Hidden Pieces

by Paula Stokes

  Me: Okay. Text me 15 min before you get there.

  Holden: Will do.

  Stepping back into the house, I close the door quietly behind me and read the note again. The person used my exact words from the Tillamook Headlight Herald, the only paper of any decent size around here. But that means they could live anywhere in Tillamook County, which takes in a ton of small towns. Not to mention they could have just accessed the info from the paper’s website, so there’s no guarantee whoever sent this note is a subscriber.

  I duck into my bedroom and close the door behind me. My chest goes tight as I think again about what would happen if I told everyone the truth. I take in a deep breath, hold the air inside my lungs until they start to burn. Then I let it out slowly, just a bit at a time through pursed lips. I close my eyes, count to ten, count to twenty, count to thirty. I keep counting until my chest stops hurting, somewhere around 145.

  I read the note a sentence at a time, trying to figure out what the sender’s motive might be. Do they want me to confess about Holden or about the fire? Why would anyone demand I do either of those things unless they were personally invested? The only people who would care about Holden and me are Luke and Julia, but Luke is on the other side of the world, and if Julia knew I was hooking up with Holden, I’m fairly certain she’d confront me face-to-face. As far as the fire goes, the only people who ought to care about that are the relatives of the guy who owned the Sea Cliff Inn, and most of them live out of state. I saw one of his sons around at the end of the summer, but not lately. And if his family somehow had proof I was the one who started the fire, they could just give it to the police without threatening anyone.

  “Why threaten to ruin the life of someone I care about?” I murmur. That’s also a pretty short list. My brain cues up a grisly montage of exactly what that might mean, everything from sabotaging Julia’s shot at going to Harvard to burning down my mom’s café. You’re being paranoid, I tell myself.

  But am I?

  I lift the letter up to the light, looking for any clues to who might have left it. But there are no special markings or anything—it’s just a piece of printer paper used by basically anyone with a copier or computer printer. The envelope looks like the type that would be used with Christmas cards, but there’s no brand stamped on it. The red letters on the front are round and straight and all the same size, as if someone purposely tried to mask their style of printing.

  Sighing, I slip the letter back into the envelope and set it on my desk. I’ve done all I can do for now. Pulling my homework out of my backpack, I try to focus on my latest list of vocabulary words for Spanish III, but they blur together in front of my eyes. I push Spanish to the side and grab the novel my English class is reading—A Separate Peace—but it’s even harder to focus on that. The whole book is about how a boy betrays his close friend out of jealousy, and it hits entirely too close to home when I think about Holden and Julia. I wouldn’t say I’m actively jealous of Julia, but I can recognize the differences between us. She has money and connections. She’s super-ambitious. She’ll end up rich and powerful someday. Me, well, I win when it comes to making a latte. So yeah, there’s no denying I like the fact that Holden picked me over her.

  Like I said, it’s possible I’m not a very good person.

  I drop the novel on the floor next to my bed. Could Julia have sent me the note? No, she wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret if she knew about Holden and me, and besides, it’s not her style. When she has a problem with someone, she tells them. She almost got suspended last year because she didn’t agree with the grade she got on her research paper and went after our Advanced Comp teacher in the parking lot before school.

  My phone buzzes. Holden. Be there in 15.

  I grab the note from the desk and slip it and my phone into the pocket of my jeans. Maybe Holden will have a fresh perspective. Maybe he’ll see something I don’t see. Sliding back into my jacket, I leave the house and shut the door quietly behind me, locking it as usual.

  Ten minutes later, I cross Main Street in front of the community center and cut through the small parking lot for our beach access. A paved ramp leads down to the sand. It’s another quarter mile to the far side of the beach and I quicken my stride, moving closer to the water’s edge where the sand is firm enough to easily walk on.

  The surf rumbles in my ears. The ocean dances in my peripheral vision, a dark and deadly ballet. About fifty yards from shore, waves crash against the three rocks the town is named for—Arch Rock, Ridge Rock, and Fin Rock. There’s actually a fourth rock a little closer to the beach called Seal Rock, because sometimes when the sun is out you can see seals basking on it. That rock is low and flat and blends into Fin Rock when you’re looking from a distance, though, so I guess it didn’t count to whoever named the town.

  Beyond the rocks, the blackness of the ocean stretches out into forever, disturbed only by the red light of a winking buoy, hundreds of yards from shore.

  I approach the cliff at the far side of the beach, a high wall that actually makes up part of Cape Azure, a hand-shaped piece of land with several fingers that protrude out into the ocean. A lighthouse, still in use, stands at the top of the cliff. Most of that area is part of Cape Azure State Park, but I haven’t been there since Julia’s dad took us hiking in middle school.

  Turning my attention back to the beach, I scramble over a field of loose pebbles as I make my way toward the opening in the cliff. Some beaches have seashells. Three Rocks Beach has, well, rocks. The entrance to the cave starts about ten feet up from the water level, but kids have pushed the biggest rocks into a pile to form a sort of natural stairway. I scale the boulders and pause in the opening to the dark hole. I shine the flashlight on my phone around the inside. It’s dry and deserted. It’s also creepy as fuck.

  I decide to hang out in the opening of the Pot Hole while I wait for Holden. Swiping at my phone, I access the internet and check out a movie review site that I read frequently. I scroll down to see the new on-demand and DVD releases. Every week, Mom and I do a Sunday night sundae party with ice cream and movies. Well, first we watch the latest episode of 911 Fire Rescue, which I have nicknamed Sexy Firefighting Models. But she always lets me pick a movie to watch after that.

  After the movie stuff, I skim some of the science and tech news on a national website, being careful to avoid the international links. Those always seem to be full of natural disasters and bombings and stuff. Even though I’m sure Luke and I aren’t getting back together, it’s still terrifying to think of him in the scary situations that the big national papers write about.

  A few minutes later, a lone figure dressed all in black approaches the Pot Hole at a steady jog. Holden is up away from the waterline and wearing combat boots that sink down in the sand with each stride. He transitions from sand to the rocks without slowing down, expertly picking his way across the sea of boulders. When he reaches the opening to the cave and pulls off his black knitted cap, he doesn’t even look winded.

  “What’s up?” He bends down to brush his lips against mine. “Your texts seemed a little . . . frantic.”

  I glance furtively around. “Not here. Someone might see us.” I step through the opening and slide down a short incline, into the belly of the cave, wincing at the musty odor. Holden follows me. Hitting the flashlight on my phone again, I double-check to make sure we’re totally alone. Then I turn back to him. I pull the wrinkled note out of my back pocket. “I think someone saw us that night. They left me this—at my house. It says I have to post a confession of why I was at the Sea Cliff on my Facebook page.”

  “What? Let me see it,” Holden says.

  I hand him the note. Holden uses the flashlight on his own phone to read the note. He scrunches up his forehead as he finishes reading. “Ruin the life of someone you care about. What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, why not ruin my life if I’m the one you’re pissed at?”

  “Maybe this asshole saw us bu
t doesn’t have any actual proof. So he can’t hurt you, but he might have stuff on other people. Any idea who left it?”

  “The Jameson brothers said they saw a kid in a hoodie near my house, but they don’t know who it was and they didn’t see him on the porch or anything.”

  “Hmm. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down. Everyone in town probably owns a hoodie.” Holden rubs at the bridge of his nose. “It’s probably some troll who doesn’t like all the attention you got in the newspaper and stuff. I would just throw this away and pretend you never got it.”

  “You think?” I tuck my hands into my pockets. “But what if they really hurt someone?”

  “Are you going to risk getting arrested and/or sued over that remote possibility?” Holden asks. “Besides, ruin someone’s life sounds a little dramatic, doesn’t it? It’s not like any of your friends are hard-core criminals or in the witness protection program. What’s the guy gonna do? Out someone for using drugs or having an eating disorder or something? Those are good things to have out in the open.”

  “So you don’t think I should do anything? I mean, whoever wrote this might be crazy.”

  “What can you do? I can show it to my mom if you want, but you know what she’s gonna think.”

  “That we started the fire.” Again I see that look on my mom’s face, a mixture of resignation and despair. I won’t do that to her.

  “Yep,” Holden says. “Plus, it’s not like the cops could do much with this note. Assuming whoever it is was smart enough not to leave fingerprints, this is just regular paper and a generic envelope. And this printing looks like someone tried to be as nondescript as possible. Look how round and even it is. Not exactly a major clue.”

  “You would tell me if you got one too, right?” I say, my voice wavering.

  “Of course. The fact that I didn’t get one is what makes me think it’s just some asshole jealous of the attention you got.” Holden slips the note into the envelope and hands it back to me. Then he runs one thumb down the side of my face. “I know you’re used to flying under the radar, but heroes have haters, that’s just how it is.”

  “I am not a hero,” I mumble. “I risked my life because I didn’t want to be a murderer. And now some whack job is threatening to target totally innocent people in my honor.”

  Holden looks down at me for a second, his expression deadly serious. “No one is totally innocent,” he says finally.

  “Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

  “I still think it’s some troll.” Gently, Holden removes my hands from my pockets and wraps his own hands around them. His fingers eclipse mine completely. “Look, Embry. I know you’re a little freaked out, and I am too, but I say we call this asshole’s bluff. He can try to ruin my life if he wants. Not like there’s much to ruin.” Holden continues before I can reply. “If we don’t tell anyone about that night, chances are no one will be able to prove we were in the hotel. I looked it up online, and apparently fire investigations almost always end up inconclusive. There’s never enough evidence left after the flames burn out to know for sure what started the fire. A couple of weeks from now the whole drama will be forgotten.”

  “Will it?” I want to believe Holden, but I have a bad feeling about this note, a bad feeling that the trouble from the Sea Cliff fire is just getting started.

  Seven

  December 15

  I’M NOT SCHEDULED TO WORK on Saturday, but I volunteer to go in and help out because my other option would be pacing around the house going crazy until after eight p.m. to see if someone I care about gets their life ruined.

  Part of me wants to call Julia and Frannie and tell them to be careful, but you can’t really give advice like that without being more specific. I’m pretty sure the standard follow-up question to “Be careful because a crazy person is blackmailing me and threatened to hurt my friends” is “What did you do?” I try to reassure myself by thinking about how someone would have to work really hard to ruin either of their lives. They’re both smart, sensible, hardworking, well liked. I still feel like shit, though. At least I can look out for my mom since we’re both going to be working all day.

  Business is steady in the early morning as some of the beach walkers come in for coffee and a hash brown breakfast sandwich called the Beverly Cleary. I float between the front and the back, helping out both the cashier and the cook. After ten, things slow down and I throw myself into deep cleaning the customer seating area, scrubbing away the dust that has accumulated on light fixtures and windowsills. I work around the strands of tiny white lights we’ve strung up as Christmas decorations. Next, I gently Windex the glass fronts of each of the framed photos hanging in the café—mostly B-list actors and professional athletes who’ve stopped by for a sandwich or a latte in the past. Then I turn to the big mural on the back wall. It’s a painting of Three Rocks Beach—a faded yellow sun shines down on the rocks, sand, and clear blue water. My great-grandmother had it painted when she first opened the shop, because she wanted people to be able to enjoy the beauty of the coastline even when it’s cold and rainy. But after fifty years it’s looking a little dingy.

  With a damp cloth, I wipe the whole thing from top to bottom, brushing a few loose chips of paint to the floor. As my hand passes over the swirls of color, it occurs to me that maybe Holden would be willing to touch this up. It’s not exactly his style, but I bet he’d be able to mimic the brushstrokes of the original artist.

  “Embry.” My mom’s voice startles me.

  I spin around. “Yeah?” I clutch the damp cloth tight in my right fist. “What’s up?”

  “Are you sure you want to be doing all this today?” Mom’s eyes flick to the front window. A couple of girls my age walk by in puffy winter jackets. I don’t recognize them—they must be tourists. We get college kids from Portland and families from other parts of the coast coming through on the weekends. “It’s not even that cold out today,” Mom continues. “I thought maybe you’d rather hang out with Julia or Frannie?”

  “Nah. Julia is busy working on her college applications, and Frannie is probably volunteering at the food bank or helping out at the restaurant today.”

  “Still, I could hire a professional cleaner to come in and do this detail stuff. You don’t have to do it.”

  I start to reply, but then get distracted. A man wearing a brown bomber jacket and a baseball cap is standing in the doorway of the market across the street. There’s something familiar about him, but I’m not sure what it is. He’s got sunglasses on, so I can’t tell if he’s staring at us or looking past the edge of the building, out toward the ocean.

  Mom turns around to see what has caught my attention. The man pulls out a pack of cigarettes and slides one between his lips, turning his face toward the building to shelter himself from the wind. Cigarette lit, he pulls a phone out of his pocket and starts walking down the street toward the beach access parking lot.

  “I don’t mind cleaning.” I turn back to the mural. “Holden Hassler might be willing to come brighten this up a little. He was in one of my art classes and he’s an amazing painter.”

  Mom turns toward the mural. “It is looking a bit faded, isn’t it? You know, your grandmother had an idea for that wall before she died.”

  “Oh?”

  Mom makes a swiping motion with her arm. “She wanted to tear down the whole thing, put in a big picture window that looks out onto the ocean.”

  “That would be amazing,” I say. “But probably expensive.”

  “True.” Mom wilts slightly, and I feel bad for bringing reality into her fantasy. “Let me think about the touch-up. If you see Holden, ask him how much he would charge.”

  “Okay,” I say, even though I know he’d do it for free.

  Mom glances around the coffee shop. I follow her gaze, from the Christmas lights strung around the front window to the painted tables and chairs to the walls that now seem just a bit brighter. “It looks fantastic in here.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Is th
ere anything I can help you with in the back?”

  Mom grins. “Wanna scrub the employee toilet?”

  I shudder. “Noooo. But I guess I could.”

  My mom snickers. “I was kidding. I make the staff who show up late do that. You can help me with the holiday orders if you want. We don’t have as many as last year, but I’ve got some people who want to pick up their cookies early next week.”

  Mom’s sugar cookies are a favorite of the kids in Three Rocks. She sells them in different shapes depending on the time of year—flowers in the spring, leaves in the fall, and stars and snowflakes in the winter. Several of the people who live here order dozens to bring to work and family holiday parties.

  “I’m on it,” I tell her, heading back into the kitchen area of the shop. Mom and I sometimes make the cookies at home, too, so I know the recipe by heart. I quickly assemble all the ingredients on one of the big prep tables and start mixing the batter in our industrial mixer. Once the batter is ready, I get into a rhythm: roll out the dough, cut out the cookies, put the pans in the oven, roll out more dough, pans out of the oven, loosen cookies with spatula, and put them on a tray for cooling. Start again from the beginning. The repetitive motions soothe me and the work keeps me from thinking about the note and the slowly approaching deadline of eight p.m.

  Two hours later I’ve managed to roll out, cut out, and bake over six dozen holiday cookies. After that, I neaten the storeroom and make up a batch of chicken noodle soup for Monday’s soup of the day, pausing occasionally to help out Adele, today’s cashier and barista, when it gets busy out front.

  Mom gathers her things to leave around five, as usual, but balks when I offer to stay until close. “That’s too much time here, Embry.”

  “You work twelve-hour shifts all the time,” I protest.

  “Because I own the place,” Mom says. “And I don’t want you to end up like me, even if you decide you want to own the place one day, too.” She tugs me toward the back hallway, where both of our coats hang on hooks outside the manager’s office. “I do appreciate all your help, though. Even if I’m not sure what motivated it.”