What You Hide
Page 1
ALSO BY NATALIE D. RICHARDS
Six Months Later
Gone Too Far
My Secret to Tell
One Was Lost
We All Fall Down
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Natalie D. Richards
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover images © Marcin Klepacki/Arcangel
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Richards, Natalie D., author.
Title: What you hide / Natalie D. Richards.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2018] | Summary: After a tragic death at Fairview Public Library, frequent patron Mallory and community service volunteer Spencer discover they are not as safe as they thought.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018032222 | (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Haunted places--Fiction. | Libraries--Fiction. | Family problems--Fiction. | Community service (Punishment)--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.R3927 Wh 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018032222
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Spencer
Mallory
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For the best library staff in the world. You know who you are.
Spencer
Thursday, October 19, 1:13 a.m.
Fairview Public Library
I’ve broken curfew for plenty of stupid reasons, but climbing the public library? I can’t really be thinking about doing this.
I am, though.
Not that I could tell you why. Why would a perfectly rational guy decide to take a jog at one o’clock in the morning? And why did that jog turn into a dead-panic sprint, until I stopped in this alley, sweaty and alone on the narrow strip of pavement between the parking lot and the book drop?
I can’t figure out most of tonight, but I know this: I want to climb to the top of the Fairview Public Library.
It’s not a good idea. Climbing that wall has Terrible Choice written all over it.
But it’d be easy. Thirty, maybe thirty-five feet tall, which I could scale in my sleep. Especially with all those chunky slabs of stone creating perfect crevices for my fingers and toes. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed them. Back in fourth grade, I walked here every other Tuesday for class visits. It was a building full of books then. Now it’s an unexplored vertical trail, my ticket to a view I’ve never seen.
I do this a lot: scan buildings for ascent routes. That’s what happens when you love climbing. I want to climb rocks and trees and the football stadium and the water tower. And apparently the library.
Seriously, I could do it in five minutes. Maybe less.
Which is still plenty of time to get arrested in this town.
Here, tucked close to the side of the building in the alley, I’m not easy to see from Main Street. Halfway up the wall, though, I’d be exposed.
So, don’t be stupid.
I wipe my sweaty hands down the front of my pants and move closer, dragging two fingers down the stone. Rough. Grippy.
A memorial plaque sits on the ground near a weeping cherry tree: HIGHER KNOWLEDGE FOR OUR BEST FUTURE.
I flinch, images flipping through my mind like flash cards. Dad at his spreadsheet, Mom at her leather journal, and me typing as fast as my fingers will let me, stacking up rows of words that paint a pleasing story about who I am and what I want.
I don’t know that I decide to start climbing. I just kick off my shoes and socks, and it happens. I test the edge of a curved brick with one hand, and my toes find a natural perch on another. It’s a strong position. A good hold. One upward glance and the path reveals itself—a push with my foot, and my left hand will go to the slightly darker stone. My right will reach the slab below the first-floor windows. Then the edge above it. I see one smooth white stone that might give me trouble, but I can always go for the ledge of the second-floor window if I need to.
I start my ascent, slow and steady. The world slips quietly away. I can’t hear my mom listing college hockey stats, and I can’t see my dad’s postgraduation salary predictions. None of the things I should do and be matter up here.
Eyes open. Core engaged. Grip strong. There is only the steady hunt for the summit when I climb. Nothing else. And, so far, this hunt is easy pickings.
My fingers slip, and I frown, retreating to my former hold. I try again. The problem is the smooth, knobby bit I’d seen below; the one I feared might be trouble. A third attempt, and I pull back to reassess. I need an alternative, because I can’t grip that smooth section without rosin, and I don’t have rosin.
Or a harness.
I’m twenty-five feet up with no harness.
This fact hits me square in the chest, and in the span of one breath, my heart turns to a bag of worms. I grip my toes and push close to the wall to steady myself. Panic and stupidity lead to most climbing accidents, and I’ve already covered the stupidity bit.
“Not smart,” I tell myself,
and that’s all I allow. I’ll have to rub this lesson in later, when I’m back on the ground without an assortment of broken bones.
When my heart slows to a steady thud-thud-thud, I start looking for a better route. I’m maybe ten or fifteen feet from the top. With my adrenaline wearing off, it feels doable. This is not a difficult climb. Once I’m up, the fire escape ladder on the back of the building will make for an easy way down. I just need to do it.
I relax into my feet and start up the path closest to the second-story window. I still have that sill if I need it.
I push off my right foot as I reach up, a good pinch at a comfortable reach. Excellent. Plus, I see a perfect lip for my left hand, so I push up through that leg to snag the next hold. My grip sticks, but something snaps. My left foot drops hard, leg scraping stone. I lurch in the opposite direction, forcing my center of gravity to the right.
Was it the brick? I glance down at the wall below, seeing freshly cracked stone where my foot used to be. Bits of mortar and rock lay in the grass, and my stomach drops into my feet.
I was standing on that seconds ago. If it had broken any earlier, I’d have fallen. I lick my lips, heart pounding. Nothing about that brick looked wrong. There was zero warning.
Which means there might not be a warning next time.
Who’s to say the one I’m on now won’t snap? My worry ratchets higher with every breath. I don’t know anything about this wall. These bricks could be painted hunks of mortar for all I know. Every last one could break.
Okay, new plan. I need to get up this wall before it falls apart.
The window.
The sill beneath it will be solid concrete. It’ll hold and give me time to breathe. When my body is in line, I swing my left leg up hard. I have to get high enough to catch the window sill.
I overshoot it. My knee hits the glass with a crack. I stop breathing, mouth dropping open at the neat hole my patella punched in the pane. Cracks spider from the hole in multiple directions. For one breathless instant, all I can do is stare, my bare toes resting on the concrete sill while bits of glass clink down from the opening.
Unbelievable. I kicked in the freaking window.
A shard hits my big toe, and it jolts me into action. I drag myself to the right of the mess, my face scraping mortar. The window I broke is tall and wide with arched glass that looks…expensive.
I’ll worry about it later. I need to finish this and get down before something else goes wrong.
Nothing does. The rest of the climb passes without incident. At the top, I haul myself over the concrete cornice and drop to my backside, panting in relief.
I should bolt for the ladder, but my legs have turned to jelly. I need a minute to catch my breath. I enjoy the view, which is nothing to sneeze at. Fairview is easy on the eyes from up here. A row of postcard-worthy businesses line Main Street, embellished with flower boxes and understated window displays. Here and there, iron benches rest under neatly trimmed trees—an invitation to linger.
Beyond Main Street, the streets give way to a sleeping patchwork of lush, green lawns with curving gardens and winding paths. And houses. Large, beautiful houses.
One of those houses is yours.
My throat squeezes, and I lean forward, staring at the soft glow of streetlights and curved streets. It is the definition of peaceful and safe, but I’m not feeling either of those things. I feel like I’m peering into another dimension. Like I’m seeing something I’ve never seen. Which is ridiculous. I live down there. Fairview has always been home.
Always?
A flash of blue and white lights. The police. There’s a single cruiser six or seven intersections down Main Street, so someone must have seen me. Adrenaline floods my senses.
Get up. I have to get up.
My body is heavy. Immobile. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to run!
But I don’t. Moments later, the cruiser turns into the library parking lot, and it’s like my body is frozen. My eyes follow the car as it parks, then trail the beam of the spotlight across the library wall. Shrubs and mulch are illuminated. Then, the cherry tree. Next, my discarded socks and shoes.
I wonder what they’ll do when they figure out I’m up here.
I wonder what it’ll feel like when they take me away.
Mallory
Friday, November 3, 1:08 p.m.
Whitestone Memorial High School
If I knew I’d never walk down this hall again, it would’ve gone differently. Maybe I’d grab a last cookie from the cafeteria. At the very least, I would have taken my decent sneakers from my locker. But that’s the thing about doing something for the last time. You usually have no idea.
I offer all the typical skipping school excuses. I tell Mrs. Ross I’m going out for lunch. Then I tell Lana I’m meeting Mom so she won’t ask to tag along. There’s nothing noteworthy about it. I simply walk off campus at 1:08 p.m., figuring it’s a temporary exit.
I figure wrong.
As soon as I round the corner outside the parking lot, I break into a run. My bag is heavy on my shoulder, and the cold air burns going in, but I have to hurry. Charlie gets off at two, an hour before school lets out. It’ll take me fifteen minutes to get home. That leaves Mom and me an hour to get out. Maybe less than that.
Yesterday’s plan was better. We were going to have the entire day to get everything together, but it fell to pieces like everything else in my life lately. The original plan was for me to call off school. Mom was going to cover for me with Charlie, but she was actually sick while I was pretending. Which provided Charlie plenty of time to give me the third degree.
How are you sick? You don’t have a fever. If you’re carrying a virus, it’s better to go to school, spare your mother the germs in her condition. You do care about her condition, don’t you, Mallory?
He went on and on until I relented, for no other reason than to make him stop talking before my head exploded. So I have no one to blame for this unplanned-school-skipping-sprint-across-the-neighborhood adventure but myself.
By the time I hit the street that leads to my apartment, my armpits are swampy. The sign reads PLEASANT VILLAGE APARTMENT COMPLEX. Pleasant and complex are both a stretch.
Really, it’s six brick shoeboxes arranged in a semicircle around a parking lot that has more potholes than pavement. There are two floors to each building and one apartment to each floor. Our shoebox is the second floor of the third building. It is also the only home I’ve ever known. Of course, when Charlie moved in three and a half years ago, he made all kinds of promises about a bigger place. A safer neighborhood. A house of our own. Blah, blah, blah.
Charlie is great at making promises. He’s even better at breaking them.
I climb the stairs as fast as my rubbery legs will take me and then fumble my keys in the lock. The door opens easily and I push my way in, dropping my coat and backpack in a heap.
“Mom! Where are you?”
I hear the muffled hiss of running water. A cough. “Bathroom.”
“Try to hurry,” I say, detouring into the kitchen where I turn in a quick circle.
Think, think. Do we need anything in here? None of the plates seem special, and a quick glance at the handful of mismatched pots and pans in the cabinet reveals nothing of interest. I grab Grandma’s cookbook from the top of the stove and step into the living room.
Mom is still in the bathroom.
“Are you okay? We have to hurry.”
“I’m okay.” Her voice is faint from the bathroom. Weary.
I open the door to the tiny coat closet, then pause. “Listen, I’ve got that number I told you about. It’s all going to be okay. I know you’re worried, but they will get you to a different doctor. They’ll help you. I promise.”
The toilet flushes. More coughing. A soft, terrible noise that I know is my mother vomiting. I wince, wishing there
was something I could do, but there isn’t. Charlie wouldn’t let her have the medicine for the nausea. Or a job. Or anything else.
The thoughts push anger up my chest. Correction. I can do something and I am. I’m getting us out of here.
My eyes drift to the clock on our old DVD player. 1:29.
Adrenaline thrusts lava through my veins.
“Mom, we’ve got to hurry,” I say, turning my attention back to the closet.
On tippy toes, I reach for her suitcase, figuring we’ll need two minutes to throw in the clothes she’s set out. It tumbles off the shelf, banging my head, bringing down a rack of winter hats. I see a flash of bright orange and smell gasoline and aftershave. Charlie. Revolted, I flick the hat off my shoulder and jerk the suitcase free.
I stop once at my room, detouring to drag my already packed backpack out from underneath my bed. It’s not everything I want, but it’s enough for now. I shove the essentials from school inside so I’ve got only one bag to schlep. Two steps later, I’m in her room.
I pause at the entrance like I always do. The hat was one thing, but this whole room smells like him. Like Mom, too, but mostly like him. The tall dresser by the door is his. All of his stuff is lined neatly in front of the mirror. Cheap aftershave. Stacks of quarters and dimes beside a roll of breath mints. A comb. A cardboard box that holds a pair of cuff links he wears on holidays. There is an empty space for his class ring and, next to that, his Whitestone Memorial High School staff ID badge.
The same logo and background as my school ID, except he gets paid to go.
I tear my gaze away from his dresser to their unmade bed. The frayed bedspread is half on the floor, like someone flung it off in a hurry, but I don’t care about that. I care that there are no stacks of clothes.
My throat closes around my next breath.
The bathroom door creaks open. Footsteps shuffle toward me, and Mom appears in the doorway. She’s a tiny thing with sloped shoulders, hollowed cheeks, and a softly rounded belly.
“I was too sick to pack,” she says. Her smile is still beautiful. She is still beautiful. “This was a hell of a lot easier at seventeen, kid. I don’t think I can do this.”