The Darkest Lie (13 page)

My pulse thrums in my mouth, tap dancing all over my taste buds. Sharp. Metallic. Bitter. The blood rushes over my eyes, and my vision lists back and forth like a ship on the rough seas.

He found out I volunteer at the crisis hotline. She figured out which shift I was working. He followed me to the cabin. She took a picture of me through the window. He, she, it—I don't know. But this person is out there. Watching me.

No wonder I felt the cool breeze blowing against my neck. I wasn't making it up. It wasn't my imagination running loose. I really am being watched.

I grip the table, looking wildly around the kitchen. Because the feeling's back, stronger than ever. The wind is a gale at my neck, my goose bumps have formed goose bumps of their own.

The faucet drips in the sink. A long-fingered branch taps against the window. And . . . there. What was that? A footstep, a creak? I know I heard something. I know it's not my imagination. I know—

My phone pings again.

My heart shoots up my throat, and I don't think. I don't have time to be brave. I just grab my snow globe and run. I run up the stairs, slam the door, and lock it for good measure. I yank the cord to close the blinds, and darkness engulfs the room.

Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. Where is he? Is he in my backyard, hidden in the trees, watching me through a window? Or is he at my front door, about to break it down and come inside?

The back door slams open, so hard the wine glasses rattle in their rack over the wet bar.

I can no longer distinguish one heartbeat from another, and my breath is quick and hot and dry. All the saliva has evaporated from my mouth, and the roar in my ears is so loud I feel like I've stepped inside a vacuum.

It doesn't have to be my texter. It could've been a coincidence. The back door doesn't latch properly. A strong gust sometimes blows it open. Maybe that's what it is. Mother Nature wreaking havoc with my mind.

But then, the floor board creaks. At least I think it does. It's got to be the board on the third step of the stairs, the one my mom tried to fix for ages before giving up on it.

Oh dear lord. I dart my eyes around the room. Cell phone. Where the hell is my cell phone? I need to call the cops, my dad, someone. But it's not here. Crap, crap, crap. Of course it's not here. I grabbed the snow globe, but I left my phone downstairs.

Plan B. Weapon. I don't have a baseball bat, but I put the globe down and grab my paint brushes and a stack of pencils, the ones with the newly sharpened tips. If worse comes to worst, I'll jab them into my attacker's eyes.

I stand by the bedroom door, gripping my weapons, gaze fixed on the doorknob, listening as hard as I can.

I hear someone breathing. I swear I do. A moist puff of air that travels up the stairs, over the floorboards, under my door, so that it skims along the cooled sweat along my skin, whispering words I can't decipher but completely, unquestionably understand.

Fear.

But I don't hear any more creaks, and nobody comes upstairs. I listen, listen, listen. A lock of damp hair falls onto my forehead, but I don't swipe it away. Drops of sweat roll into my eyes, and I just let them sting.

I don't know how long I stand there, waiting, seconds or an eternity. But eventually, my arms, shaky from clenching the weapons, droop.

Maybe no one was actually here. Maybe it was just a combination of the wind and my overactive imagination. Hell, maybe Gram and Dad forgot something, and they just popped in to grab it.

I could call them to find out. But I don't dare go downstairs for my phone. Instead, I burrow into the back of my closet, where I've shoved all the clothes I shared with my mom, and I do exactly what I said I wasn't going to do.

I hide.

And I stay that way, knees pulled to my chest, the snow globe in my hands, until my dad and Gram come home four hours later.

“CeCe, may I offer you another serving?” Sam's mom asks the next day. This is basically all she's said to me throughout the meal. How do I like the food, could she pour me more water, would I like to add cheese to my pasta?

“No thanks, Mrs. Davidson. But the eggplant parmesan is delicious.”

And it is, a step above the lasagna I normally cook for my dad. The silver-dollar coins of eggplant are at once crisp and tender. The tomato sauce has been complicated with roasted red peppers, and fresh herbs add a brightness of flavor.

At least, that's what Sam tells me. I can't actually taste any of the food. Since my texter sent that photo of me, everything seems more dull. The grass faded to dying yellow, and the laughter of my classmates at school sounded tinny and far away. It's as if fear has leached out the vibrant centers of my five senses, leaving hollowed outlines with no texture and depth.

I never called the cops. Hell, I didn't even tell my dad. Sometime between that first rush of adrenaline and when Gram banged into the kitchen, triumphant with her winnings, I convinced myself there was nothing to tell.

I can't prove the door wasn't blown open by the wind. In fact, one day later, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what happened. When I casually mentioned the door flying open, Dad admitted that he had forgotten to secure the latch properly. So what's my proof? My gut feelings? That's the last thing the police want to hear about—they've had enough of my dad's intuition to last a lifetime.

“Mom, you should tell CeCe how you learned to ride a motorcycle,” Sam says, interrupting my thoughts.

“Oh, I don't know, honey.” She plays with the zipper that slashes across her jacket and smiles wanly, as if Sam's talking about a person she can't recall, or worse, someone she never knew at all. “It was so long ago.”

She's shut down all of his overtures in the same way. “Remember the time you served us balsamic vinegar and we thought it was motorcycle oil?” he asked at one point. And then, five minutes later: “My mom's the best cook. She can't make a dish without a secret ingredient. Go on. Tell CeCe about the orange juice in your red sauce.”

Mrs. Davidson gives vague, non-responsive answers, while I smile and nod and try to think of something to say. Are all dinners with a guy's parents this awkward? Or is it just me? In the end, I settle for shoving forkfuls of eggplant into my mouth.

“My friend Amber says she wants to ride a motorcycle.” Briony looks up from her bright purple phone, where she's been texting nonstop throughout dinner. “But her dad says, no way, José. And Rachel says she'd never get on a bike, even if you paid her.”

“What about your boyfriend?” Sam's tone is both biting and protective. “How does he feel about motorcycles?”

She frowns. “I don't have a boyfriend. You know that. No time. I have to focus on my studies.”

“Really, sweetie?” Mrs. Davidson says, sounding more awake than she has all during dinner. “You've never felt this way before. I mean, you've had boyfriends since the first grade.”

Briony stabs her fork into the eggplant. “People change, Mom.”

“You mean circumstances change.” Mrs. Davidson stands, her face as pale as the uncooked noodles left on the counter. “Parents who were supposed to set a good example show you how messed up a marriage can be. I tried my best.” She walks out of the room, and her words float back to us, strangely disembodied. “But sometimes your best isn't good enough.”

Her footsteps pad away, and Sam scowls. “Good going, Bri. Now, she thinks whatever's going on is her fault. When, really, you just don't want to tell us about your guy.”

“That's stupid,” Briony protests. “It has nothing to do with her.”

“Oh, yeah? Then tell us about your boyfriend.”

She drums her nails against her phone. “You wouldn't understand.”

“I've always understood before.” His voice is soft now, and it makes me want to gather him in my arms. “Since when do you keep secrets from me?”

“This is different,” she says. “My love with this man, it's on a different plane. It's above and beyond what is felt on this world, so there's no need to share it with anyone else.”

Sam glances at me and mouths, “Who talks like that?”

“I saw that.” She shoves her chair back. “Like I said, I don't expect you to understand. I'm going to talk to Mom before she does something desperate, like put on a nightgown.”

She stalks out of the room, and Sam sighs. “When Mom puts on her nightgown, she drifts around the house for days, like she put down her identity somewhere and can't find it again,” he tells me. “The only time she seems remotely like her old self is when she's wearing black leather.”

We move the pile of dirty plates to the sink in the kitchen, and I begin to rinse them. Sam hovers by my side so that he can load the dishwasher.

This is my opening. The first time we've been alone since the incident. Hesitantly, I tell him about the photo my texter sent. About the possibility—however remote—that the texter was actually inside my house. Even if my overzealous imagination certifies me as insane, at least one other person has to know. My dad doesn't need any more worries, and Gram's preoccupied with her upcoming trip to Vegas. By process of easy elimination, it has to be Sam.

When I finish, Sam grips my arm and turns me from the sink. “But no one was actually there? You weren't in any danger?”

I dry my palms against my jeans, not looking at him. “I don't think so. Like I said, I think it was just my imagination.”

“We should go to the police,” he says.

“No way.” I back away, so that his hand drops from my arm. “Uh-uh. I don't want to involve the police.”

“Why not?” Three creases appear on his forehead. He doesn't get it, and I don't blame him. If his mother were willing to call the cops, they could be rid of his dad, once and for all.

But I have experiences, too. Of the detective who put a cup of hot chocolate in my hands and pretended to be my friend. Of her partner, who proceeded to destroy me with questions designed to expose my mother as a pedophile.

Have I ever seen my mother naked? Did my mother and I ever sleep in the same bed? Did she ever touch me inappropriately? Was I sure? (Because, you know, it's perfectly okay to be honest.) Did she spend a lot of time with her male students? Did she give special tutoring sessions? Was she overly interested in my friends? Did she encourage me to bring them home? Did she talk to me or them about topics of a sexual nature?

And on and on and on.

It didn't matter how I answered. They didn't care how many times I shouted, “No!” Every bit of information was twisted to support the profile of my mom on which they'd already decided.

And the same thing will happen if I go to them now.

“No police. Not until we know this is more than Justin Blake trying to exact revenge.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I know these stupid pranks aren't right, but if we go to the cops, he'll make my life even more miserable than it already is.”

He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. “Okay, fine. But if this texter continues to bother you, we call them. Deal?”

“Deal.” I pick up a dirty dish to rinse, desperate to change the subject. “Did you hear how Briony referred to her boyfriend as a ‘man'?”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “Do you think that means she's dating an older guy? An adult?”

“Not necessarily. Briony's sixteen, right? He could be seventeen, eighteen. Older than her, but not a grown-up.”

But the words sound forced, even to me. Because Lil from the hotline was also involved with an older guy. And my mother wrote the words, “It's happened again.”

Could it be happening now? To Briony? What are the chances?

Sam squints at a bowl and then sticks it back under the running water to get the rest of the soap bubbles off. “What if she's dating a teacher? Someone like Mr. Swift?”

I almost drop my plate. “Why do you mention him?” I can still see his sympathetic smile from yesterday. And I squirm once again at the thought of my teachers seeing my “topless” photo.

“Ms. Hughes told me he asked the yearbook staff for all the students' photos, for a special project. The project never materialized.” He shrugs. “Could be totally innocent. But I thought it was a weird coincidence, since your harasser used your yearbook picture to put on the Photoshopped image.”

“Yeah.” My mind whirls. “There's twenty or thirty students on the yearbook staff. Anyone could've had access to that picture. How'd you get the info out of Ms. Hughes, anyhow?”

“First thing my editor told me. Make friends with the front office. They know everything.”

I rinse the last of the silverware and dry my hands, and we move back to the dining room.

“Would you talk to Briony?” He picks up his sister's purple phone from the dining table, enters a few numbers, and begins to scroll through it. I'm not surprised he knows her security code. More evidence of their closeness as brother and sister. “I know she's hiding something about her boyfriend. Maybe she'll talk to you.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “I don't get involved. That's my rule for this year. I mind my own business, keep a low profile, and nobody has any reason to single me out.”

“I think this will change your mind.” He holds out the phone to me, his face as pale as his mother's.

I refuse to take it. “We shouldn't be looking at her phone. It's not our business.”

“Normally, I'd agree with you. But not today.” His eyes flash through his glasses, bigger, sharper, more magnified. “She's got a text from an email address. The address is just a bunch of random characters, and there's no other identifying information. But whoever he is, he wants her to send him a photo of herself.” He stops. The air feels heavy like it's stuffed with the significance of the moment. “A topless photo.”