by Kat Ellis
Ford’s room is the biggest of the three bedrooms—typical of his mom to let him take the best room—and it looks out directly over the east gate of the manor.
His door is closed. I listen for a moment for any signs of movement. It’s all quiet inside. I consider just going in there, retrieving my necklace, and leaving, but I can’t simply bust into his room without warning. Even assholes deserve boundaries.
I knock, loud enough that I know it’ll startle him awake.
“Mom? What is it?” he calls through the door.
“It’s me,” I say. “I’m coming in.”
“Ava?”
I wait another beat before opening the door, just in case he needs to cover up. Not that I haven’t seen, like, ninety-nine percent of Ford before, thanks to his habit of stripping off at any given opportunity. The guy doesn’t even know what tan lines are. Still, he can keep his one percent to himself, thank you.
I go in. Ford’s sitting up in bed, his curly hair sticking out all over like he just got Tasered, and a hand-shaped mark down one side of his face. There is a cat sleeping on either side of him, and he glares at them like they’re strangers before focusing back on me. Jaffa—the orange cat—jumps down and immediately coils around my ankles. I reach down to pet him on autopilot.
“Ava, I’m so glad you’re here—”
“I only came for my necklace,” I tell him.
“Will you just listen to why I took it?”
I consider marching over and snatching it out from under his bed—if it’s even still hidden there. But I can be the bigger, more dignified person here.
“Fine.”
“Okay.” Ford sits up straighter, and I have a horrible feeling he’s been rehearsing whatever he’s about to say. “You remember right before the manor went up for sale, and Ty was still trying to pay off the debts from the distillery?”
I nod. “Trying to save the house.”
“Right.” Ford widens his eyes briefly, as if that’s somehow untrue. “But the thing is, I saw him in town outside the pawnbroker—you know the one next to that seedy little law office? Anyway, I went over to say hey, but when I reached the pawnshop I saw him laying out a bunch of your parents’ stuff on the counter. I mean, things I know for certain they would’ve wanted you to have—like your dad’s Rolex, their wedding rings, stuff like that.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Because Ford’s wrong: I gave Uncle Ty the Rolex to keep after the accident, and my parents were buried with their rings.
“I knew he’d get around to taking your mom’s necklace, and I also knew how important it is to you. So I hid it—for you. You get that, right? I was just looking out for you. I meant to tell you I had it, but then I kinda forgot until . . . Well, you saw it on the video Freya posted.”
And there it is—the reminder I needed to stoke my anger back up to boiling point.
“You’re trying to tell me you stole it so Uncle Ty wouldn’t steal it? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Uncle Ty would never steal from me. He’s my family. And the necklace isn’t even worth that much.”
Ford huffs. “Enough to bet on a couple horses, though.”
My fists clench at my sides. “He wouldn’t do that!”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“No! Besides, if you really believed that, you should’ve told me.”
Ford leans back against his headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Whatever. Ty’s a saint. It doesn’t change the fact that I was only looking out for you.”
He watches me expectantly.
“What? Am I supposed to thank you now? I felt sick thinking I’d lost it in the move! I wanted to wear it on the anniversary . . . Oh, what does it even matter to you?” I hold out my hand. “Give me back my necklace, Ford.”
He holds my glare for a long moment, and I actually think he might refuse. Or maybe he actually did give it to Freya, and all this bullshit is just to throw me off . . . But then he leans over the side of his bed and pulls the little black jewelry case out from under it. How long has it been there? How many times have I been curled on that bed playing Rocket League with him, not knowing my stolen necklace was inches away?
Ford tosses it at me. “Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when Ty sells it.”
I gape at him. “As if.”
But a little niggling voice in the back of my head reminds me that Uncle Ty sold the manor, didn’t he? To the Millers, of all people. Would he really see anything wrong in selling the necklace?
I look inside the box, just to make absolutely sure it’s there. The chain’s a little tangled after being thrown across the room, but not damaged.
When I look up, Ford has rolled out of bed and is leaning against his windowsill, looking out toward the manor.
“You could cut me some slack, you know,” he mutters. “I know you hated her, but my friend just died.”
My fingers tighten around the jewelry box, and it closes with a snap. Is he actually trying to use Freya’s death as an excuse for the necklace thing? I open my mouth, fully intending to tell him to go screw himself, when I catch sight of his reflection in the window. I’ve known Ford a long time, and I can tell when he’s acting and when he’s genuinely upset. Right now, it’s the latter. It catches me by surprise. I guess it never occurred to me he was hanging out with Freya because he liked her.
Could it have been more than like?
Could Ford have been the one on the phone with her that night?
Wait, no, that’s not possible. Ford was inside the manor with Dominic then—I saw them both through my old bedroom window. There’s no way he was arranging a hookup with her right in front of her brother. Still, that doesn’t mean Ford didn’t have a crush on Freya. He wouldn’t be the only person to have their feelings stomped on by a Miller.
Anyway, I’m not going to bust his chops any more right now. I’ve said all I needed to. But I guess Ford hasn’t.
“Aren’t you freaked out by it?” he says. “Some psycho wandering around just a few feet away . . . You lived at the manor until last week, and now a girl’s been murdered right there.” Ford jabs the window with his finger.
“I’m aware of that,” I say acidly. “I found her, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” He turns to face me, lip curled. “I couldn’t forget how it was all about you, could I?”
“I’m not saying it’s all about me—”
“Aren’t you? Because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing for the past year.”
“You mean since my parents died?” I throw up my hands, but Ford just glares at me. We’re done here anyway. Done done.
“Would you both like some pancakes?” Ms. Sutter says from the doorway behind me, and I cringe all the way up my spine. “I thought we could have some for breakfast . . .”
“No thank you, Ms. Sutter,” I say, gaze still locked on her asshole of a son. “I have to head home.”
“Oh, sweetie, are you sure?”
“Positive. Thanks.”
I turn and leave with my mom’s necklace, and not a single word to Ford.
TWENTY-THREE
I’m scheduled to work at the Pump’N’Go later that morning, but I’m in such a foul mood, I seriously consider calling in sick. But I can’t ditch Daphne to work a double shift on her own.
Every customer who comes in heads straight for the newsstand, where Freya Miller smiles on the cover of every local newspaper. It’s really freaking me out, actually. Like she’s watching me. Except the moment I turn my head, even a little, her picture changes in my peripheral vision—eyes becoming bloody voids, her mouth hanging open, all the color drained from her skin. In the end, I grab every paper with her face on it and turn them around in the stand. Mia, my boss, will be pissed. But less pissed than if I walk out.
Still, everyone wants to talk about Freya at the counter.
Everyone has a theory. A suspect in mind. Most believe it’s connected to Claire Palmer, despite the fact that her death was definitely an accident. (Daphne’s adamant, and I trust her.) But all the gossips—all of them—say, “But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if there’s something to all that Dead-Eyed Sadie business . . . ?”
I leave Daphne to deal with them.
The cops are buzzing around town way more than usual too. Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to find the killer just wandering down the road carrying a sign saying I DID IT.
I wonder if they’ll even find the killer at all.
* * *
* * *
In school on Monday, it seems like everyone’s been interviewed by the cops now. A freshman who talked to the media and claimed to be BFFs with Freya is now strutting around like he’s her goddamn Mini-Me.
Some of the faces around me are more worried. Despite the fact that Claire Palmer did still have her eyes (though “gone milky,” per Daphne’s account) and her death has been ruled accidental, I keep hearing whispers about Sadie going on some kind of killing spree. Everyone’s wondering who’ll be next, and the way they’re speculating, it’s not entirely like they’re scared. I wish I could say the same.
The shrine at Freya’s locker has grown, spilling across half the hallway. Photographs, candles, stuffed toys (and I really can’t see Freya as a teddy bear kind of girl, to be honest). Someone’s even framed a newspaper article: a “so shooketh” piece about a glittering life full of promise, cut tragically short. And now everyone seems to have a story to tell the media lingering around town, some reason to traipse in and out of Hamish’s office with red eyes.
Don’t get me wrong, I agree Freya’s death is tragic—I’m not a monster. What’s bugging me is that people aren’t upset, not exactly. There’s this hunger in the air, like two dead bodies in just over a week isn’t enough for them now, and they want something worse—some twist to make the horror fresh again.
It’s not just kids at school, either. Last night I caught the local news, and Liam from the library was being interviewed. He talked about how he used to play lacrosse with Dominic at their old school, St. David’s, and Freya would show up to watch the games.
“I know she kinda had this image as a firecracker ghosthunter or whatever,” he said, “but to me she was always just a sweet, moony-eyed kid.” My stomach full-on lurched when he got a faraway look in his eyes. “That’s how I’ll always remember her.”
The news anchor asked what he thought about rumors of Dead-Eyed Sadie and, with a wry smile, he answered, “I wouldn’t be surprised by much in this town.”
When I reach my locker, I half expect to see more evil-eye graffiti on it, but it hasn’t been tampered with again. At least that’s something.
I’m so distracted by the grisly vibe filling the school hallways that I don’t notice Ford until our eyes accidentally meet next to the locker bank. My hand goes automatically to the necklace at my throat. I’ve decided to wear it every day now. Not because of anything Ford said about Uncle Ty—it just feels right to keep it close. Safer.
Ford glances down at my hand and then away, slamming his locker. He stalks off in the direction of his homeroom.
“That wasn’t awkward at all,” Carla mutters next to me.
* * *
* * *
The Freya buzz flares even louder when Dominic shows up at school Tuesday. I’m selfishly glad to see him, even though I’m surprised he’s back so soon. After my art marathon over the weekend, I’ve pretty much run out of panels to draw for the comic. And watching him stride the hallways of Burden Falls High just like always is weirdly comforting.
Mateo and Casper stick to him like glue, and I don’t want to sidle into the middle of that, so I wait until I see him alone at the end of the day before I talk to him.
“How’s today been?” I ask. For a second, Dominic seems surprised, like he thought I’d act differently at school than when we’re alone in a library or wherever.
“Today has been . . . well, it’s cleared something up for me.”
We fall into step as we head out to the parking lot.
“Cleared what up?”
“I’m leaving school,” he says, no hint of doubt in his voice. “I’ll finish the year online. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now, since before . . . well, you know. But as soon as the investigation is wrapped up and they catch the bastard who did it, I’m getting out of here.”
“Really?”
“I never wanted to stay in Burden Falls after Grandma died. I only stuck around because that’s what my parents and Freya wanted to do. Now Freya’s gone, and my parents are already throwing themselves back into work, which means they’ll be out of town a lot. Staying here just feels like I’m being . . .”
“Left behind,” I finish. Dominic nods. “Where will you go?”
“For a couple of years now, I’ve been making a list of places with their own strange urban legends. Slender Man, Mothman, Big Foot—that type of thing, but even more weird and obscure. Small towns, out-of-the-way places . . . I want to go on a road trip to see them all and just explore.” He gets this almost gleeful look on his face that I’ve only ever seen when we’re working on the comic together. I guess Dominic has been planning this a long time.
“Wait, is this list how Haunted Heartland got started?”
“Kind of,” he says, and his smile falters. “Freya was so interested when I told her about some of the places on my list. But she wanted to go the whole staged-haunting route with it.”
“It’s STAGED?” I say, fake-outraged.
“I never wanted to be a . . .” He trails off, pursing his lips.
“Were you going to say ‘celebrity’?” I tease. His cheeks flush, and I just can’t help myself. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m actually standing next to the Dominic Miller. Wow, do you get fans fawning all over you? Asking for your autograph? Sending you underwear in the mail?” Dominic doesn’t answer, just turns a satisfying crimson. I put on my TV announcer voice. “Haunted Heartland heartthrob Dominic Miller joins cast of Celebrity Love Island!”
He glances sharply at me. A couple weeks ago, I’d have called it a glower, but not now. It’s just a Dominic look. “I actually got asked to do that a few weeks ago. Turned it down, of course. And did you just call me a ‘heartthrob’ ?”
I ignore that. “So, if not a celebrity, what do you want to be? Aside from a graphic-novel writer.”
Dominic shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. “Isn’t that enough? Maybe my road trip will spark some more story ideas. Of course, they won’t be much good without my illustrator.”
* * *
* * *
We work on the comic at the public library every day after school. Only for an hour—I haven’t told Uncle Ty or Carolyn that I’m working on it with Dominic, and I don’t want Carolyn to get suspicious if I’m continually late for our tutoring sessions. She and Uncle Ty wouldn’t understand why I’d choose to spend time with a Miller.
Dominic and I fall into a comfortable safe zone of talking about movies we like (we both have a big thing for shark movies, which is possibly the weirdest thing I’d ever expect to have in common with him) and comics, of which he has a huge collection I’m sorely jealous of back at the manor.
But we don’t talk about our families. We don’t talk about the crash, or about Freya’s murder. We don’t mention what we’ve both lost. We just sketch and write and chat, all while doing cartwheels to avoid the rotting, festering elephant in the room.
It’s Thursday afternoon, near the end of our allotted hour, when I finally break that unspoken agreement.
“Mateo again?” I say, gesturing to Dominic’s phone. Mateo has been blowing it up ever since we got to the library, and I can’t help wondering if he knows Dominic and I are hanging out—and why.
D
ominic looks up from the pages he’s reading over. “Mateo’s . . . we had a disagreement earlier.”
“About . . . ?” When he doesn’t immediately elaborate, I reach for the nearest possibility. “Something to do with Haunted Heartland?” I guess. Dominic raises an eyebrow.
“Actually, no. I was already out of the show, as far as the others were concerned. It’s up to the guys if they want to pick it back up.”
“You were out of it?”
“Don’t you remember? I fell to my death from Burden Bridge after Dead-Eyed Sadie gouged out my eyes—though your attempt to save me was really something.”
“Oh, that.” I cringe, despite everything that’s happened since.
“Your friend Ford was supposed to be my replacement.”
I ignore the spike of anger I feel at just the mention of his name. “What did you and Mateo disagree about, then?”
Dominic turns to look across the library floor, and I track his gaze to where Liam is stacking books in a far corner.
“I found out Mateo has been keeping something from me.” Dominic sounds tired. He always does lately, not that I blame him. I just hope these comic sessions are a good distraction for him, not adding to the shit pile he has to deal with. “I’ll start at the beginning: There was an incident, back in our old school. An older boy was harassing Freya, being totally out of line. My parents found out—saw some messages he’d sent on her phone—and got involved right away. They went to the school and dealt with it.”
There’s something so definite about the way he says dealt with it, I can almost picture the boy limping away with his nuts in a takeout carton. “But it turns out the same boy has been in touch with Freya again recently. Mateo knew about it, and of course he told the cops in case it had anything to do with what happened to her, but I was pissed he didn’t tell me when it was happening.”
“What would you have done about it if you’d known?” I ask, genuinely curious.