I realize my mistake: Two bulbs wouldn’t burn out at the exact same time. I should have only turned off one. “It’s, um, dark down there.”
“Okay,” she says. A dismissal.
I don’t have a real plan and I’m not sure what details I expect to find, but it feels important to get inside and search more thoroughly. “Could I please use your bathroom?” Of course, I could go home, but I’m guessing that even gruff Norma won’t deny me this.
“Come in,” she says with a sigh.
I pause awkwardly in the kitchen. Her refrigerator lacks the photos that cover ours.
I stall. “If I were locked out while my mom is away, you have a key, right?”
Norma opens a gray metal cabinet on the kitchen wall. It’s filled with keys on hooks, all labeled. Ours hangs neatly among the others.
“Bathroom’s down there.” She motions her hand toward the hallway.
I feel her eyes on my back. Her apartment seems to be a mirrored version of ours. After closing the door, I’m tempted to check inside the cabinet and drawers, but it might make too much noise. What do I expect to find, anyway? A prescription bottle can’t be the answer to my questions. I flush, then run water. Having come this far, I might as well explore. Leaving the bathroom, I quietly continue toward the nearest bedroom. I peek inside the open door and exhale slowly.
I’m face to face with a dead girl’s shrine.
13
DAUGHTER
From the doorway of the bedroom in Norma’s apartment, I can see a huge photo of a girl about my age. She has long brown hair and brown eyes, like I do. Three candles are on one side of the ornate silver frame, a white teddy bear with a red bow on the other. Folded neatly in front is a red and white sleeveless jersey. The room smells like old flowers.
“What are you doing?” Norma shrieks.
I step back and drag my gaze away from the shrine. “Sorry, I went in the wrong direction. Your apartment is the opposite of ours. It’s all backwards.”
She slams the bedroom door. “Get out,” she says. “I’ll take care of the lightbulbs.” Her eyes blaze with fury.
“Thank you.” I leave Norma’s and run down the stairs to the basement. The washer is still churning so I sit on the overturned basket to wait, tapping my foot nervously. I hope Norma doesn’t show up in the next few minutes. I’d rather not talk to her again today.
The girl had to be Norma’s daughter. That must be who she visits at Hoboken Hill Cemetery. But that didn’t explain why she would possibly leave a handprint on my mirror. I’m not any closer to proving whether it was her or not.
Other than the chugging of the laundry in the washer, the basement is eerily quiet. I could go home, but the wash is almost done. I pass the time texting Grace, mostly complaining about not having our own laundry room. When the cycle finally ends, I toss everything into the dryer. A door slams somewhere in the building. The dim light creeps me out and I realize I should’ve pulled the lightbulb stunt after my laundry was finished. I hurry back to the apartment, relieved to see I’m not alone.
“Hey,” Blake says. “Where’ve you been?”
“Doing laundry. Want to go to the hardware store soon?”
“Sounds good.”
Gavin had given me his number, and before we leave, I text him that we’re on our way. It seems less awkward than walking in unannounced. He texts back that he can’t wait to see me.
I decide to change out of my T-shirt into a pale lavender blouse. I use mascara and lip gloss, but don’t want to go overboard.
“You like this guy?” Blake asks.
“It’s too soon to tell. Maybe.”
“Did anything strange happen today?” he asks.
I tell him about Norma and my plan with the lightbulbs. “I wanted the chance to talk to her, to scope out her apartment. Not that I expected to find anything concrete, but I hoped to learn more about her. She seems to be grieving. A muddy cleaning rag would have been a bonus—something she wiped her hands on after marking our mirror.”
“Hmm. That was good thinking. You’re more devious than I thought.”
His compliment makes me happy. I don’t like to think of myself as helpless, even in the face of bizarre events.
When we enter the hardware store, I introduce Blake to Gavin. I feel self-conscious in front of Blake, which he must realize because he quickly disappears down one of the aisles.
“Do you want me to copy the bookstore key for you, too?” I call after him.
“No, thanks,” he says. “Too much responsibility.”
Gavin takes his time with the keys, telling me his schedule for the day, asking about my bookstore and volunteer plans.
“Want to get together after your shift at the shelter tomorrow?” he asks. “We could have lunch.”
“That would be nice.” I smile.
Before I can embarrass myself with an overly gleeful reaction, Blake yells to me: “Come check this out.”
I find him in aisle 3. He’s holding a cat key holder with curved tails to hook the keys.
“Should we get it?” he asks.
“Yes! It’s cute and practical, too. Mom will love it.”
“Great.” He pays for the keys and the key holder, I say my good-byes to Gavin, then we head home. I don’t know if Blake heard Gavin make plans with me, and I don’t mention it. He doesn’t need to know everything about my dating life.
In our lobby, he waits for the elevator. “I’ll meet you up there,” I say. “I need to get my stuff from the dryer.”
I take the stairs down. Once the stairwell door closes behind me, the basement seems darker than ever, as if the electricity is off. The light on my phone helps guide me to the laundry room. I flick the switch. Nothing happens. Not even the one good light turns on.
Maybe Norma’s in the middle of fixing the lightbulbs. She could have turned off the circuit breaker or something. But when I open the dryer, the drum light turns on as I dump the clothes into the basket. The electricity is working after all.
The light from the dryer illuminates the space and something catches my eye. I focus my phone on the wall to my left.
“No.” I back up, banging into the open dryer door.
One word is scrawled in red capital letters across the wall: DAUGHTER. A bloody handprint drips in the space underneath.
I grab the basket. A cat T-shirt falls, but I don’t stop. I need to escape, fast. The elevator takes forever. The doors slide open. I expect demons, monsters, ghouls. It’s empty.
On our floor, I race to our apartment, fumble with my keys. My hands tremble too much to open the lock. “Blake!”
When he opens the door, I drop the basket to grab his arm. “Come with me.”
“El, what’s going on?”
I can’t speak on the elevator ride to the basement.
“Seriously, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I’ll show you.”
I turn my phone light on when we leave the elevator and pull him into the dark laundry room. I illuminate the wall but can’t bear to look. “See?”
He’s quiet. I figure he’s as frightened as I am.
“See what?”
I turn my head and shine the light where the red scrawl was minutes before.
There’s nothing.
“Why are we in the dark?” Blake asks, flipping the laundry room switch.
The lights come on. The sudden brightness makes me blink as I stare at the blank wall.
14
LISTEN
I’m still shaking when we get back to the apartment.
“Are you sure you saw something?” Blake asks.
“Yes.” I pet Oscar, trying to calm myself. “I’m positive. The word DAUGHTER and a handprint in red. Like blood. Don’t you believe me?”
Blake sits next to me. I feel him inhale, exhale. “Of course. Let’s think about this. Who could have done it?”
My dead father. The day after his birthday. But no. I search for a rational answer.
“The building super knew I was doing laundry. Like I told you, her teen daughter died. So that could be the daughter reference.”
“Why would the super want to frighten you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s unbalanced or something.”
“Next time you do the wash I’m coming with you. And don’t talk to her again.”
“Okay.” Is this what it’s like to have a big brother—to have someone to protect you?
“What are you doing for the rest of today?” he asks.
“I think I’ll stay here until it’s time to leave for Grace’s.”
“All right. I’ll walk you there later. Where do you keep the screwdriver? I’ll hang the key holder.”
I point him to the junk drawer. Relieved that he’s around, I spend the afternoon transferring the wedding photos I took on to the computer so I can view them on a larger screen and weed out the bad ones. Once I’ve narrowed it down to the best fifty, I order prints and a small white photo album to put them in. It’s a good distraction until it’s time to head to Grace’s.
Before I leave, Mom calls and keeps the conversation light and happy. I don’t mention the laundry room incident, of course, or anything else about Dad. It will be better to talk to her in person. She’ll be home in five more days. Somehow, we’ll work through the whole lying thing. With all the latest weirdness, I’m feeling less angry at Mom at the moment.
Grace invites me for dinner before our sleepover. After I take care of Oscar, Blake walks me to her house. I feel safer with him by my side. Mrs. Wallace prepared make-your-own-tacos including refried beans and veggies so I could eat vegan and she could feed the rest of the family, too.
After dinner, Grace and I hang out in her room. Piper has apparently been banned, because she doesn’t ask to join us, but I notice she’s wearing the tiger’s eye necklace that I left for her.
Grace flicks channels until she finds the original Halloween, which we’ve watched five times already. I tell her about Gavin visiting the shelter and our plans to see each other tomorrow.
“Whatever happened with the beautiful boy you met at the mall?” she asks. “No further sightings?”
“No. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” I still can’t bring myself to tell her that Beautiful Boy is Blake.
“That’s too bad.” Her tone is a little off. Maybe she’s jealous over my possible late-summer romance with Gavin. The Tarot card reader did predict envy for her.
She won’t be jealous over the latest handprint, that’s for sure.
“There is something important I need to tell you,” I say.
“What?” Grace sits up attentively.
The creepy Halloween music plays in the background and I shiver. “Would you mind turning that off?”
She uses the remote to mute the movie, but I can still see the villain, Michael Myers. I angle my body away from the screen and tell her about Norma and the laundry room.
“What’s Norma’s last name?”
“Morales.”
Grace grabs her phone and types quickly.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to learn more about Norma’s daughter.” After a few minutes of clicking, she pauses. “Wow, Ella.”
Grace never calls me that unless it’s serious.
“What?”
“Look at this photo. Her daughter looks just like you. You have the same brown hair, the same brown eyes.”
I study Gina Morales on the screen. “Yeah, but so do half the girls in our school.”
“You don’t see the resemblance? Really? Because I bet Norma does.”
I try to keep an open mind. “Maybe a little.”
“It says that at age fifteen, Gina collapsed and died during a basketball game from an undiagnosed heart problem. She was buried at Hoboken Hill Cemetery six years ago.”
I vaguely remember seeing Gina around our building, and then Mom telling me about her death. “Poor Norma.” I imagine how upset Mom would be if anything happened to me.
“What if Norma is obsessed with you? You said you saw her at the cemetery, before all this creepiness started. She has keys to the whole building, right? Maybe your resemblance is a trigger for her to do bizarre things.”
“Even if I resemble her daughter, that doesn’t give her a motive. What does she gain by trying to creep me out? And if she left the message in the laundry room, why erase it so quickly?”
“To avoid getting caught? Who knows,” Grace says. “Maybe grief changes how someone thinks.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the killer carrying a body across the screen. “Can we please turn that off?” I sound angrier than I intend.
Grace finally clicks the remote. “Norma could be mentally ill.”
I cringe at the words “mentally ill.” Didn’t she listen to what I told her about my dad? “Let’s forget about it for tonight.”
“Maybe we should go to bed,” Grace says. “I’m tired.”
It’s too hot to climb inside the sleeping bag, so I settle on top of it with a blanket next to Grace’s bed. We turn out the lights, but when her phone pings with a text, Grace doesn’t seem tired at all. The light from the screen illuminates the room as she taps away, making it impossible for me to fall asleep. She smiles as she types, but when she finally turns off her phone, she doesn’t bother to tell me who the text is from.
I wake up several times during the night from bad dreams I can’t quite remember. In the morning, Grace seems distant toward me and we barely speak. As I gather my clothes, I realize I’d rather sleep in my own room for a change. I won’t come back tonight.
At home, the apartment is eerily quiet. I cautiously peek in the bathroom, but it remains handprint-free. I walk through Mom’s bedroom and then enter Blake’s room. I don’t know where he’s spending the afternoon. His neatly made bed doesn’t look slept in. An NYU course catalog rests on his nightstand, along with a guide to Spanish-speaking countries, and a memoir about a sociopathic father. Psychology research, no doubt. Tucked behind the books is a framed picture of a young Blake, a barely recognizable Stanley, and a pretty woman who must be his mom, Veronique. His open suitcase rests on the floor at the foot of the bed, filled with neatly folded clothes. I guess barely unpacking would make going to school that much easier. He must be shipping the rest of his stuff directly to the dorm from his mom’s house.
I realize that I’m moving stealthily, as if I might disturb someone. Or something. I leave Blake’s room and sit on the edge of the couch. I’ve never felt so shaky. It’s like my childhood home has been transformed into a haunted house. Every shadow needs a second glance, every noise a closer listen. What am I scared of?
The answer comes to me like a horror movie whisper: I’m afraid of ghosts. My dead father’s spirit reaching out from the grave, trying to come to emotional closure as his beloved family moves on.
No. I’m losing it. Maybe the person that needs emotional closure is me. My phone rings, and the sound makes me jump. It’s Gavin.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you. We’re still good for a late lunch, right?”
“Yes. I’m on my way to the shelter in a few minutes. See you after my shift.”
On the way to volunteer, I can’t help thinking about Gina Morales, about how sad and lonely her mother must be. Norma doesn’t even have a pet to keep her company. I wonder if she is allergic to cats. My brain spins with the adoption-matchmaking possibilities. If Norma adopted Petals, I could visit her! But I need to rein in the fantasy. She never seemed remotely warm toward Oscar.
Once my shift starts, I spend my usual cuddle time with Petals until a couple comes in. They want a younger cat, but not a kitten, so I encourage them to take Cinnamon. This helps pass the time, but I can’t help checking the wall clock every few minutes.
At exactly two o’clock, Gavin breezes through the door wearing a backpack.
“Hi,” he says. “
How’s adoption-land today?”
Petals jumps from my arms to greet him. Then Carson comes over, followed by Azula, Katniss, and Goedal. Soon all the cats surround him.
“Have you become the cat whisperer?” I ask, laughing.
“It must be the backpack. I brought our lunch. Plus some cat treats so they’d like me.”
“Uh-oh. You can’t feed them outside treats. It’s against shelter rules.”
“Oops,” he says. Azula starts to meow loudly.
“We have to leave before you start a riot. You go first, and I’ll make sure none of them sneak out behind you.”
I have to gently move Carson away from the door before I can follow Gavin to the lobby.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Starved.”
“Good. I know the perfect place for a picnic.”
We pass Henry on the way, but he’s on the other side of the street and doesn’t see me. I don’t go out of my way to say hello.
Soon we arrive at the castle entrance of the Stevens Institute of Technology. Trees create a canopy over the main path and the shade feels delicious in the midst of the summer heat.
I’m too nervous to be chatty. I haven’t told Gavin that I’m a vegan, and I don’t want to make him feel bad about whatever lunch he brought. I’m hoping for PB&J or something that I can deconstruct without hurting his feelings.
We continue uphill. It’s so hot that the air-conditioning creates condensation on the windows of the buildings we pass. Summer-school students are hunched over their computers inside.
“Castle Point is the highest part of Hoboken,” Gavin says. “That’s one of the college’s claims to fame. The land was purchased by the Stevens family in 1784. There’s a lot of interesting history here, including stories about a campus ghost.”
“Really?” I shiver despite myself.
“His name is Jan of Rotterham. According to the online student handbook, his favorite time to haunt the campus is on windy March nights.”
“How do you know all this? Are you applying to go to school here?”
“I’m kind of a Hoboken history buff.”
“Do you know Sybil’s Cave on Sinatra Drive? The story about Mary Rogers? Her murdered body was found in the Hudson River in the 1800s, near the entrance to the cavern.”
Black Flowers, White Lies Page 9