“You’re lucky,” he had said. He gave me a look that spoke volumes about just how lucky I was—and in how many different ways. I knew what he meant and agreed with him, but in other ways I did not feel lucky at all. Except for one thing: the mark on my arm that looked like a horned ouroboros was gone. It had vanished when the police burst into the room, otherwise they might have thought I was part of a gang. All that remained was a small scar. No one had asked about it or seemed to notice.
Even though no criminal charges were filed against me, it did not mean life went back to normal.
At school, I was a distraction, and they could not figure out what to do with me. What they did know was that they wanted me as far away from the campus as possible, so they asked me to take a “break” for three weeks. I was basically grounded from school. For the first time ever, I had lots of free time. That was a new experience.
Going to the pier was not much better. There were lots of visitors there and they didn’t know me, but it only took one person to recognize me and point. In minutes everyone would be staring to see what the commotion was about.
With nowhere else to go, I went to the one place where I had always found understanding, good advice, and no lectures.
I went into the garage the same way I did when I asked for advice on finding out about a murder that I wasn’t sure had been committed.
“The District Attorney still hasn’t given up,” my grandfather said, scraping the last of the ashes from his pipe. He tapped the pipe against his hand and a few more ashes fell on the garage floor.
“I know,” I said. “Do you think he will?”
“Well, Mr. Kaufman is raising objections. He says his wife was the subject of bullying at school, and she went off the deep end. It’s mostly a matter of satisfying public opinion. He’s a big realtor, lots of development: every time a house comes on the market, he tears it down and builds another McMansion.” He paused to light his pipe.
“He has a lot of money,” he went on, “and there is already media attention. With Abigail claiming she can’t remember anything because she has amnesia, and with Pamela turning up mysteriously in Palmdale and practically catatonic, you’re the only one they can point the finger at. The police think you’re hiding something.”
Great. Just great.
I knew Abigail was devious and biding her time. The few times I saw her she quickly turned away, but once, after passing her, I turned and saw her glaring at me. I had heard about Pamela, too, but her parents had her sequestered and no one had seen her.
“Pamela’s parents hired a full-time au pair—that’s what they’re calling her,” he said. “They claim it’s for Pamela’s younger brother, but the consensus is that it’s a nurse whose real purpose is to keep an eye on her.”
He paused and puffed his pipe. Pale gray smoke swirled and rose toward the ceiling.
“Her father is making it known he wants someone to pay for his daughter’s mental problems,” he said, “and not just with money. He wants someone tried and convicted. He insists she did not run away, that she must have been drugged to begin with, and that’s what led to her eating disorder.
“He’s also demanding Abigail undergo full psychiatric and medical treatment to recover her memory. He says post-traumatic stress caused her to forget, and he’s not about to give up.”
That was another problem. Pamela had been found on Pearblossom Highway. An elderly Native American man had been picking up recyclables. He saw a girl wandering near the highway, called the police, and stayed with her till they arrived. The police knew him. They said he had lived there forever, so he was not a suspect.
As for Pamela, she had been taken to a hospital and would not speak or eat. She had to be force fed with a tube down her throat. She had finally recovered enough to be released and gone home.
I wanted to visit Pamela and see how she was doing, but would seeing me cause her to regress? I never found out: her parents had refused to let me in. The news about the au pair meant another obstacle because even if I were allowed to visit her, it would be hard to have much of a conversation with someone watching every move.
I had no way to contact James or Jade. They must have been the ones who removed the spell, but at what cost?
“If Pamela’s father and Mr. Kaufman get together,” my grandfather said thoughtfully, “they may try to pin everything on you. If they do, they’ll put pressure on the D.A. to try you as an adult.”
“But I’m only”—I started to say fifteen, but during the last week I had turned sixteen.
“You have no criminal record, no rap sheet.” He looked at me and I saw a twinkle in his eye. “Only one non-moving violation.”
Surprising as it seemed, my parents had let me get my driver’s license. I think they felt sorry for me. They did not believe I was guilty; however, it was a first for them to have their daughter be even remotely involved with anything like arson, vandalism, kidnapping.
To say that having my driver’s license had lost some of its luster was an understatement. The first thing I did was get a ticket for parking in the wrong place.
“Then why try me as an adult?” I asked.
“The D.A. is ambitious. He has plans for higher office and elections are coming up soon. A case like this would put him in the public eye: a good enough reason for a lot of things. Money talks. If he can satisfy Pamela’s father and Mr. Kaufman, they would be more than willing to contribute to his campaign fund.”
His pipe had gone out. When he finished speaking, he relit it and then held up his latest creation, a new kite. It was black and wedge-shaped like a stealth fighter. He seemed to be preoccupied with it and began polishing it.
I watched him for a few minutes. I didn’t know paper could be polished, but then again it didn’t look like any paper I had ever seen.
“Olivia,” he said, setting the kite aside. “There is something you should know. Remember when Mindy’s granddad and I bought the old cars, the woody and the bus?”
“Sort of.”
“Everyone, including your mom and grandma, and Mindy’s as well, thought we were having a midlife crisis, trying to recapture our youth.”
“I remember that,” I admitted.
“That wasn’t it, but we couldn’t tell anyone the reason.”
“You didn’t have to,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting an old car or a surfboard either.” I thought of the long boards they had both bought. His was now on a hanger suspended parallel to the garage ceiling. I also understood only too well about not being able to explain certain things.
“We weren’t just surfing,” he said. “We were looking for something under the pier. A wave slammed Jack into a piling and broke his shoulder. The surf had been flat, otherwise we wouldn’t have been there.”
“Did you roll under the wave?” I asked.
“I had paddled farther out and was sitting on my board. Jack had left his board on the sand and was bodysurfing. He dove, and from out of nowhere a wave surged. He told me later he would have gone deeper if he’d seen it, but you’ve been in the water often enough and dove under waves, so you won’t get hit. You know how they can still pull you under. It’s not always guaranteed you won’t hit the sand. But the thing is, this wave came out of nowhere.”
“Was it backwash?”
“No,” he said. “I would have seen that.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t far away,” he said. “There hadn’t been a set for about ten minutes. I wouldn’t have ridden a wave anyway; I was, well, I guess you could say, the lookout.”
“Look out?” I repeated. “Sounds like cops and robbers.”
“Nothing that serious, at least not obviously so.” He paused again as though visualizing it all over again.
“Swells can come out of nowhere,” I said.
“This one surged inside. There was no swell, no warning.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor have I.” He paused
. “There is something there that the city did not plan,” he said slowly. “No one did. It sounds crazy, I know, but the reason I’m telling you is because you need to be aware. There is a portal there, a gateway, and it’s marked. This has nothing to do with the coastguard, the government, anything like that. The pilings are covered with barnacles, seaweed, and what look like scratches from wear and tear. But those markings are in a different language, and they were put there intentionally.”
“By who?” I asked. “Portal to where?”
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “I’ve not gone through it so I can’t say where it goes—but some have. Who put it there? I don’t know that either, but I suspect there are Others here that only a few have seen.”
“I don’t know what Others are,” I said quickly.
“Officially, I don’t either.” He smiled to himself. “This is all off the record,” he added, and then went back to his kite.
When I went home and was in my room, I thought about what my grandfather had said. Perhaps I should have confided in him and told him everything that happened. It was not too late. I could go back and tell him.
Before I decided, I heard a ping. Should I answer my phone? I’d gotten some hate mail—and a lot of support, too.
What the heck. Don’t be a coward. I paused and then picked up my phone.
The message was sent from someone whose icon was a pink ribbon. My heart pounded as I watched the timer of a large file downloading.
The view was from the corner of a ceiling and looked down into a large bedroom where someone was screaming and sobbing. It was Pamela. She was hysterical, standing in front of a mirror. She screamed, then pounded the mirror with her fists. Her mother and father rushed into the room.
“She snapped out of it,” her father said, his voice barely audible.
Her mother made a slight motion with her hand. Don’t say anything.
Wild-eyed and disheveled, Pamela turned and stared at them. Her parents helped her to the bed and urged her to sit down, all the while muttering soothing words. I couldn’t tell exactly what they said because the sound was muffled, but they seemed to comfort her.
Pamela stopped screaming. Her posture sagged; her head hung over her lap. She lifted her head and looked slowly from one end of the room to the other.
“They’re here,” she said.
“It’s all right,” her mother said, “they won’t harm you.”
“You don’t believe me!” Pamela grabbed her mother by the shoulders.
“Of course, we do, but we know you’re upset, and we want you to rest,” her mother replied. “Call the doctor,” she said to Pamela’s father. “And we should have . . ..” She looked at him meaningfully and he left the room.
“They took me away,” Pamela said, panic stricken, as if her mother had not said anything.
“Who did?” her mother asked. “Tell us who it was, we’ll call the police. No one will harm you again. Just tell me who it was.”
“Fairies.” Pamela nodded and stared at her mother. “Yes, fairies.” She looked from the walls to the closet, the door. “I saw them. I know two of them. They took me away. They were silver—wore silver. They’re beautiful, too”—she breathed deeply, her eyes bright. Her expression changed but then her eyes shifted warily from side to side. “Don’t let them take me away.” She grabbed her mother’s shoulders and jerked them. “Don’t let them take me!”
“I won’t,” her mother reassured her. She gently but firmly removed Pamela’s clutching hands from her shoulders. “You’re safe.”
Her father re-entered the room, followed by a girl who seemed to be a few years older than Pamela. “If you would, please,” said Pamela’s mother, making eye contact with the girl who must be the au pair.
“No!” Pamela screamed again, horrified at the sight her. “No! She’s one of them!”
“I am so sorry, Hannah,” Pamela’s mother murmured, as the girl with white blonde hair tried to help the struggling Pamela back to her bed.
“If I may?” Hannah asked politely.
“Please, yes,” Pamela’s mother said.
Hannah deftly administered a shot to Pamela’s arm. “There we go,” she said, gingerly rubbing the spot with a cotton ball.
Pamela’s parents were too occupied watching Pamela to see where Hannah got the hypodermic needle, but I saw it materialize in her hand.
“I am so sorry,” Pamela’s mother said again.
“It is not a problem, ma’am, not at all,” said Hannah.
“Stay with her, will you, Hannah, until the doctor arrives.”
“Certainly. I will not leave her for a single minute.” Hannah raised her head and stared into the video.
I pulled back and gasped.
“We have the trusty Nest Cam,” Hannah added confidently, her violet eyes shining brightly, “so we are doubly protected.” Her eyes glittered kaleidoscopically.
Miss Pinkerton!
I started and almost dropped my phone.
In the next instant, Miss Iris Pinkerton was once again the pale, mild-mannered Hannah with long blonde braids. She sat in a chair near the bed and clasped her hands in her lap. As she did, her oversize boyfriend sweater, which had one button holding the front together, parted over her lap; one pocket pulling low from the weight of what looked like a small, black book.
My ceiling-high view followed Pamela’s parents out of the room. As their voices trailed away, I heard them say “psychiatric ward” and “lost touch with reality” and “no such thing as fairies.”
The video ended.
I sat there for a few minutes, and when I finally set my phone aside, three things came to mind.
First, I would see Pamela, however long it took, however much I had to maneuver, and convince her to say she had been hit on the head, it was all her imagination, there was no such thing as fairies. Most of all, try to act normal.
Second, they needed to fire Hannah. The only way for that to happen was for Pamela to be well again, which brought me back to number one, so I needed to stress the part about acting normal.
And third, I was right about not telling anyone.
Despite feeling weak in the knees after what I had just seen, I got the car keys, drove to the beach, and parked in the Twenty-Sixth Street lot.
As I gazed at the water, a wave lifted, but before it broke, I saw dolphins silhouetted by the sun.
My reverie was interrupted by a ping. The icon was a single strawberry with a pair of black square-framed glasses.
A thrill of fear ran through me as I read the text:
“I am not sorry for anything. She had it coming, and so did you, but there is no use in being deadly enemies, is there? I’ve taken a leave of absence, so I’ll be doing home school for a while. BTW, your mom is a great lawyer. My mom was being sued for malpractice, but your mom got her off.”
I looked up. Oh my god. Why hadn’t Mom told me that?
I looked back at my phone and kept reading.
“My mom doesn’t want to go back to her old job. We have a little pastry shop in Torrance. She made me a silent partner. She still thinks I’m incompetent. But we know better, don’t we? (rictus smiling emoji) Don’t worry (smiley face) they’re just plain old desserts.”
I was speechless. Abigail had never joked about anything; that she would now, was scary.
But what about my mom? Should I question her? Would I believe her? No. With all the things I was hiding, I suppose I had no right to be shocked that she had a few secrets of her own.
Then I glared at the message. How dare Abigail contact me? I wanted to reply but knew I had to be careful. Who could say what Abigail’s motivations were? Maybe she was trying to trap me into saying something that could be used against me. Before I could pull my thoughts together, I was interrupted by rapid tapping on my window.
“Olivia? Are you okay?” Parker looked at me curiously from the other side of the window.
“Oh, sure”—I exhaled loudly, as I rolled i
t down. “It’s so peaceful, the sunset, I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said, grinning at me. “I know how that is.”
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Good, good.” He stopped, as if searching for words. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I just didn’t know how to approach it without—and I still don’t know how. But I wanted to come clean on it. I stopped at your house and your mom said I could find you here.”
“Oh sure . . . what is it?” I said weakly.
I was still discombobulated over seeing Pamela’s condition and now Abigail’s text. What strangely weird thing was I about to hear from Parker? I felt like saying tell me later, but he looked eager, and also guilty, which was not like him.
“The column you said you read—or used to—do you remember?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“The horoscope, you know.”
“Oh, that.” I wished he hadn’t reminded me. I had given up trying to see into the future. If I had known any of this would have happened, I might have run away—if I believed it. Besides, what good did it do to read about your future? Nothing close to my recent experience had ever been mentioned. Of course, most advice columns don’t want to scare their readers; if they did, they wouldn’t have any.
Why was he asking? Was he a horoscope fan? For all I knew he might have been reading his as well. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know what his sign was.
“That’s right, horoscope,” he said.
He still sounded hesitant, and for Parker not to burst out with news or an explanation of what captured his interest, was unusual. For him to leave it hanging like that was annoying. I was not in the mood for guessing games.
“What about it?” I said.
“I’m—I’m the one who writes it.” He heaved a sigh.
“You?” I stared at him in disbelief, then chuckled. I couldn’t help it. This was not the Parker I knew. I mean solid practical Parker writing a horoscope column? Unbelievable.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 25