by CJ Lyons
How old was Helen? I glance at the date of birth on her license. Only sixty-six now, fifty-one when Ella’s parents were killed. Younger than either of my grandmothers. My eyes move from one license to the other. Something’s wrong here, something out of place, quirking and tugging at my attention, demanding to be seen, reawaking the electric wasps of my anxiety.
I stand precisely between the two drivers’ licenses. Close my eyes. Breathe. Then open them. Immediately, my gaze falls on the date of issue, first for Helen, then for Joe.
The exact same date. Six months before Ella was born.
Frowning, I keep staring until my vision blurs. If these were Helen and Joe’s new licenses after they moved to Pennsylvania to take custody of Ella, it would make sense—one trip to the DMV. But they weren’t. These were their original New York state licenses. Maybe, because of their synesthesia and the way they lived such a sequestered life, they always went to the DMV together?
Could be as simple as that. I make a note to check to see when they’d moved to the address on the New York licenses. Then I take a step back and think about the fact that I only have three people on the list of potential suspects. Only three people were intimately involved in the lives of Mia and Sean Cleary?
That doesn’t seem right. Were the Clearys recluses like Helen and Joe? After all, Mia did have synesthesia as well, even if hers was nowhere near as debilitating as Helen’s or Joe’s forms. And the Clearys had lived in a house halfway up a mountain on a secluded lake. Maybe that was why they’d been attracted to each other? Two introverts, content to raise a family in solitude?
And now these three people—three suspects—anchored Ella’s life. Strange. I’ve lived most of my life on an island smaller than the size of this college campus, yet I probably have more experience with the outside world than she has.
I’ve never realized until now how isolated she is—Rory and Max are really her only friends. It’s clear that other than school she rarely leaves the house—made even clearer by her fear of leaving Helen and Joe to go to Paris. She feels safe at home, maybe even content to stay in one place forever. Unlike me—I couldn’t wait to explore the world beyond Harbinger Cove.
Yet, I sense the same longing for new experiences in Ella. Maybe because she had to care for Helen and Joe when their synesthesia became overwhelming, she became conditioned to accept her isolation as a way of life?
That brings me up short. Conditioned. Isolated. Sequestered. Little contact with the outside world. Solitary.
Why is it that every word and phrase I associate with Ella’s home life conjures the image of a prison?
CHAPTER 33
Ella
Alec never came back. I wondered about that all night, even as Helen and Darrin fussed over me, reassuring me that Joe was going to be okay, was already discharged, then finally leaving to give Rory and Max five minutes before the nurse sent them home and gave me a sleeping pill. She said I’d be discharged the next morning.
It was afternoon the next day before I finally made it back home. Turns out “morning” means before dawn to doctors and nurses but more like noon to clerks processing discharge orders.
I also learned that most everything people tell you in hospitals is a lie, from “this won’t hurt a bit” to “it’s just like a bubble bath.” The last came when they put me in a whirlpool to debride my burns—that’s medical speak for cutting away your dead skin, exposing the raw new flesh below the charred old layer. Thankfully, the few blisters left are small enough that the doctor said I wouldn’t need to do much until the dressing comes off in a week. It’s some new bio-occlusive gel stuff that prevents infection as it heals. Only problem: no getting it wet. Which means no swimming, and I’m already desperate to return to my pool where I can find some peace and quiet.
When we get home, the still-smoking remnants of my studio are in sight at the end of the drive. Helen gasps and stumbles inside without a word to me, her aura a frayed and tattered shawl wisping around her. I decide she’s in shock. Who can blame her? Darrin’s babysitting Joe as he rests upstairs in the guest room beside mine. Panic attack, the doctors diagnosed, but his heart is fine.
While Helen retreats to her basement sound studio, I go upstairs. I start to knock on Joe’s door but I can hear him and Darrin arguing. Darrin’s telling Joe to trust him and be patient or maybe to be a good patient, but either way, I don’t want to interrupt.
I go to my room and change out of the scrubs the nurses gave me and into soft fleece pants, an old T-shirt already splattered with paint so it won’t matter if it gets yucky with medicine stains, and an oversized hoodie that won’t press against my burns and scrapes and bruises. I’m definitely feeling the pain, head to toe, now that the medicine has worn off, but what surprises me by not hurting is the sight out my window: the remnants of my studio.
Every breath I take smells of smoke and destruction, yet somehow I feel hopeful. No, that’s not quite right. Relieved? A tingle of anticipation at a chance for a fresh start on my art? I can’t pinpoint the emotion with words, but if I painted it, it would be the color of Alec’s eyes: vibrant aquamarine with enough energy to leap off the canvas.
Maybe this feeling comes from the talk we had before he vanished. Or maybe it’s from the dreams I had last night, courtesy of the magic pills the nurse gave me.
I dreamed of my parents—real dreams, not nightmares. Almost memories, except in them I was older, as if I was seeing the future we could have had if they lived. Whatever they were, wherever the dreams came from, I’m looking forward to putting them on canvas in waves of ocean blue speckled by gold sunshine and soft, creamy foam whitecaps rushing over warm sand.
For the first time since I found out that Helen, Joe, and Darrin had been lying to me all these years, I realize it wasn’t my synesthesia or auras that failed to reveal the truth. It was my perception of the truth that was at fault. Just like in my painting of Rory. Alec had been right; I’d painted the truth of what I wanted to see but not actual reality.
It feels good, having a way forward—thanks to Alec’s perceptive insights. Because of him I now know how to take my art to the next level . . . and I know that instead of blindly trusting my aura to read the world for me as I observe from afar, it’s up to me to learn how to connect with people. Like I have with Alec.
At least I hope I have. I wish he was here now. How ironic that his lack of an aura has helped me to learn so much about myself. I want to thank him—not just for saving my life but also for saving my confidence in my art—and continue our discussion, but he’s not answering my texts or calls. Is he mad at me? Or maybe he has something more important to do? After all, he does have other classes and assignments besides working on my parents’ case.
Perching on my bed, I stare at my silent phone. Maybe he’s found something that proves my dad was mentally disturbed. Maybe a type of illness that runs in families. Maybe something so awful he can’t bring himself to face me. No, that can’t be it. Last we spoke, Alec agreed to start over with his investigation.
I’d assumed that meant starting over by working with me. But maybe he doesn’t like dealing with all the drama that comes with me, including almost getting himself killed?
Thankfully, there’s a knock on my door before I can leap down a rabbit hole into a universe of maybes. Rory bounces in. My breath catches and I examine her as if seeing her fresh and new—I feel like I’m seeing the entire world that way after the fire.
“How’re you doing?” Rory asks, giving me a once-over inspection like she’s one of my doctors.
“Fine,” I tell her, figuring it’s close enough to the truth. “I’ve been trying to text Alec, though—”
She plops down on my bed and takes my phone from me. I cringe as she reads my texts to Alec. I might not have dated much, but even I know how desperate they must seem. I’ve hidden behind my synesthesia far too long—I really do need to figure out how people and relationships work in the real world.
“Why are you to
rmenting him like this?” she asks. “You know he can’t answer you.”
“What? Why not?” Tendrils of fear leach through my aura. “Did something happen?”
“Didn’t Helen and Darrin tell you? The police took Alec away last night, practically accused him of setting the fire.”
“What? No way.” I shake my head. “It was an accident. That old space heater went on the fritz, must have shorted out.” That would explain the flickering lights that died right before I saw the flames and the way the fire blocked the door so I couldn’t escape. “I’m positive Alec had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s not what the police said. Darrin told me they think Alec did something to the space heater when he left, maybe poured some of your brush cleaner into it—and once the fire got started, he came back to save you and play the hero. Only things got out of control.” She turns to me, taking both my hands in hers. “You could have died.”
I’m shaking my head, trying to deny her words. “It’s not true.”
“Helen told them he was stalking you. Monday, when the courts open, they’re getting a restraining order against him.”
“That’s why he’s not answering? Why he didn’t come back to the hospital?” I lean forward, peering into her eyes. “Do you believe it? Do you think Alec could have started the fire?”
Her hesitation says it all even without her aura fading to a dull gray, the color of dashed hopes and dreams. “I don’t want to believe it. You have to admit, he’s pretty intense. We’ve only known him like, what, two days? And he basically dropped a bomb on your life.”
“That ended up being true,” I point out.
“Max says he promised to stay away from you, give you time to process what happened to your parents. But even after all that, he shows up not once but twice last night? Just in time for a fire to start and then in time to save you?”
I’d pretty much saved myself, although having Alec there to share his strength in opening the garage door helped. But that’s beside the point. Rory’s doubt is contagious. Could I have been as blind about the truth behind Alec as I’d been about the truth behind the lies Helen, Joe, and Darrin have been telling me all these years?
Could I be just as blind about my father?
CHAPTER 34
Ella
It’s Saturday, so Max is working at his family’s music store until three, but Rory texts him to come straight to my house and he arrives by twenty after, still wearing his employee nametag.
“What’s wrong now?” are the first words out of his mouth, propelled by a cannon ball of red urgency. “Is it Alec again?”
“No,” Rory answers for me. Her aura still isn’t as bright as usual, but at least it contains a few muted colors instead of the dull gray it had faded to earlier. “But we’ve decided.” She means I’ve decided, but as always, to Rory we’re all in this together. I’m not sure she even knows any singular pronouns. “We need to find out what really happened to Mr. and Mrs. Cleary.”
Max’s expression darkens. “No. You don’t want to see—”
“I know,” I tell him. “But we can’t trust only Alec’s theories, especially if he . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. I still don’t believe Alec would try to hurt me, despite what Rory says the police think. They don’t know him like I do. “No one in my family seems to know anything—at least not that they’re sharing with me. Besides, after last night—”
“Last thing we need is to upset them more,” Rory finishes. “Poor Helen hasn’t left her studio all day. Darrin’s even ditched meetings to watch over Joe. So …” She spreads her arms in a motion that makes her appear regal and in charge. “It’s up to us. Max, you and I will take the actual crime.”
“How?” Max asks, not at all convinced by this plan of action. “What makes you think we can learn more than the police?”
“Because,” Rory says in her stern, listen-to-me tone, hands on her hips, “we’re smarter than the police. We’re going to examine everything, assume nothing.” She pulls her keychain from her pocket and selects a small thumb drive from the ring. “And we have all of Alec’s research to help us.”
“How’d you get that?” I ask. I’d been sitting right beside Rory the whole time we’d been with Alec yesterday—she was nearest his computer, but still . . .
She rolls her eyes. “Not much to it, especially with Alec and Max threatening to beat each other silly.”
Despite myself, I smile. Never underestimate Rory. If anyone should know that, it’s me.
“You stole his files?” Max is shocked.
Rory outgrins any Cheshire cat, then breaks into laughter. “I can’t believe you guys fell for that. First, I’m no thief. Second, I’m pretty sure it’s against the law, breaking into someone’s private computer. Third, do you have any idea how long it would take to transfer all those files?”
We stare at her. “Then how did you get Alec’s research?” Max asks, an edge to his voice.
“I called him up and asked him. Told him I thought it would help Ella if she was able to independently confirm his information. He sent me access to his cloud before I even finished my sentence.” She looks at me, ignoring Max’s protective glower, which has everything to do with him not wanting her anywhere near Alec and nothing at all to do with me. Well, mostly nothing. I wish Rory could see that, but as usual, she’s oblivious. “He wants to help, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure the police are wrong and he had nothing to do with the fire, even if there’s no way he can prove it.” For the first time since yesterday morning when we learned the truth about my parents, her aura blossoms with true, pure hues, bright as a rainbow.
“I still say we can’t trust him,” Max insists.
“I say we can,” Rory counters, digging into her position defending Alec—despite the doubts she’d voiced earlier with me. Nothing has changed since then except she’s listened to me talk about the fire and what Alec did to help save me. Somehow, despite the fact that Rory can’t see emotions like I can, she’s now convinced he’s innocent. Even if we have no proof either way. And I’m glad of it. With the police and my family—and Max—aligned against him, Alec needs all the friends he can get.
“But there’s no harm in verifying his info first, right?” She holds the thumb drive out to Max.
Somehow, I don’t get a vote when it comes to Alec. Probably better that way. I’m certainly biased. Not only do I want to trust him, I wish he was here, right now, with me. With his reassuring way of nodding in solemn agreement, the gleam of excitement he gets when a new idea strikes him, even those silly glasses that make him look like an underaged professor.
Max looks down at his feet then back up at me. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asks. “The answers might not be what you want to hear.”
“Better than my imagination at this point. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering if my father was crazy.” Or if I am too.
“Okay.” He takes the thumb drive from Rory, slides his laptop from his pack, and takes his usual seat on the floor below the window between my bed and the desk where Rory sits. “What are you going to be doing, Ella?”
I grab my tablet and plop down on the bed. “I want to know my parents. As people. Even fifteen years ago, there was social media, chatrooms, bulletin boards, that kind of thing. They must have left some trail behind—maybe I can find friends or coworkers who knew them, someone who can tell me more.”
“Darrin knew your father since college, and Helen and Joe—”
I cut him short. “They won’t tell me the truth. They want to protect me. Besides, if my father did what everyone says he did, then he had another side he kept hidden, even from his best friend and his wife. But someone has to know the truth, someone must have seen something. I can’t believe a person could just suddenly snap like that, not without good reason.”
“I’d start with Cleary and Sons,” Rory chimes in. “Both your parents worked there; maybe something happened at work.”
“Then why di
dn’t Darrin know?” Max argues. This is our usual rhythm. Debating, exploring, changing sides until we’ve examined every position.
“If it was something big enough to drive him to murder, then wouldn’t the company have suffered?” I add, trying hard to be objective. I’m starting to sound like Alec—and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. “I mean, if my father had been caught stealing from the company or a client, there’s no way that would have remained hidden after his death.”
“I don’t know; Darrin loved your dad. He would have done anything to protect him. Not to mention protecting the company from ruin would also protect you. Maybe he covered it up.” Rory pauses, her aura shimmering her discomfort. This is hard to talk about. “Whatever ‘it’ was.”
“So we’re back to what could drive a man to murder.” I think about that. “Maybe it wasn’t work. Maybe it was something personal.”
“Like an affair?” Rory frowns. “Seems kind of cliché, like something out of a soap opera.”
“Besides, Ella was only three,” Max argues even as he’s rattling the keys on his computer. He’s a great multitasker, something I have no talent for. I like to see the big picture, then focus in on what is important without having my attention diverted. “My little brother is around that age, and I don’t think either Mom or Dad have had a chance to finish a shower or a meal since he was born. And that’s with me and my sister helping out. No way either one of them would have energy for an affair.”
Both Rory and I turn to stare at him. “So says Casanova. How the heck would you know how much energy an affair takes?” Rory asks. “Your idea of romance is a clean pair of socks before you show up to the spring gala.”
“Exactly,” Max says, unfazed by her referencing last year’s spring gala debacle—the one time they tried to do an actual date-date. Only Max didn’t know it, thought they were going as just friends. As if a girl like Rory would take a mere friend to a formal. Guys can be so clueless. Seeing as how Rory hasn’t asked him out again, I guess so can girls. I wish I could figure out a way to get the two of them together, but since I’m part of the problem—neither wants to risk hurting me if something goes wrong—it’s been hopeless. “You’ve got to find the girl, then woo her—”