Silver is for Secrets (18 page)

“I don‟t think it‟s him,” I say.

“Are you blind?” Drea asks, gesturing toward the clothesline of photos.

“If it was him, then he‟d have way more pictures of Clara than just three. He‟d have a whole shrine dedicated to her.”

“Let‟s not forget about the whole envelope of Clara shots left in her room,” Drea says.

“Exactly,” I say. “Someone who takes that many peeping-Tom pictures of one individual—while she‟s in her cottage, changing her clothes, and getting ready for a shower . . . you‟d think he‟d have kept a bunch for himself. I mean, if he‟s that obsessed with her . . .”

“Maybe he does have a bunch,” Amber says. “Maybe they‟re just hidden somewhere.”

“So let‟s get to it,” I say.

While Drea collects the photos of us into a stack and searches around for more, Amber announces that she‟s off to snoop through his medicine cabinet and

“bedroom goodies.” Meanwhile, I resume rifling through the darkroom. I dig my way through camera equipment, development chemicals, and photos of all genres, from apples to zebras—quiet literally.

“This is useless,” I hear Amber shout from the other room. “No Polaroids, no more pictures of Clara, no dead bodies in the closet.”

“She‟s right,” Drea says, itching at her sides. “Let‟s get out of here. I feel al skeevy.”

At that moment the back door shuts, like someone just came in.

“Oh my god,” Drea mouths. She stuffs the photos of us up the back of her tankini.

“Wait here,” Amber whispers. She tiptoes toward the doorway and peers down the hal way. “In the kitchen,” she mouths, hearing the tinkling of a dish. “Come on.”

“No way,” Drea mouths.

“Now,” Amber whispers. She takes a right down the hal way, heading for the front door. I follow, grabbing Drea by the arm as I exit the room. The floorboards creak beneath our steps. My heart quickens; my stomach churns. I hear more noise in the kitchen, like the slamming of a microwave door. Meanwhile, Amber‟s fingers are working the front lock. She turns it—click.

“Hey there,” he says.

We al freeze. I grit my teeth and turn to look. He isn‟t there. I look back at Amber, her eyes wide and expectant.

More noises continue in the kitchen—utensils against a plate, maybe, the sound of a carbonated drink bubbling over. “Yup. Just got back,” his voice continues.

“He‟s on the phone,” Amber mouths. She turns back to the door, opens it wide for al of us to exit. And we‟re out. We‟re free.

twenty-eight

After getting a relatively safe distance away, we slow our pace to a brisk walk, not even realizing that we‟ve already passed our cottage.

“Wait,” Drea says. “Where are we going?”

I shake my head, my heart stil pounding. “That was just a little too close.”

“But we made it,” Amber says.

“Because of luck,” Drea gasps. “Because the guy got hungry and he needed to cal somebody.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“What are you guys talking about?” Amber asks. “We made it out of sheer talent.”

“I don‟t know,” I say, leading us back in the direction of the cottage. “Maybe he wasn‟t real y on the phone. Maybe he just wanted us to think he was.”

“And why would he ever do that?” Amber asks.

“I don‟t know. It just seemed a little too easy.”

“Easy or not,” Drea says, repeatedly wiping her palms on her surfer shorts, “I couldn‟t be happier to be out of that creep‟s place. I think I need to bathe for at least an hour.” Drea grabs the photos of us from the back of her tankini. “I mean, what do you think he does with al these pictures?”

“What do I think he does
with
them or in front of them?” Amber snatches the photos from Drea and begins flipping through them.

“Nix the bath,” Drea says. “I need to stand in a
car wash
for the next six hours.”

“Fine,” I say. “You disinfect, I‟l think, and then we‟l decide our next move. But first, let me feel the photos.” I go to take them from Amber.

“Sick,” Amber says, stepping away.

“You
know
what I mean. I want to feel them for vibrations.”

“There are much easier ways to vibrate,” she says, handing the photos over anyway.

I run my fingers over the surfaces.

“Wel ?” Drea asks.

I concentrate harder, closing my eyes and running my fingers over each one.

“Skeevy,” I say.

“No kidding.” Drea shudders.

“Major skeeviness, like he knew that taking pictures of us was wrong, but it‟s like it didn‟t matter.”

“Um, yeah,” Amber says, “because he‟s a psycho-perv.

Doesn‟t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Which is why you were able to,” Drea says to her.

“It‟s weird, though,” I say, ignoring their banter. “The pictures of Clara, the Polaroid ones left in her bedroom, they felt different—cold, like death.”

“What about those photo-duds we found on the floor?” Amber asks. “The maybean-arm and could-be-a-butt-cheek snapshots? Did you happen to feel those?” I shake my head. “I picked them up, but Clara took them right away. She thinks that someone planted them there.”

“What do you mean?” Drea asks.

“She thought it was too weird that someone would fil an entire envelope ful of photos and then just drop a couple in their path.”

“That‟s actual y not a bad point,” Amber says. “Even for a skank. But why would someone plant them? You couldn‟t even tel what they were.” I shrug. “I don‟t know. It doesn‟t make sense.”

“What I don‟t get,” Drea says, “is if it‟s the skeevy photographer who‟s doing al this, why did he use a Polaroid camera for some photos but not all? The only Polaroids we found were the ones left in her bedroom.”

“Right,” I say. “So maybe it isn‟t him.”

“Or maybe he is,” Amber says. “If I were gonna take crazy stalker photos of someone, that‟s what I‟d use. It‟s way too risky to take the film to be developed someplace.”

“Bril iant, Einstein,” Drea says, “but he obviously develops his own film. Was the creepy darkroom not a big enough tip-off for you?” Amber middle-finger scratches the side of her nose in reply.

“You know she‟s planning on going on the fundraiser cruise tomorrow,” Drea says.

I nod. “Which means that I‟l have to go, too.”

“We‟l
all
be going,” Drea corrects. She reaches out to touch my forearm, reminding me that I‟m not alone in this.

We climb the deck steps of our cottage, swing the door open, and sitting on the couch is Clara, but she‟s not alone.

Clara‟s limbs are entangled with Chad‟s. She‟s lying on top of him, her mouth suctioned against his. I go to jump in front of Drea, to pull her back outside so she won‟t see, but it‟s too late. Her mouth drops open at the picture of it—of them.

Clara peeps an eye open and sees us. “Oh, wow!” she yelps.

Chad jumps up, and I feel myself reach out to Drea. I clasp her forearm and can feel her trembling. Clara fumbles to sit up, covering the slit in her sarong, pulling at her T-shirt for proper placement.

“Drea,” Chad says, standing up. “It was an accident.”

“What? Did her lips fal on you by mistake?”

“Actual y, that can happen,” Amber says.

“I hate you!” Drea shouts at them, though I‟m not sure who she‟s talking to, if it‟s Clara or Chad. “Don‟t talk to me. Don‟t try and make it up to me. And save me the insult of trying to explain it al away.”

“You don‟t understand,” he pleas. “It was a mistake.

Things just got out of hand.”

“He‟s right,” Clara says. “I came here because I was upset. Chad was just trying to comfort me.”

“I could use a little of that kind of comforting,” Amber whispers.

I elbow her in response.

“I got more threats,” Clara continues. “Someone wants to kil me.”

“Wel , he‟l have to wait in line,” Drea snaps.

A part of me wants to ask Clara about it, but I‟m too concerned about Drea right now.

“Can we talk about this?” Chad asks her.

“I have nothing to say to you.” Drea takes one last look at him before taking off into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind her.

twenty-nine

Instead of trying to make amends with Drea, Chad holes himself up in the guys‟

room, slamming the door shut behind him. I tel Clara to leave, that I‟l cal her later, and then Amber and I head into the bathroom to check on Drea. Despite her funk and fuming, she tells us that we should head over to the frat house to reserve our spots on the cruise ship tomorrow night.

“Don‟t even worry about that right now,” I tel her.

“You
have
to worry about it,” Drea says, bal ing up a tissue to wipe at her nose. “I heard Sully mention yesterday that the cruise was filling up. I need to be on it. I need to get away from Chad.”

“How can you even think about the cruise?” Amber asks. “Five minutes ago that skank was lip-suctioned to your man. That boy‟s gonna need some serious tetanus.”

Drea smiles slightly in response, but then her lips turn downward again. “Maybe there will be some cuter boys on the cruise—way cuter than Chad. Maybe I‟l hook up with one of them. How wil he like that?”

“Yes!” Amber cheers. “Jealousy is the sweetest revenge.”

“It might be sweet,” I say, “but it isn‟t smart.” Amber rol s her eyes in response. “Leave it to Stacey Straight Lace to pee on our plans.”

“I real y just want to be alone right now,” Drea says, pausing me from firing back at Amber.

“No way,” I say, presenting Drea with a fresh box of tissues from the bathroom closet. “You need us.”

“What I need is a long, hot bath with sea salts, my gel-filled eye mask, and lots of chocolate.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “I‟l be okay.”

“So I take it we‟re
not
getting tickets for the guys,” Amber says.

A good question, but I don‟t answer.

“I think we should let them sink,” Amber says.

“I second that.” Drea sniffles.

“This should total y be a girls‟ night thing,” Amber continues.

“It‟s not exactly going to be fun,” I remind her. “We
do
have Clara to worry about.” I glance up at Drea, almost regretting the mere mentioning of Clara‟s name.

“Don‟t remind me,” Drea says, grabbing another tissue to wipe her runny mascara.

“Yeah, but not until Friday,” Amber corrects. “That means we have al night Thursday to party it up.”

I sigh my frustration, not wanting to get into it with her—how little I feel like partying, how I‟d give anything right now not to have Clara‟s future sitting on my shoulders.

Before leaving, Amber and I set Drea up with bath salts, her freshly chilled gel mask (pulled straight from the fridge), some of my favorite bath oils (chamomile and rose), and a box of chocolate-walnut fudge Amber bought at the candy shop downtown.

We climb the porch steps to fratboy central, the smell of stale beer mixed with sweat already thick in the air. Sul y greets us at the door. “What‟s up?” he asks.

But we‟re stil arguing over how many tickets to buy. “Hold up,” he says, interrupting us. “Your guys already bought your tickets.”

“Huh?” we say in unison.

“Yeah, I‟m pretty sure. Hold on.” He goes back inside, retrieving a clipboard from the kitchen table. He flips through several pages before finding our reservation. He nods, reading through all our names—all of us except Jacob.

“They‟re
so
sweet,” Amber says.

“Wait,” I say. “What about Jacob?”

“The quiet guy?”

I nod. “With the dark hair.”

“Yeah,” Sul y says. “He said something about not being able to make it.”

“Why can‟t he make it?” I snap.

“Hey, don‟t kil the messenger.”

Amber wraps her arm around my shoulder. “At least he bought
your
ticket.”

“So we‟l see you tomorrow night,” Sul y says.

“Wait,” Amber says. “How many rooms did the guys reserve?” Sul y checks his clipboard. “Two.”

I nod, stil confused about Jacob. Though with everything that‟s been happening between us, I‟m not even sure why.

“Should be a good time,” Sul y says.

Amber takes a pause to openly ogle him up and down. “You can count on it.” We walk back to our cottage in silence, Amber‟s arm stil wrapped around my shoulder for support.

“One of us should check on Drea,” I say, once inside.

“I‟ll go,” Amber says. “You have enough on your plate right now. Go fix things with your man.”

“Kind of hard to fix things when he‟s never around.” Amber responds by knocking on the guys‟ room door. “What?” Chad hol ers from inside.

“Is Jacob in there?”

“Nope.”

Amber‟s lips bunch up in disapproval. But she couldn‟t be more disappointed than I am.

“I told you,” I say.

Amber sighs. “Maybe Drea still has some chocolate left—I think
I
could use some right about now.” While she heads off to check on Drea and rob her of her edible vices, I distract myself with work by giving Clara a call.

“Hel o?” she answers.

“Hi, it‟s Stacey. I just wanted to see how you‟re doing.”

“I‟ve been better.”

“So has Drea,” I say. A direct stinger.

Clara doesn‟t respond.

After several seconds, I break the silence. “You said something before about getting more threats. . . . What happened?”

“We can talk about it later,” she says. “I‟m going to a barbecue with my parents. .

. . It‟s at some friends of theirs. I should actual y get going.”

“When wil you be back?”

“I don‟t know. I think it might be late. I can cal you tomorrow.” I hesitate a moment, but then remind myself that we still have more than twentyfour hours. “You‟l be with your parents al night?”

“Who else?” she says. “It‟s not like they‟re letting me out of their sight for more than five minutes.”

“Okay,” I say, biting at my bottom lip. “Then I‟l see you first thing tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about.”

“I agree,” she says. But there‟s something about the way she says it.

Like she has an agenda of her own.

I decide to end my day with a long walk on the beach, capped off with a muchneeded meditation session. The outgoing tide helps to center me; it helps me imagine all the negative energy swimming out to sea. When I get back to the cottage, I decide to continue my blissful breather by turning in early. Drea has fol owed suit. She‟s camped herself out in bed with a stack of
Teen
magazines, a box of chocolates, and her diary. Part of me wants to tell her what happened with Jacob and the tickets, but I feel like that would be almost selfish of me, adding the weight of my relationship stress to hers. Plus, it‟s Jacob I should real y be confronting.