by Kat Ellis
“I can help you look for it?” Carolyn offers.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it when I get home.”
* * *
* * *
As I pull up to the junction next to the Pump’N’Go on my way to school, I spot Dominic Miller’s flashy-ass Porsche in the front lot.
It’s just started snowing—fat, slow flakes too lazy to keep up with gravity. It’s forecast to leave us with a few inches, but not get too wild, thank God. I’m so glad we’re heading into spring (I know, I know, I should have my goth-girl badge revoked). But soon I won’t have to think about icy roads or snow boots or chapped lips.
I linger near the gas station, mulling over that look Dominic gave me as I left the manor last night—like I’d insulted him by asking him to keep the Thorns out of the Dead-Eyed Sadie special. Is he so self-involved that he can’t imagine how it would feel to have your family’s history dragged on social media?
Well, maybe I should explain it to him.
Just as I slam on the turn signal to pull in behind his car, Freya Miller strides out of the Pump’N’Go and across the lot. She climbs into the driver’s seat without even glancing in my direction, and screeches away like she has somewhere to be.
But the Porsche isn’t in the lot when I arrive at school. It is hellishly early, so maybe she and Dominic had somewhere else to be first.
The art studio’s still locked, the hallways weird and echoey at this time of the morning. I find a quiet corner in the school library where I can spend the next hour trying to work on the comic.
I know the next panel of Mostly Deadish needs to explain what the girl is doing in the tower, but I’m still struggling to come up with a storyline that fits. Is she trapped there? Is she some kind of cemetery guard? The only thing that seems solid about it is that first image: her looking out from the tower window, surrounded by all those graves.
I doodle a close-up of the girl in the tower window, except I can’t seem to finish her face—the nose and mouth are almost there, but I can’t settle on what eyes to give her. For the moment, I leave a blank space where her eyes should be.
“I thought I saw you huddled over here in the corner.”
I look up to find Dominic Miller glowering down at me. He looks as impossibly perfect as always, with his finger-tousled hair and chiseled jawline just slightly shadowed with stubble. He’s close enough that I’m forced to breathe him in. Dominic smells like expensive cologne—just faintly, as if to entice unwary victims to lean in. Someone should tell him eighteen-year-old guys are supposed to smell like Axe-nuked sweat and Pop-Tarts.
His deep green eyes, a little darker than Freya’s, appear to be fixed on my sketchbook. I lay my pencil down on it with a snap and an arched eyebrow.
“So, what? Does your family own the school library now as well?”
Dominic closes his eyes briefly, like he’s praying for strength.
“I wanted to speak with you . . . about what you said last night. I realize you might’ve misunderstood what we were doing.”
“So you weren’t recording an episode about Dead-Eyed Sadie?”
“Well, yes—”
“And you haven’t been researching the history of the manor—which my family built—to use in your show?” He purses his lips. “Then no, I don’t think I misunderstood at all.”
“Look, Ava, I really don’t see what the problem is. Yeah, I want to talk about the history of the manor in the show, but we don’t have to mention your family by name. And I have absolutely no intention of dragging anyone. I’m really only interested in the place because that’s where Sadie is usually sighted—near the waterfall.”
I chew on that for a second. Still don’t like how it tastes. “Why do you have to make a show about Sadie at all? Aren’t there other ghosts you can run an exposé on?”
“I’ve kind of been wanting to feature Dead-Eyed Sadie for a while now,” he says, leaning in like he’s sharing a secret. “With the stories about her haunting the waterfall and the missing eyes and all that, she’s a really interesting figure . . . Besides, we’ve already filmed a couple of scenes for the episode. Well, you saw one of them last night.”
I bristle. “Where else did you film?”
“Only in the orchard.” A look of understanding dawns on his face. “If you’re worried about us shooting your—graffiti?—in that little stone shack thing in the orchard, you can relax. I’ve already painted over it.”
“Pavilion,” I correct him quietly. “Wait—you have?”
“Of course.” He waves a hand like he’s wafting away a fly, but goes on when he notices my doubtful expression. “I saw you sneaking around out there the night after we moved in, found the can of paint you left inside, and put two and two together. I would’ve done it anyway, though—you think I’d want to show my dad looking the way you painted him? Surveying the wreck of your parents’ car and laughing?”
Dominic shakes his head, as if that image is absurd. But Dominic wasn’t there when it happened. Maybe he doesn’t want to think about what an evil asshole his father is, but I know. I saw him quite clearly not giving a shit about anything except the scratches on his Hummer.
The crash was officially ruled an accident, contributed to by my mom being distracted by Dad’s suspected seizure. But that wasn’t why it happened. It was Madoc Miller, driving like an asshole, not caring who he smashed into with his ridiculous tank of a car. But people in this town prefer to whisper about the Thorns being cursed than do anything about a criminal strutting around town. They think the Millers are glamorous.
Assholes, all of them.
Although, if Dominic really covered my mural so nobody else would see it, maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as I thought. Just, like, ninety-nine percent asshole.
“So that was what I wanted to tell you,” Dominic says, wrapping up his little speech. “Or ask you, actually. Why don’t you help me with my research, then you can veto anything you’d rather I didn’t use for Haunted Heartland? Within reason, of course. And maybe you can fill in some of the details I’m missing from Sadie’s story.”
I’m only half paying attention to this last part because he keeps looking at my sketchbook in the most distracting way, like he’s planning on snatching it. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
Dominic continues studying my drawing. I slide it across the table, out of his reach. I still remember the day I saw him and Freya sneering at one of my paintings, shortly after they started at Burden Falls High.
“Was there something else?”
“I’ve seen that somewhere online,” he says.
“Seen what?”
“The girl in the tower.”
I purse my lips while I debate how to answer him. Because while it’s possible he’s seen Mostly Deadish online—my portfolio site is set to “public”—it’s not exactly something he’d stumble across. Maybe Freya showed it to him, probably with some comment about how “basic” it is.
“These are sketches for my final art project,” I say blandly. “I’m drawing a comic.”
“So it was yours? The digital version I saw?” Dominic leans in, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. He looks weirdly . . . eager? “Incredible.”
“Well, I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It’s based on Sadie, right?”
“Uh, no.”
Dominic glances at me dubiously. “But she has no eyes.”
“No eyes yet,” I correct him.
He gets this huh look that I’ve never seen on him before—like genuine interest or something. “You know, I actually had a dream after seeing that one panel. The girl in the tower was there to guard all the zombies in the cemetery, making sure they didn’t rise from their graves. But of course they did, so she pulled this lever mar
ked emergency only.”
He pauses, apparently waiting for a reaction, and I realize I’ve leaned in while he was speaking like some member of his thirst mob. I sit back, arms folded.
“What happened when she pulled the lever?”
“The tower started to corkscrew down into the ground, like some spinning elevator to the underworld. And, as it descended, all the zombies crawled in through the open windows, and the girl had to fight them off until the tower reached its destination, and she could open the trapdoor in the cellar to let them out.”
As he talks, his words morph into images inside my head. I can see it all so clearly—I want to draw it. Now.
“Let them out where?”
Dominic shrugs. “The underworld? Hell, maybe? That’s when I woke up.”
I picture it, but it’s not hell my mind goes to.
There’s a trapdoor in the cellar at the manor—it leads down to what we used to call “the pit,” which was probably used for cold storage back in the day before refrigerators were a thing. It was the one place in the manor I actually found spooky. But now it changes into something more in my brain—into a portal to Dominic’s underworld. I could use it as a base . . .
Damn it. Why can’t I have dreams about my comic? I can’t use what Dominic just told me. If whatever storyline I come up with is even vaguely similar to Dominic’s, I could get called out for plagiarism.
“So, what really happens?” Dominic asks, sliding into the seat opposite mine. I’m now just sitting in the empty library, having a chat with Dominic Miller, apparently.
“I don’t know.”
Again, that annoying frown. “Isn’t it due in soon?”
“In two weeks,” I agree stiffly. “I’ve been having trouble coming up with the right storyline.”
Dominic’s quiet for a long moment, and I find myself spinning my pencil between my fingers, mimicking the tower corkscrewing down into the earth. Finally, he says, “Use my idea, if you like it.” I say nothing. “Do you like it?”
“I can’t use your idea for my project. It’s against the rules to have outside help.”
“Only with the artwork, though, right? Not the story itself?”
I guess he’s right about that. I mean, nobody else has to come up with a storyline for their projects. I’m not even going to be graded on that part of it.
“Help me with my Sadie research, and I’ll even help you come up with an ending for the comic,” Dominic says. The corners of his mouth tick up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks excited.
And that’s what kicks me back to reality. Because a Miller never does anything nice for a Thorn. And I am not helping him dig around in my family history.
“Yeah, that’s a no,” I tell him. “I’ll come up with my own storyline.”
I start putting away my art supplies, intending to just get the hell out of the library.
“Come on, Thorn,” he coaxes. “I’ve seen your artwork. I think we could create a brilliant comic together.”
“Are you telling me you actually think my artwork is good?” I snap, waiting for him to say as if, just like he did that day with Freya, looking at my painting outside the art studio. But he doesn’t.
“I wouldn’t suggest we work together if I didn’t think it was good.”
I get to my feet, flushed with annoyance. “Why would you want to work with me anyway, Miller?”
Dominic isn’t fazed by my abrupt tone. The smile still simmers at the corners of his lips. Why am I looking at his lips?
“I’ve always wanted to write a graphic novel,” he says. “I just don’t have the artistic skills for that side of it, and haven’t come across the right partner yet.”
I slow-blink. “Why don’t you write one with Freya, then?”
For the briefest moment, the smile falters. “It’s not Freya’s kind of thing.”
I’m amazed it’s Dominic’s kind of thing, honestly. Still . . . “It’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Seriously? “Because we hate each other.”
“You might hate me,” he counters. “I don’t have any particular feelings about you either way.”
“Freya sure does.”
“So? From what I’ve seen, you dish it out just as hard as she does.”
“Look, you . . . you just don’t get to own every part of my life, okay?”
“I wasn’t the one who bought your house,” Dominic says, sounding bored. He gets up from his seat and throws his bag onto his shoulder. “Think about it. I’ll be here again after school if you decide you don’t want to flunk your art project.” With that, he strides out of the library.
The asshole couldn’t even let me be the one to walk away first.
THIRTEEN
My annoyance at Dominic’s impatient, overconfident tone serves as a pretty good distraction throughout the day. I’m grateful for anything that takes my mind off my parents, even if that thing is Dominic Miller.
Daphne stands with her paintbrush poised above the self-portrait she’s working on during last period while I lay out the entire encounter for her. In the portrait, Daphne’s disembodied head floats over a sea of blue glass marbles, and there’s a ginger cat sleeping in a recess above her left temple. Daphne calls it Peace of My Mind. With the warm mix of colors—the browns in her skin, her eyes, her hair, the sun-flare-orange cat, and the tropical-ocean blues and turquoises in the marbles—there really is something oddly peaceful about the painting, despite her decapitation.
“So, what do you think I should do?” I ask her.
“You know why you’re asking for my opinion now, don’t you?” Daphne says.
“Because it’ll save me having to explain it all over text later?”
Daphne shakes her head. “He offered to work with you on your comic this morning. You probably spent all day trying to come up with reasons why it’s a bad idea to let him help you when you already like his story suggestions. Now that you’ve exhausted all the flimsy reasons you could come up with, you want me to give you an excuse to say no. But you’re already making new panels, right? Just after one conversation with him.”
Miss Shannon is covering today’s lesson, and she seemed so happy when she saw me making actual progress with my project. Hopefully, she’ll take that into account when deciding who gets the spot on the summer art program.
“And if you help him write the Sadie episode of Haunted Heartland,” Daphne continues, “you’ll get a say in what goes into it, so at least there’ll be no nasty surprises.”
I frown down at the new panels resentfully. “My reasons for not wanting to work with him aren’t ‘flimsy.’ His dad killed my parents. It’s hard to move past that.”
“I know.” Daphne smiles sympathetically. “But Dominic isn’t his dad. And if he can help you . . .”
She doesn’t need to slam the point home. I know she’s right. If I have any hope of graduating, not to mention winning the place on the summer art program, I’m going to have to get cozy with Dominic Miller.
* * *
* * *
Dominic isn’t in the school library when I get there after the final bell. I was just stopping by to tell him I wouldn’t be able to work on the comic today, but it looks like he’s already gone off the idea anyway.
Damn it. I’m such an idiot to trust a Miller—even for a second.
My car is almost the last one in the lot when I wheelspin out of there, forgetting in my bad mood about the fresh layer of snow. Within a minute, all the windows fog and I signal to pull onto the side of the road while I wait for them to clear. As Bessie rumbles to a stop, my headlights land on someone sitting on a tree stump up ahead. There are tall fir trees all along this section of road, and it’s already that fuzzy gray twilight time of day. Whoever’s out there is risking hypothermia.
Probably an ax murd
erer, I tell myself as I open my car door, waiting to lure some well-meaning dipshit to a gory death.
RIP me, I guess.
When I get out of the car, I see the person is hunched over, their face in their hands.
“Uh, hi . . . are you okay?”
The hardening top layer of snow crunches beneath my boots as I walk toward the figure. Whoever it is mutters something, too low for me to make out.
“What?”
“LIGHTS OUT.”
The bellow startles me, and I almost run back to the car. But then I recognize the voice. “Dominic? What the hell are you doing out here?”
He doesn’t answer, but I gather from the way he’s covering his eyes that the headlights are bothering him. I hurry to turn them off. Dominic slowly raises his head. He looks gray, and his eyes are weird. Kind of spaced out.
“What’s wrong with you? And why are you sitting out here?”
“Migraine,” is all he says. His teeth chatter, and his voice is raspier than I’ve ever heard it. Serves him right for yelling at me.
“Get in the car,” I tell him. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
The windows have defogged by the time we get in. With shaking hands, he puts his seat belt on. I turn up the heater as high as it’ll go.
“How long were you out there?” I ask as I pull back onto the road. Whenever a car approaches in the other lane, Dominic shuts his eyes like the oncoming headlights cause him physical pain.
“Not sure,” he says after a beat. I grimace, but say nothing. It’s literally freezing outside. He could’ve died.
“Why didn’t you call someone to come get you?”
“Couldn’t see my phone.”
“Didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving school? Why didn’t you—”
“Quiet,” he says, and it’s almost a groan. “Please.”
The only reason I do as he asks is because he does genuinely seem to be in pain. I should find it delightful to see a Miller in this state, but apparently I’m not nearly as bloody-minded as my ancestors would’ve liked.