Simon didn’t wear Converse.
Parker did.
Too tired to dial the number earlier, I’d responded to a text instead. In my haze, I must’ve accidentally responded to Parker’s text instead of Simon’s.
“What do you need?” he asked quietly near my ear. “Can I get you anything?”
Go away. Please go away and leave me alone.
But I didn’t say this out loud. I didn’t pull away either; my body wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, it continued to act on its own, moving even closer to his, its desire to be near him muting the alarms sounding in my head.
As Parker’s arms tightened around me, I thought of Simon. I loved him. More than anything or anyone. When we were together, I felt closer to whole than I ever did when we weren’t.
But to my surprise, something about Parker felt right, too.
CHAPTER 23
PAIGE WOULD BE okay. She was extremely weak and had to stay in the hospital for observation, but her doctors said she’d be well enough to come home in a few days. I saw her in the morning, at lunch, and after school, often staying until after visiting hours ended and the nurses kicked me out. Because she was so tired we didn’t talk much, and when we did we stuck to light, safe topics, like whatever was on the TV that hung above the foot of her bed. I wanted to know why she’d done it, but I didn’t want to upset her or make her feel worse than she already did. She’d tell me when she was ready, and as her friend, I’d wait however long that took.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to get answers elsewhere. Which was why, the following Saturday, I got up before dawn, left Mom and Dad a note saying I had an all-day study session, and went to Winter Harbor.
It had been less than a week since the morning I’d woken up on Parker’s boat, but as I drove through town, it looked as if months had passed. The trees were nearly bare, their colorful leaves now brown and blanketing the ground. The sky was gray, the sun hidden by a low-lying layer of clouds. With nothing to do between swim and ski seasons, tourists had gone home, leaving the streets empty and the storefronts quiet. I’d never been to Winter Harbor this time of year and was surprised at how lonely it felt.
Anxious to be with other people, I went straight to Betty’s house. It, too, seemed different. Its turquoise exterior was dulled, the paint chipping and peeling. The long porch sagged in the middle, and the railing that ran its length was missing at least a dozen wooden rungs. Several shutters had fallen to the ground, and those that remained were cracked and cockeyed. It looked like a hurricane had barreled through, attacking the structure and leaving disrepair in its wake.
And given the sudden, fleeting storms last summer, maybe it had.
I parked the car and dashed across the lawn and up the porch steps. I’d planned what to say during the six-hour drive up, but before ringing the bell, I took another minute to run through it once more.
“What are you doing here?”
I flew back, grabbing the railing to keep from toppling down the stairs. Oliver had flung open the door unprompted. He seemed angry, and I was about to apologize for coming over unannounced when he continued speaking.
“They didn’t say you were coming.” His eyes, aimed some-where behind me, flicked back and forth. “They didn’t say you were coming, and I don’t have room for you.”
“That’s okay.” I followed him as he turned abruptly and hurried inside. “I didn’t tell anyone I was visiting, and I’m not staying. I just wanted to update Betty about Paige.”
He stopped short and spun around. His eyes continued to shoot from one side to the other, never looking directly at me—or anything else in the room. He was hunched over, as if buckling under great, invisible pressure. His mouth was slack, and his bottom lip drooped toward his chin.
“Betty’s fine,” he said. “She doesn’t need your help. People need to stop worrying about her and focus on more important matters.”
He was scolding me. I started to reiterate my reason for being there, but he turned back before I could. He hobbled through the living room and into the kitchen, murmuring and fiddling with his hearing aids. I waited there, thinking he’d return, but soon there was a soft, distant click, like a door closing, and his voice fell silent.
I’d been less thirsty the past few days, but now my mouth was dry, my throat tight. I was tempted to follow Oliver, but with him distracted, this was the perfect chance to talk to Betty. Heading for the stairs before my legs could give, I took my cell phone from my jeans pocket and typed quickly.
Simon, I know you’re mad & I don’t blame you, but something’s going on in WH and we need to talk. Call me. Please.
I sent the text just as my right knee slammed into something hard. I jumped back, biting my lip against the pain. As I did, I registered the living room for the first time since entering the house.
The drapes lay in a heap beneath the windows, their thick fabric torn to shreds. The old shag rug was cut up into large, haphazard pieces. The couch and chairs were turned on their backs, the stuffing ripped out, the wooden legs sawed off. The coffee table was completely shattered. Next to where it had once stood, the sharp edge of an ax was wedged into the hardwood floor.
They’re just redecorating… finally giving the old house an overdue makeover….
I pretended all the way upstairs and down the hall. It was the only way to make my feet keep moving.
Betty had a perfectly good reason for not coming to see Paige in the hospital… she wasn’t feeling well, or Oliver was busy and couldn’t drive her….
Stopping outside Betty’s bedroom door, I took a deep breath and tried to focus. I raised one hand, prepared to knock, but waited when I realized the door was cracked open. Betty was standing near the wall of windows with her back to me. She held a phone to her ear and seemed to be listening intently. I pressed against the door, widening the gap two inches, and stood as close as I could without stepping into the room.
“My dear, there’s no need to apologize,” Betty said, her voice soft, soothing. “You did your best. Next time, you’ll do better.”
Next time? What next time? Was she talking to someone at the restaurant? Managing from a distance?
“A few weeks?” Betty’s voice hardened. Her back stiffened. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. As we discussed last weekend, there’s no time to waste.”
I watched her grab the window frame with her free hand. Her fingers gripped the wood so tightly they turned purple, then white.
“I understand you’re nervous—it’s a big change. But you have nothing to worry about. You’ll feel weak immediately afterward, and then, with time and training, you’ll be stronger than ever.”
I held my breath.
“Don’t you want to have the life you were destined to live? To be part of a family again? Your family?”
There was another long pause. Betty’s head shook slightly as she listened, reminding me of Oliver’s flicking eyes.
“Don’t you see?” she sneered. “She doesn’t care about you. Not really. You’re just a fillin, a substitute for her dead sister.”
Justine.
I gasped lightly as her name shot through my head. It was Betty’s voice, but Betty hadn’t said it out loud.
Eyes wide, I watched her lower the phone to her side. She continued to face the windows. I stood there, frozen, trying to decide whether to give in to the urge to flee. Before I could, she tilted her head back… and emitted a single, high-pitched note.
I slammed against the wall as if thrown by a tidal wave, squeezing my eyes closed and covering my ears, but the noise grew only louder, as if its source was inside my head instead of outside. When I tried to open my eyes, a silver light brighter than the sun forced them closed again. I stumbled, deaf and blind, propelled by fear and an invisible force pushing me down the hallway. Nearing where I guessed the stairwell would be, I released one ear to feel through the light for a railing. My fingers grazed something hard, and unable to see if it was the railing, I grabbed
it anyway and used all my strength to pull myself over.
I half ran, half tripped down the stairs, the noise and light dimming the farther I went. My phone buzzed as I reached the first-floor landing, and I slowed down to yank it from my pocket. My vision was too distorted to make out the words and numbers on the small screen. I blinked quickly, and my sight cleared just enough for me to see the mirror hanging on the wall at the base of the stairs. In its reflection, a short, balding man lunged toward me, teeth bared, ax raised overhead.
“Oliver, what—”
There was a loud crack as the ax handle connected with my head.
The lingering silver light went out.
The next thing I became aware of was water. It was salty and cold and felt so good, it took me a second to realize I wasn’t swimming in the ocean but submerged in some sort of make-shift tub. The dull throbbing in the back of my head reminded me what had happened, and my tethered neck, wrists, and ankles confirmed that it wasn’t over. I tried to sit up, lifting my head and pulling hard against the restraints. They wouldn’t give.
Without moving my head, I looked to the right, then the left. I recognized the intricate floral print of Betty’s couch, the wet velvet of the living room drapes, the soft fuzz of Zara’s bedroom rug. The wooden container was assembled and padded with the former contents of Betty’s house. Above me, I saw Oliver’s head as he read a thermometer, noted its temperature in a book, and dropped the thermometer back in the water; the cool, narrow instrument slid down the tank, tickling the side of my foot.
It’s okay…. You’re okay…. If he wanted to kill you, he wouldn’t have locked you up in the one place where you’re strongest….
It was hard to believe, but for once I tried to allay my fears with the truth. Yes, Oliver had knocked me unconscious, tied me up, and, I now realized, removed all of my clothes. But despite how I’d gotten here—and the fact that I couldn’t get out—I felt good. If Oliver had meant me serious harm, he would’ve hit me with the other end of the ax or locked me up somewhere dry, with nothing to drink and no access to water.
Somewhat reassured, I tried the restraints again. They were thin, but tight. They loosened only slightly when I pulled as hard as I could.
But that was a start. I pulled and relaxed, pulled and relaxed, careful not to disturb the water so much that it attracted Oliver’s attention. Eventually, I could move my left hand until it touched the side of the wooden tub. There I felt around with my fingers, grateful for Oliver’s unpolished handiwork. The wood was uneven, its edges jagged. Finding a sharp point, I twisted my wrist until the rope caught on the wood. I pulled and pushed, moving my hand like a saw.
“Vanessa Sands.”
I held still. Oliver stood above me again, writing in his book. His voice was muffled, but I could tell he spoke casually, easily, like he was talking to himself.
“They said you’d be hard to catch. They said you wouldn’t come willingly.”
I struggled not to flinch as he reached into the water, pressed two fingers to the inside of my right wrist. He held them there for a few seconds, apparently taking my pulse, then removed his hand and patted it on his shirt.
“Either they were wrong, or they underestimated my Betty.” He chuckled, then made another note. “That’s something I would never do.”
Closing my eyes, I remembered back to last summer, when Oliver had told Simon, Caleb, and me about his feelings for Betty, and the history of their relationship. He’d spoken of her so sweetly, with such reverence, it was clear there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her… including, apparently, kidnapping her granddaughter’s best friend.
But why was Betty doing this when she’d helped us defeat the sirens last summer? Why was she trying to convince Paige to transform? Why would she want to subject her granddaughter to a life of thirst and pain? And why did she want me held captive? Was she worried I’d try to stop Paige?
And Betty aside, who was the “they” Oliver referred to?
Several minutes later, I had at least one answer. I continued sawing until the thin rope snapped, then used my freed hand to untie my other hand. After undoing my neck, I slid down the lined wooden tub until I could reach my ankles. Once they were released, I sat up slowly, bringing only my head out of the water.
The room held at least fifteen wooden bins like mine, maybe more. They were made from broken furniture pieces and ripped carpeting, and reminded me of caskets at a funeral parlor, except that whoever—or whatever—was inside was still alive. This was clear by the bubbling throughout what I assumed was Betty’s basement, which looked more like a cave with a slick floor and rocky walls. The sound of bubbles releasing was rhythmic, just like it was when I breathed underwater.
Oliver was across the room, sitting with his back to me at a small metal table. He seemed to be writing in his book. To his right was an open laptop with the Winter Harbor Herald Web site displayed on the screen. Squinting, I could just make out the main headline.
“Deep Sea or Die” Sinks; Bodies of Divers Gordon Yantz, 28, and Nick Lexington, 32, Found
Deep Sea or Die. That was the name of the boat I saw when I was on Parker’s yacht last weekend. And hadn’t Simon said divers had discovered the female bodies in an icy chamber? Were Gordon Yantz and Nick Lexington those divers?
My hunch said yes, and when I saw what was scattered on the damp floor around the desk, I was convinced.
There were dozens of articles, some from the Herald, but more from the Boston Globe. I recognized many I’d studied myself: about the bus accident; and the students who’d been found in the water by the airport; and Colin Milton Cooper, who’d jumped to his death from the Longfellow Bridge. There were printed e-mails and lots of pictures—closeups of the victims as well as other familiar faces.
Like Paige, reading on a bench in the Common. Parker, playing with his iPod at the Boylston T stop. Simon, standing by a newsstand, consulting a map of Boston.
Me, drinking water. Fanning my face. Pulling a sweatshirt hood over my head. Running through the park, toward the bandstand.
We were being followed. Tracked. I didn’t know exactly why or how, but of that much I was certain. Especially because amid the articles and pictures sat a thick scrapbook with a quilted cover… just like the ones Zara and Raina had kept of their conquests.
I had to get out of there. And fast. I scanned the room, relieved to spot my clothes, neatly folded, on the last step of a narrow flight of stairs. My cell phone sat on top of the pile, its red message light blinking.
Oliver was still writing, humming quietly. I grasped the edge of the wooden tub with both hands and slowly pulled myself into a squat. I waited, my head ducked low, for several seconds. When Oliver didn’t seem to hear my movement over the other noises in the room, I stood hunched over in the tub. There was a metal step stool on one end; I climbed out of the tub and tiptoed down the stool, cringing with every drop of water that hit the rocky floor.
Shivering, I crept that way, hunched over, arms across my bare chest, toward the stairs. I kept one eye on Oliver the whole time, but he was too engrossed in his book to notice. When I neared the papers on the floor, I paused. I waited for the bubbling in the room to swell before reaching forward and carefully lifting from the floor as many papers as I could before the noise softened. Then I continued on, sneaking quick glances at the wooden tubs every few steps.
I didn’t recognize any of the sleeping women. The sirens I’d seen the night the harbor froze had been as beautiful as Raina and Zara. They’d been tall, with warm, bronze skin; long, thick hair; and healthy, toned figures. But some of the women here were pale, others blue. Their bodies were thin and frail. Their breathing was unnaturally slow. I thought two were actually dead and lingered to make sure, but then the water shifted as they inhaled.
Passing the last tub, I risked running the remaining distance to the stairs. I grabbed my phone and clothes and took the steps two at a time.
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