by Dan Rix
“You asked about me? What else did they say?”
“You’re beating around the bush,” he said. “You came to tell me something.”
I lowered my eyes and nodded.
“Come on. I’ll show you what I got.” He started up the stairs.
And I followed like a whipped dog, tail tucked between my legs.
It was strange being in a house I’d only been in while invisible, and at night. Like visiting a place I’d only dreamt about. At the top of the stairs, my gaze went straight to the door at the end of the hall, and I froze.
Emory saw.
“That’s her room,” he said. “This is mine.” He pushed open the door to his bedroom and waved me inside.
That’s her room. He’d used present tense. The lump in my throat thickened.
In his bedroom, I tried not to think about how many hours I’d spent in here watching his face, mesmerized. I could probably draw every one of his tortured expressions from memory.
“She was a really good artist,” I said. “Your sister . . . Ashley.”
“I don’t want your sympathy. I want your information. This is what I have so far.” He pointed to the articles on the corkboard, the map of Santa Barbara riddled with pins. He’d added a few since my last visit. “Everywhere she ever went when she was sleepwalking. It was getting worse toward the end. First it was just outside, every once in a while a neighbor’s house. Occasionally she’d go further. My dad was really scared, he’d just bought these special locks . . .” Emory trailed off and lowered his head, squeezing his jaw. For a long time he stared at the floor, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered. “They were just sitting there, just sitting there in the box, unopened. No one installed them.”
My throat did something funny, got caught mid-swallow. I wanted to reach out and touch him, trail my fingers down his jaw and stare deeply into his eyes, tell him everything would be okay, but that would be so, so wrong. It was wrong to be here in his room, letting him confide in me . . . his sister’s murderer.
Tell him.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Um . . . Emory?” I said softly. The words got tangled in my throat, almost choking me. “The reason I came here, there’s something . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
He nodded slowly. “I know. I’m just going to listen this time, I’m not going to say anything. I promise. I’m just going to listen.”
Tell him now.
I took a shuddering breath, and the crushing pressure on my sternum grew to a terrible sting. My whole body felt sick. What I was about to say, what I was about to confess . . . I could never take it back, never undo it.
I would be throwing my life away.
My life . . . those decaying scraps of myself I still clung to.
At sixteen, I would be tried as an adult for reckless endangerment, vehicular manslaughter, for disposing of a body. They would take my freedom, make me serve prison time.
Gladly.
I craved punishment.
I had forfeited my right to freedom three months ago when I leaned over a dead fifteen-year-old girl and chose not to call the police, but to hide her body instead.
If I didn’t fess up, it would eat away at me forever.
Tell him, Leona.
Air slid into my lungs like a knife, cutting me all the way down. My last breath. When I spoke, my voice faltered. “I came . . . I came here to tell you about something really bad I did . . . something really bad I did to Ashley.” My voice sounded distant and hollow, like I was inside a glass bowl.
I peeked at his expression, his sharp blue eyes.
I had his full attention now.
“It was a mistake,” I managed to get out, “I swear, it was a mistake, my friend Megan was smoking, and the coals spilled on me, and I was trying to clean them up and I looked up at the road, and . . . and it all happened so fast . . .” I choked on the words. “You’re going to hate me. I don’t want you to hate me, but you’re going to hate me . . .” And then I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t speak. His image blurred as tears filled my eyes, and I broke away from him, lower lip quivering.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to face him, lowered his head to my eye level, “we don’t have to talk about this right now, okay?”
A shiver slipped through my body. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“Stop it, Leona, you don’t have to do this.” He sat me down on his bed, arm over my shoulder. “We already shed our tears for her. That part’s done, alright? Now we move on.”
I shook my head, wincing. “I did something terrible.”
“Whatever you did to hurt her, it’s in the past. She’s in heaven now . . . she’s forgiven you, I forgive you.”
“No, you don’t,” I breathed. “You’re never going to forgive me. You can’t—”
“Shh,” he said, pulling me against his chest, where I lost all control and sobbed into his letterman jacket. He stroked my back. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Whatever you did, it’s in the past.”
My body shuddered in his arms. “You’re supposed to hate me.”
He breathed into my hair, “I could never hate someone who asks for forgiveness.”
I nodded, my wet cheek rubbing against his chest, even though my soul felt sick.
I hadn’t said enough.
He thought I felt guilty about something I had done to her while she was alive. Like a mean prank, or something else petty.
He still didn’t know.
In his mind, I wasn’t capable of murder.
And now he was comforting me, holding me, whispering into my hair, thinking we were bonding in our shared grief for her, when in fact I was an imposter.
“You know, you’re a lot like her,” he whispered.
My body stiffened.
This was wrong. I couldn’t be here sobbing against his chest, drawing away his strength like a leech.
Sniffling, I pulled my head back to look him in the eye, to confess everything before I dug myself any deeper, before he got any closer, before it was too late.
Before I felt something more for him than I already did.
Our faces hovered inches apart. In his eyes I saw the scars from what I’d done, and knew that was why I was drawn obsessively to them. Knew it would always be that way.
Then I did something taboo.
I leaned forward, closing my eyes, and kissed him. My heart took off sprinting. My body knew full well how wrong it was, and I did it anyway. His mouth accepted mine and pushed back, gently at first, then harder, and his hand moved up my cheek and dug under my hair, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I squeezed closer, my mouth moving against his impulsively, lips salty from tears.
This was so wrong.
As we made out, a terrible weight crushed down on me, even as I felt lighter than air.
I was in way too deep.
Show him what you did to her, said the voice in my head.
Chapter 17
I cranked the hot water as high as it would go and stood shivering in Megan’s bathroom while the water heated up. Every inch of my skin felt dirty. I had kissed him.
Was I insane?
The one boy I absolutely couldn’t allow myself to get close to, and I was getting close to him. I was falling for him. No, more than that. I was obsessed with him . . . because I’d killed his sister, and my stupid, stupid body couldn’t tell the difference between morbid fascination and lust.
My guilty need to somehow make up for Ashley’s death had mutated into a weird, clingy desire to get close to him . . . into infatuation.
Now I actually wanted to get close to him.
I’d wanted to kiss him so bad.
Humid air blew out of the sh
ower and fogged up the mirror, and steam billowed up from the faucet. I stepped into the shower, and the boiling water scalded me, made me wince. I relished it.
Hands trembling, I squeezed body wash onto a loofah and raked it across my stomach and arms, my legs, everywhere, scrubbing until the skin throbbed.
I had to get it off.
The dark matter, my guilt . . . his touch.
I wanted to scrub until I scratched off all my skin, because I couldn’t stand to be in it anymore, and when I got below the skin, I wanted to keep scrubbing and scraping and scratching until every dirty part of me ran in bloody clots down the drain.
I’d failed.
I’d gone over to his house to confess, and instead ended up making out with him for twenty minutes on his bed. Tangled in his arms I’d so easily forgotten who I was, who he was, what I’d done—until it was just his lips and my body and the aroused endorphins swirling through my brain. For once it was my heart pounding for the right reasons.
Until it all came rushing back.
Now that moment haunted me, that I could forget even for one second what I’d done, that I could feel giddiness and desire and longing for even one second. That one second made me dirty.
My hand clenched around the loofah, foam oozing between my fingers. I collapsed to the shower floor, still shivering. I wanted to die. My lungs heaved and shuddered as a whimper welled up inside me. No! I forced myself to hold it in. I didn’t deserve to cry. Emory deserved to cry, and Megan deserved to cry, and Ashley’s parents and her friends deserved to cry, but not me. I didn’t deserve to feel sadness. Only shame.
I couldn’t go on like this.
I had to tell him.
I’m the one who murdered your sister, Emory.
But after kissing him today, I couldn’t. My confession would only add salt to the wound, insult to injury. Knowing I was her murderer would humiliate him, devastate him. Or maybe my reasons were selfish. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough to make him hate me like that when I was falling for him.
The whimper finally escaped, echoing around the bathroom. I clamped my palm over my mouth, not wanting Megan to hear. She didn’t know I’d gone over to his house, she didn’t know how close I’d come to confessing everything.
Emory had to know.
He had to know what we’d done to Ashley, or else he would never find closure, he would never stop mourning her disappearance. The tiniest fragment of hope would eat away at him for the rest of his life.
Maybe she’s still alive, maybe she ran away, maybe she’ll come back . . .
If I didn’t do something, he would go to his grave with that doubt.
To make him suffer like that was wrong. Dead wrong.
I had to tell him. Somehow, I had to tell him. And if I couldn’t do it in person, then I had to find another way. Maybe if I confessed anonymously, or gave him a clue that would eventually lead him to me . . .
Lead him to the body.
The idea popped into my head. Of course! I could make myself invisible and lead him to the body. He would never know it was me. I blinked against the hot water, my heart making heavy thumps.
I knew it was what I had to do.
Dark matter . . . this was the reason it had found me. This was why it wanted to be worn like a second skin, so I could lead him to her body, so I could lead him to closure. It was beautiful. A blissful calm washed over me.
I could even pretend to be her ghost.
Something banged outside the shower, jolting me.
I raised my head and peered through the glass. Water beaded and ran in rivulets, obscuring the view. No one out there.
It had sounded like a cabinet slamming.
I listened in rigid silence, ears tuned to every tiny noise above the rush of water—was that the floor creaking . . . or my imagination? I climbed to my feet, suffering a wave of heat-induced vertigo as blood drained from my head and my heart hammered to catch up. For a dizzying moment, a black shroud descended over my vision.
I rubbed the moisture away from the steamy glass and surveyed the bathroom—the tiled counter, the fogged mirror, my clothes discarded on the floor.
The sink.
The faucet was running in the sink.
Had I left the sink running? I shut off the shower, and a foggy silence filled my ears, a chorus of straggling drips. And the slosh of water pouring into the sink.
I hadn’t left it on.
That I would have remembered.
“Megan,” I whispered. “Megan, is that you?”
No answer.
I pushed open the shower door, and it swung open, wobbling on its hinges. Steam poured out of the open shower and whipped into eddies as it mixed with cold air, and a chilly backlash blew against my abs.
My eyes darted around the bathroom. “Megan, are you in here?”
The billowing steam settled down.
“Megan, this isn’t funny.” My voice quivered. “I know you’re in here.”
Dripping wet, I crossed the tile to the only door, bracing myself in case she startled me. I reached for the doorknob . . . and froze.
My breath faltered.
The doorknob was locked. Locked from the inside. So were the windows.
I shouted, “Megan, you out there?”
Silence. Just my own thundering pulse. Like I thought, she was in here with me—
“What’s up?” came her muffled reply from another room in the house.
It couldn’t be her.
I turned around slowly, unease creeping up my spine.
“Is . . . is anyone in here?” I breathed. “Hello?”
That was when I noticed the condensed pools of water on the tile, otherwise coated evenly with mist. Sets of two large pools . . . and five little ones.
Footprints.
Not my footprints.
Warm air brushed my cheek.
Suddenly, a tornado formed in the steam, as if someone had just passed right in front of me. I screamed, and my bare heel slipped on the wet tile, sending me crashing to the floor.
Terrified, I scanned the bathroom for movement, scrambling behind me for the doorknob.
But then I heard a squeaky sound, like skin dragging across wet glass. My eyes sought out the mirror, now completely fogged up. As I stared in horror, a word formed in the condensation, as if written by a ghost. Then another.
Help me
“Megan . . . Megan,” I shouted. “Megan!”
Her footsteps came stomping toward the bathroom. “Leona!”
Help me.
The message began to drip.
I stared at the mirror, stared at the empty space in front of it, and realized then I was naked. I lunged for my clothes and yanked them over my body. “Who’s . . . who’s in here?”
“Leona!” The door rattled next to me, still locked.
“There’s someone in here,” I called through the door, scooting up the wall and fumbling the knob with my elbow. The door unlatched, and she rushed in.
“What? What?” She followed my terrified gaze to the mirror. “Did you write that?”
I shook my head, gaze darting around. “There’s someone else in here . . . while I was showering . . . but the door was locked . . .”
“Block the door . . . block it!” She slammed the door shut and spun toward the mirror. “This time we’re catching the pervert.” Running forward, she flailed her arms through the air, moving them randomly in front of the mirror and over the counter, then along the walls.
I tugged a towel off the rack so I could properly cover myself, then joined in the search. My hands probed the corners, the now-vacant shower stall, the cabinets, terrified that any moment my fingers would grasp invisible flesh.
We met in the
middle, both empty-handed. Together, our gazes rose to the ceiling, the one place we hadn’t checked. Hanging onto the light, maybe, holding himself up like a gymnast . . .
“There’s no way,” said Megan.
I jumped up a few times and swung my hands around the light anyway.
Just empty space.
“Careful, don’t slip,” she said.
Panting from the effort, I scanned the bathroom again. “Do you think he left?”
“How? The door’s been shut—” Her eyes widened, and she pointed over my shoulder, grabbed my arm to turn me around. “Leona, look!”
The Help me had all but dripped away. But now another one was inching across the glass above the first, the letters broken and poorly formed, as if written left-handed.
I tiptoed forward, then reached hesitantly toward the mirror. This time, I knew I’d feel a body. But I didn’t. Where an arm should have been, where a body had to be, my hand passed through empty air—even as letters continued to form on the misted glass in front of me. Forming on their own.
Help me.
This couldn’t be possible.
Someone who couldn’t be seen and couldn’t be touched.
“You need help,” I whispered, reaching toward the words. “It needs help. Who are you?”
Megan cleared her throat loudly and addressed the mirror. “Are you human?”
The letters on the mirror deteriorated into scribbles, as if the writer was having trouble.
“We need a Ouija board,” she said, dashing out of the bathroom.
“Wait—” I scrambled after her. “Don’t leave me alone with it.” I paused in the doorway, though, then turned around and said, “Stay here. We’ll be right back.”
In the hallway, Megan yanked linens out of a closet, dug through a pile of board games, and came out with a box. We ran back to the bathroom and unpacked a board stamped with all the letters of the alphabet and a heart-shaped piece of wood—the planchette. With trembling hands, Megan placed it next to the sink as a sort of offering and backed away.
