“Okay, fine. I was just asking.”
She was quiet the rest of the way, and when we got to the clubhouse, the little hut was empty. I thought Chantal might barge in anyway, but she hung back, quiet all of a sudden. Her eyes had gone wide, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. She gave it one more shot.
“They aren’t going to let you in.”
And then they were upon us, a whirlwind of laughter and acrid smoke and sweet perfume and Bubblicious gum, breaking through the trees. The queen and her two handmaidens. Omega saw me first, then saw Chantal, and stopped. Tré and Shellie pulled up short behind her.
Omega pointed at Chantal. “You. What did I tell you?”
“She wanted to see inside the clubhouse,” Chantal spat, but she was already edging her way around Tré and Shellie, giving them a wide berth. “She’ll tell on you. She’ll tell Mrs. Bobbie. She’s a fat fuck.”
“You’re a fat fuck,” Tré said quietly. Ominously.
Omega looked at me. “Are you going to tell Mrs. Bobbie?”
I shook my head.
“Even if we let you in but not her?” Omega said, sliding her eyes to Chantal. Her perfect lips had curved into a small smile, and I felt afraid and elated, all at once.
“She’ll tell. Fat fuck,” Chantal said, and Omega lunged at her. In a flash, Chantal sprang to life and took off running, up the hill, weaving around the thin saplings, slipping on the rotted leaves.
Shellie giggled. “Oh my God. Look at that little jackrabbit go.”
They all started laughing then, and for a moment, I felt just the tiniest bit sorry for Chantal. But then they swept me into the genie’s bottle, into the warm embrace of their laughter, and they clicked on a string of rose-colored lights (battery powered, I asked) and turned on a CD player that had only one working speaker.
They showed me everything they had hidden there (two dirty books, each with a man’s oily torso on the cover; sour-cream-and-onion chips and Snickers bars from Mrs. Bobbie’s stash; and a crushed package of L&M cigarettes), and told me we had to wait there for a special surprise. Then there was a rap on the moldy, split plywood door.
The surprise turned out to be Mr. Al, although I didn’t quite understand what made his appearance so astonishing. He was basically our dad, after all. Surely, he knew about the clubhouse and had been down here. When the girls heard him at the door, they immediately leapt up and filed out. Tré, the last one in line, turned to me.
“Don’t come outside,” she said, her black eyes flashing in her white face. “I mean it.”
I nodded vigorously so she knew I could be trusted. “Okay.”
The door slammed shut, but I could hear their giggles and Mr. Al’s low voice. And then all the sounds dropped away and I was left in the silence. I opened the book to one soft dog-eared page.
Everlane felt the heat and weight of Dex’s body pressing down on her, pressing her into wet sand. She felt the crush of his chest and pelvic bones and muscled thighs against her body, the rash of his rough beard against her face, and her mouth opened involuntarily. He took the opportunity to cover her mouth with his, and she wondered if she would be able to breathe or if she would be smothered. When his tongue entered her mouth, every cell of her body melted liquid, and she realized she didn’t care. “Let him crush me,” she thought. “Let him obliterate all I am so I will become one with him . . .
“Hey, little one,” Omega said and I looked up, startled. “You’re still here?”
It felt like it had been ages since they left, but it couldn’t have been longer than half an hour. Omega was standing in the open doorway, backlit by a halo of sunlight. She sauntered in, followed by Tré and Shellie. They brought with them a current of sweet-smelling smoke, and all three dropped cross-legged on the pillows scattered on the floor. They smiled and played with their hair and shirtsleeves—half-lidded, slo-mo princesses. I looked around expectantly, not really understanding but knowing something significant had changed about everyone but me.
“Ah, reading about Dex and Everlane?” Omega said.
“Did you get to the part where he does oral on her?” Tré asked. Omega swatted her. Mr. Al stuck his head in the door, took a gander around the dim room.
“All right, ladies,” he said, and then zeroed in on me. His face went slack for a second or two, then he blinked and broke into a sunny smile. “Well, my goodness. Hey there, Daphne Doodle Dandy,” he said. His voice was a warm, deep, twisting river, and it wound its way to me.
“Hey there,” I said.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said.
The Super Tramps all burst into laughter, which made no sense, since he hadn’t said anything funny.
“Hush up, ladies. I’m talking to Daphne here. Look here, Miss Doodle Dandy. I’m going to go up to the house and get to work on Bitsy’s doghouse. Maybe you could help me with the painting a little later on. How would you like that?”
I nodded wordlessly.
“All right, then. Good.” He flicked a glance down at the book in my hands. “And look here. If you want to go to the library sometime, I’ll take you.”
I set the book aside, a flush of shame creeping along my neck. I wanted him to approve of me. I wouldn’t read any more about Everlane and Dex. I wouldn’t read anything but books Mr. Al helped me pick out at the library.
He grinned at me and I grinned back. It was hard to explain, but, like Everlane, I felt the weight of him. Not his body, and not in any kind of a sexual way. It was instead the gentle, steady sound of his voice, his kindness, and the reassurance that he really and truly cared about me.
All of those things had weight to them. They could really mean something, something big and important, I thought, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if Mr. Al was my real father.
Chapter Fifteen
I pushed myself up the mountain, not pausing for rest or even a swig of water. On the level stretches of the path, I jogged, scrambling and leaping, mountain-goat-style, over the boulder outcroppings when it steepened.
A mountain hike wasn’t quite the same as a balls-out sprint around the track, but it would do in a pinch. And truthfully, my lungs felt like they were about to burst. Also, at some point, that elusive inner switch had flipped, kicking over the endlessly spinning hamster wheel and allowing my mind to settle into a quieter frequency. By the time I broke out onto the curved limestone cap that looked out over the mountain range below, my heart was thundering, my body bathed in sweat. But I felt better.
Glenys wasn’t there. After I got over my disappointment, I reasoned that she was probably having a session back at the house or had other assignments to complete for the doctor. When I’d headed out, I hadn’t thought of the schedule, only my claustrophobia and need to move—to get away from that creeping, oppressive house. I couldn’t get my mind around how the other patients—clients—were okay to hang out in their rooms, submitting to the watchful eyes of the doctor’s cameras. I wished I’d run into one of them, even snooty Donna McAdam. I’d welcome seeing another human face about now.
I planted my hands on my knees, waiting for my breath to slow. At the edge of the brow, wind gusted, and to my left, a bank of dark clouds heaped up and roiled, dumping rain on the distant mountains. The clouds were moving this way; even now I could feel the spit of raindrops. I would have to run if I wanted to make it back without getting soaked.
My sweat chilled by the wind, I started back down the path. By the time I was descending the final slope toward the house, I was shivering. And dreaming about a cup of scalding hot chocolate, with a splash of Baileys, preferably. Maybe I could pop in on Luca in the kitchen and make a special request. I was so caught up in my plan, I didn’t see the bird until I’d almost stepped on it.
It was a cuckoo—a female, I thought, a long, slim brown body with a white underside and a bright-yellow beak. Mr. Al had once pointed one out to me, sitting on the hitching post of the ranch office. He whisp
ered that sometimes they laid their eggs in other nests. “Like us girls,” I had replied. “We live in other nests too.”
This bird lay in the grass, unmoving. I nudged it gently with my foot, but the body was limp. I squatted down and rolled the tiny body over gingerly. There were no puncture marks, no gashes from a cat’s claw or teeth, none that I could see, but I was no veterinarian. I wondered if something had happened to it down in the bird garden and it had flown up to the lawn to die.
I scooped it up and carried it to the patio, to the long, rickety potting bench against the house. I sifted around the plastic pots and nearly empty bags of soil until I found a trowel. Then I scanned the yard, looking for a good grave site. My gaze settled on the barn. It seemed an appropriate resting place, sheltered from the wind and rain.
On the far side of the barn, hidden from the view of the house, I laid the cuckoo down and went to work. In no time, I had a perfect little rectangle about six or seven inches deep. I hoped it was deep enough. I couldn’t stand the thought of a cat—or whoever the killer was—sniffing out the body and digging it up for more macabre fun.
I ripped a couple of strips of moss off the dirt, fashioning a makeshift burial shroud around the bird, then laid the pitiful package in the hole. With its head twisted to one side, it looked like it was sleeping. That was what people said about the dead, wasn’t it? That they looked so peaceful. It was what they had said about Chantal, when they filed past her casket.
“I’m sorry, little one,” I said, and immediately a grunting sob rose and tears sprang to my eyes. I clapped a hand over my mouth. Then both hands, even though they were crusted in dirt and dead-bird germs. What was my problem? It was just a bird, just one of a million birds who died every day. I was being dramatic.
I tamped down some loose dirt and tried to scatter some bits of grass and straw over it. Blotting the tears with my sleeve, I walked back to the house.
I paused in the middle of the yard and took a minute to suck in a lungful of cool, rain-tinged air. To brush my hands against my running tights, then gently press the swollen skin around my eyes. This place—it was making me crazy, playing on my frayed nerves, messing with my head. I didn’t know how much longer I could take being trapped on the mountain. I considered asking Luca if he had any whiskey.
Then I remembered the iPad and nearly leapt with elation.
“Hell to the yes.” I’d run a bath out of sight of the stupid camera and watch the dozen episodes of The Americans I’d downloaded a couple of weeks ago. Nothing like Russian spies wreaking havoc to get your mind off real-life ones. I pivoted and headed for the gravel drive and the Nissan.
I checked to make sure the coast was clear, then slipped between the cars. I pulled at the Nissan’s door handle, but it was locked. Stepping back, I stared, perplexed. I’d left it unlocked yesterday, I knew I had. I scanned the backyard. Empty. But maybe Dr. Cerny had seen me out here. Maybe he’d waited for me to head up the mountain and come back to lock the car.
Or somebody else had done it. You didn’t need the actual key, you could also just manually punch down the old-school lock. But why would somebody do that—other than to mess with me?
I jogged back to the house. In the empty kitchen, I helped myself to a whiskey soda. I knocked half of it back, then poured another slug. Snagging a half-finished bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, I made my escape into the hallway. On my way past the doctor’s office, I peered through the French doors. The sunroom was dark and quiet. I tucked the bottle of wine under my arm and tried the door. Locked.
The front of the house was quiet as well—the salon, library, and dining room all doused in darkness from the approaching clouds. I climbed the stairs and let myself into our suite.
There was no sign of Heath having returned to the room after lunch. Our bed was made and the room looked like it had been freshly vacuumed. I set the bottle of wine aside and headed to the bathroom, whiskey in hand. I was already warmer, pleasantly loose limbed.
I soaked until the whiskey was gone and the bathwater was cold. I dressed, then grabbed the Chardonnay and headed out into the hall, surprised to find our dinner tray outside our door. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. Both the McAdams’ and Siefferts’ doors were shut, but their trays had already been collected. I tapped on the Siefferts’ door.
“Glenys? It’s Daphne. I was just wondering . . .” I cradled the wine. “Would you like to come hang out in my room? I’ve got a nice Chardonnay, if you like Chardonnay. I wasn’t sure.”
No answer.
I tried the knob. Locked.
Where was she? It was like the house had swallowed them whole, left me to knock around the empty rooms. I crept past the McAdams’ closed door to the end of the hall, where I pushed open the pocket door and eased into Dr. Cerny’s nook. His door was open, the room beyond it dark but seeming to offer an invitation.
I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it looked to me like a pretty normal apartment. There was a bed (queen size, with a gray duvet), a dresser, a small desk and chair, all gleaming Victorian antiques. Also, by the window, there was a wardrobe. A beautifully carved piece, inlaid with glossy burled walnut, with cherubs flitting across the top portion. I set the bottle of wine down, swung open the door, and plunged my hands into the dark depths. Silk, cashmere, wool. I pulled out one shirt, a soft cream woman’s blouse with black pearl buttons.
I moved to inspect the desk and sleek computer. I jiggled the mouse, and the screen lit up.
Counting compulsion—true OCD? Or connected to childhood food hoarding/fixation?
Possibly deprived of regular, healthful nutrition until age 11.
Childhood obesity? Excessive exercise, orthorexia?
Comorbid psychiatric issues?
I felt my face redden. So Dr. Cerny was taking notes on me—or, rather, my secret habits, which weren’t such a secret after all, apparently. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was a psychologist and undoubtedly connected the dots that first night when he caught me in the pantry. And of course Heath had told him I’d been a state kid. But none of that made it feel any less invasive, any less of a violation.
Feeling sick, I minimized the document, and a series of images filled the screen. The window that was already open behind the other document.
I stopped breathing.
Jesus.
It was shocking to see our room this way, viewed from nine different angles by nine different cameras. But that was definitely what I was looking at—our room. Cerny had a whole different surveillance setup for our room. Something way more modern and vastly more extensive. Just for us.
My God . . .
Reggie had been very specific about how there was just one camera, one camera that we were to pretend didn’t exist. I minimized the window, revealing the desktop screen and a row of four files labeled with numbers and letters. I enlarged the program again and pulled down the main menu. Nine cams and no indication of more. So nothing in the McAdams’ and Siefferts’ rooms, unless I was missing something.
I was standing there trying to absorb it all when I heard a sound. The distant wail of a trumpet, coming from somewhere down the hall. I froze, straining to hear it again. A moment passed and the sound disappeared, but I waited, holding my breath, and it returned. The trumpet. And singing. A man singing.
I headed toward the sound. Out on the shadowy landing, I shut Cerny’s door gently behind me, then turned and yelped in shock.
Luca was standing a couple of feet away, beside the attic stairs. There was a doorway behind him, one I hadn’t noticed before. An under-the-stairs, Harry Potter kind of door.
“Luca,” I said. “You scared me.”
We stared at each other, the smoky, sultry voice of Sinatra filling the space between us, then both started to speak—
“I got turned around,” I said.
“Vim para sua bandeja,” he said.
Sinatra hit a high note, and, in tandem, we looked down the hall on the other side of the pocket d
oor. Luca put a finger to his lips. He motioned for me to follow, and we crept through the doorway and into the hall, stopping at the McAdams’ door.
In the dark, our eyes met, and I leaned against the door to listen. The next song started. It took a minute for the notes to register—the clarinet and piano and cymbals—before the memory crystallized in my brain. That song “Why Can’t You Behave?” The one that had been playing that night in the restaurant, when Heath had joked about Sinatra being a deal breaker. And here we were in this weird red house, stuck halfway up a mountain, and the exact same song was playing in the McAdams’ room.
Suddenly, over the music, I heard voices. Two of them, floating up the staircase, a man and a woman. Cerny and Glenys, maybe? I couldn’t be sure, but it definitely sounded like they were fighting. I tiptoed to the banister, careful to keep out of sight.
“. . . doesn’t matter,” the man was saying. Dr. Cerny, it sounded like. “And this is neither the time nor the place.”
I could only hear fragments of the woman’s response. “. . . manipulating you,” she said. “Why can’t you see that? The Hawthorne Effect changes everything . . .”
Luca put a hand on my arm, and I jumped. He was beside me, his hand warm through the sleeve of my pullover. He gave me a little push toward my room. I moved in that direction, but when I looked back, he was already closing the pocket door behind him. I stopped, straining to hear the rest of the conversation.
“Go, lie down,” Cerny was saying. “We’ll talk when you feel better.”
I couldn’t hear all of Glenys’s reply, only the last few words. “. . . you’ve taken away from me . . .” But there was nothing more, and after a few minutes, I hurried back to my room. It was only after I’d slammed the door and changed into my pajamas that I remembered the bottle of Chardonnay. I’d left it in Cerny’s room.
By late September, I’d heard all about the fall camping trip. Along with the director of the boys’ ranch forty miles away, Mr. Cleve, the girls’ ranch director, organized it every year and used it as a carrot for good behavior. Every girl wanted to go—every girl did her chores, kept up her grades, and refused to sneak out of Sunday school in order to be allowed to go. We in the brown brick house were no exception.
Every Single Secret Page 14
