Jacob turns me around so that we face one another, his finger raised high to draw. He takes a step inward; we’re standing so close now I can feel his breath on my forehead. Jacob looks at me so intensely that I almost want to make a joke, release the tension around us. I feel myself swallow, feel my lower lip quiver, just inches from his mouth. He lowers his finger to my front, right beside one of the tank straps. He looks at me to make sure I’m okay and then draws something that extends across my collarbone, just below my neck and close to the opposite shoulder. At first I try to figure out what it might be, but then I sort of lose track of the lines.
“Are you ready to go on with the spell?” Jacob asks. “Do you trust me yet?”
“Do you?” I ask.
Jacob leans in even closer, still looking at me, into my eyes. His breath is warm on my skin and smells like cinnamon sticks and honey—like the paint. “Do you really have to ask?”
I shake my head slightly and the tips of our noses touch. I close my eyes and lightly rest my forehead against his. Jacob runs his hands down the length of my bare arms; I do the same, moving my fingers along the nape of his neck, enjoying the smell of the paint on each other’s skin, the way the stickiness feels under my fingertips.
Jacob stops a moment to move my hair off my shoulders. He looks at me and I close my eyes, feel his mouth on mine, sending a million tiny tingles all over my skin. His kiss is like warm honey and mocha on my tongue, only better, like nothing I’ve ever quite tasted.
I wrap my arms around him completely, feeling his shoulder blades through the tank top, the shaved hair at the nape of his neck. I open my eyes for a moment and glance over his shoulder at the white candle sitting by his bed and a gush of emotion comes over me all at once—how I’ve never felt this way before. I mean, this way—the way my heart has swelled up inside my chest, like it couldn’t get any bigger, the way I’d love to just crawl up inside his skin and breathe his breath.
The way I’d give anything right now to light that white candle.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
That’s when the door flies open, breaking the moment, slicing through our embrace.
I let out a gasp.
It’s Tobias.
“What’s going on in here?” he asks, his left eye twitching at us.
“This is my roommate,” Jacob explains, taking a step away from me.
“Sorry,” Tobias says, “didn’t mean to interrupt anything scandalous. Just wanted to pick up a couple of my things.” He looks about the room, picks a baseball cap off the floor, and sets it on his head. “So, what did I interrupt, exactly?”
“You live with him?” I say, turning to Jacob.
“Maybe I should go,” Tobias says. “Don’t want to get in the middle of anything . . . sticky.”
“No,” I say, “I’m the one who’s leaving.”
“So soon?” Tobias asks. “Why? Is Chad waiting for you?”
“Don’t go,” Jacob says.
I can’t believe this is happening. I glance at myself in the mirror, at the picture of what Tobias is seeing. That’s when I notice—what Jacob has drawn at my front.
“I have to go.” I grab my sweater and bullet for the door before either of them can stop me.
When I get back to the room, no one’s there. I pull off my sweater and stand in front of the mirror, looking over all of Jacob’s drawings—a moon, a set of keys, a giant X (the rune for partnership), and a smallish structure of some sort, maybe the tool shed from my nightmare since there’s a hammer just below it. But the drawings that disturb me the most are the ones on my chest—a crudely drawn car, a tree, and a stick-figured girl jumping rope.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and try to piece it all together. It’s all becoming clear now—just like my mother said. The answers to what I need to know are in my past.
When Maura told Miles that she wanted to get out of the car that day, he got angry and started driving faster, taking more turns, making Maura more nervous, more sick. It wasn’t long before the car crashed into a tree. Maura flew through the windshield. The doctors said she didn’t die right away. Miles, with barely even a scratch, panicked and ended up carrying her body through the woods, just a couple blocks from our neighborhood. He locked her up in a tool shed instead of taking her to the hospital where she could have been saved.
It was a few days before her body was found, and by that time it was too late. She was already dead. Without any past criminal record, Miles was charged with motor vehicle homicide, the kind where they say negligence is to blame, and sentenced to seven to ten years in prison, eligible for parole in four.
Four years ago last month.
I clasp my stomach and massage my throat, feeling the sensation to get sick as well. To vomit, just like Maura, just like my nightmares.
I fish into my spell drawer for a rag and a bottle of olive oil. I douse the rag with the oil and then wipe the henna stains from my neck, chest, shoulders, and arms. The designs begin to lift and lighten a bit. I pull on a turtleneck sweater to cover it all up and then grab the bowl of lavender pellets by my bed. I rub them between my fingers, breathing the scent in, trying to soothe myself.
I wonder what all of this means, if Miles is already out. Or maybe someone knows about all of this; maybe someone, even Jacob himself, found out all these pieces of my life—researched all my old ghosts—and is using them to try and drive me insane. There are certainly plenty of losers around here who have researched the events of last year, who have tried to pry into my life. But is that even possible? Could Jacob have found out all the details of Miles’ trial? Is he maybe working with Cory and them?
My head fuzzes over with questions. I lie back on my bed to try and think through at least a few of them. I’m pretty sure the letter M is for Maura—at least that’s what I sensed in my nightmare when I saw her drawing it. Like jumping rope and singing, drawing on the sidewalk with crayons was just one of the things that Maura liked to do. I’m also pretty sure that the words to the “Miss Mary Mack” song were distorted per Amber’s baby corn theory—that it’s my mind’s way of telling me that I’m scared, twisting things around to create the worst, most frightening possible scenario, something straight out of a Freddie Krueger movie.
But what I still want to know is why anyone would want to cause harm to me. Why would someone go through all the trouble of researching my past? What do they really have to gain from it? And then I remember something I had tried to block out.
The letter.
I sit up in bed, the memory rushing at me all at once. I wrote a letter to Miles Parker just days after the sentencing. An angry letter from a tormented, guilt-ridden thirteen-year-old girl, telling him how angry I was about that pathetic sentence, how I had sensed all along that she had been kidnapped, that the person who did it had hidden her away in a tool shed. I told him how I’d have to live with the guilt of knowing all this and not doing anything about it for as long as I lived.
And then I promised him something in the last line of the letter. I promised that when he got out I’d come after him, to make him pay—to see that justice was finally served.
Is that the promise referred to in the letter I got?
I pick up the phone to call someone, anyone . . . my mother at her hotel. But the person at the front desk tells me she isn’t in her room. I hang up and bury my head in my hands. My forehead is pounding. I want to be sick. I try sipping some ginger ale, but that just makes it worse.
I rush into the bathroom just in time, before the contents of my stomach empty out into the toilet bowl. I sit back on my heels and hear myself sob out loud. Because this is so confusing. Because I don’t know where else to turn or whom I can trust. I look down at my amethyst ring, wishing my grandmother were here to help me. Wishing my mot
her were by my side right now.
Instead of feeling better, the urge to be sick remains thick in my throat. And my head still aches—a throbbing pain that makes everything else feel heavy and cold. I set a warm compress over my forehead and lie down in bed, the covers up over my shoulders to stifle the chill.
I close my eyes, which eases me a bit. Maybe a little sleep, even for just a few minutes, will do me some good, will help put things into perspective.
But a few minutes turn into several hours. I wake up to the sound of the phone ringing. I spring up; the warm compress, now cool, drops from my forehead. I don’t even think I moved once in my sleep. There’s a wrapped sandwich and a bag of chips from the cafeteria at the foot of my bed. I smile, knowing that either Amber or Drea, or both, are looking after me.
The phone continues to ring. I lean over to reach for it, noticing that my headache has subsided a bit, that my stomach has eased some.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Stacey,” says a whispery male voice.
“Who is this?”
“We have Drea.”
“What?”
“You heard me. And if you don’t do exactly what I say, she’ll be dead.”
I almost can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s like a bad horror flick come to life. I can tell there’s a rag held over the receiver to muffle the sound, so I can’t quite recognize the voice.
“Who is this?” I repeat.
“You’ll find out when you get here.”
“Tell me who this is or I’m calling the police.”
“Do that and Drea will die,” the caller says.
“How do I know you really have her?” I ask.
“How do you know that I don’t?”
I glance over at Drea’s bed; it’s just how she left it this morning.
“Come to the O’Brian building at eleven tonight,” the caller continues. “Enter the building through the window of room 104 and then go to the French room.”
“Is this Cory?” I ask, glancing at the clock. It’s just after nine.
“Stacey, just do what he says.” It’s Drea’s voice.
“Drea?”
“I told you I had her.” The whispery male voice comes back on the phone. “And if you call the police, she’ll be dead. Just like Veronica Leeman.”
The phone clicks as he hangs up. I hang up, too. I know this must have something to do with Cory and Tobias and their séance. They want me to go to the scene of the crime, at the precise time that it happened, so they can re-create the night Veronica died, just like PJ warned. They’ve kidnapped Drea because it was probably the only way they could think of to get me over there on the anniversary of Veronica’s death. Plus, it sort of works for the whole re-creating-the-scene thing, seeing that Donovan kidnapped Drea shortly after he killed Veronica.
I pick up the phone and dial PJ’s number, looking for Amber, hoping maybe PJ can help me in some way. But he isn’t there. I hang up and call Chad. Not there either. I try Jacob’s line but get a busy signal. I slam the phone down, panic starting to set in. I seriously contemplate calling campus police, but I don’t. Because I don’t want to risk it. I can’t. Not now. Not tonight.
I grab the crystal cluster rock and my sachet of thyme for courage and mentally prepare myself to head over to the O’Brian building—to find Drea and put an end to this whole séance fiasco once and for all. I’ve left a note for Amber telling her where I’ve gone, and I’ve left phone messages for Chad and PJ. I have no idea where everyone is tonight; I just know I can’t wait around. If today is supposed to be my day to die, I’d better get started changing the future. I’ll just have to rescue Drea along the way.
• • •
I stuff a flashlight into my bag and close and lock the door behind me, stopping just long enough to look up at the clock—9:30. The caller said to get there at eleven, but I have no intention of playing by his screwed-up rules.
I decide to take the bike path behind our dorm since it cuts a few minutes off the hike over to the main buildings. And just as soon as I start walking, I hear someone following behind me, the sound of footsteps—hard boot heels, I think—clomping toward me on the pavement. I stop. I glance back. But I don’t see anything and I no longer hear anyone.
I turn back around and clasp the crystal in my pocket, reminding myself of its protective energy, doing my best to distract myself from what could very well be normal, everyday paranoia. I breathe the night air in, noticing how frigid it is tonight. The sky is an icy black color, like it could crack open at any second and sprinkle down a helping of snow. I knot the knitted scarf around my neck and fold my arms in front, the crystal still gripped in my palm.
The footsteps start up again. I quicken my pace and the person following does the same. Faster now, the pathway narrows a bit through the brush, making it darker, colder, more confining.
I focus on the area ahead of me—the back parking lot of the library is just ahead. I quicken my pace even more, until I’m running, until I can no longer hear the person behind me. Finally, I come to the end of the path—it spits out into the parking lot—and look around for someone, anyone . . . a police cruiser, maybe. I turn to glance back toward the path, but it’s too dark, too laden with brush. I clench the crystal in my palm to temper the shaking inside me, the pounding of my heart. Then I cut across the parking lot and move around to the front of the library.
There’s a couple of underclassmen standing outside, laughing it up over some stupid joke; I couldn’t be more happy to see them, to see anyone. I’m thinking they sense my fear. They stop to watch me as I bound up the steps, three at a time, my face twisted as though I might cry out at any moment—I can feel it on my lips.
Breathing hard, I make it through both sets of double doors and turn to gaze out toward the front of the building. No one. Just the same kids, still watching me, probably wondering what’s wrong.
I go to the on-campus phone on the wall and try calling Chad, but I get his voice mail again. I call our room. More voice mail. And Jacob’s line is still busy. I hang up and peek back out toward the front of the building. The underclassmen have left and I can’t seem to spot anyone else. I move out onto the front steps and gaze up at the O’Brian building, set back a bit from the other buildings. Or at least it feels that way—darker, quieter, more secluded.
I take a giant breath and make my way back out, past the tennis court, and onto the pathway that leads to the building. This time I feel like I’m alone. The footsteps that followed before are no longer with me; maybe it was just my imagination.
This is what I tell myself, anyway, with each step that brings me closer to the building. It’s so weird being back here, walking across the lawn that surrounds it, remembering how it was only a year ago that I sat behind Veronica Leeman in French class—her starchy, hair-spray-glued hair resting in a clump on my desk whenever she slouched down in her seat—only a year ago that I found her dead on that same classroom floor.
I swallow the ball of fear in my mouth and walk around the side of the building by the soccer field. I didn’t think it would be this hard. I mean, sure, I see the building on a regular basis—I have to pass by it to go to classes, have to see it out of the corner of my eye on my way to the library or on walks across campus. But I mostly try to avoid it—try to look the other way or hold my breath until it’s out of sight. Plus, this feels much different. Tonight, I have to go in.
I take the flashlight from my bag and move around to the back of the building, passing the window of room 104, looking for some other opening. I know exactly why the caller wanted me to come in that way. It’s because that’s the window I entered last year when I went to save Veronica; when instead of saving her, I ended up finding her already dead.
I’m so sure it’s one of them who’s taken Drea—Cory and his clones—bound on some ridiculo
us mission to raise Veronica from the dead, to re-create a scene they’ve been obsessing about, probably since it first struck the news.
It’s much darker back here, the spotlights that shine at the front and sides of the building too shallow to reach behind it. I aim my light toward the windows and doors, wondering if there might be another way in, hoping Cory and them don’t see the flashlight beam. I stop when I notice that one of the windows is open a crack. I take a deep breath and peer over my shoulder. I don’t see anyone—just the wooded acreage that surrounds the campus. But being back here, in almost complete darkness, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. I take a few steps closer to the window, feeling now more than ever that there’s no turning back.
Using the soft beam of the flashlight to direct me, I hoist myself up onto the window sill and crawl through, the hard rubber soles of my shoes smacking down against the linoleum flooring. I aim the beam around the perimeter of the room. It’s Señora Sullivan’s Spanish room. There are bits of Spanish-speaking culture still alive on the walls—magazine cutouts of tortillas and frijoles, maps of Peru and Argentina, and, as though by fate, a giant poster of el Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.
I head toward the door at the front of the room. It’s just after ten. I still have almost an hour before they’re expecting me—an hour to find Drea and get the hell out of here before we both end up as pawns in their game.
Or before I end up dead.
I carefully wrap my hand around the doorknob and twist. The door squeaks slightly as I pull it open, but what cements me in place is the thumping noise coming from just outside the window where I entered. I quickly click my flashlight off and wait a few moments. The thumping stops, like whoever is out there can sense my suspicion.