, the diadem—for her History essay. It’s all she cares about these days. School work and performance.”
They both flinched at the same time—the megaphone in the corner had erupted with static. Everyone in the hall either recoiled or slapped their hands against their ears as the high-pitched sound pierced their eardrums.
“Ahem,” came the receptionist’s voice through the speaker. “All teachers are to escort their classes to the assembly hall immediately. Assembly is to begin in five minutes. I repeat, the assembly is mandatory for all faculty and pupils, and is to begin in five minutes.”
Rachel’s lips twisted into a wry smirk. “Score.”
Blake smiled. A get-out-of-gym-free card had just landed on their laps, and they would gladly accept it. Though, it would’ve been far more welcome in the middle of maths.
The assembly hall was in the same extension as the gymnasium. Blake and Rachel had already taken their seats on the benches when everyone else poured inside. The assembly hall was the basketball court with a podium in the middle. The principal hovered by the platform, waiting for all students and teachers to arrive. Mayor Williams, Rachel’s father, stood tall beside the podium, and glanced at his Rolex.
At the back of the bleachers, Blake whispered to Rachel, “Any idea what this is about?”
“He didn’t say anything at breakfast.” Rachel’s gleaming eyes were fixed on her father down on the court. The thirst for gossip showed in her fingers; tangled around the phone she itched to use.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” said Principal Tait.
The robotic drone of the students echoed: “Good morning Principal Tait.”
“I apologise for the disruption of today’s lessons,” she said. “But the school has just received word of another attack to strike Belle-Vue.”
The students stiffened. Silence swept the hall.
Had another murder happened? Another unexplained corpse? Yet another unsolved crime?
“Earlier this morning, it was discovered that Town Hall had been breached sometime during the night,” she said. “The perpetrators appeared to have broken in through the delivery door at the back of the premises. Security cameras were tampered with, but we know that one item was stolen—the Diadem of Deities.”
The silence burst into chatter. Teachers leaned toward one another and spoke in hushed tones. The students shifted in their seats and whispered to each other. Principal Tait stepped away from the podium; Mayor Williams took her place.
“Students of Belle-Vue High,” he greeted curtly. “As you understand, the Diadem of Deities is arguably the most valuable relic of this town’s ancestry, culture and history. To learn of its fate is most alarming, and frankly sickening.” His brown eyes swept across the silent students. “It is my belief, along with that of Sheriff Cotton’s, that the diadem has been stolen as part of a juvenile prank. I urge any one of you who may know the slightest bit of information about this to come forward. If the diadem is returned by the end of day, no criminal charges will be pressed.” He paused and raked his suspicious eyes from student to student, lingering over Hunter and Clay. “However,” he said. “If the diadem is not returned to its rightful place, and the thieves’ identities are not revealed, we will launch a full-scale investigation. I assure you, in this case the criminals will be punished to the fullest extent of juvenile law.”
A student coughed, and a cell phone beeped, but silence otherwise blanketed the court. Blake didn’t know anything about the diadem’s theft, and she didn’t care. There were greater worries to be concerned about in Belle-Vue. Four unsolved murders, to be exact.
The Principal returned to the podium to close the announcement.
Scooting closer to Blake on the bench, Rachel whispered, “Are you coming to the bayou party, then? Since you’re grounded, I can swing by and pick you up. You could climb out of your bedroom window and meet me down the street.”
“I can’t,” she said. “If my dads caught me, I’d never be let out again. Abe might even take my car off me and start driving me to school.”
“Coward,” hissed Rachel. “That’s the fun in sneaking out—the risk of getting caught.”
“We have very different ideas of fun,” muttered Blake under her breath.
“You might be able to get some answers,” said Rachel. “Maybe you could ask around about that new guy, Theodore? Drunk people equals loose lips.”
The thought hadn’t struck her before. Rachel had a good point, one that had to be considered. With that in mind, Blake tuned out the Principal and scanned the students on the bleachers. If she were to sneak out, she would have to know who to question at the party.
Hunter was a possible option, but she also shuddered at the thought of being near him. Zeke was a better option, but Blake doubted he would be at the party.
As though he’d sensed her eyes on him, Zeke craned his neck to look over his shoulder at her. His lips moved, forming silent words she couldn’t read. Blake’s brows creased and her head cocked to the side. He tried again, but she had no clue what he was saying.
Zeke gave up. He turned back around to face the court. Blake noticed that Bethany wasn’t with him on the bleachers. In fact, as she looked around she noticed that Bethany wasn’t there at all.
The students erupted into chatter and stood from the benches. They must’ve been dismissed.
Blake scrambled to her feet and trailed Rachel down the wooden steps to the court. As they made their way across the court, Blake’s neck shivered. The small hairs stood to attention. Someone had touched her.
She whipped around to face the culprit, but was met by oncoming students, lost in their own conversations.
Blake swung her arm over her shoulder and brushed her hand over her tingling neck. Her fingertips grazed over a crisp piece of paper stuck into the hood of her zipper. She whipped it out and unfolded it.
‘Remember the code.’
It was the same handwriting in the note she’d found earlier. Though, this note wasn’t nearly as scrambled or mysterious.
The code …
There was a code that she and Bethany had invented when they were in their freshman year. The handwriting wasn’t Bethany’s, though.
Only one other person knew about their code.
Zeke.
He’d read their secret messages when they were younger.
“Hey,” snapped Rachel. Blake glanced over her shoulder to see Rachel glowering at her, hip cocked to the side. “I was talking to you. I thought you were right behind me, and there I was, yammering on to myself. People will think I’m nuts, thanks to you.”
“Sorry,” said Blake. She folded the note and stuffed it into her shorts. “I was thinking about the party.”
Rachel’s annoyance swiftly changed into glee. “And?”
“On second thought, it might be worth sneaking out for.”
Clapping her hands together, Rachel squealed in excitement. “Excellent! I’ll pick you up around seven? Eight, maybe? We don’t want to be too early. Mother says it’s best to be fashionably late. Keeps the mystery, you know.”
“Actually,” said Blake. “I’ll make my own way there. There’s something I need to do first.”
*
The floorboards groaned under Blake’s weight. The attic reeked of moulded cardboard and damp clothes. Cobwebs draped from the wooden beams above, and stale boxes were stacked up, sagged against the walls. Stored in the battered boxes were the diamonds of Blake’s past; photo albums, participation awards, childish scribbles—all tucked away in the drooping containers.
Abe shouted from the bottom of the attic stairs; “What are you doing up there?”
He must’ve heard her from his art studio, she thought. She scowled back at the rickety stairs and shouted, “I’m just looking for something. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Looking for what exactly?” His voice had an edge to it, one that betrayed his anger. Blake didn’t care that he was still upset with her. As far as she was concerned, he was in her bad books. Not the other way around.
“My old notebook,” she yelled. “It’s black and glittery. I think it has a picture of batman on the front.”
After a pause, he said, “It’s in with your old school stuff. The box marked ‘freshman year’. Should be beside the boxes of baby photos.”
“Thanks,” she said, too quietly for him to hear. Her pride wouldn’t let her thank him at a normal volume, lest he heard her.
Abe left, his soft footsteps treading down the hallway. Blake waddled over to the box and knelt in front of it. After few minutes of careless searching—leaving old jotters strewn out over the floor—she found what she was looking for. Her batman notebook.
Blake whipped out a folded note from her bra. It was the one she’d found in her locker. She smoothed it out and settled it on the floor.
Flipping the notebook open, she riffled through the pages of scribbles and doodles until she found it—the code she and Bethany created years ago.
The page itself was titled ‘Girl Code’.
The rules of the code were scrawled over the pages with examples. According to her thirteen-year-old self, she had to look at the first letter of every third word to decipher the note.
Blake read the letter, ‘Dear Blake Harper. I, also, will attend youthful reservoir do on Friday. Early, um, six? —M.’
With a short glance at the code-breaker, she thought aloud: “Dear, I, attend, do, early, and … m.” Blake’s fingers dug into the sheet of paper. It crinkled in her hands as she whispered, “Diadem.”
Why would Zeke want her to know about the diadem? What did he know about the diadem?
If she read the note without the code, it also asked her to meet him—six o’clock at the reservoir. That was one hour before the party started. It didn’t leave her much time, considering she was grounded by the keepers of hell.
Blake shot a glower at the floorboards, as if Abe was standing directly underneath them.
But, there was no denying it—Blake had to meet Zeke.
She sprung to her feet and snatched the note, leaving the notebook on the floor. The floorboards groaned as she ran over them, her heavy footsteps thumping through the house.
*
Escaping the house without Abe noticing was the easy part. All Blake had to do was cause a row in the kitchen, be sent to her bedroom without dinner, and place pillows underneath her duvet. Then, she’d gotten ready for the party, climbed out of the window, slid down the drainpipe and rolled her car down the street. Jack would notice that her car was gone when he returned from work. But on Fridays that was around ten o’clock at night. If she stayed aware of the time, she could sneak back into the house before Jack got home.
I’m a mastermind, she thought proudly.
When Blake reached the reservoir, she parked her Jeep in the gravel lot and got out. It was dead—there weren’t any other cars in the lot. No one was there. The memory of her last visit prickled her mind; the birds hadn’t sung and the air was still. It was the same all over again, as if time had frozen on the reservoir and she was the only thing unaffected.
Her stomach churned and her spine tickled. Blake didn’t know why, but her gut told her that something was amiss. Or she had to use the toilet. She couldn’t be certain. It also didn’t help that she chose heeled sandals for the party—they were already sticking into the soft bits of gravel.
Her fingers tugged at her white dress as she paced up and down the car park. Zeke was late. It didn’t help ease her anxiety.
The trees groaned in the light breeze, towering above her, blocking the moonlight from flooding down on her.
Blake checked the time on her white gold
watch—a Christmas gift from Rachel. Zeke was running a total of fifteen minutes late.
She paced some more.
When the watch showed 6.20pm, she huffed and plodded over to the slope that led to the water. There was a chance, however slight, that Zeke was already down there. Maybe he’d parked his car elsewhere and walked the rest of the way? Perhaps he’d gotten someone to drop him off?
Blake spread her arms as she wobbled over to the slope. Her heels bent in the stones and threatened to snap. The night sky seemed to darken further as she neared the rustling bushes.
She plodded down the muddy hill.
The brittle branches scratched against her bare calves, leaving angry red marks in their wake.
Her toes, caked in dirt, curled.
It was silly, she knew, to allow fear to seep into her soul. She’d gone to the reservoir alone so many times before. But the silence was deafening and the swampy mud below sucked her in with each step, as if trying to swallow her whole. At the bottom of the slope, Blake hovered between the shrubs.
Ahead, she saw the glossy water of the lake. There were no birds swooping the water, no crabs crawling over the stones, no teens partying the night away. It was deserted; abandoned.
An urge to swim clutched her. Her muddy toes ached to dip in the lake. Instead, she sighed and hiked back up the slippery slope.
The moonlight played tricks on her. It reached over the ground in shadows of long, bony fingers, almost touching her. She knew it was only the trees above, but her skin still crawled; the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. It was the same sensation she’d once gotten from a cockroach running across the kitchen bench when she was a child. But that cockroach hadn’t looked at her. It hadn’t watched her. And, in that moment, she had the familiar inkling that she was being watched.
A cold sweat buttered her back, sticking her hair to the clammy skin. Her heart, thudding louder with each step uphill, caught up with her rapid breaths.
Blake couldn’t take it anymore. She scrambled up the slope and staggered into the carpark. The breeze, not harsh enough to howl, hissed as it swept itself over her goose-pimpled flesh.
