I nodded, mute, while Detective Martinez walked Dru through the front door. I raced to the window and watched as they walked through the complex toward the parking lot. A few of Peyton’s neighbors had gathered on their balconies to watch. “Drama whores!” I shouted at the window, but none of them heard me.
The apartment seemed even emptier now that Dru was no longer in it. And since I had seen that Gibson Talley definitely didn’t live here, I didn’t really have any reason to keep searching. Going through Peyton’s designer clothes only made me feel like a creepy snoop. Not to mention it reminded me of all the reasons why someone could hate Peyton Hollis, including me.
I walked back to the bedroom to retrieve my boots, which lay unzipped and collapsed like a monster with its belly flayed, next to the bed. I could still smell Dru in here. I wondered if I would be another number on his list of conquests. I wondered if I’d see him again, and, if I did, what would happen. Most of all, I wondered if he was guilty.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stuffed my feet into my boots, then bent to zip them. My eye caught a flyer lying halfway under the bed. I pulled it out.
Junk. The kind of crap somebody handed you as you walked by a strip club. It was advertising someplace called Hollywood Dreams Ranch, an instant scandalous glittery, shimmery lilac connection. There was an expensive-looking, leggy blonde in a plunging neckline promising an evening with an escort to “rival even the most luxurious of dreams.” Gag.
I dropped it back on the floor and went back to zipping, but the flyer turned over as it fluttered to the carpet. I stopped, mid-zip. Peyton had written something on the other side.
I picked it up and studied her handwriting, trying to concentrate on just the words and numbers.
There was an address that I didn’t recognize, followed by a time—11:00.
And then, in the lower left-hand corner, a doodle. A simple drawing of a sun, just a circle with lines coming off it, sunglasses and a big smile plastered across it—the kind of picture a kid might draw. Or someone who was doodling while on the phone. Above the sun, she had written, in whimsical letters, Mr. Golden Sun. Golden was underlined three times.
I squinted at the word. I especially hated reading color words, because the color never matched the word, and it was confusing. Golden wasn’t golden to me. It was—
I sat up straight. I had had this thought before, not that long ago.
I racked my brain, trying to remember when. So much had happened recently, everything was starting to meld together.
Maybe it was something on Peyton’s Facebook page. Or something Martinez had said. Or maybe . . .
The photo. Yes, I had thought it while looking at Peyton’s photos on Aesthetishare. The ominous one, the one with her address graffitied above an ad for these apartments. She’d titled it.
Fear Is Golden.
And I’d had the thought that it wasn’t. Fear was bumpy gray and black, like asphalt, but the only person who would know that was me.
Forgetting my partially unzipped boot, I stood up, like someone had zapped me with electricity.
I avoided color words. I despised them. They were confusing and distracting, and I would never say something like “the sky is blue” because sky was definitely white, or “grass is green,” because green didn’t really describe the word grass specifically. No synesthete would ever utter a sentence like “Fear is golden,” because that lie would be so frustrating.
Unless, of course, to them, fear really was golden.
I stopped in my tracks and stared down at the flyer.
Mr. Golden Sun.
It was a message. Fear Is Golden; Mr. Golden Sun. Two sentences, using that same color word. My heart pounded in my chest like I was running a marathon. If I was reading this correctly, then whatever was going down at that address at eleven o’clock had Peyton afraid. But was I reading it correctly, or was I reading into it as a synesthete?
A synesthete would use a sentence like that if they were actually describing the color of a word. Sadness is brown. Cheating is turquoise. Fear is golden.
Live in Color. A neck tattoo, with a black-and-gray rainbow, and words, also inked in black and gray.
But they were beautiful, colorful words to someone like me.
Jesus.
Was Peyton Hollis a synesthete?
I paced through the apartment, looking for more clues. More words that might stand out. I found none. In fact, I found almost no words, no letters or numbers at all. Which was as much of a sign as anything.
If Peyton was a synesthete . . . was that why she had my number in her phone? Was she reaching out to me because she knew I suffered the same color issues she did? But how? Nobody knew about my synesthesia. Nobody.
Yet it made so much sense. And I couldn’t explain it any more than I could explain how I knew that the 412 graffiti meant Peyton lived in this apartment.
Peyton Hollis had synesthesia. Somehow she’d found out that I did, too. She must have known someone was trying to hurt her.
And she left me clues.
Peyton Hollis wanted me to find her attacker.
9
I RACED BACK to Peyton’s bedroom and quickly rifled through her dresser drawers. Nothing. I checked under the bed again. Nothing. I went back to the closet, felt along the top shelf, pawed through each and every shirt and dress and pair of pants. Nothing. It was as if she’d left her apartment purposely bare. Or as if she didn’t expect to be here long.
After a quick check through the bathroom and kitchen, I went back to the bedroom closet and opened the front pocket of the suitcase. I pulled out the photos I’d found there before and shoved them in my back pocket. I didn’t know if they would offer any clues, but they were all I had to go on.
Dru had left Peyton’s keys on the kitchen counter, and I grabbed those, too, on my way out. I needed to go back to the hospital. I needed to find out if she had more tattoos, or something in her clothes, or . . . or just something. And I definitely needed to get out of there before the police came to search her apartment, now that they knew where it was.
I stopped to zip my boot the rest of the way, then hurried outside, locked Peyton’s apartment, and walked down the sidewalk. I tried not to notice Dru’s Spyder still sitting next to my car as I headed toward the lot. Just looking at his car now gave me a queasy, unsure feeling.
Instead, I concentrated on shoving Peyton’s keys and the flyer into my jacket pocket, barely paying attention to where I was going until I almost tripped over the woman with the dog.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, stumbling to keep from plowing into her. I veered off the sidewalk to edge around her as she pulled letters out of a mailbox.
“No problem,” she said. “Not like I’m dying to get to these bills anyway.” She chuckled, a rattling smoker’s laugh, and I smiled and made agreeing noises as I kept walking.
And then, ten steps away, it dawned on me.
Mailboxes.
I hurried around a corner, hoping it wasn’t the direction she was going to be headed, and pressed my back against the wall between the corner and a window. I leaned forward and peered toward where I’d just been. She was still standing there, pulling out letters with one hand while juggling the dog with the other.
Of course. Mailboxes. How easy.
I waited there, flattening myself as she came back toward the buildings, prepared to bolt if she came my way, but fortunately she turned and disappeared inside an apartment in another building, talking to her dog all the while.
I waited a while longer, listening for every rogue sound I could pick up, my muscles twitching, my breath sounding exceedingly loud, firecracker gold—the color of adrenaline—popping in my peripheral vision. Twice I thought I heard someone coming up from behind, and I instantly tensed, but twice there was nothing there. Once, police sirens had me sure that they were racing to Peyton’s apartment to search and arrest me for taking things, but of course, that was my own paranoia getting to me. The sirens passed on by, hur
rying to someone else’s emergency. The Fountain View courtyard was as still as a cemetery.
Finally, I figured it was as clear as it was ever going to be, and I slipped out from behind the building, hurrying toward the mailboxes, walking as lightly on my feet as I could. Be cool, Nikki. For all anyone knows, you’re a new girl here checking out your own mail. I took a deep breath, relaxed, and slowed my walk to something more nonchalant.
Not all the mailboxes were labeled. Peyton’s box —412—was only marked in silver, brown, pink numbers, which, of course, I expected. The ones that were tagged were a mix of terrible handwriting, their letters jumping out at me in confusing hits and misses as I tried to figure out what they were.
P. Simms
Hanson
K Abendroth
Daniel Cattaneo
I ran my fingers along the names to steady the colors, a trick I had learned sometimes worked in English class. I blew a puff of air out, about to give up, when I finally saw it.
VF c/o Talley
Gibson’s apartment.
Underneath the name were three numbers, 503. White, black, purple. Easy to remember.
I was so pumped about finding his place—and knowing that I was right . . . well, technically, Jones was right, but I’d been right to go with my gut—it was hard to look casual as I hurried back down the sidewalk. I would feel much more at ease once I got close to the shadows of the buildings.
I stopped when I neared Peyton’s apartment and diverted to the left. Peyton’s number was 412, so I guessed the 500s building to be next door. It took me only a moment of searching to realize that Gibson’s apartment was on the second floor. I hiked up the outside steps, found the door, and before I could even think about what I was doing, swallowed the lump in my throat and knocked softly. White, black, purple blinked at me amid the scratches and dents and the one Viral Fanfare poster that clung to the outside of the door.
I waited. Nothing. I knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing. I tried the handle. Locked.
Shit.
I knew a lot of things. I knew how to find pressure points that would take an attacker to his knees. I knew how to get out of a wrist grab. I knew that the word danger was, oddly, kind of sparkly and white when you would totally think it would be flashing red or something. I knew how to break a knee with just one kick.
But I definitely didn’t know how to pick locks.
I stood and gazed at Gibson’s door for what seemed like forever, as if staring at it would suddenly make it open. In the meantime, I heard someone either coming out of or going into an apartment downstairs. I had to do something. I couldn’t just hang around here all day.
“It can’t be that hard, can it?” I whispered to myself.
I had a penknife in my car—a gift from Jones when I’d passed my black belt test. I’d kept it in the glove box, thinking I would never use it, but I hurried out, grabbed it, then came back and knelt in front of Gibson Talley’s door. Now I looked really suspicious, so I knew I had to hurry, which made my hands shaky and clumsy.
“Come on,” I whispered to myself as I jiggled and straightened the knife around in the keyhole. “Come on.”
But nothing.
After ten minutes of trying, I capped the knife with exasperation and crammed it into my pocket, hating that I would have to just go home.
I stared at the door, hoping for one last-ditch bit of inspiration.
It came to me.
Earlier, I’d joked with Dru that I could just kick down Peyton’s door. I didn’t know if I could actually do such a thing, but at the moment it seemed like the only option I had left. I lifted my knee, turned my body, and side-kicked the door, hoping it would pop open without much racket. It shuddered, and I thought maybe I’d heard some wood splinter in the door frame, but it stayed intact, and the noise was definitely of the variety that would tempt nosy neighbors to poke their heads out.
I could have sworn the squeak of a door opening downstairs sounded again. Time to get out of there.
I was three steps away from Gibson’s door when I realized I had Peyton’s keys in my pocket. Dru had tried several before one worked in her door.
It was an outside chance, but . . .
The first one worked. When I heard it hit home, I stopped and stared in disbelief. Who would have guessed? Peyton had a key to Gibson Talley’s apartment. Of course it made sense. But it also meant that I was right—they were close. Very close.
I held my breath while I turned the key and then the doorknob.
Just like Peyton’s had been, Gibson’s apartment was dark and shadowy, with thick curtains drawn across the window. But unlike Peyton’s, Gibson’s apartment was filled with crap. Papers and magazines and mail and clothes and tons of used Solo cups. Filled ashtrays and piles of trash and dirty dishes and musical instruments. A scraggly cat came out of nowhere and mewed at me, causing me to jump half out of my skin. In the quiet apartment, his meow sounded like a roar.
“Hey, kitty,” I said, squatting and holding out my hand, but the cat hissed and ran away, ducking behind a half-broken table in the kitchen area. I stood, closed the door behind me, and tried to figure out where I would look first.
What was I even looking for? I had no idea.
I started by listlessly pawing through some of his mail, but found nothing but junk and letters from what looked like bill collectors. I drifted through the kitchen, looking for a cell phone or a whiteboard or . . . anything. But there was nothing. The cat came out again, this time close enough to rub across my leg one time before scurrying away.
I went back into the living room and sat on the very edge of the futon that served as half couch, half garbage can. I tried to imagine Peyton feeling at home here and couldn’t do it. This was so far and away different from Hollis Mansion it had to feel like a whole other life to her.
Or maybe that was what made her comfortable here.
Must get to the bottom of things. Family.
On the floor, tucked most of the way under the coffee table, was an ashtray, filled with cigarette butts and blunts. I scooted it with my foot and saw a notebook underneath it. Curious, I picked up the notebook, holding it close to my face to read it in the dim light.
The first page was filled with what looked like more song lyrics, similar to the ones in the notebook I’d found in Peyton’s apartment. I wished I had taken hers with me, for comparison. But in this book, most of the words were scribbled over and rewritten. I tried to make them out, but the handwriting was so bad, and the light so dim, I could only decipher the occasional word. Trees. Cocaine. Steps. Love. Laying there. Half the words misspelled. From the looks of things, whoever had written this was not comfortable doing so.
I flipped back several pages—more and more lyrics, more and more scratch-outs. Nothing useful. Nothing to do with Peyton. I started to put the notebook back where I’d found it and a business card fell out, landing in the ashtray. I picked it up.
Leo Powers
Producer
(323) 555-0140
I turned the card over, but there was nothing written on the back side. I turned it over again and studied it. One corner had an outline of a pair of headphones. Could this possibly have something to do with Peyton? Probably not. Probably Gibson had picked up a card from someone and stuck it in the notebook, forgetting about it, and it had nothing at all to do with her. But then again, Bill Hollis was a producer. Could that be a connection?
I was still deep in thought when I heard thumping. It took me a minute to place what the sound was. It was almost to the front door before I realized it was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs outside, voices trailing the steps.
My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape route. There was no way out but the front door, which was now rattling with someone turning the doorknob.
Shit.
I jumped up, accidentally upending the ashtray with my foot. The notebook fell to the floor on top of the spilled ashes, and I shoved the business
card that I’d found into my back pocket. I raced toward the darkened hallway, nearly tripping over the cat, toward what I assumed was the bedroom. I was barely out of sight before the door opened and the voices were in the apartment.
“. . . all those songs will go with her,” one voice said. “Some of them are half mine, but she’s the one listed as the writer. Her fucking dad insisted.”
“Can you sue for them?” the other said. “You were there. You cowrote them. You’d think you’d have some rights, you know?”
“Hell if I know. I’d have to get a lawyer, and I ain’t got money for that shit. Guess we’ll find out, though, won’t we? We are hosed without that music. I can’t write without her. And you and Vee suck at writing. Might as well give up. Fucking Peyton. If she hadn’t just been such a bitch about everything . . .”
My ears perked at the mention of her name, as I slipped through the first doorway on my right. It was a bedroom, as filthy and cluttered as the living room, but with an underlying smell of body odor and pot. I wrinkled my nose, my heart pounding in my chest.
“So what about the meeting?”
“We go. We don’t need her. Or her dad.”
There was the noise of someone dropping keys on a table. Someone—I was guessing Gibson—asked the other if he wanted a beer, and then there was the sound of cans popping. I crept across the room, fumbling for an idea. I couldn’t stay here forever, but it was sounding like these two were settling in.
There was what looked like a door or window on the other side of the room, the light blocked out by a comforter pinned across the top of it. I remembered the balconies I’d seen from the outside—the ones I’d thought looked like teeth—and headed for it, praying I’d find a balcony on the other side of the blanket.
“Dude, are these your lyrics?” one of the voices asked, giving me pause.
“What are those doing there? And what the hell happened with this? Fucking cat,” the other voice answered.