Then he made his way through the crowd, over to his sister.
“He seems like a good guy,” Aaron said.
I took a deep breath. “That’s still to be determined.”
“So, you sore from the other day?” Aaron asked, taking a sip from his drink.
I frowned in thought. “No, actually. That’s weird.”
I had been exhausted after windsurfing—in a good way—and sure that the muscles I almost never tapped into would be hurting for days to come.
Aaron laughed. “Guess you’re a better athlete than you thought.”
“Apparently,” I said.
“So let’s go out again? Say, Friday morning? I’ll pick you up at your place?” Aaron suggested.
“I’m in,” I said with a smile.
It might be good for me to spend more time with Aaron and less with the locals. So far, he was the least enigmatic person I’d met on this crazy island.
“Hey, check it out,” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “The fog’s coming in again.”
Sure enough, the air outside was swirling, the lights along the bluff winking out one by one. All the partygoers began to gather at the windows to watch, and Aaron tugged me over to join them.
“This is so cool,” someone in the crowd breathed.
“Creepy, you mean,” someone else replied.
“I read this book once where there were monsters living in the mist,” a guy said, putting on an eerie voice. A few of his friends laughed, and we all fell silent, watching the fog envelop the house.
Out of nowhere, I felt a niggling at the back of my neck and I turned around. Krista was slipping out a side door near me, while at the other end of the hallway, Tristan was sliding open the glass door to the patio, holding it for Olive. She smiled up at him as they stepped outside, the gray mist swirling around them. I felt a sudden thump of fear, and opened my mouth to call out to them, but no words came. What would I say? Be careful? Don’t go out there? Tristan lived here. He knew this place and he knew about the fog. He wouldn’t be taking Olive outside if it was dangerous. I hoped.
As everyone else at the party gaped out the front windows, I watched Tristan and Olive walk down the steps, his hand on the small of her back, until they both disappeared into the fog.
The moment he saw a girl, he knew whether or not she was his type. It was not physical. No. Physically, the variety of his conquests was great. So great that all the profilers in Washington and California, in Virginia and D.C., had a difficult time figuring him out. He was certain that, at first, they believed he didn’t have a type. Lacey Turner was, after all, short and fat and blond, while Gigi Abassian was tall and lithe, with dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. Jenna Moskowitz had acne and eczema and braces, while Felicia Renee had modeled for magazines. And then there was Rory Miller. Rory Miller, the plainest of the plain.
Except for the hair. That lovely, delicious hair…
So, no. It was not a physical thing at all. It was internal. Every girl he’d ever chosen was broken. No matter how brave she was or how tall she carried herself or how defiantly she looked at the world. He could spot a broken girl a mile away. It was all in the eyes.
And this one, this friend of Rory Miller’s, she was the most shattered of them all.
As I crested the hill onto Main Street on Thursday morning, I crossed my fingers, hoping the singing boy would be back in his spot, belting out a reggae version of “Sweet Dreams” or something. Hoping I’d imagined what I’d seen at Tristan’s. But he wasn’t. Instead, a young woman in gray yoga pants struck a twisted pose beneath the fireworks banner, lifting her face toward the sun.
My shoulders slumped, and I turned my steps toward the general store. Maybe I’d try the blueberry pancakes Darcy had ordered yesterday. They’d looked amazing. Maybe that would cheer me up and get me ready for this conversation. I wanted to ask Olive what I’d said that had sent her running to the bathroom last night, but I was nervous about bringing it up. Hopefully it was nothing. Hopefully I’d just imagined that, too. As I yanked open the door, I told myself that was the case, just to take the edge off my nerves.
Glancing at the counter, I was relieved to find two unfamiliar waitresses bustling around the coffeemaker. I didn’t want Krista there busting in on our breakfast. I took a seat facing the door so I could see Olive when she came in.
“What can I get you, miss?” an elderly woman in the general store uniform asked, approaching the table.
“Just orange juice for now, please. I’m waiting for a friend,” I told her.
She popped the tip of her pencil against her pad. “You got it!”
I settled into the cushy seat and read over the menu, item by item, just in case there was something better than blueberry pancakes to tempt me. The door opened and I looked up, but it was just one half of the couple we’d seen eating here yesterday, the preppier, blonder half. I watched the door, waiting for his boyfriend to join him, but no one else appeared. The guy moved to the counter and greeted the waitress with a smile, then ordered a cup of coffee and a bagel.
I read over the menu again, word for word. Still no Olive. I checked my watch. She was only seven minutes late. My juice arrived, and I gulped it down, my stomach growling. I read the menu over again. The door opened, and I looked up once more. This time, it was Tristan. He was wearing a damp bathing suit, and his white T-shirt clung to him in wet splotches. His hair was slicked back from his face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and the startling blue of his eyes.
My heart did this odd sort of hopeful-yet-dread-filled somersault as I remembered our conversation last night. I started to open my mouth to say hello, but he took one look at me, turned beet red, and backed out.
That was new. I glanced around, embarrassed, until I realized that no one had even noticed him or his retreat. They’d have no way of knowing I’d been the one to scare him off anyway.
The guy at the counter got his bagel and started to eat. I sipped my juice and tried not to think about how hungry I was. The waitress approached my table and cleared her throat.
“Can I get you anything else, hon?” she asked.
I smiled up at her. “I think I’ll just wait for my friend.” We both looked at my now empty glass. “Can I get a refill, please?” I asked.
“Sure.”
She took my glass and returned with it brimming. “Enjoy!”
I waited another fifteen minutes, wishing I had a cell phone so I could text Olive. Had she forgotten about our breakfast date? Or had I possibly offended her so much last night that she’d simply decided to ditch me? I drained my OJ again. Checked my watch. She was over half an hour late. Clearly she wasn’t coming. Finally, I pushed myself up, fishing a couple of dollars out of my wallet.
“Giving up?” the waitress asked, hovering over me.
“She probably just slept in,” I told her with an awkward smile. “I’m going to go check on her, and hopefully we’ll be back.”
“All right, then,” the waitress said with a pitying smile, like she didn’t believe I’d be back. As I pushed open the door, the bell overhead tinkled and the waitress lifted a hand. “Have a good day!”
I tugged the scrap of paper with the address of Olive’s boardinghouse out of my bag pocket. Twenty-two Freesia Lane, Room 2A. I glanced around, realizing I had no clue where I was going. Then I saw the redheaded guy from Tristan’s party hook a right down the side street with the park. I started after him, figuring I’d ask if he knew the street, and stopped in my tracks. The sign directly over my head read FREESIA LANE. I just hadn’t noticed it before.
“Great. She has to live on the spooky park street,” I said under my breath, shoving the scrap of paper in my pocket.
Swallowing back my nervousness, I turned down the street. Luckily number twenty-two was only a few houses in, a block away from the park. It was a tall, skinny white house that cast a long shadow over the street. Its wrought-iron flower boxes burst with red impatiens. I paused on the sidewalk for a second t
o gather the courage to go inside, hoping she wasn’t trying to avoid me.
I strode up the front walk, the floorboards of the porch creaking beneath my feet. When I tried the door, it swung open easily, the old hinges letting out a high-pitched wail. There was no one in sight, all the lights were off, and there was a distinct chill in the air despite the heat of the day.
My skin tingled and my chest felt tight. I checked over my shoulder, half expecting to see Steven Nell lunging toward me. But all that was there were the silent, lifeless row houses across the street.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside.
“Hello?” I called out. A tall, narrow staircase led up to the second floor, and faded tan-and-green flowered paper lined the walls. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
There was no answer. Somewhere from the depths of the house I heard a humming. The tune was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I licked my lips and swallowed hard. Olive came and went from this house every day. There was nothing to be afraid of. I grasped the chipped handrail and crept slowly up the stairs. After a few steps, I started feeling like I was in the middle of some horror movie and jogged the rest of the way casually, refusing to play the part of the nervous schoolgirl.
The first door on the left had a gold-plated 2A nailed into its center. I held my breath and knocked. The door creaked open half an inch at my touch.
Heart pounding, I peered through the opening. Inside, I could just make out the sleeve of one of Olive’s sweaters, thrown across the bed. Then, I noticed the incessant beeping and pushed the door wide.
Next to her neatly made bed, Olive’s alarm was going off.
“She’s not here.”
I whirled around, my hands flying out to brace against the open doorway. A tiny Chinese woman with white hair and huge eyeglasses stood behind me.
“Who’re you?” I asked.
“Mrs. Chen. I run this place,” she said, gesturing with a huge ring full of keys. “She never came home last night.”
“Oh…okay,” I said.
Then she shook her head and started down the stairs very slowly, her slippers making shushing sounds against the aging wood.
My heartbeat racing wildly, I turned back to Olive’s room. I knew going in was a huge invasion of her privacy, but I rationalized it with the thought that someone should really turn off her alarm before it started to annoy her neighbors. I walked inside and flipped the switch on the clock. Merciful silence.
Olive’s closet door was open and only a few pieces of clothing hung inside. Her guitar leaned against the chair on the other side of the room, and some sheet music was spread out on a low table. Fresh-cut flowers stood on the far windowsill.
A bike bell trilled out on the street, and I turned toward the window closest to me, above the desk. The second I did, a big blackbird took flight from the windowsill, its wings making a racket that sent my heart into my throat.
I leaned both hands into the desk, struggling to get a hold of myself. Clearly, I was on edge if an old lady and a bird could take this much out of me. I breathed in and out, telling myself to chill, but I just couldn’t.
When I lifted my hand, a piece of paper stuck to my palm. It was a pickup ticket for a bike repair, which was supposed to be done today. Beneath it was a piece of old-fashioned pink stationery. At the top, Olive had written the words DEAR MOM. The letter was only half finished.
I paused. I knew what it was, and I wasn’t about to read it.
I turned around and took in the room one more time. The made bed. The strewn clothes. The empty cup on the bedside table. It was eerie. Like someone had frozen Olive’s life in time. Suddenly, a horrible, unsettling feeling took root inside my chest. Something had happened to Olive. Something awful.
And I knew who’d done it.
I ran home so fast anyone who saw me would have thought I was being chased. I felt like I was being chased. Every time I took a turn, I was sure I was about to run headfirst into Steven Nell. Every time I thought about stopping to take a breath, I saw him jumping out from behind a hedge. I couldn’t believe I’d just ignored the warning signs, that I’d chosen to turn a blind eye and pretend to be safe when everything was pointing to the opposite. Steven Nell was here. He was stalking me, taunting me, and now he had Olive. I had to warn Darcy. I had to warn my dad.
I skidded around the corner onto our block and sprinted across the street to our house, my hair sticking to the back of my neck. When I barreled through the front door, my dad and Darcy were both sitting at the kitchen table, eating from ceramic bowls.
“Rory? What’s wrong?” my dad asked, standing. He was wearing his running gear and a baseball cap. Laid out in front of him on the table were stacks of typed pages. I recognized them with a start. Those pages had been laid out on our dining room table my entire childhood, but had disappeared when my mom got sick. It was his novel. He’d stopped working on it years ago. I would have been excited that he was taking it up again, if I wasn’t about to burst with terror.
“He’s here!” I gasped, staggering toward them. “Steven Nell is here.”
“Rory—” Darcy began.
“You saw him? Where?” my father asked, going pale.
“No. I didn’t…I didn’t see him.” I leaned into the back of Darcy’s chair, my hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath. “But he’s here. Darcy, tell him! Remember the other night, when we heard the laughter in the fog? That was him!”
Darcy sighed. “Come on, Rory. I’m sure that was just someone messing with us.”
“Yeah, and Steven Nell’s the someone!” I shouted. I turned to face my father, desperate. “Dad, listen. Our first morning here, I heard someone outside the house humming ‘The Long and Winding Road,’ which Mr. Nell always used to hum in the halls. And then someone put it on the jukebox at the Thirsty Swan the night we snuck out. I’ve heard him laughing, I’ve heard him whisper my name. And there was this scrap of tan fabric exactly like the fabric of his jacket, and a messenger bag hanging from our fence a couple of days ago just like the one he used to carry to class.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” my father said, reaching out to hold both my arms. “You’re basing all this on a series of random coincidences?”
My heart sank. He didn’t believe me. I felt like I was about to explode.
“No! I’m basing it on the fact that all these things happened, and now Olive’s disappeared!” I blurted.
“Who’s Olive?” he and Darcy both asked at the same time.
My blood turned to ice in my veins. I felt like someone had just slammed me upside the head with a two-by-four. Slowly, I turned to face Darcy. My vision blurred around the edges.
“What do you mean, who’s Olive?” I asked.
She lifted her shoulders and got up from the table, picking up her bowl and spoon. “I mean, who’s Olive?”
Casually, she strode past me and my dad to dump her dishes in the sink. She ran the water for a second, then shook her hands dry and turned to face me, jutting out one hip as she leaned against the counter. I searched her eyes. She looked back at me curiously, waiting. Waiting for me to answer her. To explain to her who this person was—a person she’d hung out with on several occasions.
“Darcy, come on,” I said. “Now I know you’re screwing with me.”
“How am I screwing with you?” she asked.
“You know who Olive is!” I shouted. “We hung out with her at the bonfire and again at the Thirsty Swan! I went out for a run with her two days ago and you talked to her at the party last night before going off with Joaquin.” My voice got progressively louder as she continued to stare back at me like I was speaking in some foreign tongue.
“Wait a minute, who’s Joaquin?” my dad asked Darcy, completely oblivious to my growing panic.
She turned pleasantly pink. “He’s just this guy I—”
“Darcy!” I interrupted. “You know who Olive is!”
“God, Rory! Give it up!” Darcy blurted, clearly frustrated. “I know K
rista, I know Lauren and Bea, but I don’t remember Olive. And I think I’d remember, because that name? Ew.”
My knees gave out, and I dropped into her vacated chair. This wasn’t happening. This was not happening. First minstrel boy and now Olive? I didn’t fabricate these people. They were real. Darcy knew them. It was like she’d developed some kind of freaky selective amnesia that made her delete entire people. I gaped at her as she walked out of the room and headed for the stairs.
“I’m gonna go take a shower and then hit the beach,” she said. “Let me know if you want to come.”
“We’re going to need to talk about this Joaquin person!” my dad called after her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said lightly. “Later.”
I waited until I heard the door slam and the water turn on before turning to my father, half expecting him to lay into me for scaring him. That would have been his normal reaction. But today he just stood there, looking at me with a concerned frown.
“Dad, there’s something seriously strange going on around here,” I said. “Darcy knows Olive. I swear to you. I met her our first morning here, and we’ve hung out with her all week. She’s the friend you let me go running with. And I was supposed to meet her for breakfast, but she never showed, and when I went to her boardinghouse, she hadn’t been home all night, and all her stuff was still there.”
“Maybe she slept over at a friend’s,” my father said. “Or maybe she went out this morning for coffee or a run. She could have forgotten about your plans. It happens.”
“Yeah, or maybe when she was walking home from the party last night, some psycho serial killer grabbed her and murdered her and buried her body on the beach somewhere!” I said, my fingers curling into fists. Why didn’t he believe me? Why was my sister losing her mind?
Or was it me? Was I the one who was going crazy? But it wasn’t like I had made Olive up. She was a real person with real stuff in her room and real feelings about her past and her mom and her future. And now she was gone.
My dad sat down diagonally from me and took one of my hands in both of his. His hands were warm and enveloped mine.