Into the Dark (29 page)

“What was your end of the deal?” Brenna asked, wheels turning in her mind.

Trent mumbled something.

“Huh?”

He repeated himself. “I . . . uh . . . I had to stop hitting on her.”

Brenna smiled. “Makes sense,” she said, the wheels turning more furiously—
printed words at the bottom of a card. Everyone printed out their passwords somewhere,
and what better place for a filmmaker than at the bottom of a picture of a favorite
director . . .

“See, we don’t have a last name for her, but if we type ‘Diandra’ into this field
here . . . Hmmm . . . No luck. I guess maybe she hasn’t been arrested or Diandra’s
not her real name or . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

“The cloud,” Brenna said.

“Tannenbaum’s?”

She nodded. “Did you really mean it when you said that all you needed was the Lockbox
account password?”

“Yep,” he said. “Do you have it?”

“I think I might.”
Why would an atheist write a Bible passage on a picture of his favorite director?
“Try Deut 31:6.”

Trent went onto Lockbox, typed in the user name he had for RJ and then, in the password
field, Deut 31:6.

Incorrect password
.

Trent looked at Brenna.

“How many letters can you have in one of these passwords?”

“In Lockbox? A lot.”

“Try Bestrongandcourageous.”

Trent typed.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “We’re in.” The screen opened up to show several smaller
screens with play buttons. “Video footage.”

Brenna looked at him. “I thought you said cloud storage was as secure as they come.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Never write out passwords, Trent.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t need to.”

“Hit play,” Brenna said.

Trent did, on the first screen. The first screen of footage on RJ Tannenbaum’s cloud.
RJ’s project
.
The Dream. The Big One
.

The little screen went blue, and a title appeared:

SEARCHING FOR LULA BELLE.

The next image was the picture: Brenna and Clea on the bicycle. Brenna’s breath caught.

“There’s sound,” Trent said.

“Turn it up,” she whispered.

Up came a voice, a man’s voice, nasal and sad.
Lula Belle. I have loved her, ever since I laid eyes on her. Ever since I first heard
her voice. Yesterday she e-mailed me this picture. She said it belonged to her. But
our journey starts earlier.

The image on screen slowly faded to live action—a little, dark-haired girl, riding
a bicycle through the woods. It was a haunting image—a sadness you felt in the pit
of your stomach, without really knowing why.

“He’s a hell of a lot better than Shane Smith,” Trent said.

Brenna nodded. She couldn’t speak.

The voiceover began again.
Our story begins three years ago, when on a dare from a film school friend, I broke
into a man’s house
.

The image of the little girl faded into a shot of Gary Freeman, standing amid Wise
Up balloons with his wife and daughters.

This man. Gary Freeman
.

Trent said, “That’s the cornflakes guy.”

Brenna looked at him. “Our real employer.”

“He
is
?”

“
Was
. He fired me.”

I was dared to break into his house, take this diary, and put it under the floorboards
of his bedroom closet
.

The image shifted to murky footage—a slightly younger, unbearded RJ Tannenbaum standing
in front of a king-sized sleigh bed. Holding up a blue book.

I filmed myself
putting it back. The person who dared me to put it back didn’t know
.

On screen, RJ removed something from the blue book. He walked right up to the stationary
camera. Held it up to the lens.

“Oh my God,” Trent said.

Brenna couldn’t speak.

It was the picture of her and Clea on the bicycle. Same day, same swimsuits. The same
picture Lula Belle had sent RJ.

Brenna flashed back to RJ’s room, two days ago . . .
The picture from the computer screen—Brenna and Clea on that bike, Clea’s bike—was
that in Clea’s room? Has she seen her sister looking at it? Placing that very picture
in a blue book and slamming it shut as Brenna walks in . . .

“How does he have that?” Trent was saying. “This is freaking me out, Bren. I don’t
understand—”

Brenna held a hand up. “Sssh,” she said. The voiceover started again.
I thought I was sneaking some random journal into a professor’s house. But as it turned
out, I was replacing it. The person who dared me—Shane Smith—had stolen it and wanted
it returned before the professor found out. I now believe that he made a copy.

A picture of Shane posing next to a movie camera lens appeared on the screen.
Shane Smith, director of the Lula Belle films
.

An image of Lula Belle straddling her chair.

Art
, he said.
Performance art
.
Created from the lost diary of a missing teenage girl
.

The picture of Brenna and Clea that had been on RJ’s computer screen.
This missing girl.

The footage ended. “There’s more,” Trent said softly. He was touching the screen—an
additional box marked “audio.” He clicked on it. The timer read :25. He hit play:

“Mr. Freeman, this is RJ Tannenbaum.”

Next came Gary’s voice over a speakerphone: “
I told you before, I have nothing to say to you.”

“You must have something to say, sir. I saw Clea’s diary. I know about Lula Belle.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“Mr. Freeman, I’m going to keep calling you until I get an answer.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

Click.

Brenna and Trent stared at each other, Brenna imagining this entire case bursting
into flame, everything about it a lie, from Freeman’s first phone call on:
You did one interview, I guess? You mentioned a sister?

“Gary Freeman had my sister’s diary,” Brenna said. “Gary Freeman knew my sister.”

“And Diandra,” Trent said. “She’s helping him cover that up.”

Chapter 23

D
iandra got off her shift early. It was a busy night, but her boss had no problem with
that. He never had any problem with anything Diandra did. “I can work an extra shift
later on this week,” she’d said, smiling at him, her eyes full of promise.

“Sure,” he’d said. “Anything.” He hadn’t noticed that snippy new waitress, Claire,
standing behind him and rolling her eyes at Luis the busboy. But Diandra had. Dollars
to donuts Claire thought Diandra had a date of some sort, or maybe she couldn’t wait
to go to a club and party.
Oh, if you only knew, Claire
, she thought.
You wouldn’t be so snippy.

Diandra didn’t bother getting changed. After all, the waitress uniform gave her a
certain approachability. It made her look even younger than her twenty-two years,
its lacy high collar providing a degree of innocence, along with the regulation ponytail.
Sweet, young, bouncy
. She doubted Brenna would buy it for long—she’d seen the way Brenna had stared at
her at Trent’s place—as if she knew her, and with that memory, she might very well.
Diandra threw on her heavy black coat. It was so dark outside now, and cold, too,
the cold biting at her face, piercing her eyes. The weather, beating her up, just
like the world . . .

For a moment, she let herself remember lying on the floor, Mr. Freeman’s fist connecting
with her stomach. Even as it happened, she’d vowed to forget it, that feeling of being
hated so absolutely. But Diandra couldn’t help it, and as she did, she stopped in
her tracks, tears forming in her eyes, hating Mr. Freeman, hating herself for what
she was about to do . . .

And then it was over, the memory gone, almost before it began, almost as if it had
never happened. And in a way, it hadn’t—had it? There had only been the two of them
there for it, and Mr. Freeman had been so drunk, he probably wouldn’t remember, either.

She headed around the corner onto Greenwich Avenue. She could see him from here, lingering
in front of Fiddlesticks as if he were debating whether to go in and grab a beer.
Ebony skin, white camel hair coat. Diamond studs glittering in his ears. Saffron.

Diandra hurried up to him, her heels clicking on the pavement. “Do you have it?”

“Sssh. Take a chill pill, okay? There’s people watching.”

“Oh,” she said. With another guy, she might have sweetly told him where he could stick
that chill pill if he didn’t show her more respect, but with Saffron, it was different.
He was like Mr. Freeman in that way. “Sorry.”

Saffron stared into her eyes. With his index finger, he lightly traced the outline
of her mouth. Without dropping her gaze, she swirled her tongue around the tip of
the finger, grazed it with her lips.
It’s all a role. It’s all playing a role. It’s what we do in the theater, the movies.
It’s what we actors do and it is life . . .

“Nice,” he whispered. He took her hand. At first, she thought he might place it somewhere,
but instead he placed something in the hand, something cool and sharp and so scary-efficient,
it raised your heart rate, just holding it. Something that felt like danger.

“Milano stiletto switchblade,” he said. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt, and
it made her think of this anime show that Shane used to love, about a boy and his
sword, only the sword was, at heart, a beautiful girl and could change at will. The
sword had chosen the boy and in every episode, she wound up saving his life. It was
very romantic.

“Thank you, Saffron,” she said, playing her role, staying in character. It was just
8
P.M.
, and she could walk there in five minutes. She could do what she needed to do, then
come home to Mr. Freeman. The two of them could celebrate till dawn, celebrate their
love, like that boy and his sword. They could hold each other, and share their secret,
and he would need her, always.

You’re as special a woman as I’ve ever met.

She placed the metal blade in her pocket and hurried to the address, half walking,
half skipping. Soon she was all-out running, almost there . . .

Diandra was winded by the time she got to Brenna’s building on Twelfth Street. She
took the time to catch her breath, grasping her knees and then slowly standing up
straight. She did some face stretches. “Mee Maaa Mooo,” she said.

She shook her hands out and touched her toes and then, finally, she buzzed Brenna’s
apartment.

She heard a muffled “Yeah?”

“Brenna?”

“No, this is her daughter. She’s . . . um . . . unavailable right now.”
A girl’s voice. A very young girl
. Diandra’s heart sank. She’d hoped this wouldn’t have to involve children. She found
herself thinking back to her own life at that age, those awkward years of hers, when
her dad would go out of town on business and The Monster would take her out to hotel
bars.
Beats paying for a babysitter
, she’d tell the men who hit on her, all of them laughing and laughing, as though
DeeDee wasn’t even in the room. “Oh what our mothers put us through,” Diandra whispered.
Then she slapped a smile on her face and introduced herself to that poor, poor girl.

“W
e’re going to Bacon,” Brenna said.

Trent looked at her. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Let me text Maya first. Let her know I’ll be a little late.”

“Bren, just because Diandra got her hootchie on with me at that place, it doesn’t
mean she lives there.”

Brenna blinked at him a few times. “Got her hootchie on?”

“Whatever,” said Trent. “You can’t go to Bacon dressed like that. You’ve got way too
much fabric there. What do you have in the back of your closet? Tube top? Maybe a
bustier from your Madonna phase?”

“I never had a Madonna phase.”

“Come on. Work with me. What’s the sluttiest thing you own?”

Brenna’s phone vibrated SOS. “I got a text,” she said.

“Oh sure,” he said. “Avoid the topic when I’m only trying to help.”

The text was from Maya. A picture. Brenna downloaded it. Her phone was old and slow,
and so it took a little while for the picture to take shape on her screen . . . until
she saw it and she screamed, the phone clattering to the ground.

And then Brenna was grabbing her coat, picking up the phone. “I’m leaving.” She felt
as though she were outside her body, propelling it forward.

“Where are we going?”

“You can’t come with me, Trent. No one can come with me.”

“Why?”

Brenna showed Trent the photo: Diandra grinning at the camera, holding a stiletto
knife to Maya’s throat. Maya crying, Maya’s face a mask of fear and pain . . . And
the caption:
Be here alone. Or else
.

“L
et her go,” Brenna said. She hadn’t been in her apartment that long, maybe around
twenty seconds. But she felt suspended in time, as if the air around them were a thick
gel, slowing everything to stop. There was Diandra, wearing some stupid waitress uniform.
Diandra, sitting in Brenna’s living room, on Brenna’s couch, having tied one of Brenna’s
dishtowels around the mouth of Brenna’s daughter, holding a sharp, angry knife to
her throat. Brenna’s gaze fell upon the half-full glass of milk on the coffee table,
the open bag of Doritos, the TV screen frozen on Jack Black, caught mid-grimace. She
thought about her daughter’s evening—a Jack Black movie and a snack, her iPod Touch
close at hand—a kid’s calm, safe night alone, interrupted by this freak.
How dare you
.

Maya made a noise, a whimper. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Brenna saw now that
her arms had been tied behind her back. “Take me, Diandra. I’m who you came for.”

Diandra cast her gaze from Brenna to Maya and back, considering. “I’m probably going
to have to get rid of you both,” she said. “It’s just one of those situations that
can’t be helped. Your daughter is a lovely girl. You should be proud.”

Brenna squeezed her eyes shut. “I used to work for Gary Freeman, you know. Just like
you. He wouldn’t let me tell a soul about him or his involvement with Lula Belle and
so I didn’t. Right up until today I was keeping his secrets. Look where it got me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Brenna said, “that he isn’t a very loyal person, Diandra.”

“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who Gary Freeman
is.”

“Bullshit.”

Diandra grabbed Maya tighter. Maya whimpered into the gag.

Brenna gritted her teeth. She wanted to hurt Diandra, badly, but she couldn’t. Not
yet. She breathed in and out.
Calm, calm . . .
She stared at the knife at Maya’s throat, and she felt herself lapsing into a memory,
back to October 2, Pelham Bay . . .

“Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth—”

“What?” said Diandra.

Brenna pulled her gaze from the blade. She looked into Diandra’s eyes, ignored the
blue contacts and tried to see into them, through them. “Gary Freeman has a daughter
the same age as Maya.”

Her eyes softened. “I’ve seen his daughters.”

Brenna closed her eyes for a moment.
I knew it, I knew it . . .
“Listen to me,” Brenna said. “I need Maya, just like Gary Freeman needs his daughters.
I need her to grow up. I need her to live.”

Diandra loosened her grip a little, her eyebrows knotting. Maya edged away.

Brenna tried, “I’m sure your mother feels the same way about you.”

Diandra rolled her eyes like a teenager. “My mother died when I was six.
Please
.”

Brenna couldn’t angle with her anymore. She couldn’t wheedle information out of her,
couldn’t play games. All she could do was stare at her only daughter, her heart crumbling.
“I need Maya.”

A tear slipped down Maya’s cheek.

“Kill me,” Brenna said. “Let Maya live.”

Maya screamed into the gag—a garbled “No!”

Diandra jumped back. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

In one motion, Brenna grabbed the glass of milk off the coffee table and slammed it
into the side of Diandra’s face. It shattered, shards flying, a spray of milk and
blood. Diandra screamed, dropped the knife. “Run!” Brenna shouted, and Maya was up,
stumbling toward the kitchen, Brenna grabbing the iPod, throwing it in after her as
Diandra moaned.
Use that iPod. Contact someone with it . . .

Diandra lurched toward Brenna, but Brenna was faster. She didn’t have much practice
fighting, did she? After all, this was nothing like drugging a helpless man . . .
Brenna socked her in the stomach, and Diandra gaped at her—her face a mask of pain,
with something else mixed in.

Is it shame?

”Mr. Freeman,” she sputtered her eyes closed. “Please don’t.”

And Brenna was on top of her, her hands wrapped around Diandra’s throat, the words
chorusing in her head:
I knew, it, I knew it, I knew it . . .
“What is Gary Freeman hiding?” she said.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why does he have my sister’s diary in his home?”

“I won’t.”

“You had better tell me. Or I will kill you and there will be no one around to protect
him and he will go to jail for the rest of his life.”

A stretch, Brenna knew—she wasn’t sure whether Gary had done anything capable of landing
him in jail, but Diandra didn’t protest. She gazed up at her, her eyes dazed, her
pink cheeks spattered with her own blood, mascara running down her face—and then Brenna
was back on the
Maid of the Mist
on October 30, Maya sitting next to her, plastic raincoat wet and heavy on their
backs as they watched the other passengers leave . . .

She looks into the girl’s eyes with the chill wind biting their faces and icy water
everywhere, so cold it burns. Brenna stares at her—poor, pretty mess of a girl. Then
at her boyfriend standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, the fingertips white
from the tightness of the clutch.

“Mr. Freeman can’t go to jail,” Diandra said, bringing Brenna back. “He’d die there.”

“Why did you kill Shane Smith?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She looks back at the girl’s face, at the mascara streaks on her cheeks, looking so
awful for the wear—
worse than Maya and me put together—
and then, into the eyes . . . such fathomless sadness as she meets Brenna’s gaze,
her boyfriend oblivious, smiling a little.

“You didn’t want to kill him,” Brenna said. “It hurt you so much, especially after
all he’d done for you. For you and Mr. Freeman.”

“Stop it.” Diandra struggled against Brenna, but Brenna jammed her knee into the girl’s
stomach.

Diandra cried out.

“What did Shane know? What did RJ know? What am I getting close to knowing?”

“I won’t tell.”

“What did Gary Freeman do to my sister?”

“Mr. Freeman loves me more than anyone.”

“He doesn’t love you. He loves the role you play. He wants her, not you.”

“Her?”

“If you care so much about him, why did you stop playing the role?”

And then Diandra had her hands around Brenna’s neck—suddenly strong, Brenna’s breath
going, and she was on top of Brenna, flecks of light dancing in front of her eyes,
the bloody face in and out of focus. The runny mascara and the eyes—those sad, fake
blue eyes.

The girl taps her lip three times like a Morse signal.

She wants to die.

“What role?” Diandra was saying, her grip loosening, Brenna’s breath coming back.
“What role does he love? What role did he tell you he loved?”

“Lula Belle,” Brenna coughed.

Diandra’s eyes narrowed, her bloody lips went tight. “What?”

“He told me he’s obsessed with Lula Belle. That her voice is in his head all the time.”
Brenna was wheezing, sore inside and out. “He said he couldn’t get her off his mind.
He needed her. Why did you stop playing the role? Did RJ’s documentary scare you off?
Did Shane want a new actress?”