by CJ Lyons
In other words, each case is unique. There isn’t even an easy way to prove someone has synesthesia—in fact, many people who claim to have it turn out not to have any verifiable changes in their MRIs. Yet, they still insist that they see the world differently—and that the world impacts them on a visceral level with every sensory experience. Are they faking their synesthesia? If so, why? Or does medical science simply not know how to find proof of it in every patient? It’s a fascinating condition.
“Well, for one thing, not everyone’s aura changes.” Max sounds like a TV defense attorney, building his case—only I’m the one on trial. Max clearly thinks I’ve somehow conned Ella into letting me into her life. “Like Darrin. She says his aura is always solid indigo.”
“Well, Darrin has the emotional range of a sea slug,” Rory answers. “A handsome, elegant, well-dressed sea slug, but there’s just not a lot for her to work with.”
“Exactly. So unless a lie caused him extreme emotion, she wouldn’t see a difference—and if she did, she wouldn’t necessarily know why he was feeling emotion. The truth can cause as much emotion as a lie.”
“Okay. So maybe that’s true with someone like Darrin or a stranger like Alec who she doesn’t have a baseline on.” She smiles in my direction even as she shrugs one shoulder, not committing to coming to my defense. “Sorry, Alec.”
“No, that’s fine. I’m interested in how all this works. So different people have different colors for their auras? But they always keep those colors? Or—”
“Yes and no,” Max interrupts me. “Ella says some people have basically the same color but the shades and images change with their emotions. Like her uncle Joe, he’s always somewhere in the brown-red-purple spectrum.”
“But people like me, I’m every color of the rainbow,” Rory puts in.
Of course she is. Rory practically glows with emotion, and I don’t have Ella’s gift.
“Speaking of Ella, it’s ten past. Where is she?” I ask. Maybe she isn’t coming? I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried.
“She’ll be here.” Max doesn’t sound concerned. “But more importantly, what’s this big mystery? And what’s it to do with Ella?”
“Maybe you should tell us first,” Rory adds in a soft tone. “Especially if it has something to do with her parents.”
I hesitate. If Ella has no idea about what really happened to her parents, then it’s not my place to tell her friends first. But they only want to protect her. I totally understand that.
I’m about to tell them when the door opens.
Ella.
CHAPTER 15
Ella
After a sleepless night, I’d gotten up and dressed in comfort clothes: sweatpants, a worn Dr. Who tee layered under a fleece top, and finally my warmest parka, the one with tons of pockets for pens, phone, paper, sketchpad. I arrive at the student center early—before Alec, even.
Too nervous to wait, I pace through the maze-like space with its hidden study nooks, specialty cafés, arcades, lounges, and media rooms. Midterms were last week, so the place is a lot less crowded than usual. For once, I feel like I fit in. Maybe because I’m not carrying my portfolio, banging into everyone. Or maybe it’s because I have a reason to be here, beyond killing time before I could get into the art studio or use the pool.
And now I’m back where I started, at the meeting room. Alec and Max and Rory are inside, discussing my auras. I lean against the wall outside the door, listening. My auras aren’t something we usually talk about—just like we never discuss Rory’s braces or that she’s the real reason why Max left the wrestling team two years ago.
I smile as they mention Darrin. They’re right; my synesthesia doesn’t tell me truths or lies, only emotions—and sometimes emotions are so nuanced that I misread them.
Other times they’re not nuanced enough, which is why some people’s auras are the same color all the time. Like Darrin. I’ve known him all my life and he’s a really complicated man—he can talk about anything from the financial markets to obscure German philosophers to sports. I have seen strong emotions from Darrin—worry during the stock market crash, fear when I fell off my bike and skinned my knees—but for the most part, he’s a steadfast, reliable indigo. One of the few stable things in my life.
Then I hear Max and Rory ask Alec about my mother, and I realize I can’t keep hiding. Time to go inside and start solving this puzzle Alec has scrambled my life into.
“Morning,” I say brightly, as if I just arrived.
Max doesn’t buy my act—he knows I’m never late for anything. But Rory smiles her usual bright beam of greeting and Alec nods as if he’s happy to see me. Or maybe relieved is a better word. I wish I could see his aura, so I could parse the difference.
Last night I’d gone online, intending to search for any new details of my parents’ deaths. I got as far as typing their names and the word fatal into the search bar before deleting it. I just couldn’t face reading about the fire again; it’d been hard enough the first hundred times. Besides, after fifteen years, the case long closed and forgotten, what could possibly be new? If there were any developments, the police surely would have contacted my family before allowing a reporter to write about it.
Instead, I researched identity theft—and learned a lot of scary stuff. Like how easy it is, especially if the victims are already dead. In a warped way, it made me feel better, knowing my parents’ names and vital statistics could have been stolen, even if the thief had apparently ended up dead. If Alec had even gotten that right. After all, I don’t know anything about him. Can I trust him or his so-called facts at all?
His gaze catches mine. I wish I knew why, but something in me wants to trust him. No. That’s wrong. Something in me has always trusted him. Yet, I’m also afraid of what he might say. More than afraid, panicked in that stomach-tossing way that leaves your lips chilled and fingers trembling.
I almost turn and run away but Rory slides out a chair and I sink into it, my stomach tying itself in several more knots. The woman Alec thinks is Mia Cleary isn’t my mother, which means there’s still a potential murder victim out there. And a killer.
“Okay,” Rory says when I remain silent, a molten puddle of anxiety. “We’re all here. What’s this about a dead woman pretending to be Ella’s mom?”
Alec grimaces, and I don’t need to see his aura to know he’s not convinced my mother was a victim of identity theft.
“Why don’t you start by telling us about the case you’re investigating with Professor Winston?” I ask him.
His lips tighten, but he nods and opens his laptop. I think he’s going to turn it to face us—his hands are poised like he’s about to—but he changes his mind and drops them to his sides. “I grew up on a small barrier island off the coast of South Carolina. Harbinger Cove.”
Max scrapes his chair back to give him room to tilt back, stretch his legs. “What’s that got to do with Ella?”
“Harbinger Cove is where my parents went on vacation,” I answer slowly. “Where the fire was. In their rental cottage.”
Max frowns and drops his chair back flat on the floor.
“It happened fifteen years ago, yesterday. I didn’t realize it was your birthday,” Alec adds quickly, as if apologizing. For what, I’m not sure.
“You think someone from Harbinger Cove stole Ella’s mom’s identity?” Rory asks. “Like maybe the paramedics or mortuary workers or someone with access to her social security number who knew she was dead?” We stare at her in surprise. “What? I can do research too. That’s how thieves get your info. Then they open accounts in your name and get fake IDs, sometimes even real ones, saying they lost the originals. It’s called social engineering.”
Alec nods as if she’s a star pupil. “That’s how identity theft works. But I don’t think that’s what happened in this case.”
“Why not?” Max challenges him.
“Because I checked with my father. He’s a detective with the sheriff’s depart
ment now—back then he was a patrol deputy.”
“Why was your dad so interested? Did he help to investigate the fire that killed my parents?” I ask, my question leaving a trail of falling dust motes behind it.
For some reason, I reach for the film container of sand that Alec gave me last night. I have it in my pocket, intending to return it to him—it’s much too personal a gift to keep. As my fingers wrap around it, I imagine what it would be like walking barefoot on the beach, and suddenly I can almost feel grains of sand rubbing between my toes, hear the rush and crash of the ocean.
“My mom’s family owned the cottage. We rented it to your parents. And my dad called in the fire. He and his four-year-old son. The son who then found the only survivor. A little girl wandering alone on the beach.”
Both Max and Rory look at me, light sparking from them both: concern, fear, curiosity.
“You said the woman you’re researching was murdered. But the fire was an accident, right?” Rory asks breathlessly, her hand gripping mine. I can barely feel it, mine has gone cold.
Alec looks at each of us in turn. “Look, I didn’t come to you to stir things up. I never dreamed you didn’t know—” He snaps his laptop shut. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one telling you this. Maybe your family should—”
I don’t want the answers . . . but I do need them. “The fire wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He shakes his head. Pauses. Gives me time. I jerk my chin at him to continue.
“The fire was arson. Forensics indicate that it was started by your father. After he killed your mother and before he shot himself.” His words emerge in one breath, spoken so fast they crowd together. Like he’s pulling a Band-Aid off fast so it won’t hurt as bad.
It doesn’t work. I feel swamped, a tsunami of emotion drowning me.
“No way.” The words escape Max with a wave of dark doubt and burnt worry.
“Are you certain it was Ella’s parents?” Rory asks, searching for hope.
Alec continues, his voice as relentless as the crashing waves filling my head. “It was your parents. They were identified through DNA. It was them.”
I’m shaking my head, trying to force his words away. Without an aura, they’re invisible, but I can still feel their impact. Sharp seashells breaking beneath my feet as I run, flee in terror . . .
“No.” The word emerges a thin whisper. “No.” Louder, but still uncertain. “It’s impossible. I’ve never been to Harbinger Cove.”
Now he’s the one shaking his head, each movement releasing the sound of a gunshot whipping toward me, making me flinch.
“I’m sorry. I really am. But you were there.”
“How can you be so sure?” Max asks.
Alec’s expression of sorrow is for me alone. “Because I’m the one who found you.”
CHAPTER 16
Ella
“Prove it,” Max says, climbing to his feet and moving to stand opposite Alec, the table between them. He leans his weight on his fists as if that’s the only way to keep from using them. Red scorches through his aura, lashing across the table toward Alec.
Alec’s green eyes have gone dark with sorrow. “If I knew you didn’t know the truth, I never would have come, never would have found you, said anything.”
“Prove it,” Max repeats.
Alec gestures to the laptop. “It’s all here. Photos, autopsy report, DNA analysis. I really don’t think you want to see them.” He’s still talking to me, but Max stalks around the table and takes the seat in front of the laptop, his movement forcing Alec to step back until he’s against the wall. As far away from me as possible.
Max clicks and scrolls, his face bathed in the harsh light of the computer screen. I don’t need to read his aura to know Alec has told us the truth. It’s written in the planes and angles of Max’s face as his lips flatten and his eyes blink heavily, reluctant to meet my gaze. “How come no one ever mentioned that Ella was there?”
“We’re a tiny island community—we don’t even have a newspaper. Plus, my dad said they’d never mention a minor; not to the press, not after a sensitive incident like this. And they needed to locate and notify next of kin—by the time that was done, the story of a fire on a remote island wasn’t going to rate another mention in the city paper. Remember, it would have taken days to weeks before all the forensic and pathology reports were done, before they had all the facts.”
“They lied,” I whisper. No need to explain who I mean.
Rory squeezes my hand. “Of course they did. They love you. Who’d tell a three-year-old little girl a thing like that?”
“But the fire—” I’m still wrapping my mind around all this. “I was there? How did it happen?”
Even as I say the words, memories begin to play out in my mind—soft, faded, shredded around the edges, swirling like fog. Ghosts of the past, telling a story I’m part of but not really; it feels like I’m watching someone else’s life.
I clutch Alec’s canister of sand hidden in my pocket and remember . . .
A little girl, far from home, lost and so very scared.
Mommy said run and hide, so that’s what she did. But now Mommy was gone and it was dark and scary and why hadn’t she come to find her?
Mommy said be quiet, don’t make a sound, so that’s what she did. Not a sound. Not even when she heard someone yell—someone who sounded a lot like Daddy.
Just like we play. Hide and seek, Mommy whispered. Hide real good and don’t make a sound.
So that’s what she did.
It was scary outside in the dark. She didn’t understand why there was sand everywhere, so much more than in her narrow stretch of beach beside her lake back home. She didn’t like this sand. It sneaked into her shoes and down her dress when she slipped and fell, and it pulled at her ankles, constantly trying to trip her up. There were plants growing in it, vines and prickly grass. Creepy-crawly things moved under and over the sand, brushing against her skin, making her want to fling them away.
But she couldn’t move, had to hide. Like at home. She’d make herself really, really small and crawl under things Daddy couldn’t see under, and he never found her until she’d sneak out when his back was turned and Boo! And he’d jump up in the air and spin around and scoop her up high until he was blowing raspberries on her belly, and they’d laugh and laugh and laugh and Mommy would declare, “Nora wins! She’s the queen of hide and seek! The best ever!”
Then she’d join in on the Nora sandwich—best hug of all—and Daddy would dance Mommy around the room with Nora between them, and everything in the whole wide world was perfect right there in their safe house with her safe family and it wasn’t scary at all, not like now, here in the sand, curled up tight, hands over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut so they couldn’t see her, but she also couldn’t see them and there was that strange sound, a roar and crash over and over, and the little sounds, the scuttling crackles, and most of all a man’s voice shredded by the wind, calling her name.
And then the screaming started.
CHAPTER 17
Alec
My dad never talks about the bad parts of his job, at least not with me and Mom. Instead, we celebrate the good things and try our best not to worry about the dangers he faces every time he puts on his uniform and Kevlar. Now that he’s a detective, he might face less physical danger, but he comes home silent and withdrawn more days than he used to. I know the part of his job he hates the most is telling families that the people they love are dead. And how they died.
I never dreamed I’d be doing that myself. It’s one of the reasons why I didn’t want to become a cop, why I want to pursue a career where instead of handling what’s thrown at you on the streets like Dad, I can take my time to find the real truth buried under all the he said-she said. That’s why I came here, to cold, gray Cambria City. To find truth, not crush people with it.
Now that I’ve exposed her truth, Ella will never look at me the way she had yesterday at the diner. How could she? I’ll fo
rever be the guy who walked into her perfect life only to shatter it.
“Tell me everything,” she says, her eyes aimed at the opposite corner of the tiny room. Like she can’t stand to look at my face, not even out of the corner of her eye. “Starting with why they think my dad killed my mom. Because that did not happen. He wouldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have.”
“Ella,” Max says, half rising from his chair, ready to protect her. I’m glad she has such good friends. She’s going to need them.
“Maybe we should go,” Rory suggests, stroking Ella’s arm as if calming a wild animal.
Except Ella doesn’t look wild or in need of protection. Finally, she turns her head the slightest bit, and is looking straight at me. It takes everything I have not to look away.
“I want to know everything. You said you were there. Tell me what happened.” Her words are as heavy as a judge’s gavel pronouncing sentence.
I nod, accepting the weight of responsibility. What would Dad do? Tell the truth. But in a way that will ease her into things, not do more harm.
“A sheriff’s deputy doesn’t make much,” I begin. “But my mom’s family has lived on the island for ages—one of the few families who haven’t sold out to mainland developers. We rent out a few cottages to help make ends meet. That’s why we were out there that night, my dad and I. We were prepping a last-minute rental for the Clearys.”
“Last-minute?” Rory asks. “So Ella’s parents hadn’t planned their vacation in advance?”
I shrug. “I guess not.”
She frowns, but I keep going, wanting to get through my story as fast as possible. Once I finish, they can dissect every fact and theory—after all, that’s the whole reason I’d come here. All my life, I’ve been obsessed by one question: why? Why would a man do that to his wife, abandon his daughter, destroy her life before it even began? It was so cruel, so heartless, so . . . unfathomable. There has to be a reason why.