Famous Last Words

  “Hey,” I finally said, nudging him with the side of my shoulder.

  When I looked back up, Wyatt was looking at me. Our eyes met, and I felt a zing! of energy move through me.

  “Yes?” he said softly.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He looked back down at his lunch and picked up an apple slice. “Be careful. Your face might stick like that.”

  Stick like what? I wondered.

  And then I realized I was smiling.

  Wyatt dropped me off after school. But first, we stopped at the grocery store, where I stocked up on the kind of food Mom never allowed in the house — frozen pizza bites and macaroni and fake cheese, a whole box of those little chocolate cupcakes with icing squigglies on top, and a two-liter bottle of Hawaiian Punch. I might be dead of malnutrition by Monday, but at least I’d spend my last weekend in carb-induced nirvana.

  The house was blissfully calm and still, with no sign of Paige. I began to hope this might be the start of one of her quiet periods, leaving me with a week or two of semi-normalcy. Maybe all she’d wanted was for someone to know she was here.

  After arming the alarm system, I curled up in front of the TV with a two-pack of cupcakes and found a marathon of Pageant Tots. Four hours later, feeling like I could use a good brain-scrubbing, I went to the library to look over Jonathan’s DVD collection.

  It occupied about sixty linear feet of shelf space and contained basically every movie I’d ever heard of, organized in alphabetical order.

  The arrangement was so perfect that it was totally obvious when a movie had been removed. There were a few spots where movies were missing — Vertical Limit leaned on Very Bad Things. Heat and Dust rested on Heaven.

  I began to get a strange feeling in the deepest pit of my stomach.

  I drifted to the B’s.

  Birdman of Alcatraz. Then a space. Then Birdy. In the K’s, I found A Kiss Before Dying. Then it skipped to Kiss the Girls.

  Okay, no.

  No, no, no, no.

  Calm yourself, Willa. Just because the missing movies fit perfectly with the four movies that the Hollywood Killer used as his inspiration doesn’t mean … well, anything.

  Right? I couldn’t even be totally sure that those were the missing films.

  Then, off to the side, I saw a small three-ring binder with a label on its spine that read DVD Inventory. I grabbed it, flipping to the B’s. My heart flip-flopped as I read down the list, to #B31 Birdman of Alcatraz, and then read the next listing: #B32 The Birds.

  #H14 Heathers. #K29 Kiss of Death. #V9 Vertigo.

  I took a step back, trying to tell myself not to make something out of nothing. So Jonathan owned all four movies that the murders were based on. So what? Lots of people owned them. They were popular, critically acclaimed movies.

  So they all just happened to be missing from their spots.

  So what?

  With every so what, my stomach twisted more tightly around itself.

  Be reasonable. Maybe Jonathan pulled them all when he heard about the murders. Maybe he wanted to watch the scenes that inspired the killer, because he was curious. Maybe he was looking for connections and clues.

  It was a little morbid, but then — who was I to judge?

  In the pocket of my jeans, my phone vibrated with an incoming text.

  It was from Mom — Good night sweetie, love you. Tell Marnie hello and thanks! Great day here, tomorrow we’re going to lay by the pool ALL DAY.

  As happy as I was that my mother was having a great time, my carefree night was beyond ruined by my discovery of the missing movies. I went back to the den and turned off the TV, and then, feeling oppressed by the sudden silence and darkness, I headed for my room.

  I burrowed under the covers, for once actually wishing Paige would find some way to tell me she was there.

  Turns out the price of freedom is being alone.

  Paige never showed, and the night of uninterrupted sleep did a lot to calm my mind. In the light of the morning, the simple explanation seemed like the most likely one: that Jonathan owned the DVDs and got curious about the movies when he heard about the murders. Everyone in LA was obsessed with the Hollywood Killer.

  Besides, if Jonathan were a murderer, would he be that obvious about it?

  I put on a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, basically a half step up from wearing pajamas, and I was downstairs eating a cupcake for breakfast when my phone buzzed.

  Mom had texted: Good morning!

  I ignored it for the time being, figuring it would seem more believable if I waited until later in the morning to reply. If I was sleeping over at a friend’s house, no way would I be up by 8:30.

  After my nutritionally impaired breakfast, I decided to do something I’d been putting off for weeks. I dug through my closet and found the shoe box containing my moldavite ring and the Walter Sawamura book. All I needed was something silver.

  I’d been waiting for the right moment to grab a little spoon or something from the sideboard in the dining room, but then I realized that I had something silver of my own — even better, something I didn’t particularly want to keep around.

  I poked through my small jewelry box for the pair of silver hoop earrings Aiden had given me for my fifteenth birthday. Just looking at them made me feel a little quiver of sadness.

  At some point, I should probably let Aiden know that I didn’t hate him for what he’d done. That I actually understood why he’d done it. I even picked up my phone and started to write a text – Hi, remember me? Just wanted to say sorry for crushing your soul for so long and then blaming you for needing to make a change. I get it now. But then I chickened out.

  I put the earrings in the box, wrapped the whole thing with duct tape, and went to look for something to bury it with.

  I’d never been inside the garage, but it was neat and well organized, and I had no problem finding a shovel. I was on my way back out, with the shoe box tucked under my arm and the shovel in my hand, when the door opened to reveal Reed.

  He gasped when he saw me, and for my part, I shrieked and dropped the shoe box with a thunk.

  “Willa!” he said, letting out a startled burst of laughter. “I didn’t expect to see you in here.”

  After a few days of not seeing him, I’d forgotten how cute he was, with his sun-kissed skin and perfectly mussed hair.

  I bent to scoop the box off the floor and then held up the shovel. “I just came for this. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Saturday,” he said. “I came to get the Porsche for her weekly bath.”

  Mom and Jonathan had been planning to take the Porsche to Palm Springs but switched at the last minute to the SUV, in case they discovered the burning need to buy some giant antique chair or something. So the sleek little car sat inside the quiet garage like a well-behaved horse.

  “Did he even drive it this week?” I asked.

  Reed sat in the driver’s seat long enough to turn on the ignition. Then he climbed out while the engine rumbled and purred. “All the more reason it needs to get out on the road for a few minutes. You can’t let a car sit too long. It’ll dry-rot.”

  I nodded, as if I knew anything about cars.

  Reed stepped closer to the Porsche and rubbed at an invisible speck on the paint.

  Seeing him like this — in black board shorts and a faded yellow T-shirt, as handsome as a movie star, I couldn’t help but think about our kiss. About how crazy I was for letting him slip between my fingers.

  I wondered if he ever thought about kissing me. And then I told myself that there was no way on earth.

  “How’ve you been lately?” he asked.

  “Um, good,” I said. “Surprisingly good.”

  “I saw the picture of you and your friend at the premiere.” He shook his head. “That was wild.”

  “Mom and Jonathan definitely thought so,” I said, unable to hide the dark note in my voice.

  “Willa … are you sure you’re
all right?”

  I was surprised by the question. “Yeah. I am.”

  “You don’t seem like yourself.” He smiled disarmingly. “You don’t usually grumble.”

  Maybe you don’t know me very well, I thought.

  Before I knew what was happening, Reed stepped toward me, then leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on my lips.

  The opportunity to be kissed by someone who kisses like Reed isn’t the kind of thing a girl takes lightly. I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach, tingly weakness in my arms and legs. I kissed him back, relishing the delicate pressure of his hands on my back as he pulled me closer.

  He drew away for a moment and looked down at me, his eyes a question.

  When I didn’t say anything, he leaned in and touched his lips to mine again. With every second that passed, I felt reality melting away. Who needed to think about murders and missing movies and haunted houses? It was so easy to get lost in his warmth and his delicious scent and the sensation of his fingers moving lightly through my hair….

  In the pocket of my yoga pants, my phone buzzed.

  I jumped, startled back to the present.

  Reed stared at me for a beat, looking equally dazed. His voice was soft and throaty. “There’s something about you that makes me forget to care that your stepfather is my boss.”

  The word stepfather further obliterated the mood for me. I gave him as polite a smile as I could manage and looked at the floor. There was a small puddle of standing water a couple of feet away, reflecting the sunlight.

  His gaze dropped to his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m no gentleman.”

  How do you respond to that?

  Reed cleared his throat. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

  “My parents were killed in a plane crash when I was fifteen,” he said.

  Pronouncements like that should come with a warning label. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “My God, Reed, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I know you know what it’s like to lose a parent, so …”

  “I do,” I said, feeling like I was being tumbled end over end. “It’s … it’s terrible.”

  He chewed on his bottom lip. “I lived with my grandfather while I finished school. He moved here from Denver to take care of me, but he was in pretty poor health. So he passed away, too, shortly after I graduated from Langhorn.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “I never had any brothers or sisters, and my dad wasn’t close with his siblings, so I was basically on my own. I couldn’t afford college, so I went looking for work in the industry. I interviewed with Jonathan for this job, and somehow, miraculously, I got it, even though I had zero qualifications. Jonathan’s been like the big brother I never had. He looks out for me. He’s tough, but it’s because he wants me to learn and do well. He’s meticulous and exacting, but it just makes me work harder. He’s my role model. I can’t even tell you how much his good opinion means to me.”

  “Wow,” I said, considering Jonathan in a new light. After all, he’d married a widow with a teenage daughter. He did everything he could to make me feel at home. He kept trying to be cordial to me, even when there was a huge chasm between us. I felt guilty for my hostility toward him, and guiltier still that I’d suspected him of being a murderer last night.

  “I feel connected to him,” Reed went on. “Like he’s my family now. And, Willa … I feel the same thing when I look at you. Only not exactly like family.” He gave me a shy smile that lit his eyes up like stars. “Because that would be weird.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, managing to smile.

  “So … what if we don’t try to sneak around?” Reed asked. “What if we just ask Jonathan if it’s all right?”

  Making things more official? Telling Jonathan? I’d gotten pretty comfy with the idea that Reed and I would never be a thing. (Then again, I’d gotten comfy with the idea that I wasn’t going to be kissing him anymore, and look what happened to that plan.)

  I was more than flattered by his romantic interest in me — who wouldn’t be? But I couldn’t shake the feeling that, on some level, we didn’t connect. That even though we obviously liked each other, he didn’t know who I really was. He didn’t get me.

  Like Wyatt does, I thought. And then I stood there, stunned by my own thoughts.

  “Reed … I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  My phone buzzed again.

  “Sorry, I’m blowing up over here,” I said, in a lame attempt to lighten the mood. I reached into my pocket and switched the phone to vibrate. “Who knew I was so popular?”

  Reed nodded. “Anyway, I should get going. And you should get … digging?” He glanced at the shovel with one eyebrow raised.

  I forced myself to look somber. “Dead bird on the patio. I figured it deserves a proper burial.”

  Confusion flashed across his face, which I could totally understand. Burying a dead bird in a shoe box was more of an activity for the under-ten set.

  I wondered if it might cause him to rethink his interest in me. And whether that was a good or bad thing.

  Reed climbed into the Porsche, and I watched him drive out of the garage. I gave him a quick wave before starting through the house into the backyard.

  I left the shoe box inside while I went to dig a hole down by the citrus trees. I’d never seen Mom or Jonathan go anywhere near that part of the yard, so there was hardly any chance that the box would be discovered.

  It was a warm day, and I was coated with sweat almost instantly. Plus, digging a hole a foot deep was a lot harder than I thought it would be. You don’t just slide the shovel into the soft soil — the dirt here was packed like stone.

  I got the first six inches dug and then, panting from the effort and heat, decided to come back and finish later, when the sun wasn’t so high overhead. When had it turned to summer? I leaned the shovel against a lemon tree and went inside to shower and put on shorts and a T-shirt. I put the shoe box back in my closet, where Mom wouldn’t happen across it.

  Speaking of my mother, by the time I finished showering, it was time to text her back, but I couldn’t find my phone. I walked down to the kitchen and found it sitting on the counter. I chugged a glass of water and absently checked my texts.

  There were eight new ones.

  I frowned and sat down at the kitchen table, scrolling through them.

  There was one from Wyatt — Going to the place to look at the stuff wink wink — that made me laugh. His next one was a little strange, though. Have you heard from Marnie today by any chance?

  Then there was another one from Mom: Jonathan accidentally packed your laptop. Do you have his with you at Marnie’s?

  And then one from an unknown number with a 213 area code: This is Kelly Delaine, Marnie’s mom. Have you seen her? We are so worried.

  Wyatt: Marnie hasn’t been home since yesterday morning.

  I was glad I was sitting down, because my breath was shallow and quick. I dreaded continuing down the list.

  From the 213 number again, Marnie’s mom: Sorry to bother you. Please call when you can. Very concerned.

  Another text from Mom: Reed will be getting in touch to pick up Jonathan’s computer, okay? Text me when you wake up.

  From Wyatt: Marnie is missing and the police think it may be the serial killer. I’m home now, call when you can.

  My phone rang in my hand, surprising me so much that I dropped it. It hit the table with a clatter. I managed to pick it up.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice shaking.

  “Willa?” It was an unfamiliar female voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Kelly Delaine calling.” Her voice was breathless, verging on panicked. “I’m sorry to bother you — I didn’t know if you’d seen my texts. I just wanted to know if you’d heard from Marnie at all. Or if you were aware of any plans she might have had for yesterday or today.”


  “Um … no,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I haven’t seen her since Thursday.”

  Her mother exhaled in this long, slow, hopeless way that sent a spike of fear straight through my heart. Then she thanked me and hung up, and I sat in the kitchen shaking — actually shivering like a scared person in a movie.

  With trembling fingers, I called Wyatt.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice low and serious.

  “I just talked to Mrs. Delaine.”

  “Marnie never came home,” he said. “It turns out she’s been sneaking out to auditions. Her parents had no idea.”

  “Auditions? Like, to be an actress?” I asked, shaking my head. “She never said a word about that to me.”

  Although she did talk once about how much she detested actors. And going by Marnie’s logic, that basically meant she was dying to be one.

  “Do the police really think it could be …?” I couldn’t even finish the thought. No matter how strange things got between me and Marnie, I couldn’t bear the idea of something happening to her.

  I swallowed.

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said quietly.

  “She never even hinted at it,” I said, then had a flash of memory. “Well, wait. The last time I talked to her, she said she might have big news, whatever that means. Maybe she thought she was going to get a role in something?”

  “What kind of role?” he asked.

  “Let me think,” I said, closing my eyes.

  What was it Marnie had said to me, during that conversation? Something odd. Uncharacteristic. Almost like she was quoting a movie or something.

  I pictured her staring intently down at me from behind her cat-eye frames.

  “He’s no gentleman, see?” she’d said.

  Still holding the phone, I ran into the den and perched in front of the computer. Quickly, I typed those words into the search bar. There were no results — until I deleted the word he.

  “Detour,” I said.

  “What?” Wyatt asked.

  “On Tuesday, Marnie quoted a line from a movie called Detour. Maybe she was memorizing the script for her audition.” I scanned the screen.