“Joanna, this is gorgeous,” Jonathan told Mom, carving away. “And so was last night’s dinner. But, honey, we can hire a cook. Or have Rosa come in more often and handle the kitchen cleanup.”
Mom blushed. “I don’t mind. I like cooking. I even enjoy doing the dishes.”
I hadn’t thought anything could distract me from my self-pity party, but Mom’s words hit me like a freight train.
Until my mother had somehow captivated Jonathan with her suburban-mom wiles the previous summer, she’d been the Media Relations Coordinator for Joffrey, Connecticut. She got to interact with film crews who wanted to shoot in our town (hence aforementioned captivation of Hollywood director). She even had a weekly radio show, chatting with cantankerous Joffreyites about their grievances — Talk of the Town with Joanna Cresky. She was good at her job. She loved it.
Now she loved doing the dishes?
Since the wedding, all she seemed to care about was making sure things were convenient for Jonathan — that we weren’t too intrusive; that we were on our best behavior, always.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Jonathan said.
My mother smiled a non-smile. And my stepfather, who had apparently married her without knowing any of the important things about her, smiled back.
I studied my fork for a few seconds, then looked up at Mom, who was carefully spooning roasted carrots onto Jonathan’s plate.
On the wall behind her, in jagged letters about a foot tall, were the words:
THIS IS THE KIND OF DREAM YOU DON’T WAKE UP FROM, HENRY
The letters were black and gooey-looking, like fresh paint or tar or oil. And as I stared, more writing appeared, underneath the sentence:
818
I blinked and closed my eyes and shook my head.
“Would you like carrots, Willa?” Mom asked. Her voice buzzed in my head. “There are also dinner rolls.”
I tried not to look at the letters and numbers, but I couldn’t stop myself. The words were still there, circling all four walls of the room. And then the numbers began appearing again and again — 818 818 818 818 818 818 — in fast, reckless strokes.
It’s a hallucination, I told myself. Just another stupid hallucination.
“Willa?” Mom leaned across the table and reached out as if to touch my arm.
I dropped my fork with a clatter and jumped away from her. I don’t know why. I suppose part of me was afraid that if she touched me, she would be able to tell that something was wrong.
“Honey, what’s going on?” Mom asked.
I waited for her to add, Where did those numbers come from?
But instead, she said, “Why are you acting so … so frightened?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I guess when something seems so incredibly real, no matter how improbable, your brain fights to believe you’re not crazy. That it’s really happening.
But Mom and Jonathan didn’t see the writing.
So I was crazy.
“I’m fine,” I said. I forced a cough. “I swallowed something wrong, that’s all. Had to wait for it to go down.”
“Goodness, you scared me,” Mom said.
“Jo, she’s fine,” Jonathan said. “Let’s all eat.”
So we ate. I mindlessly chewed and swallowed carrots and chicken and a dinner roll while trying to ignore the fact that the walls were covered in words and numbers that only I could see.
By the time the meal was over, the writing had faded to a few pale gray streaks.
I started to carry my dishes to the kitchen, but my mother took them from me. “You go upstairs and rest,” she said. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
I had a headache like a bass drum. “Mom, I’m totally fine.”
But she sent me upstairs anyway, so I went.
“Feel better,” Jonathan called after me.
Wyatt was right. I was a huge liar. But what was I going to do — tell them the truth?
The body in the pool. The force that held me down. The waking dreams. The voices. The overflowing tub.
How long was I going to ignore the writing on the wall?
Especially now that there was literally writing on the wall?
I guess you could call me a fool for taking so long to connect the various incidents to each other. Although, in fact, nothing actually did connect them. What could a dead body in the pool have to do with the name “Henry”? How did the number 818 fit together with an overflowing bathtub?
I had a list of unexplainable events. What I didn’t have was the tiniest hint of a suspicion about their origins.
Well … I might have had the tiniest hint.
Jonathan had said that the movie star Diana Del Mar died in this house.
No, Willa. Don’t even go there.
The food I’d forced myself to eat was churning in my stomach, and my headache was making my vision fuzzy. I stumbled and knocked into the corner of my desk, sending a stack of papers and binders to the floor.
Kneeling to clean up the mess, I noticed that one of the notebooks had fallen open. Wyatt’s notebook.
I glanced at the page just before I closed it, and in that millisecond, the words burned into my eyes. I gasped and then pawed through the pages, looking for what I’d seen — not even totally sure I’d really seen anything. Maybe I was hallucinating again. Maybe I misread.
But then I found the list, written in Wyatt’s impeccable, unmistakable print:
WATER (BATHTUB/POOL)
ROSES
NECKLACE (ALSO ROSE)
HENRY
Wyatt didn’t notice me waiting by his locker until he was only a few feet away. By then I was holding the notebook in front of me, cradled against my chest.
“You were right,” I said. “I’ve had it for a week. I tried to give it back right away, but you were such a jerk that I changed my mind.”
His mouth hung open slightly.
Full speed ahead. “I have some questions for you. About something you wrote.”
Wyatt adjusted his glasses. “I don’t want to discuss it in public.”
“Why?” I said. “Because you’re the murderer?”
His face twisted in disbelief. I half expected him to snatch the notebook out of my hands. Instead, he just glared at me, his eyebrows furrowed, and said “Seriously?” in a supremely annoyed voice.
“If you’re not the murderer,” I said, “why do you have so much information about the killings?”
He glanced around, but we were the only people in a thirty-foot radius. “Are you kidding? You think I’m the Hollywood Killer?”
“No,” I said quickly, biting my lip. Backpedaling. “Of course not.”
“You’re lying again,” Wyatt said.
A frustration bomb went off in my head. I gripped the notebook so hard that the metal spiral dug into my skin.
“Why do you say things like that?” I said. “Don’t you realize how uncomfortable it makes people? I mean, really, no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
He snorted. “I make people uncomfortable? You just accused me of being a murderer!”
Okay, well. Maybe that was a fair point.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “But this —” I held the notebook out again, and this time he took it.
“Not here,” he said quietly. “We should talk someplace more private.”
“I don’t understand.”
He gave me a level, appraising look. “You haven’t made a lot of friends yet, have you?”
There was no point in lying just to save my wounded pride, so I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, “if you ever want to make friends at Langhorn, you should try not to be seen with me.”
I didn’t have the energy to protest. “All right. Where can we talk?”
“The library,” he said. “After Chemistry.”
“Fine.”
He nodded briskly. “See you then.”
I found Wyatt in the far back corner of the library, well clear of
the circulation desk and the handful of students studying at the tables near the door. He was already leaned over, absorbed in his notebook. When he noticed me, he sat up and closed it automatically. I dropped my backpack and sank to the floor beside him.
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “What did you want to talk about?”
First things first. “Why are you still investigating the murders?” I asked. “Your project’s been done for months. Don’t you think the police can solve them?”
He sat back, looking offended. “I didn’t come here to defend myself.”
“I’m not attacking you,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out what kind of person is so completely obsessed with someone else’s crimes.”
He looked up, his brown eyes walking the line between insulted and amused. “Me,” he said. “My kind. Now, did you have real questions or are you just trying to psychoanalyze me?”
I held out my hand. “Can I see the notebook?”
He hesitated for a second before handing it over. I began looking for the page I’d seen last night.
“If you’re worried about the killer,” Wyatt said, “I think you should know that you’re not his type.”
I let the pages slip between my fingers and looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
“In the first place, you’re not an actress, are you?”
“Not remotely.”
“Then you’re off his radar. He exclusively targets young female actresses with a specific body type, an isolated home life —”
“Thanks for your concern,” I said, “but I’m not worried about myself. What I want to know about is this.”
I held up the page so he could read it:
WATER (BATHTUB/POOL)
ROSES
NECKLACE (ALSO ROSE)
HENRY
“What does this mean?” I asked. “How do these things tie into the murders?”
He stared at the writing and seemed to choose his words carefully. “They don’t.”
“Obviously they do,” I said, “or they wouldn’t be in here. Don’t tell me this is a shopping list.”
“It’s information,” Wyatt said, frowning and pulling the notebook from my hands, “but not real information. Yes, it’s connected to the investigation of the murders, but it’s just speculation from a highly unreliable source.”
“What source?” I asked.
He flipped back a page. “Leyta Fitzgeorge,” he read out loud, a sarcastic flourish in his voice. “Psychic to the Stars.”
I stared at the page he was looking at. He had actually written out Psychic to the Stars under her name.
“Leyta Fitzgeorge submitted those words to the police with a suggestion that they would help solve the murders,” he explained. “But they’re meaningless.”
They had meaning for me. And for a second, I thought about telling him as much — relaying my stories about the pool, the writing on the wall, the name “Henry.” But then I remembered that this was Wyatt Sheppard I was dealing with. I wasn’t eager to draw any more of his scorn.
Finally, I asked, “What does the number eight-one-eight mean?”
“It’s one of the LA area codes. For the Valley.” Wyatt watched me intently. “It seems like there’s some major thing you’re not sharing.”
“Do you know anything about Diana Del Mar,” I asked, “aside from where her house is?”
Wyatt sat back, thinking. “She starred in movie musicals, right? Did she date Howard Hughes? No, that was what’s-her-face. Why? What about her?”
An idea popped into my head. “The movies the serial killers used to pose his victims — were any of them Diana Del Mar movies?”
He shook his head. “Nope. She was long dead by the time any of them were released.”
Another question occurred to me. “What did you mean before, when you said I shouldn’t be seen talking to you if I want to make friends?”
He glanced down. “Nothing specific.”
“Now you’re lying,” I said.
“I’m not lying,” he said. “I’m just not going to provide you with the sordid level of detail you seem to be craving. If you want stories, you can get them from Marnie.”
“Marnie has stories about you?” I asked.
He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at me, his brown eyes a little distant and sad. Then he blinked the mood away. “No doubt she does. Are we done? Because —”
“Almost,” I said. “Can I ask a question that’s not about the murders? Or Marnie?”
He nodded, a little wary.
“What did you mean at my house when you said I lie about everything?”
He shook his head. “That was out of line. I apologize.”
“But you were right,” I said, feeling a sudden heat in my chest. “How could you tell?”
He took a second to study me before answering. “Your body language is closed off. See how you lean back, cross your arms? You never maintain eye contact. And the touching, like I said — your face and neck. Covering your mouth.”
I nodded, letting it all sink in.
“I didn’t mean you tell actual lies.” His voice was lower, almost gentle. “More like omissions — like you’re shut off from people on some fundamental level.”
Ah, yes. Where had I heard that before? A memory of my last talk with Aiden flashed painfully through my mind. “And you’re not?” I said.
“Is this about me now? I am who I am. People can take me or leave me. I have nothing to hide.” He wrote something in his notebook, and then tore off the sheet and handed it to me. “If you need to talk — I mean, if you have more questions — you can text me. Here’s my number.”
I pocketed the piece of paper. “One more thing?”
He narrowed his eyes. “If I can ask you something, too.”
“Fine,” I said. “What are you after? What’s your endgame? At what point are you going to say you’ve done enough — when they catch him?”
“Maybe,” Wyatt said. “Or maybe it’s more like … Have you ever walked into a room, and you know something’s different? Like your little brother’s been messing with your stuff and tried to cover it up but you can tell?”
I shook my head. “I’m an only child.”
Wyatt gave me a look. “I am, too. It was a metaphor. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re missing something you shouldn’t be missing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I feel that way all the time.”
“That’s how I feel about these murders. Like we’re all missing something. There’s some piece of the puzzle we haven’t found yet. So I don’t know if it’s catching the killer I’m after … or just figuring out what’s off. Making it easier for someone else to catch him.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“My turn, right?”
I looked at the carpet and waited.
“What is it?” he asked. “What you’re afraid of? The thing you hide.” His voice was low and had a note of compassion in it that made me want to shove him.
Tears sprang to my eyes, and I reached up to swipe them away. “I don’t think that’s a fair use of your question.”
“It’s being angry, isn’t it?”
I stared at him in shock. I didn’t need to answer, because the look on my face was all the confirmation a person could ask for.
“I can tell…. I mean, I make people angry on a pretty regular basis,” he said, giving me a self-conscious smile. “Apparently I come across as a little abrasive sometimes. But with you, I’ve said things that make you mad on some caveman level, but it’s like … the emotion dies inside you. Without ever coming out.”
I hardly dared speak, for fear of how my voice would sound. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It can’t be healthy.”
“Lots of things aren’t healthy,” I snapped. “We do them anyway. Like devoting our lives to studying a serial killer. I have to go.”
I stood up and grabbed my backpack, then t
urned to leave.
Wyatt’s soft voice stopped me. “But why? What’s the worst that could happen if you let yourself get angry?”
I turned around and stared into his eyes. You want eye contact, Wyatt? Here’s your eye contact. “The worst that could happen is that someone else could die.”
When I got home, Reed was sitting in Jonathan’s office with the door open. He looked up and waved as I walked to my room.
I got the feeling that he wanted me to go in and talk to him, but I needed a few minutes to myself. I’d spent the drive home deflecting a barrage of Mom-questions, and I hadn’t had a chance to process my conversation with Wyatt, especially the things he’d said at the end — things he had no right to even think about, much less say to me.
Instead I focused on the reason we’d talked in the first place: the list of items that he insisted were worthless, because they came from an “unreliable source.” But that list was proof that my experiences weren’t just the results of my overtaxed mind finally breaking down completely. Someone else knew, somehow, that those things fit together.
And that someone just happened to be a woman who billed herself as the Psychic to the Stars. I sat down with my laptop and Googled the name Leyta Fitzgeorge. A cookie-cutter website popped up.
Her number was listed, but I stopped short of calling her. Reaching out to Leyta Fitzgeorge might seem like the next logical step, but my most pressing goal was to clear away the drama in my life, and getting in touch with a psychic was a pretty obvious move in the opposite direction. So I set my phone on my desk. Maybe I’d call her later.
I changed from my uniform into slim-fitting jeans and a teal V-neck T-shirt that brought out the blue in my eyes, telling myself that this extra bit of care with my appearance had absolutely nothing to do with Reed’s presence at the house. It didn’t matter anyway, because when I went into the hall, there was no sign of him in Jonathan’s office.
As I went downstairs, I could hear him talking to Mom in the kitchen.
“And anything that could be considered office supplies — printer ink or pens or stationery — I can arrange to have delivered from the studio. Just drop me a text or an email the day before you need them, and I’ll take care of everything.”