Silver is for Secrets (17 page)

“No.” I shake my head, reminding myself to breathe, to be strong. I take a couple more steps, but it‟s completely dark in front of the door. I hold my arms out in front of me, my fingers trembling from how cold I feel, and search for the door handle.

But I can‟t find it. Instead I find something else. It hangs midair in front of the door. I wrap my hands around it and feel my thumb get pricked, like a needle. I gasp, rubbing my fingers together, feeling a bit of moisture. I must be bleeding. I poke my thumb into my mouth and then reach for the object again. There are pins that stick through the center of something soft and rubbery. Carefully, I move my hands up and feel cloth. I move them up a little more and feel hair of some sort. Like a doll.

“For you, Stacey,” whispers the voice. It‟s coming from where the door is, but I can‟t see anything.

My heart is thrashing inside my chest. I go to take the doll-like figure, noticing how it‟s hanging from a rope, how it‟s tied in place. Instead of trying to take it down, I continue to feel around for the door, my hands padding over the crude cement walls, noticing how sticky they feel—how everything seems so numb and cold.

“Over here,” the voice giggles. “If you want to leave, you have to come here.” Her voice is coming from over by the sinks.

I move toward it, almost relieved to be going back toward the light. I feel a trickle of something roll off my lip. I move in front of the mirror, my knees shaking with each step. Sprawled across the glass—over my image, the blood trickling down my lips—are giant red letters that say CLARA WAS HERE. Below it is Friday‟s date—

still two days away.

“She
was
here,” the voice whispers, “but now she‟s gone. Because you were too late.”

“No,” I say, fighting the urge to cover over my ears. “I‟m here. She‟s here. You‟re
her.”

“Not anymore. She‟s out on the beach. Haven‟t you seen her body?” I turn from the mirror and see her—Clara. Only she looks different than normal—

her coloring is grayish and her lips look pale blue. She‟s wearing a coral-colored sarong with an olive-green T-shirt, and she‟s carrying a camera—a big and bulky one, like a Polaroid. There‟s a patch of blood at her middle. It runs down her legs, making a puddle on the floor. She moves into the stall at the end, closing the door and locking it behind her.

I take a step backward, my heel crunching down on something. I look. It‟s a heartshaped box. I move to pick it up, recognizing the shiny golden color right away—a one-pound box of Godiva chocolates.

My hands shake. I drop the chocolates to the floor. “Drea?” I whisper, wondering if she‟s here, if she‟s the one who left them.

I move back toward the exit door, but it‟s stil too dark to see. I pad along the walls, my heart walloping inside my chest, my hands all jittery. I think I feel a hinge. I follow it around the doorframe, my fingers working their way along the door crack. I feel for the handle, find it, and pull.

It‟s locked.

I pul harder, try pushing outward, pound at the door with al my might. But it‟s no use.

I‟m trapped.

I move back toward the window, keeping an eye on Clara‟s bathroom stal . The door is stil closed, but it doesn‟t appear as though she‟s even in there. I bend down to look for her feet and legs, but it‟s just empty, like she snuck out. Or maybe she‟s standing on the toilet. I don‟t know. I just need to get out of here.

I hoist myself onto the corner sink and stand up, wondering if I‟ll be able to fit myself through the window. The bottom of my sandal slips against the porcelain; my foot lands in the basin, making me have to grasp the window ledge to keep from falling. I secure my elbows on the ledge and crank the window open, my ankles shaking slightly, like I could topple over at any second. I look back at Clara‟s stal , but I‟m not up quite high enough to see down into it, to see if she‟s inside.

I take a deep breath and try to refocus. The warm breeze through the window eases me a bit, makes me feel a little less trapped. I continue to crank the lever, but the glass only opens to halfway. “Hel o?” I cal out.

But instead of the beach, it‟s just the ocean outside, like the bathroom itself is floating in the middle of the sea. In the distance, I can see someone grappling in the water, trying to stay afloat. I can‟t see his face, but I know. I can feel it. It‟s the guy from before—the one carrying the bouquet of lilies. He stops struggling when he sees me, the bouquet of lilies floating up beside him. I feel myself freeze over. I shout out to him and try cranking the window open farther, but it won‟t budge. And he‟s starting to sink.

I peer down at Clara‟s stal , wondering if she can help, but when I look back out the window to check on him, he‟s already gone.

I take deep breath, my head all dizzy from the rocking of this bathroom, the way the ocean pulls it from side to side. I climb down off the sink, eager to gain a solid footing. There‟s something on the floor in front of Clara‟s stal now. A dol . I‟m thinking it‟s the dol that hung in front of the exit door, the one hanging from the rope.

I climb back down, wondering if Clara has left it for me. Blood drips down over the dol ‟s face from my lip. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, noticing how the doll looks just like me—dark hair, light skin, tilty golden-brown eyes. There are pins stuck into the dol ‟s body, like somebody‟s warped idea of voodoo, like this isn‟t real—a twisted mirage of some sort.

The bathroom has gone dead quiet now. Even the dripping from the faucets has stopped. I peer up toward the window, wondering if the guy with the lilies is just outside, hoping he won‟t be able to climb his way in.

I wrap my hand around the doll just as Clara grabs my wrist, stopping me. Her blue-gray hand reaches out from underneath the bathroom stall door. She clenches me hard, pinching my skin. Making me scream.

twenty-six

My scream wakes me up. I‟m stil in my bed, stil in my robe. And the hourglass is still by my night table, all the sand drained down to the bottom. I sit up and close my dream box, confident that the images of my dreams lie inside. A dribble of blood rolls off my upper lip. I grab a wad of toilet paper from the pocket of my robe, thankful that I planned ahead.

I reach under my pillow for my folded piece of paper and press it into my palm, wondering what the truth really is. I close my eyes, conjuring up the images from my nightmare. Clearly the image of Clara was some corpselike version of her—the result of not being able to save her. I picture the blood rolling down her limbs, onto the floor, wondering how or why she‟s bleeding. Was she stabbed? Did someone cut her? Maybe it has something to do with the dol . But what‟s weird is that the dol looked just like me, and there were needles sticking right through it—long, pointed pins pierced through the heart. Like maybe I‟m the one in danger.

I take a deep breath, thinking about the Polaroid camera. It seems so obvious that it might have something to do with the photographer who lives next door. But is that too obvious? Maybe he‟s the one with the lilies. Maybe before I find Clara and surgically attach her to my hip, I should pay him another visit.

I glance at the clock. It‟s a little after three. I change from my robe into a bathing suit, throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, slip into my flip-flops, and stuff the chunky crystal rock Jacob gave me into my pocket, suddenly remembering the mirror in my dream. I close my eyes and picture the words written in red across it—

Clara‟s name plus Friday‟s date, which means that I have less than forty-eight hours to figure everything out.

Or else Clara will die.

I‟m almost out the door when Drea and Amber ambush me. “We seriously need to talk,” Drea says.

“Only if you can walk and talk,” I say. “I don‟t have time to waste.”

“Where are you going?” Drea asks, fol owing me down the deck stairs.

“To that photographer‟s place.”

“The skeevy guy with the tentacles?” Amber asks.

“The one and only.”

“Cool!” Amber exclaims.

“It‟s not a game,” I say.

Drea sighs. “No kidding.”

“Why, what‟s up?”

“We went to the police.”

“And?”

“Fish,” Amber says. “Big and holy mackerel.”

“Excuse me?”

“There‟s something huge-fishy going on.”

“Wel , yeah,” I say.

“No,” Drea says. “They were asking us al these weird questions about Chad.”

“Like what?”

“Like, how long he and Clara have known each other; how long me and Chad have been dating; if Chad has a temper; if I think he might be the one doing all this to Clara.”

“What?”
I ask, stopping short.

“Fishy . . .” Amber sings.

“I don‟t know what she told them,” Drea says, “but right now, I‟d just like to smash her giggly little face.”

“Has Chad gone to the police yet?”

“I don‟t think so,” Drea says. “But I don‟t know. I haven‟t seen him anywhere.”

“We‟l get to the bottom of this,” I say, “but right now I have to go.”

“I feel horrible, Stacey,” Drea continues. “I had to tel them how Chad and I got into a fight, how I caught them al cuddly together.”

“I know,” I say. “I‟m sorry, but at least Chad isn‟t going to end up dead in less than forty-eight hours.”

“We have a T.O.D.?” Amber asks, arching her eyebrows.

“Huh?” Drea and I say in unison.

“Time of death,” she says, rol ing her eyes like it‟s obvious.

“Friday,” I say. “I dreamt it.”

“And you dreamt that it was the photographer guy.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, I don‟t know. I‟m just going on a hunch.”

“Personal y, I think we‟d be better off going after Casey,” Drea says. “We saw him ripping apart his ex earlier—completely yel ing at her in front of everybody.”

“Why?”

Amber shrugs. “Something about her getting al jealous and possessive of him.

She must have seen how soaking he is on me.”

“Yeah, right,” Drea says, flashing her the okay sign.

“Look,” I say. “I don‟t have time. Are you guys coming with me or not?”

“Wouldn‟t miss it for al the fortune cookies in China,” Amber says, pul ing one from her pocket. She cracks it open and reads the fortune aloud: “Life‟s a stitch and then you sew.” She laughs and stuffs both cookie halves into her mouth.

twenty-seven

We climb the stairs of the photographer‟s cottage and ring the doorbel a couple times, but he doesn‟t answer. I open the screen door and try knocking. Stil no response.

“Maybe he‟s on a shoot,” Drea suggests.

“Shoot my ass,” Amber says.

“Seriously?” Drea asks.

“Tel me,” Amber says, “why would a photographer for
Vogue
ever want to take pictures of Clara?”

“He obviously has bad taste,” Drea says. “I mean, if it
is
him.” Amber takes off her earring, a long and thin sterling silver zigzag. “Cover me,” she says, jabbing the point into the lock and maneuvering it around.

“If that doesn‟t work, I have a credit card,” Drea says.

“With you?” I look at her outfit—a tankini top with surfer shorts, no visible pockets anywhere.

“Oh yeah. I never leave home without it.”

“Got it,” Amber says. The lock clicks, and she turns the knob. “We‟re so in.” We follow Amber inside, locking the door back up behind us. Just like before, the place is completely dark, the shades all pulled down and no lamps in sight.

“Is he a trol ?” Drea asks.

“Maybe Clara lives here.” Amber makes a trol of a face, complete with droopy eyes and a tongue that sticks out over her bottom lip.

“Let‟s go check out the darkroom.” I lead them in there and click on the light, feeling that cold, familiar chill run across my shoulders.

The room is set up just like before—the red lightbulb shines down over a clothesline with pictures attached, a workstation full of bins and solutions, and racks that line the walls.

“What are we looking for?” Drea asks.

“Anything that looks suspicious—pictures of Clara, any Polaroids, anything that seems odd.”

“Where do we begin?” Amber picks a photo up off the floor. She flashes it to us; it‟s a picture of a dog taking a whiz on the beach.

“Vogue,
I think not,” Drea says.

“Hey, check it out.” Amber plucks a photo from the clothesline. “I think I recognize this girl. I think she works at the Clam Stripper.” Drea and I join her to look. It‟s a picture of some girl wearing a short sundress on the beach.

“Oh my god,” Drea says, her gaze wandering down the line. The clothesline is full of snapshots of girls—unsuspecting females on the beach, swimming in the water, and rubbing suntan oil onto their legs.

“What a perv!” Amber bel ows.

Drea has already made her way down the end of the clothesline. “Oh my god,” she says. “There‟s some of me. And this one‟s of Stacey.” Amber and I join her to scavenge through the clothesline of photos. There‟s got to be at least two hundred pictures here and twenty-two of them are of us—Drea, playing in the water with Chad, cuddling up beside him, and rubbing suntan oil over her stomach and legs; Amber, patting some guy‟s dog and playing beached whale; and me, sitting at the shoreline with Jacob and wading in the water. There‟s also a handful of Clara: Clara at the Clam Stripper, Clara tanning on the beach, Clara with an ice cream cone. The thing is there‟s nothing unique or unusual about them—

they‟re just like al the rest.

“I feel so dirty,” Drea says, covering her mouth. “Look at this one—you can see my tan lines.” Drea points to the strip of white across her back upper thigh.

“With an angle like that,” Amber says, eyeing the picture, “I‟d say the tan line is the least of your problems.”

“These are just like the pictures left in Clara‟s room,” I say, interrupting them, “. . .

the ones in the envelope.”

“Don‟t compare
us
to
her
,” Drea snaps.

I take a deep breath, holding myself back from bopping her head off. “Al I‟m saying is that those pictures were candid—like these. She had no idea she was even being photographed.”

“Right,” Amber says, “which brings us back to my perv theory.”