Hidden Pieces

by Paula Stokes

  She’s probably right about Holden. There’s got to be some way the police can figure out who actually owns that Gmail account, or at least trace where the video was sent from. But man, I wish I could be as calm and collected as Julia is in the face of a scandal.

  She twirls around in a circle. “What do you think of this? Do these bright colors make me look fat?”

  “You look amazing,” I sat. “Fifty extra pounds wouldn’t make you look fat.”

  “Whatever. I wish I was as skinny as you.”

  “You are as skinny as me,” I point out. “Plus, you have breasts. And muscles. Best of all worlds.” I know I’m lucky to be naturally thin, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to see my biceps or actually fill out my A-cup bra.

  “I am not as skinny as you.” Julia inhales, puffing her chest out a little. Julia is what she likes to call “a solid C.” “But you’re right. If losing more weight means giving up the girls”—she flexes one arm—“or the other girls, maybe we should stop at the cheeseburger place on the way home.” Julia rests her hands on her waist. “I can cheat on my diet just this once. Shopping burns a lof of calories, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I agree. “Cheeseburgers for all the girls.”

  “Okay, let me just try on a couple more things and then I’ll make my final decisions.”

  “Good Lord. You’re still trying stuff on?” I joke.

  “Almost done,” Julia says in a singsong voice. “I might be retrying one or two of these.” She disappears back into the fitting room.

  The envelope icon pops up on my phone, indicating another text message. I’m expecting it to be Holden again, and I smile in anticipation. But instead, the name Unknown comes up on the screen.

  Thirteen

  I GLANCE UP TO MAKE SURE Julia is completely out of sight before swiping the screen. Two more messages buzz in while I’m waiting for her to close the fitting room door.

  Unknown: I should have known you’d let your boyfriend get in trouble instead of taking responsibility for your choices. Clearly you’ve learned nothing. So . . .

  Unknown: A. Steal Julia Worthington’s purse before school tomorrow. Put the purse and its entire contents in the trash can by the bike rack in front of the school.

  B. If you don’t do this, I’ll do more than ruin a life. I’ll end one, and you’ll have only yourself to blame.

  Unknown: You have 12 hours. Choose wisely.

  My hands start to shake. I read the messages a second time. Is this psycho actually threatening to kill someone unless I steal Julia’s purse? Those two things seem so unrelated that for a few seconds I just stare dumbly at the screen.

  Julia pops out of the dressing room again, this time in a teal-blue-and-black outfit. “You like this one better?” she asks.

  I turn my phone over to hide the screen. Looking up at her, I force a smile. “You’re going to buy both no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  She giggles. “Maybe.”

  “Then yes. This one is my favorite.”

  “Mine too, I think.”

  She vanishes into the fitting rooms again and I take a deep breath, hold it in for as long as I can, and then exhale it slowly. I flip my phone over and start to reply, unsure if it’ll work because I’ve never tried responding to a text from an unknown number before.

  Me: Who are you?

  No answer, but my phone doesn’t give me a failure message either. It looks like the text went through.

  Me: How do you know Julia?

  Me: Why do you want her purse?

  Me: Why are you doing this?

  I send a couple more texts pleading for more information, but Unknown doesn’t reply. Sighing, I cram my phone back in my purse and close my eyes, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. The messages sound so angry. The only person I know with a legitimate right to be pissed at me is Julia. I stare down the hallway of the fitting rooms. Is it possible she found out about Holden and me? That she’s been in there sending me threatening text messages while pretending to try on clothes?

  She reappears with an armload of bright fabric while I’m still mulling over this possibility. Julia and I have been friends for years. I see her every day at school, and I’ve spent entire weeks at her house when her parents were traveling. She’s never struck me as the type of person who would concoct an elaborate anonymous revenge scheme instead of just telling me she found out I was sleeping with her ex-boyfriend and she’s mad about it.

  Then again, maybe she’s hiding a lot of inner pieces too.

  “Ready to go?” She smiles brightly.

  “Sure.” I follow her to the front registers, trying to dissect the sound of her voice and the expressions flitting across her face. She seems the same as always. She can’t be the one—why would she ask me to steal her own purse? That makes no sense.

  I’m momentarily distracted by a rack of lavender fleece zip-up hoodies. Light purple is my mom’s favorite color, and I suddenly remember I’ve got the money from my father in my purse. The hoodies are forty dollars even on sale, which normally I wouldn’t consider, but they’re marked down from $79.99 and it seems like a really good deal.

  Julia stops talking and glances back over her shoulder. “Ooh, you should get one. That’s such a pretty color.”

  The cashier calls her forward, and I don’t even bother telling her I’m shopping for my mom. I find a medium hoodie and hold it up to my frame. It’ll work, and now my mom will have something to open on Christmas, which is always fun. I get in line behind Julia and test the zipper to make sure it works while I’m waiting for my turn to pay.

  A few minutes later we’re both headed back outside. The sun has set completely and our breath makes white puffs in the dark. Both of Julia’s wrists are laden with plastic bags.

  I gesture at her haul as we head toward the Subaru. “Did you remember to pick up anything for your parents?”

  She grins. “I got my mom some gloves like she wanted and a fleece pullover she can wear in the mornings when she does her walking. My dad always tells me he doesn’t need anything and that I shouldn’t waste my money on a present for him. I think I’m going to order him one of those Steak of the Month Club things off the internet. Or Wine of the Month.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “They’ll let you order Wine of the Month for someone even though you’re not old enough to drink?”

  Julia winks at me. “I might have gotten hooked up with a fake ID while I was in DC.”

  “No way,” I say. “Let me see.”

  Julia unlocks the doors to the Subaru and deposits all her bags into the back seat. Then we both slide into the front. She clicks the locks and then digs through the center console of her car, removing a small plastic card. She hands it over to me.

  It’s a Washington, DC, driver’s license that has her picture but someone else’s name and date of birth. “Ashtyn Crawford? That sounds very fancy of you.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Julia grins. “Ness said it’s best to have a fake name for when you go out, even if you don’t have ID. Otherwise it’s too easy for people to stalk you.”

  “Wow. I’ve never thought about using a fake name.”

  Having a stalker feels like something that happens only to rich and famous people. Then again, whoever is threatening me is sort of like a stalker. I wonder if they’ve been online, if they’ve searched through my social media to learn more about me. I have a Facebook page I hardly ever use and an Instagram account with like twenty followers where I post mostly pictures of the beach. Other than that I’ve been mentioned on the Tillamook High website a couple of times and in the newspaper for pulling Sam out of the fire, but that’s about it.

  “If you want, I can see about getting you a fake ID too when I’m in DC for New Year’s. That way we can go out drinking this summer before I leave for college.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, the hot flames of the Sea Cliff fire rising up in my mind. “I’ve been thinking maybe I should quit drinking for a while.”

/>   Julia glances over at me. “Okay. But let me know if you change your mind.”

  I set Julia’s fake ID back into the center console of the car. Last year she used to lecture me about drinking. It’s almost like she went away for the summer and came home a different person.

  By the time I get home, my mom is already in bed. I let Betsy out into the backyard and refill her food and water dishes. While she’s sniffing around at the grass, I reread Unknown’s messages and then call Holden.

  “Hey,” he says. “So are you coming over or what?”

  “Sure, but I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh, the dreaded ‘we need to talk’ conversation. If you’re blowing me off, you can just do it right now if you want.”

  I can’t even tell if he’s serious or joking around. “Actually, the creeper who emailed that video to the senior class is back with another twisted request.”

  “Seriously? Getting me accused of distributing child porn wasn’t enough? What do they want now?”

  “I’ll show you when I get there,” I say. “What unit are you in?”

  “Apartment twenty-six. Second building. Second floor.”

  Julia has been over to Holden’s place before, but she never talked much about it, so I have no idea what to expect. I find a set of wooden stairs at the front of the second building and climb to the second floor. Apartment 26 is one of the corner units.

  Exhaling deeply, I knock gently on the door. A few seconds later I hear the sound of a dead bolt disengaging. The door opens and Holden stands before me looking strangely casual in a pair of gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt with a ripped sleeve.

  “Come on in,” he says.

  He closes the door behind me as I step into their living room. It looks so different from my own home. Whereas my mom likes knickknacks and handmade things, Holden’s mom seems to prefer a more minimalist environment. My eyes skim over a navy-blue sofa and a set of gray Formica tables, their tops polished and empty except for one box of Kleenex and a TV remote. A small flat-screen television sits on a black-and-gray TV stand, a DVD player, and stack of DVD boxes on shelves behind glass. Only one thing stands out in this room—a large painting that hangs above the TV. I recognize that it’s Holden’s work right away. It’s a picture of a beach, but one I’ve never seen before. The sand is made of small white rocks that seem to have almost a gravelly consistency. The water is a softer, brighter blue than anything we have along the Oregon Coast. There’s one tree in the painting, growing out of the sandy soil. It’s small, but still somehow majestic, with a bifurcated brown trunk topped with dark green leaves.

  “Wow.” I step up to the painting, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the canvas, to run a fingertip across the different textures that give it such a lifelike feel. The sand is sparkling in places, almost like real sand when the sun hits it.

  “You like it?” Holden asks.

  “Yeah, it’s amazing. What’s making it glisten?” I ask. “Some kind of special paint?”

  “Regular paint, with actual sand mixed in,” Holden says. “There’s also bits of dried plant matter mixed into the green of the tree. I like experimenting with mixed media.”

  “It’s seriously incredible,” I say. “How many of these have you done?”

  “Like fifteen or so. I made this one special for my mom. Most of my finished paintings are over at my grandparents’ house. They’re not all this big.”

  “Are they all this good?”

  “No, but they’re not bad,” he says.

  Something in the background of the canvas catches my eye. I lean in to get a closer view. “Is that the Parthenon off in the distance?”

  “Yes. This is Greece. It’s an olive tree.”

  “Why do you paint so many solitary trees?”

  “I don’t know. They require you to use multiple brushstrokes for the different textures. And I like the idea of one living thing off by itself, in a strange environment, yet thriving.” Holden cocks his head as he looks at his own work. A smile plays at his lips.

  “Is that how you see yourself? I always kind of wondered if the solo tree thing was you asserting your independence from the rest of the world.”

  “Nah.” He laughs under his breath. “I think that might be projection on your part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That maybe you see yourself in my paintings of trees. You’re always talking about how you have trouble letting other people get close to you.”

  I never thought about it like that. Maybe I do see myself in Holden’s paintings. “You should try to sell them online,” I say.

  Holden flops down onto the sofa. “No one would want to pay the shipping for a big-ass painting.”

  “You never know.” I sit next to him. From this vantage point I can see into the kitchen. Black laminated paper peels from one of the cupboard doors, revealing unpainted wood beneath.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “Speaking of making money off your awesome talent, my mom was wondering how much you would charge to touch up the mural on the back wall of the café.”

  “You know I’d do that for free,” he says.

  “You don’t have to. I mean, she could pay you like a hundred bucks or something.”

  “That’s not necessary. Just let me know when would be a good time to work on it.” He yawns. “Enough about painting. What’s going on with you? More messages, you said?”

  I hand him my phone in response.

  Holden clicks through the texts from Unknown. “This is fucked up.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Who could have sent these?” he asks. “How many people know your cell phone number?”

  “Not sure. Not too many people call me, but I think it might be on my Facebook page.”

  “Seriously?” Holden scrolls through the texts again. “Why would you put your phone number on your Facebook? They sell that info all over the place, don’t they?”

  I’m pretty sure I added it because I made my Facebook account when I was thirteen, right after Mom gave me my first phone, and it felt so cool to finally have my own number. I shrug. “I never answer if I don’t know the number anyway, so who cares? Either way, almost every teacher asks for it at the beginning of the year. It wouldn’t be that hard for someone at school to find out.”

  “So then it has to be someone from school, right? First they wanted you to embarrass yourself on Facebook. Then they emailed that video around to school accounts. And now they want you to steal Julia’s purse? No random outsider would care about that stuff, especially Julia’s purse.”

  “Well, it is a three-hundred-dollar purse,” I mutter. “But no, I agree. This feels personal to me.”

  “So who has a personal reason to be pissed about you and me or the fire?” Holden crosses his legs at his ankles, the toes of one foot tapping against the floor.

  I tick people off on my fingers. “Julia,” I say. “Luke. Frannie, I guess, if she was pissed on his behalf. Oh, and maybe Katrina Jensen.”

  Holden arches an eyebrow. “Why Katrina?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she somehow found out about the two of us.” I pause. “Also, she and Luke apparently hooked up before he and I started dating.”

  “Whoa,” Holden says. “I did not know that.”

  “Yeah, it happened before you moved here. I don’t know the specifics, if it was a onetime thing or what.” I make a face. “I don’t really like thinking about it.”

  “Okay, so do you think any of those people would send you this kind of message?”

  “No. Not really. Julia would just confront me to my face. Luke has more important things to worry about right now. Frannie would never threaten to hurt innocent people like this. And Katrina is a bitch sometimes, but I’ve always assumed her bark was a lot worse than her bite. I mean, whatever happened with her and Luke was a long time ago, and it’s not like I stole you away from her or anything.” Like you did with Juli
a, a little voice reminds me.

  “So then what are you going to do?”

  I lean forward and rest my head in my hands. “I think I have to go to the police, Holden. This is getting out of control. I can’t let this whack job kill someone. We can wait and talk to your mom first. Maybe I could make a report about being blackmailed without mentioning what happened at the Sea Cliff.”

  “Maybe.” Holden rakes his hands through his hair. “Or maybe someone is just trying to trick you into going to the cops because they know our role in the fire will be discovered if you do.”

  “How? The video isn’t time-stamped and it doesn’t show the fire starting. Even if someone recognizes the Sea Cliff lobby, you used to work there. There’s no proof we’re responsible for what happened.”

  “There might be wax residue from the candles,” Holden says. “I bought those with cash in Tillamook a while back, but it’s always possible they could trace them to me.”

  “You really think the Safeway has security footage from over a month ago? And of everyone who shops there?”

  “Probably not,” Holden admits. “But the video might screw us. Sometimes tech guys can pull metadata from recordings that shows the time they were taken.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Maybe we should just tell the whole truth.”

  Holden turns away from me, his eyes skimming across the neat and angular surfaces of the apartment. I wonder if he’s afraid of the same thing I am—that confessing to the Sea Cliff fire could lead to actually losing his home. His eyes meet mine again. “Or I could help you steal Julia’s purse if you want. I can distract her while you grab it or whatever.”

  “What?” I stare at him. “You think I should actually do what this psycho wants me to do?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like it’ll be any big thing to Julia. She can just buy another one, right? You and I stand to lose a lot more by getting blamed for the fire.”

  “I know. But steal from my friend? Ugh. That’s so gross.” Not any grosser than hooking up with her boyfriend while she’s out of town. I frown. Some people have an inner voice that supports them and helps guide them in their actions. Mine just likes to point out my hypocrisy and moral failings.