Deadly Visions Boxset

by Alexandria Clarke

  “What on earth were you doing with that man?”

  The voice was too familiar. I’d grown up with that drawn-out screech, faint Latin accent, and tone of immediate disapproval. With growing terror, I followed the boots up to the face.

  “Mom?” I uttered in disbelief.

  There she was, Eliana Star, in all her horrifying glory. Even wearing heels, she barely topped five feet, but the sheer volume of her blonde hair—which took hours in a salon chair to achieve—gave her a couple extra inches. My mother had a nose like a rat, pointed toward whatever business wasn’t hers, a trait I thankfully had not inherited from her. We hadn’t seen each other in a number of years. We weren’t exactly on non-speaking terms, but I wasn’t interested in her life and she wasn’t interested in mine. There wasn’t much of a point in pretending otherwise.

  She swooped down on me, taking my cheeks in both of her hands and squeezing them together until my lips pursed like a fish. Her fingers were freezing, and her purple polished nails raked across my skin like tiny daggers. I wrenched myself out of her grasp and leaned as far back as the tiny chair would allow. The chair’s front legs separated from the floor.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I demanded as my mother dropped her oversized designer purse in the middle of the table and took Earl’s recently vacated chair.

  She swept her massive hair over one shoulder and spat out a long string of rapid Spanish.

  “You know I don’t understand you,” I said.

  “That’s because you renounced your heritage,” she spat, pointing an accusatory index finger at me with each emphatic word.

  “I didn’t renounce anything,” I said. “You stopped speaking to me at all, remember? How was I supposed to keep learning Spanish?”

  “If your grandmother could see you now, what would she say?” She snagged the passing busser, who was busy clearing tables, by the sleeve. “Excuse me, I’d like a cup of your darkest roast.”

  “Oh, I’m not a server, ma’am. You’ll have to order at the counter.”

  My mother’s brown eyes turned rock hard as she glared at the employee.

  The busser looked away. “I’ll put that in for you right away, ma’am.”

  As the employee ran away as fast as he could with a tray full of dirty coffee cups and silverware, my mother relaxed in her chair, noticed the one behind her was too close for comfort, and shoved it away. She bumped another customer in the process but didn’t bother with an apology.

  “What would your grandmother say if she saw you now?” she demanded. “Purple hair—”

  “It’s faded.”

  “—this mohawk business—”

  “It’s literally just a braid.”

  “And the things you wear. Dios mío. What are you even thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I’m a grown woman,” I said through clenched teeth, “and that my clothes, my hair, and everything else about me are a direct result of my own choices.”

  “Poor choices.”

  “Mother—”

  “And this psychic business.” She looked skyward, to God. “We are good Catholics, Lucia! This goes against God.”

  “It’s fake!”

  Or so my mother thought.

  “It’s blasphemous,” she replied.

  “It’s business,” I snapped back. “I don’t know if you’ve bothered to keep up with my career, but I happen to have a pretty healthy social media following. Madame Lucia’s YouTube channel paid for my apartment.”

  The truth was that if Madame Lucia didn’t exist, I never would have been in this mess in the first place, but I wasn’t going to give my mother the satisfaction of knowing that. After I left home, she made no attempt at keeping up with me, which was why her presence at White Oak was so confusing.

  “You didn’t answer my first question,” I said, raising my voice before she could get in another pointed insult. “What are you doing here? How did you even know I was in Crimson Basin?”

  The barista delivered my mother’s espresso to our table, despite the café’s lack of servers. I guessed the busser informed her of my mother’s attitude. She was the type of woman who demanded and expected to be served, no matter the situation.

  “There’s no sugar on the table,” Mother chided the barista.

  “I’ll bring you some, ma’am.”

  The barista hurried off.

  “Mother,” I said again.

  “I heard you the first ten times, Lucia,” she replied. “A lovely man named Nick Porter phoned me early this morning. He actually owns this entire resort. Anyway, he heard what was happening at the awful place you were staying at—”

  “Nick called you?”

  “Oh, the two of you know each other?” Her furry coat ruffled as she bristled with pride. “I was under the impression he was quite the big man on campus.”

  “He is,” I said. “But he was trapped with me and the others at King and Queens.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “He wanted to buy the resort from the previous owner.” I waved my hand. “Forget about it. It’s a long story. What did Nick tell you anyway? How did he even get your number?”

  The barista returned with the sugar. My mother took it without thanking her. “Aren’t I your emergency contact?”

  “No, Jazmin is.”

  She sneered. “Jazmin’s still around, is she?”

  “She’s my best friend.”

  Mother stirred in her sugar then clinked her teaspoon against the side of the mug. “She’s a bad influence on you. If it weren’t for Jazmin, I wouldn’t have lost you.”

  “You didn’t lose me because of Jazmin,” I snapped. “You lost me because of you.”

  She sipped her espresso. “Lucia, that is absolute nonsense.”

  “Mom, you have no idea—”

  “I have always done my best to take care of you,” she interrupted. Her voice ventured into high-pitched hysteria like a whistling teapot, drawing the stares of other customers. “And now I find you speaking to a psychiatrist? It’s shameful!”

  “Earl’s a psychologist,” I said. “And it’s not shameful to ask for help. You know what, Mother? I can’t do this right now.” I pushed away from the table, and my mother lunged forward to rescue her espresso before it tipped over. “You should go.”

  “Go? Nick offered me a week’s stay.”

  “A week?” I repeated, aghast.

  “Yes, he said there’s another bedroom in your suite.”

  My knuckles clenched my recently vacated chair. “Nick said you could stay in our suite?”

  She pulled a key card from her purse and waved it around like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. “He thought I’d want to be close to you.”

  What I wanted to do was snatch the key card out of her grasp and throw it into the panini press behind the counter. Instead, I tucked the chair under the table and left, doing my best not to stomp past the customers who were actually enjoying their stay at White Oak. Outside, the frigid air cleared my head enough for me to examine the facts. My mother was here. Nick had invited her without my consent. Nick deserved a piece of my mind.

  “Hey!”

  The spectacled assistant who worked at a desk outside Nick’s private office jumped at the harsh sound of my voice. Her glasses slid down to the tip of her nose and almost fell off, but she pushed them into place at the last second with a well-practiced tap of her middle finger.

  “Miss, this is a private office,” she said. “I’m afraid guests aren’t allowed in this area of the resort. Can I direct you elsewhere?”

  “No, I know where I am,” I said. “I need to talk to Nick.”

  “Mr. Porter is very busy.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She patted the left side of her chest where most employees had a White Oak nametag, but instead of the standard uniform, she wore a pencil skirt and a collared shirt, the fabric of which was too stiff to attach a pin to. My guess was that she’d recently been promoted from a
lesser position to Nick’s assistant. She was tall and pretty, and the waiting area in front of Nick’s office had a huge glass window so that everyone passing by could see her. That included members of the press for whatever reason they might be visiting White Oak. Nick had a public image to maintain, which meant that all his closest staff members needed to be appealing to look at.

  “Krishna,” she replied.

  “Krishna,” I said. “I’m assuming you know who I am. Everyone knows Mr. Porter was trapped at King and Queens with me. Right?”

  She adjusted her glasses and squinted. “There have been a few rumors.”

  “The rumors are true,” I said. “Nick told me that I would be able to contact him whenever necessary, and it’s necessary. Where is he? I know you have his schedule somewhere. Did he have another meeting with the police?”

  She checked her computer, clicking around a color-coded spreadsheet. “No, Miss Star. He’s actually at the spa right now.”

  “The spa?”

  “Yes, he was booked for an hour massage at eleven o’clock—Miss Star, where are you going?”

  I left Krishna looking bewildered at her desk, tore through the lobby, and made a beeline for the door that led to White Oak’s five-star spa. The calming music and soothing scent of lavender essential oil in the waiting room did nothing for me. To the disapproval of the customers seated there, I stormed past the unmanned front desk and into the depths of the spa. Most of the massage rooms were booked, but Jazmin told me the biggest one was at the end of the hall. I chose that one and kicked the door open. Nick, finished with his massage, stood near the table as he adjusted something below.

  “Nick, what the hell were you thinking—?”

  He spun around, his usually perfect hair disheveled and his expression screwed up in something like pain or embarrassment. “Lucia, get out!”

  I stumbled backward, stunned by the malice in his voice. He wore only a White Oak spa-issued robe, and I caught a glimpse of his long pale legs. One was muscular and toned. The other looked as though parasites had eaten through his skin. Angry red and purple scars marred his entire quadricep, and large chunks of the muscle were missing. Nick yanked the robe into place and stormed toward me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stuttered, backing out of the room.

  “Get out!”

  He slammed the door with such force that the water in the Zen fountain in the hallway rippled with the vibration. A spa attendant peeked his head around the corner and spotted me.

  “Miss?” he called, managing to sound assertive and relaxed at the same time. “Are you lost? Do you have an appointment?”

  “Uh.” I stared at the door, the image of Nick’s damaged leg burned into my head. “No, I was just looking for someone.”

  The attendant checked the door. “Mr. Porter? Would you like me to get him for you?”

  “No!” I hastily withdrew as he went to knock on the door of the massage room. “No, it’s fine. I can wait. Thank you.”

  The attendant wore a confused expression as I turned away and stumbled out of the spa. Once free of the lavender-scented air, my stomach dipped and turned, but I wasn’t sure if it was from seeing the full extent of Nick’s old injury or from the strange sickness that kept hitting me at random moments. The lobby swam in front of me, like I was looking at it from beneath White Oak’s Olympic-sized indoor pool. I steadied myself against the wall and made my way to the elevators. I needed to lie down.

  Upstairs, angry voices emanated from the door of my suite. I swiped my card and stumbled inside to find my mother and Jazmin shouting at each other from opposite ends of the living room. Jazmin held a throw pillow from the couch in either hand while my mother was armed with a piece of decorative glass from the mantel. Something had already shattered on the floor near Jazmin’s bare feet.

  “You crazy old woman!” Jazmin belted, stepping gingerly around to avoid the shards on the white tile floor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You ruined my daughter!” Mother hollered back. “Do you know what I found her doing just a few minutes ago? Speaking to a therapist! The shame!”

  Her arm, the one loaded like a Glock with the glass ornament, cocked. Jazmin raised her pillow like a knight’s shield. I rushed forward and seized my mother’s wrist, preventing her from throwing her makeshift javelin. The ornament dropped from her hand as she turned around in surprise. I lunged to catch it and missed. It hit the floor and broke into fifty different pieces, sending a tidal wave of glass over my boots.

  “Great,” I said, shaking shards off my laces. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “You tell me!” Jazmin said from behind her pillow across the room. “How did your mother get a key card?”

  “Nick gave her one.”

  “She knows Nick?”

  “I’m right here,” my mother intoned.

  “Yeah, except I don’t want to speak to you,” Jazmin snapped.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered Jazmin. I stepped around the glass and into her bedroom to get a pair of shoes. When I returned to the living room, I tossed them to her. “Put those on. The last thing we need is for a chunk of glass to get stuck in your feet.”

  She put down the throw pillow and stepped into the shoes as she glared at my mother. “Are you happy now? This place is a wreck. You’re going to have to pay for this.”

  “Devil child!” Mother spat at Jazmin. “You’ll never change, will you?”

  “Shut up, Mom,” I barked. “You should be thanking Jazmin. Without her, I’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere by now.”

  “Thanking her?” Mother said. “She took you away from me! She convinced you to leave home.”

  “Home with you was toxic,” I reminded her. “After Dad died—”

  My mother flinched as if someone had reached out and smacked her across the face. It was overdramatic and unnecessary, but every time she did something like that, I could never figure out if the reaction was actually inspired by emotion or just an act to get anyone in the vicinity to feel bad for her. Either way, it didn’t ever have the effect that she wanted on me.

  The door beeped, and Riley arrived home. She froze in the doorway, her eyes shifting from me to Jazmin to my mother. Slowly, she took in the broken glass on the floor, the ruined throw pillows, and the tense atmosphere.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, edging inside and letting the door drift shut behind her. “Should I call security?”

  “Yes,” Jazmin said.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Which is it?” Riley asked. She wore her borrowed ski jacket again, and her hair was slick with melted snow and sweat. She’d been out on the slopes, despite having spent the entire day in the snow yesterday. I envied her stamina, sitting on one of the kitchen island stools as another headrush took me over.

  “Don’t call,” I told Riley. “Mom, go downstairs and tell them to give you another room. If you’re going to stay at White Oak for the whole week, it can’t be in here.”

  Mother looked Riley over from head to toe. “Who is this child?”

  Riley’s face scrunched up at the classification.

  “Mom, meet Riley Watson,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t leave without an explanation. “She’s—I don’t know—my charge, I guess.”

  My mother looked from Riley to me and back again. “Someone left you in charge of a child? They obviously didn’t do a background check.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Riley demanded.

  “Nothing,” Jazmin said, saving me from answering. She hopped over the broken glass, met Riley at the door, and ushered the preteen down the hallway. “Why don’t you grab a shower, Riles? You look like you’re freezing.”

  But Riley stepped beyond Jazmin’s reach. “No, I want to know what’s happening.”

  “This is my mother,” I explained. “Nick invited her, but she’s not staying.”

  “Yes, I am,” Mom said.

  When she lifted a hand to my cheek,
I flinched and slipped under it, expecting a smack, but her finger glanced softly across my skin. Her eyes glistened.

  “Do you think so little of me, Lucia?” she said in a low voice. “I came here because I was told you almost died in that fire. I already lost you once. I couldn’t lose you again. I understand that you don’t want to see me, but I’m staying at White Oak for the week whether you like it or not to keep an eye on you. You’re still my daughter, after all.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I’m staying,” she said firmly. She cast another glance at Riley. “At the very least, someone has to make sure the teenager stays alive.”

  “She’s twelve,” I said.

  “Thirteen,” Riley said. “My birthday was yesterday.”

  Jazmin stared at her. “It was? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “When was I supposed to do that?” Riley asked. “When you were being interrogated by the police or when you were chasing down journalists at the Slopes Café?”

  I groaned. “You heard about that?”

  “Everyone on the mountain heard about it,” Riley said. “Anyway, I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve been roaming around Crimson Basin on my own for years.”

  “You had your mom for a while,” I reminded her.

  “Only sometimes,” she said.

  “Well, I don’t trust Lucia or Jazmin to look after you,” my mother chimed in, walking over to Riley and caressing her cheek. Riley, starved of affection for quite some time now, leaned into my mother’s touch, the complete opposite of what I did. My mother hugged her close. “What happened to you, pobrecita?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Riley.

  A sharp knock interrupted the language lesson. I glanced through the peephole. Nick Porter—freshly showered and dressed—waited outside the room. Though he wore a dress shirt, it was the first time I’d seen him without a tie to complete the outfit. I opened the door tentatively.