by Wendy Heard
He braked in front of the boarded-up, rusty-looking building. Another squad car pulled up next to us. Salcedo parked where I told him and followed me to the side door while the uniformed police waited in their car. I pounded on the door. “Hello?” I called.
Silence. I pressed my ear to the door.
“Go ahead and try your key,” Salcedo said.
I got my keys out of my purse and could barely get the correct one into the lock.
It didn’t turn.
I pulled the key out and examined it.
“Something wrong?” Salcedo asked.
I handed it to him. “Maybe I’m just too shaky.”
He tried it. “You sure you got the right key?”
“Positive.”
To be safe, he tried the other keys on my key chain as well. Nothing worked.
Nico had changed the locks.
I considered. “Maybe we can get in through the warehouse doors. If someone’s in there, they might answer if I knock.”
I trotted back to the sliding doors and started banging on the nearest one. “Hello, hello, hello,” I yelled.
Silence. Nothing.
Salcedo was right behind me. “No luck?”
“No. Dammit.” I kicked the door. “Open up! Hello!”
I stepped back, frustrated.
Then I noticed—the door wasn’t locked. The usual padlock was there, but it hung loose and open. I cried out and pounced on it. Salcedo said, “Whoa, hang on, we don’t have a warrant.”
“Mick might be in there!”
“I don’t see or hear any threats. There’s no cause.” His phone rang in his pocket. It was loud and sounded like an alarm clock. He held a finger up to me and put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Yes. Yes.” He beckoned to me, indicating that I should follow him back to his car. I started to obey, and then I slowed. I turned around to face the warehouse.
Fuck it.
I attacked the door, grabbed the handle, and heaved it up as hard as I could. It rolled up with a deafening clang. Salcedo hollered at me. I sprinted into the warehouse, heading for the door that led to the hallway and the apartments.
I stopped.
Nico’s section of the warehouse was empty. Its concrete floor gleamed clean.
Leave no trace.
I ran toward the stairs. “Veronica! Stop!” Salcedo yelled behind me. I ignored him. I swerved through the other tenants’ piles of old furniture and boxes and lumps of fabric. I burst through the mess and hurled myself into the hallway and up the stairs, Salcedo hot on my heels. I flew around the corner at the top of the stairs and ran to Nico’s door. It was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The room was empty. The checkered floor shone, spotlessly clean like the warehouse floor. It smelled like bleach and lemon cleaning fluid.
Salcedo exploded into the room behind me.
On the floor in the center of the room lay a single item, reflecting the dim yellow light from the hallway.
Another chicken sculpture. Silver in death, limp, its feathers glistening.
“Veronica, we have to go,” Salcedo said, taking my arm.
“Why did he leave the chicken?”
“I don’t want to arrest you, Veronica, but I will.”
“You don’t know him. This means something. Everything means something.”
“I didn’t want to tell you this until you had a chance to check out this warehouse, but…”
“What?” I spun to look up at him.
“I looked Nico up in all our databases. He isn’t a real person.”
It took me a few seconds to process those words. “Explain,” I demanded at last.
“You said his name was Nico Varalica, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Honey, varalica means ‘trickster’ in Croatian. There’s no one named Nico Varalica. It’s not a name. It’s a trick.”
I was stunned.
“Do you have any letters, emails from him?”
“I mean, we text and call each other all the time.”
“We checked his number. It’s a burner phone. What about pictures? Do you have any photos of him?”
Nico didn’t have social media except his Tumblr account, and he always wore a mask or a bandanna during his installs. I didn’t think I’d ever taken a photo of his face, actually.
“No,” I said. I looked at the empty room, the checkered floor. The chicken’s death, immortalized in steel. His art, his true obsession, the only thing he really loved.
I never knew him. Not at all.
And then I remembered something. I remembered the photograph I’d taken of Mick setting the fire. I’d been so consumed with worry about Mick and me that I’d forgotten something huge.
Nico was in that picture too. Without his mask on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MICK
The warehouse is even more cluttered than I remember. I’m disoriented, the piles of boxes blocking my view of the rest of the room. I head toward the hallway. I have to get out onto the street.
“Mick!” Nico screams from the van, the sound vibrating with rage.
It’s so blissfully warm in here, I feel myself slowing down. No. I have to push forward. Faster.
I hit a wall. It knocks the wind out of me.
There’s not supposed to be a wall here. This is supposed to lead to the stairwell.
I look up and around. The warehouse is smaller than I remember.
Oh no.
This isn’t the same warehouse.
I have to keep moving. The rumbling of the van’s engine is covering up any noise I’m making. I catch a whiff of fresh air. He has a door open somewhere. That makes sense; he can’t run the van in a closed warehouse without dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.
A plan forms. I’ll search the perimeter until I find the door.
I squeeze past more boxes, an old golf cart, a set of garden tools, some rusty-looking rock-climbing gear, an old piano, a random assortment of traffic cones and road signs. Ahead of me, the large metal oven-kiln thing sits surrounded by bags of plaster.
The van goes silent. He turned it off.
A loud rolling-clanking sound fills the warehouse, and the light dims to a glowing amber.
He shut the door.
My heart is pounding inside my ribs.
“Mick,” Nico calls from the other side of the warehouse. “Tell me what you did.”
Oh God oh God oh God.
Crouched down, I hurry past the oven-kiln. Next to the bags of plaster sits a coffin-sized wooden box surrounded by the loose boards from which it’s clearly been constructed. I’m continuing on my way when something catches my eye, something large and silver lying on the floor.
It’s a pig. A bright silver sculpture of a pig.
I touch it with one finger. It looks like it’s sleeping.
He, what, liquefied this pig the way he showed me with the flower? That is horrifying, disgusting, terrifying.
The coffin box. It’s bigger than the pig.
What—
“You found it.”
Nico is leaning on a stack of boxes, watching me.
I jump, scream, and turn to run. There’s nowhere to go. He leaps forward and catches me by the arm. I fight, scratching and hitting him, but he whips my arm behind my back in a quick, fluid motion and raises it, hard. My shoulder feels like it’s going to dislocate. I scream in pain and fall to my knees. He throws me down on the ground next to the coffin box. I hit my head on the concrete, and the breath is knocked out of me. I lie there beside the box, stunned, pain flowing through my shoulder and head.
His deep voice is smooth and calm. “Check it out. It’s the perfect size. I knew exactly how tall you were the day I met you. Five foot five and a half. It’s that artist’s eye.” He scrutinizes me. “You’re just perfect. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better. You know when I first knew? At the pool. It was the first day of the series, and I knew you were supposed to be a part of it. Something abo
ut how hard you worked to save that kid. It was pointless; he’d been under way too long. But you were going to die trying.”
I roll onto my back, ready to make a break for it. He steps on my chest, crushing me. I can’t breathe.
The boy.
It feels like it’s come full circle somehow. I squeeze a breath out of my lungs and can barely suck in another one. Am I going to die like he did? Struggling to breathe? I feel tears slip out of my eyes into my hair.
Nico leans down to study me, which relieves some of the pressure. “Are you crying about the kid?” he asks, like he’s fascinated.
I can’t help it; a sob escapes. “It was my fault,” I whisper.
He half laughs, incredulous. “No, it wasn’t. I made that kid go under. I told him to dive too deep on purpose.”
What?
He shrugs. “I was bored. I wanted to see you lifeguard someone.”
Something buzzes. His phone. He stands, and his foot grinds down on my chest again. I struggle, try to slip air in.
He flips through something. Texts? The phone case is bright turquoise. My phone case is turquoise.
It’s my phone he’s holding. It was never lost. He stole it.
“Shit,” he curses. He puts my phone in his pocket. “I know what you did.”
He squats down next to me and puts a strong hand to my throat, thumb wrapping around my jaw. My head spins. His shadowy eyes are calculating, running over my face and shoulders. “You’re a living, breathing piece of art,” he murmurs. The room goes dark around the edges. The darkness takes my eyesight, and the last words I hear are, “Everyone’s favorite little thing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
VERONICA
My mom pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. It was bright, the hot summer sun roasting me through the windshield even with the air-conditioning going full blast.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said.
She turned to me. “It’s not that you’ve made these mistakes. You’re a teenager. That’s normal. It’s all this lying. How long have you and Nico been doing these things? It’s—”
“I know it’s wrong. I know it’s bad. I should never have lied to you like that. But it’s, like—some things you just don’t tell your mom. You know?”
She looked so hurt, so betrayed.
“I love you,” I said. “I tell you almost everything.”
She reached for me and hugged me fiercely. We were separated by the console and gearshift, but we hugged as tight as we could. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispered into my shoulder.
Someone tapped on the window. It was the reporters. They were in our driveway. My mom pulled away from me. “Goddamn reporters—” She opened her door, jumped out, and slammed it behind her. I could hear her yelling at them through the windows.
I grabbed my purse, got my phone out, and checked it for the millionth time for anything from Mick. I texted her even though I knew her phone must be off. I’m worried about you. My finger hovered over the letters. Please let me know you’re okay. Send.
Next, I composed a text to Nico. Will you just tell me if Mick is okay?
And suddenly, I was crying. I couldn’t stand this. How could Nico have been a completely different person all this time? He was my best friend. Could he have killed Lily like that, so horribly? Had he pushed David?
My mom opened my door. “Come on, honey.” She’d beaten back the reporters. She grabbed my purse from my lap and leaned forward to help me out. The purse came partway open, and I grabbed it to keep everything from spilling out.
Something was in the side pocket, something small and round. I peeked inside. It was a roll of film.
My mom ushered me out of the car, into the house. While walking, I extricated the film from its little black canister and examined it. It was color film—Kodak Ultramax 400. I tried to remember when I’d last used color film. It was strange that a roll of film would have ended up in my purse. I didn’t even use this purse much; I’d put all my stuff in it for the gala and hadn’t switched back to my camera bag since.
In the house, my mom said, “I need to stop by work for a while. You okay here alone for a few hours?”
“I’m fine, I’m going to work in the darkroom.”
“Oh.” She turned and faced me. “The police searched your room and darkroom while you were with Salcedo.”
“What?” I cried.
She put her hands up defensively. “I didn’t let them search your private things. They were looking for pictures and film and stuff related to Nico. They did take your computer in case there was evidence on there.”
“I never uploaded any of my Nico pictures to my computer.”
She shrugged, not really sympathetic. I felt violated by this, but how could I be surprised? The look on her face told me she’d yell at me if I said anything, so I headed up the stairs, still turning the film over and over in my hands. I had been pretty sure this purse was empty when I put my stuff in it for the gala, but I supposed I might not have checked the side pocket. This could be years old.
Could it, though? Had I ever used color film before I started shooting for Nico?
My darkroom was messy, the trays of chemicals moved around, my supplies obviously ransacked. I straightened them angrily, flipped on the safelight, and got my chemicals ready. With shaking hands, I extracted the film from its casing and spooled it into the developer.
I set the timer and waited. My phone was silent in my pocket. I hadn’t expected Nico or Mick to return my messages, but I couldn’t help but hope.
She has to be okay. She has to.
The timer dinged. I rinsed the film off, cut it into strips, and held one up to the safelight to get a quick look.
It looked like nature shots. Trees, ocean? Boring.
I clipped them up to dry, turned on the light, and started cleaning up. As I wiped the counter, I glanced up at the negatives. Something caught my eye, and I stopped. Some of the later shots had people in them.
I set the paper towels aside and pulled that strip down. I held it up to the light.
“Oh, shit!” I cried.
It was the film from the fire. In the shots, Mick and Nico, faces covered in ski masks, were carrying Christmas trees down to the tent. Frantic, I grabbed my magnifying glass and searched through the negatives.
There it was. The shot of Mick setting the fire.
In the negative, her hair was black, the fire dark behind her. On the right, Nico was wearing his best I-told-you-so expression. He was looking straight at the camera.
How had these gotten in my purse?
And then I remembered.
Mick.
The locker room.
I’d seen her doing something to my purse. I thought she was just fiddling with it. It had left my mind as quickly as I’d noticed it.
I grabbed my phone from my pocket and texted her.
Mick Mick Mick OMG I found the film you put in my bag. Mick please, call me. I’m going to take this to the police. Please call me.
After a minute, three dots appeared by her name.
I cried out with relief and triumph. She was alive. She was okay. God, I’d been so worried. I was going to give her so much shit when I saw her.
Finally, a response. Sorry I’ve been MIA. I’m so glad you found them. I’m with my swim team. I was just going to call an Uber to come see you. Wait for me, and we can go to the police together. I have to tell them stuff too.
I had to sit down. I was so relieved, I was actually sobbing. I could barely answer her. You scared me so bad. I’m going to be mad at you for such a long time. Where’s Nico?
Three dots, and then: I don’t know where Nico is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.
Hurriedly, I type, Mick, he’s dangerous. Do not hang out with him. Don’t even answer his calls. They think he killed Lily and David. The police are searching for him.
Oh my God.
I know, I answer frantically.
Her answer comes quic
kly. I’ve been out of control. I think all the stuff with my mom really messed with me. I have so much to tell you. Can you forgive me?
I wiped tears off my cheeks and typed, Maybe. Probably.
I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Maybe an hour or so. Make sure to bring the prints and the negatives for the police.
Perfect, okay, good call.
I pressed the phone to my chest. Mick was okay.
I pushed myself up and got to work. I wanted to make sure I got good, clear prints to show Salcedo. I worked as fast as I could, snapping negative after negative into the enlarger, burning images onto photo paper, and sending them through the chemicals in a sort of timed photographic ballet. I kept my eye on the clock.
In forty-five minutes, I managed to get a good number of the photos printed, all the interesting ones, anyway. I took a moment to look at the eight-by-ten print of Mick, torch in hand, flames billowing around behind her. The way the light struck her, golden-orange and red like hell, she looked like an angel of death. It was a glorious shot. She was made to be photographed by me. I was made to photograph her.
I said a little prayer before putting the prints and negatives in a manila envelope: God, please don’t let us go to jail. I stuffed the envelope into my purse just as a text from Mick came in.
The Uber is going to pick you up before me, in like 5 minutes. A white Subaru Outback. Driver’s named Jorge.
I was so eager to see her. I couldn’t wait.
I felt awful suddenly. David and Lily were dead. Nico was a murderer. And here I was, excited to see my girlfriend? I was such an asshole.
No. This was good. I was helping the cops. We were figuring this out.
I got my keys and let myself out the front door. The reporters started yelling at me immediately, and I groaned. I’d forgotten about them. I was about to go back inside when a white Subaru pulled up at the bottom of my driveway. I pushed past the reporters, who were yelling things like, “Do you think Micaela is dead?”
