“I’ll call her too.” I smile wider. The irony: I was never into acting before, but ever since the Dark House weekend, it’s become a way of life—a means of survival even.
I move to the kitchen table and eat a bowlful of soup, forcing down each bite, hoping I’m playing a convincing role.
Once they finally leave, I head into the bedroom. Beside my bed is the box of letters from Parker. After the police found Parker and me in the woods, I asked an officer to go back to the lake for my bag. I gave the officer the items I took from the trunk: Garth’s skull necklace, Shayla’s glasses, Frankie’s sheet music, Natalie’s scarf and wig. But I kept Parker’s box of letters for myself, because I didn’t want it to get taken away.
Parker has my letters too—the ones I wrote to him and mailed to myself. I packaged them all up before he flew back home. We’ve been talking every night since he left, and texting a few times a day. He says he can’t wait to get back here and see me again. Part of me can’t wait either—the part that still holds on to hope.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and run his bracelet over my cheek, remembering our first kiss—on the deck, holding hands, facing one another; the warmth of his breath against my skin, a hot buttery heat spilling across my thighs.
I gaze at the wall—at the giant, mural-size posters (cityscapes of Paris and Nice) that hang from a curtain rod I was able to rig. I get up and unclip them, revealing hundreds of pieces of paper—maps and charts and graphs I’ve made; a wall covered in conclusions I’ve drawn, questions I have, facts I know, pictures I’ve found, hours I’ve spent trying to get into the mind of a killer.
He may be a step ahead right now, but he won’t be for long. The heroine always wins in the end.
The End
I’VE TAKEN UP RUNNING AS a way to clear my head—perhaps the very best form of therapy. When I’m running, there’s nothing else. My thoughts clear. My worries flee. With the wind combing through my hair and the warmth of the sun against my cheeks, I imagine myself like an animal—wild, free, unstoppable.
My birth mother often joins me on my runs. I know that probably sounds crazy, but sometimes I’m even able to catch a hint of her lilac perfume. She may’ve passed on seven years ago, but she’s never far from my side—I know that now. The Nightmare Elf was right about one thing: sometimes it’s the things that scare us most that teach us the biggest lessons.
I inhale the smells around me—of freshly cut grass, morning rain, tree bark, and lilacs—and I listen to the birds chirp. It’s only when I feel my legs betray me that I start to head back.
I’m just about home now. My aunt’s car is parked in the driveway. She hasn’t left for work yet. I slow my pace, moving up the walkway, noticing a large envelope sticking out from my mailbox. I take it. My name and address are printed across the front. It was postmarked in Canada, but there’s no return address.
I unlock the door to my apartment and then lock it back up—three bolts, plus a chain, and a chair propped beneath the knob.
I unload the pockets of my jacket first—chewing gum, pepper spray, a knife, my cell phone—and then I sit down on the edge of the couch and tear the envelope open.
There’s a book inside. It’s navy blue, hardcover, with a torn spine and gold trim. My heart begins to pound, because I’ve seen this book before—in Ricky’s room, on the bedside table, when I left the suicide note.
There’s a tiny lock for a key.
I reach into my bag and search for the key ring from that night; I’ve been keeping it tucked inside a zippered compartment. I pluck it out and insert the smaller key into the lock. It turns. I open it up. The words THE PROPERTY OF E.W. GRADE 7, AUGUST PREPARATORY SCHOOL are printed on the inside cover.
The doorbell rings.
I look toward the windows. The blinds are drawn. Apple and Core are at work. My aunt is going to be late if she hasn’t already left. Who else could it be?
My pulse racing, I stuff the book beneath the sofa and go to the door. I peek through the peephole, almost unable to believe who’s standing there, suitcase in tow.
I remove the chair, unlock the bolts, retract the chain, and open the door wide.
“Hey,” Natalie says.
“Hey.” I smile—probably my first genuine one in weeks.
Natalie looks the best I’ve seen her yet. Her eyes are no longer red and swollen; they’re a brilliant shade of blue, made more dramatic with inky-black lashes. Her hair is different too. It’s been cut super-short, about an inch long all over.
Without another word, I move closer to give her a hug. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, and we melt into each other’s embrace. There’s so much I want to say—so much I need to know. Aside from a couple of texts back and forth to share our contact info, we haven’t seen each other or spoken since the night of our escape (and our brief overlap at the hospital).
Our embrace breaks. Our eyes lock.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her. “Over a thousand miles from home.”
“They just don’t get me. I guess they never did. But that’s okay.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’ll be okay.”
I bite my lip, remembering calling her house during the Dark House weekend. Natalie’s mother picked up, and when I told her how troubled Natalie was and asked for her understanding, all she gave me was anger and resentment.
“Do you think I could maybe stay here for a while?” The words come out shaky. Her face turns bright pink.
Maybe, like me, she isn’t used to being vulnerable. And maybe, like her family, I don’t understand her either. But still we share something pretty significant in common, and maybe that’s more than enough for now. I take her bag and invite her inside.
I WOULD FIRST LIKE TO THANK MY EDITOR, Tracey Keevan, for her invaluable feedback and continuous enthusiasm for my work. I’m so grateful for her keen insight and enviable superpower of knowing just the right questions to ask. This book is so much stronger because of her.
A million thanks to my amazingly talented agent, Kathryn Green, for her literary guidance and advice, and for her willingness to discuss reality TV with me. Eleven books together later, I’m enormously grateful for all she does.
Special thanks to Scott Olson, my psychological guru, for answering all of my questions pertaining to mental health and therapy. Any related errors found within this novel are mine and mine alone.
Thanks to friends and family members who are a constant source of support, who give me the time to write, offer to read drafts of my work, and who don’t mind if the house gets messy or if I declare take-out night for dinner because I’m too busy working.
And lastly, a very special thank-you goes to my readers, who continue to support my work and cheer me on from near and afar. Thank you for reading my books, entering my contests, attending my workshops, sending me letters and artwork, coming to my events, and making book-inspired videos. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, and again, and again: I’m eternally grateful. You guys are the absolute best.
LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ is the author of Welcome to the Dark House and the Touch series, as well as Project 17; Bleed; and the highly popular Blue Is for Nightmares; White Is for Magic; Silver Is for Secrets; Red Is for Remembrance; and Black Is for Beginnings. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston. For more information, please visit www.LaurieStolarz.com.
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