“Two years ago,” I said, taking a bite of pad Thai. “Freshman year, before I knew better. And the general consensus was that I made a very poor angry man. Mom, it’s not about people who happen to have been in a school play.”
“How could you know that? Who knows what goes on inside the mind of a killer?”
Jonathan sighed. “I’m sure Willa will take care to avoid any circumstance where she could be mistaken for an actress.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Don’t tease,” Mom said.
Jonathan patted my mother’s hand reassuringly. “The last murder was five months ago. Well, until today. There have only been four, total. Even if Willa were an actress, the odds are astronomically small that anything would happen to her.”
“But it’s cool,” I said. “Because I’m not an actress. And I never will be one.”
“Promise?” she said, smiling a little.
I held up my right hand, like I was swearing an oath. “I hereby promise that I will never be an actress.”
“Very wise,” Jonathan said, nodding. “Acting is a hard life, even when you’re successful. Maybe especially when you’re successful.”
“Willa might be a writer,” Mom said.
Oh, come on. I stuffed another bite of noodles into my mouth and looked away.
“Really?” Jonathan said. “What do you write?”
“Nothing, actually,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
“She used to write a lot.”
“That’s in the past,” I said. “Writing is for people who have something to say.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, looking hurt. “You have so much to say. What’s inside you is so …”
Um, no. I turned to Jonathan, eager to change the subject to something less depressing than my mother’s useless hopes for my future. “Hey, let’s talk more about the murders.”
“Oh, honestly, Willa,” Mom said, seeing right through my plan.
Jonathan sat up straighter. “Well, they’re pretty interesting, actually. Macabre, but interesting. The killer recreates iconic scenes from classic movies. He posed his first victim to mimic the final attack scene from The Birds. Then there was the wheelchair falling down the stairs from Kiss of Death….”
I shivered, trying to picture it. I hadn’t seen either of those movies, but I felt a twinge of morbid curiosity. Maybe that was what made the murderer do such awful things — knowing that people would be so intrigued.
“What do they call the killer?” I asked. “They all have nicknames, right?”
Jonathan looked down at his iPad. “The media’s been using the name ‘the Hollywood Killer.’ ”
I stared down at my glass of water. “How about ‘the Screamwriter’?”
“That’s actually pretty good,” Jonathan said.
“A little over-the-top,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s catchy,” he said.
“Catchy?” I said. “Or gimmicky?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two,” Mom said. “This is not proper dinnertime conversation.”
No, I suppose it wasn’t. But for the first time in a long time, I’d felt normal for a couple of minutes. Of course, what did it say about me that joking about murders made me feel normal?
After we carried our dinner dishes into the kitchen, Jonathan cleared his throat. “So, Willa. I got you something. A welcome-to-California present.”
He set a large, flat box on the kitchen counter. It was wrapped in pearl-white paper with a hot-pink bow.
“You shouldn’t have,” Mom said.
“Really,” I said.
“No, I wanted to.” He rested his hands on the granite countertop. “I know this isn’t an easy transition for you. And I know that I could never replace your father — and I’m not going to try. But I do hope we can be … friends.”
I was speechless, in a horrified sort of way. I’d assumed that everything that needed to be said between us would eventually make its way to the surface. But this grand declaration of friendship? Mentioning my dad? Giving me a present? It seemed like such a cheap, obvious move to buy my goodwill.
Anger flared up inside me, and it took all the self-control I had to stamp it out.
“Yes … friends,” I managed to say. I carefully unwrapped the box, aware that both my mother and Jonathan were watching my reaction with eagle eyes.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Wow.”
“What is it?” Mom asked.
It was … a monstrosity.
It was a backpack, but instead of being made out of regular backpack material — I don’t know, canvas? — it was tan leather, printed with small interlocking G’s. It had a huge green-and-red-striped patch down the pocket, and a giant gold G logo.
“It’s Gucci,” Jonathan said, in the same self-satisfied tone of voice he’d used to brag about the door.
“Gucci,” I said. “Fancy.”
“It’s beautiful.” My mother reached out and touched it with the tips of her fingers, like it was a prize racehorse.
“There’s more.” Jonathan grinned at me and wrapped his arm around Mom’s waist. “Look inside.”
As I drew the zipper pull smoothly along its path (okay, the zipper was excellent quality, I’ll give him that), I was already cringing inwardly at the prospect of what I’d find inside. I pictured a hideous blinged-out watch or a designer fedora or something.
But it was a computer. A beautiful, brushed-metal, razor-thin laptop.
“I thought you could use it for school,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll be really useful.” There was no point acting like this was the greatest gift anyone could have ever given me, because I knew enough about my new stepfather to know that spending fifteen hundred dollars on a computer was no big deal to him.
“Jonathan, you shouldn’t have,” Mom said. “Willa has a laptop.”
“That rickety old one she was using on the plane? The screen’s practically falling off.”
But my dad gave it to me, I didn’t say. My dad, who knew I was desperate for a computer of my own. My dad, who brought his old work laptop home for me when they were upgrading him to a new one. The night he gave it to me there had been joyous squealing and hugs and jumping up and down.
That was nothing like this night.
Jonathan was buying me nice things to keep the peace and make himself feel better about uprooting me. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly kind gesture, but make no mistake — this wasn’t about what I wanted.
Which was fine, because I didn’t want anything.
Nothing money could buy, anyway.
I woke with a start in the middle of the night.
The clock read 3:23, and I had a headache that felt like two sharp electrified sticks were trying to meet in the center of my head. Under my multiple layers of blankets, I was drenched in sweat.
I sat up and pushed off the covers. The room was too bright. I’d forgotten to close my curtains before falling asleep, and the ceiling was awash with rippling moonlight reflected off the surface of the pool outside. But that wasn’t it. There was another source of light….
The candle, flickering away on my nightstand.
Don’t be ridiculous. The candle can’t be lit.
But the candle was totally lit.
I searched for an explanation. Maybe Mom had come in and lit it…. You know, the way every safety-obsessed mother lights candles around the house in the middle of the night. Maybe it was one of those novelty candles that relights itself. Except it was the third one from a three-pack, and neither of the others had ever done anything like this….
Or there had been a trace of a spark burning on it all evening, and then it had gradually reignited itself.
That had to be it. Because any other explanation would be crazy.
And I was so not going to go crazy right now.
But I was unnerved, and a little wired. I wandered to the window, my head suddenly full of the Hollywood Killer and my lam
e new backpack and the earthquake and everything strange about my life now. The strangest thing, by far, being that I was here, in California. Everything I’d ever known was carrying on without me, three thousand miles away, on a completely different part of the continent.
I realized I was staring longingly down at the pool.
I love to swim. Even after what happened with Dad, I still love it. I feel more like myself in the water. It holds you together in a way that air doesn’t.
I found my swimsuit in a box marked SUMMER CLOTHES and grabbed a fluffy towel from the bathroom. I twisted my long hair up into a bun and secured it with two bobby pins.
There was no way Mom and Jonathan would hear me from across the massive house, so I didn’t bother to be particularly quiet as I found my way outside through the doors off the living room.
The temperature was about forty-five degrees, and my skin was instantly blanketed with goose bumps. Under my feet, the patio tiles were so cold they practically burned.
The backyard was amazing, truly befitting a Hollywood legend. Tucked throughout were pristine white loungers and comfy-looking chairs surrounding squat clay chimneys. To my right was a charming little cottage — a guesthouse? — with a miniature front porch and a pair of small windows like curious, watchful eyes. The landscape was shady and rambling and lovely.
But I only had eyes for the pool. It was huge and gorgeous, with gentle curving edges and a rock waterfall, and it glowed an otherworldly pale aqua in the moonlight.
A breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees and sent me hurrying for the water. I figured someone like Jonathan — who was so pool-proud he’d given us a mind-numbing tour of the entire chlorine-free filtration system — had to keep his pool heated, even in March. And I was right — instantly, luxuriant warmth shrouded my body. It drew me down the steps like a siren’s call.
I ducked under, the water covering me in a second skin. For a few minutes, I floated on my back and stared up into the inky night sky, the cold air on my face and the sound of my own breathing echoing in my ears. Then I flipped over and swam as far across the pool as I could without coming up for air. I felt clarified and cleansed, like the tension had been wrung out of me.
I bobbed up at the deep end, taking a big breath. I prepared to plunge under again and swim back to the shallow end. I could almost imagine that I was Diana Del Mar, a movie star, and this house was all mine — no stepfathers or headaches or new school to worry about — just me, beautiful and adored, gliding like a water nymph through my fabulous swimming pool.
Then something brushed my ankle.
I yelped in surprise and spun around, treading water as I searched for whatever had touched me.
Nothing — there was nothing.
It must have been bubbles, a random current — maybe a sunken palm frond.
But then I felt it again.
This time it took hold and pulled me under.
Fear and adrenaline burst through me in a massive, soul-shaking pulse. My heart slammed around in my chest like it was trying to break out of my rib cage.
Then something grabbed my other foot.
For a moment, I didn’t even process it as something that was really happening. Because it couldn’t be happening — it wasn’t happening —
Only it was.
I tried to kick free, but my legs were held fast.
I managed to flail above the surface of the water and gasp in an enormous breath before being yanked back down toward the blue-tiled bottom of the pool.
My brain was on red alert, acting on pure animal instinct.
THIS IS NOT OKAY.
I thrashed and groped at my ankles in an attempt to pry off whatever had wrapped around them. But I couldn’t free myself. In fact, as far as I could see, there was nothing to free myself from — not another person. Not a rope or piece of plastic. Not even a nightmarish monster.
Only the sharp outline of my own body as I flipped and struggled.
I was rapidly running out of air. Panicked, I looked up toward the sky — and saw another person in the water.
For the briefest second I thought it was someone else swimming, and I wondered wildly why they wouldn’t help me.
But then it hit me with ironclad certainty — this person wasn’t swimming.
They were floating.
And it wasn’t a person….
It was a corpse.
I stared in terrified stillness at the body floating overhead like an abandoned ship adrift on a calm sea.
The corpse was female, wearing a knee-length skirt and a gauzy blouse that formed a translucent border around her rib cage, like the body of a jellyfish. She was barefoot, and her hair hovered in a thick halo around her head, silhouetted against the night so that I couldn’t tell what color it was, or how long.
I couldn’t see her face….
I was so glad I couldn’t see her face.
Suddenly, whatever had been holding my ankles let go.
My lungs burned. But as badly as I wanted to reach the surface, I didn’t want to float upward and collide with a dead body. I fought my way toward the shallow end. In what felt like a year but was probably just five seconds, I was finally able to stand up and gulp in air. My eyes locked on the deep end of the pool … which was empty.
Ever so slowly, I forced myself to turn around. Maybe the body had made it across the pool without my knowing it — floating behind me … inches away, about to brush my bare skin with her cold, swollen hands …
Suddenly, something was alive and thrashing next to me. Then I was being grabbed and dragged through the water again. I frantically fought to push away.
“Stay calm!” The voice, deep with authority, echoed off the walls of the courtyard. “I’ve got you, just stay calm!”
Jonathan.
“No! I’m fine — I’m not —” I tried to say, but by then we’d made it to the steps of the pool, and he could see for himself that I was fine.
Well, fine-ish. I’d been better, let’s put it that way.
“Willa!” Mom came running over and reached out for me. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said, staying clear of her arms. “Nothing.”
Jonathan was panting. “We saw you from the window. You were struggling.”
I didn’t know what to say. If I pretended nothing had been wrong, it would be obvious that I was lying. But I couldn’t possibly tell the truth.
“My hair got caught in the filter,” I said without thinking. Then I saw my mother’s gaze land on the tight bun coiled at the top of my head. “I mean, my necklace.”
They both looked at my bare neck.
“I managed to break it, but it got sucked down.” I shrugged. “It’s okay, though. It wasn’t an important necklace.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Mom stepped toward me again.
“Come on,” she said, wrapping the towel around my shoulders and hustling me toward the house. “It’s freezing out here.”
“The water’s pretty warm, actually,” I said. “It’s nice.”
Except for the dead body.
The tiny, crisp buds of the night-blooming jasmine on the trellises framed the entryway like glow-in-the-dark stars. After Jonathan shut the door, we stood in an awkward triangle of silence, still surrounded by the flowers’ dreamy-sweet scent.
I pulled the towel tighter around me. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to clear my head.”
“I hope it worked,” Jonathan said, the tiniest hint of irritation in his voice.
Yeah, well. Not quite.
“Good night,” Mom said, kissing me on the forehead. Then they turned and started down the long hall that went to the master suite, leaving me alone in the darkness.
The next morning, my mother steered Jonathan’s SUV into the parent drop-off lot at my new school, Langhorn Academy.
Back in Connecticut, all the local private schools had ivy-covered brick buildings and manicured grounds. Langhorn — one of the fanciest and most exclusi
ve schools in LA — looked like an industrial office park. It was a collection of boxy concrete buildings set between a tattoo shop and a furniture store that sold chairs shaped like hands.
“Want me to come in with you?” Mom asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. I mean, I didn’t expect to win any popularity contests, but I did have my pride. “The paperwork’s taken care of, right?”
She nodded. “Just go to the office and talk to Mrs. Dunkley. She’ll get you your schedule.”
“Okay. See you later.” I nervously smoothed the hem of my green-and-black-plaid pleated skirt. I still couldn’t believe I had to wear an actual uniform. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to a really stressful costume party.
“Willa,” Mom said, “wait.”
I waited, even though I wanted to get out of the car quite badly.
Was she going to talk about last night? After hours of fitful, restless sleep, I’d managed to convince myself that the dead body I’d seen had been nothing more than a stress-induced hallucination. I wasn’t eager to rehash the incident.
But it wasn’t that. Mom reached sheepishly into her purse. “I got you a present, too. It’s not as nice as Jonathan’s, but …”
Not as nice as the monstrosity currently sitting between my feet, mocking me with its grotesque designer logos?
I took the small, flat package from her. Even before I peeled the wrapping paper off, I knew it was a journal. The cover was caramel-colored leather, and the pages were plain white, unlined. It was a perfectly nice journal … for a person who needs that kind of thing in their life.
“Oh,” I said.
“Listen, I know you don’t think you have anything to write about, but I think if you just let yourself try … Even if it’s just one line every day.”
“It’s great.” I wished I could inject even a hint of sincerity into my words. “Thanks.”
“Don’t do that.” Mom’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t just say ‘great’ when things aren’t great. I’m your mother, Willa. You can say anything to me.”
Anything? Maybe there was a time when I could have told her about trying to communicate with Dad. Maybe I could have told her that the headaches and visions never really went away. Maybe even that I thought I’d seen a corpse. Or that something had held me down in the pool last night.