There are a couple suitcases lined up in the entryway, but it doesn’t appear as though anyone’s home. So why, then, do I feel like I’m not alone?
I move slowly down the hallway toward Clara’s room, noticing how her bedroom door is open a crack. “Clara?” I call, before going in. The graffiti is still there on the wall. I go to compare it with the can of paint, but the sight of the doll makes me jump.
It’s in her bed, tucked beneath the covers—rosy-cheeked with auburn hair and sea glass-green eyes. Just like Clara. A shiver runs down my back. I look over my shoulder toward the door, wondering if I’m alone.
Or if someone might be watching me.
I pick the doll up, noticing right away the pins stuck through the belly. I run my fingers along the back, trying to sense something, accidentally pricking my finger with one of the pins. With a gasp I drop the doll, my heart strumming hard inside my chest. I poke my thumb into my mouth to stop the bleeding. It’s a tiny puncture wound, like the kind you get at the doctor’s. I pick the doll up once more and concentrate on the eyes, the way they fall closed when she’s positioned vertically—like she’s dead.
I peek once again over my shoulder and then continue to feel the rubbery skin. I glide my fingers up the arms, along the neck, and over the cheeks, but all I can sense is sadness—a sadness so thick and heavy I can feel it in my lungs, making my breath heavy.
The sound of running water starts from behind the wall. I look up, suddenly realizing that what I thought was Clara’s closet door must really be the door to her adjoining bathroom.
“Clara?” I call. I move around the bed to the door and place my ear up against the panel to listen. The water falls down in a heavy stream, like it’s coming from a tub faucet. I knock and hear a shuffling inside, like someone’s struggling to put stuff away. “Clara?”
I go to turn the knob. At the same moment, the door pulls open, causing both of us to jump. Clara stumbles back, and I drop the doll once again.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, pushing her hair back off her face. She looks a mess. Her eyes are raw, like she’s been crying, and there are dark circles beneath them.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” She tries to fake a smile, but it just falls flat. “You scared me. How did you get in?”
“The front door was open. I tried to knock, but no one answered. Didn’t you hear—”
“What’s that?” she shrieks, referring to the paint can. She looks up at the graffiti and takes a step away, as though to close the door on me.
“No, Clara—wait. I found this in the trash outside. Who lives next door to you?”
“Huh?”
“Are those your trashcans out front?”
Her face twists up. “Yeah.”
“Well, then, I think whoever painted the graffiti on your wall threw the paint can in the trash on their way out. We need to take it to the police. Maybe they can use it as evidence.”
“I gotta go,” she says, taking another step back.
“Look, Clara,” I say. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you have to believe me.” I take a deep breath, thinking how unbelievably unconvincing I must sound to her—after having broken into her house not once but twice now.
She nods and studies me, the rims of her eyes extra puffy and red.
“We’re on the same team here,” I continue.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shrugs and looks away. “Because of what happened yesterday . . . with Chad.”
My hands clench into fists just thinking about how hurt Drea was—how hurt she still is. “I still need to help you.”
“You weren’t there, Stacey,” she says. “You don’t know how it happened.”
“I was there long enough.”
“We didn’t plan for it to happen . . . it just did.”
I close my eyes in an effort to block out the mental images of Clara and Chad lip-locked.
“He really cares about me,” she continues. “And I care about him, too.”
“He has a girlfriend.”
“That didn’t stop you. He told me how you went after him two years ago even though he and Drea were still kind of together.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s not true.”
“How else would I know?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from exploding. “That isn’t how it happened, but it doesn’t even matter.
You’re in danger, and we need to talk about it.”
“Who cares? It’s not like everybody I meet doesn’t end up hating me after five minutes.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I say, stretching the truth out like taffy. I peer past her into the bathroom—a stark white cube with matching porcelain fixtures and terrycloth towels. “Your tub water’s still running.”
She shrugs and then nods, as though just remembering. “He moved some of my stuff around again—the guy who’s doing all this.” She glances over her shoulder at the letter opener positioned on the vanity. “I know I put it back in my desk.”
“He?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I think so. He left me something, too.” She moves to her night table and opens the drawer, taking out a shiny gold heart-shaped box of chocolates. “I found it first thing this morning, wedged into my window, between the screen and the sill. Weird,” she says, glancing at the window. “I could have sworn I locked it.”
“Clara—” I say, my eyes widening, my heart pumping hard.
“What?”
But I have no idea what to say. I mean, why would Clara get the same box of chocolates that Chad gave Drea? Is it a mere coincidence? Is someone trying to make it look like Chad’s doing all this? Or did Chad maybe leave the box for Clara because he was feeling guilty about yesterday?
“Was there a note?”
She nods and hands it to me—a plain white card that says “To Clara. Love, Me.”
I look at her, my face crinkling up in confusion. “This doesn’t make sense.”
She shakes her head. “None of it does.”
“No, I mean, it really doesn’t make sense. Why would someone write hateful graffiti on your wall one day and then leave you chocolates and a love note the next?”
Clara shrugs, snatching the note back and returning it and the box of chocolates into the night table drawer. “Who knows? Maybe they’re not from the same person.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No, but maybe there’s something you can tell me. What happened between Drea and that boy who was supposedly stalking her a couple years ago?”
“Donovan?”
She nods.
“He was obsessed with her. He had been since the third grade. The obsession got out of hand; he thought there was more to their relationship. There wasn’t. He couldn’t handle it.”
“And you think he was going to kill her?”
“Are you in a similar situation?” I ask, ignoring the question.
“I don’t know. I mean, it really sounds like Donovan loved Drea. I’m not sure this guy feels the same way about me. Sometimes I kind of wish he did.”
“Clara,” I say, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
I hold back my gasp and silently count to ten, reminding myself that Clara is obviously starved for attention. “Where are your parents?”
“The Clam Stripper. Then we’re all supposed to be taking a ride to some all-day art show. I was actually supposed to join them for lunch after my bath.” Clara lifts her arm, like she’s going to check the time, but she’s not wearing a watch. Instead, there’s a deep, blood-filled scratch down her forearm.
“What happened?” I touch Clara’s arm, and she jerks away.
“The doll,” she says. “It was in my bed. I rolled over on it.”
“What do you think the doll means?”
“What do you think? It’s obviously me. He obviously wants to kill me.”
r /> “Why?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I messed things up for him.” “Things? As in relationship things?”
“I can’t really talk right now,” she whispers, as though there’s someone else in the room.
“Wait,” I say. “Are you talking about Chad?”
“I should get going. My parents are really freaked about this whole thing. They almost weren’t gonna let me go on the cruise.”
“Clara . . .”
“Just don’t tell anyone about all this.”
My heart squelches just hearing these words—the words from my nightmares. “About what?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“About everything. I’m beginning to think too many people know my business.”
“Like who?”
Instead of answering, Clara moves back into the bathroom doorway. She purses her lips and looks away. “If you tell, I’ll know, Stacey.”
My skin chills over. “And then you’ll make me pay?” She looks back at me, her face twisted up into a giant question mark. “What are you talking about?”
“Forget it.”
“I gotta go,” she says.
“Clara, we need to talk.” I hold the door wide to keep her from shutting it on me.
“Later, okay? My parents will have a fit if I don’t get going.”
I bite my bottom lip, feeling a sudden urgency to go and talk to Chad, to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on between them. Plus, I remind myself, my nightmares tell me that she isn’t in danger until tomorrow, leaving us tonight to figure things out. “Let’s get together later,” I say. “After your art show.”
“After the art show I’ll be on the cruise.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
She nods and I leave, hoping I haven’t made a huge mistake by letting her off so easily.
thirty-two
I barge into our cottage, eager to talk to Chad. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, paging through a magazine and devouring a can of sour cream and onion Pringles. “Hey,” he says, as soon as I come in. He flips the magazine closed to focus on me. “Did you talk to Clara?”
“Oh, I talked to her all right,” I say, wondering where I should even begin.
“And?”
“Where’s Drea?” I look toward the bathroom door, knowing full well that she’s not prepared to hear what I have to say.
“She went out with PJ and Amber. I wasn’t exactly invited.” No surprise there. “So,” he continues. “What happened?” His face is completely serious, his eyes wide like he knows something’s up.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I think Clara might be under the impression that you guys have something serious brewing.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah, you know, something claddagh-ring worthy.”
“Nothing happened between us. Well, nothing serious,” he corrects.
“Did you leave chocolates in her window, outside her bedroom?”
“Huh?”
“She said someone left her a box of chocolates, tagged
‘To Clara. Love, Me.’ Apparently she found it first thing this morning.”
“That’s crazy,” Chad says. “Why would I ever—”
“It was the same heart-shaped box you gave Drea.”
“What?” Chad stands up from the table, the color draining from his face.
I nod. “It’s true.”
“So what does that mean?” he asks. “You think I left it for her? You think I’d be that stupid?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I just know that none of this makes sense.”
“It’s a coincidence,” he exclaims.
“What is?”
“That she got the same box of chocolates. The candy shop downtown had a huge display of the box I bought.”
“Maybe,” I say, even though I don’t believe in coincidence. “Or maybe somebody’s trying to frame you. Did you happen to notice if anyone was watching you at the candy shop?”
“Watching me?”
“Yeah, you know, did anything weird happen? Was anyone following you?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I picked up the box, went to the register, paid, and then left.”
“And that’s it? Nothing weird?”
“No.” He shrugs. “You have to believe me, Stacey. Nothing’s going on between me and her.”
“Your perception of it doesn’t matter. Clara thinks something’s going on, and I’m pretty sure she’s convinced herself that you feel the same way. That’s obviously what she’s told the police.”
“She thinks it’s me who’s doing all this, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I’d be ready if I were you. The police already asked Amber and Drea if you have a temper.”
“This is crazy,” Chad says, combing his hands through his hair in frustration. “What would my motive be for stalking Clara? I mean, come on.”
I shake my head. “Who knows what else she’s told the police? I don’t exactly trust her perception of things.”
“But you believe me, right? You know I wouldn’t do that.” I open my mouth to say something, to ease him a bit, but Chad doesn’t even give me a chance. “I’m getting a lawyer,” he says. “I’m not gonna have this pinned on me.”
“You need to relax,” I say. “Nothing’s happened yet.”
“Yet,” he repeats, his jaw locking into place.
“Can I just ask one thing?”
“Anything.”
“How come you told Clara I went after you while you and Drea were dating? You know that’s not how it happened.”
“Is that what she said?”
I nod.
“Well, she’s lying. I never said that.”
“You never said we dated?”
“Well, yeah, I might have told her that—”
“Whatever,” I say, completely spent from trying to decode everybody’s conversations, from splitting hairs over words. “Is Jacob around?”
Chad gestures to the guys’ room. I peek in that direction, but the door is closed. I take a deep breath and move down the hallway toward his room.
“Stacey—wait,” Chad calls.
But I’m tired of waiting. I knock on the guys’ door. Jacob opens it. “I was wondering where you were,” he says. “I thought we might spend the day together.”
“Why’s that? Because you’re skipping the cruise tonight?” His eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“The cruise is tonight. Thanks for the ticket, by the way.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, frowning. “I was going to talk to you about that. Do you think there’s any way you can convince Clara not to go?”
“A ship full of guys, a night away from her parents—what do you think?”
He sighs. “It’s just . . . this cruise . . . I can’t do it, Stacey.” “I have a day to figure out who’s trying to kill the girl, Jacob. I could really use a little support here.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“You’re sorry? That’s it?”
He looks away, and I feel my teeth clench.
“Don’t be angry at me,” he whispers. “I want you to go; that’s why I bought you a ticket.”
I shake my head, a mix of anger and disappointment building up inside my chest. I look away to hide what I’m feeling. “I just thought you might want to be there for me. I guess I was wrong.” I turn to walk away, expecting him to stop me.
He doesn’t.
thirty-three
I spend the remainder of the day trying my best to relax before the cruise, to not let Jacob’s secrets and selfishness get the better of me, since there’s so much at stake right now. I swim, I lay in the sand, I drink bottled water and snack on comfort food—peanut-butter-filled pretzels (for the salt) and gummy worms (for the sugar). It’s somewhat therapeutic. The warmth of the sun soaking into my skin, coupled with the scrumptiousness of the cool saltwater as I backstroke through waves, helps lift a bit of the nega
tive energy.
But I still feel confused. I mean, if the situation were reversed, I know I’d be there for Jacob 110 percent. So why won’t he be there for me?
When I get back to the cottage, much to my unsurprise, he isn’t around. I sigh and drop my beach bag to the ground, noticing PJ. He looks even more depressed than my pre-beach-bum state. He’s sitting in the living room, slouched against the wall.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Jim freakin’ dandy,” he says, yanking at the lime-green gum in his mouth.
“Where’s Amber and Drea?”
He shrugs. “Beats the wanky out of me.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What isn’t wrong?”
“Good point,” I joke. But he doesn’t laugh. “Seriously,” I say. “What’s up?”
He proceeds to give me the lowdown on his funkdom—how he messed things up with Amber by thinking he had a chance with Clara, how he messed things up with Clara by not being as “jock-boy-gigolo” as Chad.
“Girls don’t like gigolo,” I say. “Trust me.”
“Are you kidding me?” He stretches his gum out even farther to loop it into a knot. “Girls don’t know real charm when they see it.”
Despite several attempts to cheer PJ up, including his medicinal pickle-mayo concoction and the Full House marathon, PJ remains as deflated as Amber’s Superman blow-up doll, which apparently sprung a leak last night—he’s now slouched at the foot of Amber’s bed. PJ is not, however, depressed enough to cancel his cruising plans. So, while he goes off to pack for the cruise, I decide that I should probably start getting ready myself.
I throw some spell staples into a bag, as well as a change of clothes and some other necessities, and then peer over at the crystal cluster rock on my night table. I pick it up, knowing that I’m going to bring it, but wishing more than anything that Jacob himself were coming with me.
A few seconds later, Amber and Drea come in. Apparently they spent the day checking out all the little boutiques downtown, as evidenced by the armfuls of shopping bags they’re toting.
“We need to boog,” Amber says, checking the clock. “We board in less than an hour.”
“I don’t even feel like going anymore,” Drea says.