“How can you tell it’s the same?” Thomas asks.
“The color’s the same. The fringe is too.” The individual fringe strands appear to be an inch thick. “It’s also big, like the one she gave me. I used it as a blanket.”
“The Dark House weekend happened in July, didn’t it?” Dearborn asks. “Was it unseasonably cold that night?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Natalie gave me the scarf so that I could use it to hide from the cameras—so I could wear it to cover my face and head, that is. She knew that I didn’t want to be videotaped; she could sense it.”
“Sense it?” Squires asks.
“I’m not sure if Natalie was some kind of psychic medium,” I attempt to explain, “or if she just had a special gift…but she could talk to her twin brother, Harris, even though he died at birth. He would tell her things, like that I didn’t want to be recognized on film just in case my parents’ killer might see me.”
I swallow hard, knowing I sound crazy, able to feel the heat on my face. I venture to look at Thomas; he’s studying my every blink, breath, falter, and flinch. Is he trying to decide if this is all a pile of BS? Or if I actually believe the BS? The thing is, I know he knows about Natalie’s psychic claims. After the Dark House weekend, rumors spread that she was crazy, that she was never able to get over the death of her twin brother.
“Bottom line: virtually nothing on this film is clear,” Dearborn says. “My guess is that it’s a work in progress.”
“Because it doesn’t really say anything,” Squires agrees. “Come be a part of the sequel, but where? When?”
“We’ll look into it,” Thomas says. “We’ll do a full check on Movie Marvin. Natalie’s parents will need to see the video too. Let’s also get the e-mail and link over to the feds.”
“I’m on it,” Dearborn says, exiting the room with Squires.
“And then what?” I ask, stopping Thomas from ditching me too. “Will you let me know what happens? What checks out? What remains suspicious? What Natalie’s parents say? I want to be involved in this investigation. I demand to be involved.”
“You already are involved—by bringing us clues, by keeping us informed. We, in turn, do our jobs by following up on potential—”
“What if I contact Movie Marvin?” I ask, cutting him off. “I could say I want him to create a video for me. We could arrange to meet. I could wear a bug. You could be staked out there too.”
“Ivy—no. We’re handling this. We’re getting closer.”
“You’re only as close as my clues can bring you.”
“We’re grateful for your clues, but—”
“But you need me as well,” I insist. “I’m the one he wants. Use me as a lure.”
“Ivy…”
“Use me,” I repeat.
He stares at me again, biting his lip, as if he’s actually considering the option. “I can’t,” he says, finally. “We can’t.”
“Then I can’t either. You’re on your own, as far as I’m concerned.”
And obviously so am I.
Dear Parker,
I still wear your T-shirt—the one you tore to make a bandage for my ankle. I wove it into a bracelet, using six strands—one for each letter of your name. I know that probably sounds overly sentimental (or just plain dumb), but right now, aside from hope, sentiments are all I really have.
I wear the bracelet around my wrist to keep you close—not that you’re ever far from my mind. The other day when I was walking through a park, there was a mother looking frantically for her son, completely unaware that he was hiding behind a tree. I could hear the fear in her voice as she cried out his name.
Sometimes I cry out too. I’ll drive somewhere secluded, roll up all the windows, and scream at the top of my lungs—until tears roll down my cheeks and the window glass fogs up.
At the park that day, I ran right over to the woman and pointed out her son’s hiding spot. In that moment, I could feel her relief—like a million tiny snowflakes landing on my skin, sending chills all over my body.
I’d do anything to have somebody point out your hiding spot.
If only you were hiding.
If only it were that easy.
Love,
Ivy
A FEW DAYS HAVE PASSED since I got the video link of Natalie. It’s early morning, after work, and I’m in my apartment, sitting in the dark, having purposely left the lights off. I used to hate the dark—used to dread the idea of not being able to see all that was around me. But ever since the Dark House weekend, I’ve forced myself to become acclimated to the things that used to make me uncomfortable—like horror movies, or at least Justin Blake’s horror movies. I’ve seen every one now, have spent hours studying the plotlines and characters, asking myself questions. What is the appeal of Justin Blake’s work? How did the Nightmare Elf movie series become the inspiration for the amusement park rides? Do the answers lie in the dialogue? The setting? The themes? Or something else?
A knock on the door startles me. It’s barely past six in the morning. I grab the baseball bat from beneath the sofa, just as I hear Apple’s voice.
“Ivy? Are you still awake?”
I switch on a few lights and return the bat beneath the couch. “Hey,” I say, opening the door.
Apple’s holding something that looks like a pie. “Quiche me,” she says, kissing my cheeks, European style. “Cooking makes me feel all je ne sais…comment allez-vous.”
“I don’t know…How are you?” I ask, responding to her flumped-up French.
“Okay, so I know you’re on your own now,” she continues, “not to mention a much better cook than me, but I can still attempt to be an overbearing mother.”
“You’re hardly overbearing.”
She takes two steps inside the apartment and comes to a sudden halt. She looks around, her mouth gaping open. Most of my things are still in boxes. “I guess you’ve been keeping pretty busy,” she says.
To her this place must look even more vacant than it did before I moved in. I suppose that’s understandable, because I’m feeling vacant too.
Apple makes herself at home by going into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and makes a face at how little there is inside it: a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of ketchup, and a few cans of orange soda. “Do you need me to take you shopping?” she asks, letting the door to the fridge fall closed. “Or you’re more than welcome to come home for your meals, anytime you like.” She fills the teakettle with water from the sink and grabs a knife to cut into the quiche.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Really. I’ve mostly been eating at the Depot.”
“Here, come, eat,” she says, setting me up at the kitchen table with a napkin and fork. “The quiche is still warm. Do you want some tea?”
I nod to the tea and do as she says, sitting down at the table. The first bite of quiche is like a shock to my mouth, especially since it came from her, queen of the microwavable dinner out of a box. It’s salty with feta, crunchy with zucchini, and semi-sweet with caramelized onion. “You didn’t make this,” I smirk.
“Sure I did. It’s Miko’s recipe, and I followed it to a tee.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I never lie about food.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s a first for everything.”
“Exactly.” She winks at me. “It’s never too late to learn, grow, become a better person.”
“No hidden messages there.” I chew. “So much for subtlety, right?”
“Well, I’ve never been one for subtlety.”
“Very true.” I take a few more bites. The egg is cooked to perfection; the texture is creamy and fluffy; the crust is moist and buttery.
She sets a mug of tea down on the table. Chamomile. My favorite. “So,” she begins, sitting down beside me, an invisible agenda hanging above her head. “I got a phone call from Detective Thomas. He said you’d been to see him recently. Something about a video.”
“It was a video link,”
I say, as if the distinction is even relevant.
“How come you didn’t tell me about it?” Her forehead furrows. The lines between her eyebrows deepen.
“If I told you about every weird thing that happened to me, neither of us would have time for work or sleep.”
“Do you want to come home?” She reaches out to touch my forearm.
“No. I’m fine. I just didn’t think to tell you.”
“Well, I want to know about this stuff, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Ivy.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
“I hadn’t even realized that you were still trying to assist in the case.”
“Because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m a mom, it’s my job to worry, remember?” Her expression softens; the corners of her lips turn upward. “Anyway, Detective Thomas wanted me to tell you that he had the video link analyzed, as well as the creator’s account.”
“And?”
“And it was another false lead.”
I clench my teeth, sensing a storm coming.
“You have to believe that the authorities are working very hard on this case,” she says, raining down on the quiche. “Detective Thomas attests to that.”
“And you’re telling me this, because…”
“Because he said that when you left the station you seemed really upset.”
I take another bite to avoid having to speak, unsurprised that this impromptu visit is about more than just quiche and kisses.
“He asked if you were still in therapy,” she continues, as if this conversation couldn’t get any worse. “And so I called the hospital to find out about your attendance at outpatient therapy.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“You haven’t been to a meeting since discharge, have you?”
“I know. I suck. I’m almost surprised they told you.”
“They didn’t tell me. They’re no longer allowed to share your medical information. But you just did.”
“Oh.” I’m caught.
“Oh.” She fakes a grin.
“Thomas isn’t going to call Dr. Tully, is he?”
“You’re missing the point, Ivy.”
“No. I’m not.”
“The agreement was for you to go to outpatient and group therapy at least once a week each.”
“I’ve been busy working at the Depot.”
“If the Depot is keeping you from taking care of yourself, I’ll cut back on your hours.”
“Is Thomas going to call the hospital?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is that he’s concerned about you. He doesn’t want anything you’re doing—research or otherwise—to negatively affect this case.”
“Even if what I’m doing is more effective than their so-called leads.”
“Ivy.” She takes a deep breath.
I push my plate away, having lost my appetite. “I’ll start going to therapy again, okay?” As if the seven years’ worth I’ve already endured has done any good.
“Promise?”
“Pinky swear,” I say, winding my pinky with hers. “I’ll call them after I sleep.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She nabs a corner of my quiche crust.
“Now, I’m tired and I actually need to get that sleep.”
“Fair enough.” She gets up from the table, gives me a hug, and kisses the crown of my head. “I just love you, that’s all. And I worry. And I want you to be happy. If anyone deserves a little happiness in this world, it’s you.”
“I love you too,” I tell her, knowing she means well, but also knowing she doesn’t have a clue how much this case means to me.
MIKO AGREES TO FILL IN for me at the Depot while I go see Taylor this weekend. It’s no wonder that Gretchen has a crush on him. Despite my constant BS—storming off, screwing up—he couldn’t be sweeter.
I pull onto the Gringle campus and drive past a rolling green lawn sprinkled with ivy-covered brownstone buildings. When I texted Taylor last night, I was relieved that she still wanted to meet. My parents think I’m at the Food Expo in Portsmouth. They didn’t even flinch when I told them that I wanted to stay at the nearby Sheridan to take full advantage of the convention’s offerings. They simply handed me the company credit card, excited to finally see me excited about something.
It’s Friday night, just after nine. I park in the lot behind Taylor’s dorm and go inside. The lobby is mostly dead, except for a couple of students playing a game of pool. “I’m here visiting Taylor Monroe,” I tell the girl working behind the front desk.
“Wait, don’t you go here?” She hands me a visitor form anyway. “Because you look so familiar…” She cocks her head and studies my face as if trying to place me.
I quickly look downward and begin filling out the form, not wanting to be recognized.
But then, “Holy shit, are you…?” Her hand flies over her mouth. “You’re Ivy Jensen,” she says, checking the form. “The girl who escaped that screwed-up amusement park. You’re, like, totally freaking amazing, by the way.”
“I’m not. Really.”
“What are you even doing here?” Her dark brown eyes widen.
“I’m here to see Taylor Monroe,” I tell her again.
“Okay, but don’t you totally hate her? Because I would. Someone who runs from a burning building without a call to the fire department to help the others who are still fast asleep inside. Instead, she just let them all go down in flames.”
I can feel the confusion on my face. “Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“She’s in room 27, on the second floor. You can use that stairwell. But call down here if you need anything, okay? I wouldn’t let you go down in flames. I’m totally Team Ivy.” She extends her fist for a bump.
“Thanks,” I say, leaving her hanging, already making my way upstairs.
My heart pounds with each step. Blood rushes from my face, leaving me a little woozy. I reach the second-floor platform and breathe through the racing sensation, remembering that I haven’t taken my meds. I swallow down a couple of pills with a swig of my water bottle, and then swing the door open.
Taylor is already there, standing at the end of the hallway. She looks so much different than the way I remember from the pictures on her phone. Gone are the pretty dresses and the megawatt smile, replaced by baggy sweats and a subtle grin.
“Ivy?” she calls out.
I quicken my pace, past several more rooms, until I finally get to her.
“Is that really you?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me.
My face gets buried in the strawberry-scented mass of her thick blond tendrils, but oddly it feels good—like hugging a long-lost friend.
The embrace breaks, and I take a deep breath, feeling a melting pot of emotion stir up inside me. “This just feels so surreal.”
“For me too.” She takes my hand and leads me inside her room.
My eyes zero in on her leopard print bedcovers. They match the luggage she brought to the Dark House, as well as the cell phone I found in her bed that first night.
“Everything okay?” she asks, following my gaze.
I nod and take yet another deep breath, willing my medicine to work.
“I’m stoked to finally meet you.” She squeezes my hand and motions for me to take a seat on her futon.
I drop my bag and sit down, wishing I could relax. There’s a sour smell in the air that makes me think of salad dressing. “How did you manage to score a single room?” I venture, opting for small talk. “I thought perks like that were only reserved for resident staff and upperclassmen.”
“It’s sort of a long story,” she says, plopping down on the leopard print covers. “And not exactly my idea of a perk.”
I glance toward her shoe rack, where she’s got an elaborate stash of ballet slippers. “Are you studying dance?”
“Another long story—one that requires at least a few squares of chocolate to tell
. Feeling munchy?” She gets up and grabs a supersize bar of chocolate from her shelf. She opens it up and breaks off a piece. “Help yourself,” she says, passing me the bar. “God knows that I do.”
“What changed your mind about meeting?” I ask, steering the conversation.
“My life has been utter hell here, Ivy.” She lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling—at a poster that says DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY. “But who am I to complain? I mean, I’m still breathing, right? Not all of us Dark House Dreamers can say the same. Nobody here lets me forget that.”
“Okay, so you changed your mind about meeting, because…”
“Now that answer requires something salty. Hungry?” she asks, taking me off guard.
I look down at the piece of chocolate melting in my hand.
“Because I have a serious hankering for pancakes and french fries right now.” She rolls over to face me. “Oh, but wait, you’re a real foodie, aren’t you? You probably have a way more sophisticated pal—”
“French fries and pancakes actually sounds perfect right now,” I tell her, feeling somewhat hungry too, and more intrigued than ever by what she has to share.
IVY IS INTENSE—LIKE A WALKING ad for Valium or something. She barely says two words on the walk over to the student center, but I can tell that her brain is going—I can see it in her eyes: wide, yet unengaged, as if she’s someplace else entirely. Plus, she keeps fumbling with something in her pocket. Car keys? Spare change? A cell phone? A stress ball?
The student center is mostly dead at this hour—too late for dinner, too early for post-party pigging out. I point out the variety of foods—from Tex-Mex and pizza to a potato bar with over twenty different toppings. “Normally the potato bar’s my go-to,” I tell her, “but at this hour the cheese sauce tends to be lukewarm at best, and the bacon bits are fuzzy and chewy rather than crisp and crunchy.”
Ivy and I are on the same snacking page, so I order us buttermilk pancakes from Tessa’s Kitchen and a large fry from J.B.’s Grill—stuff a dancer would never normally eat.
“Here,” Ivy says, trying to slip me a ten-dollar bill.
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