by Cyn Balog
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Copyright © 2016 by Cyn Balog
Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover images © Karina Vegas/Arcangel
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For all the girls who can’t let go.
Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1
Chapter 1
Duchess—Police are investigating an apparent homicide after a body was found in a wooded area early Tuesday morning. Authorities have not yet released the name of the victim or the person(s) they are questioning in connection with the investigation.
—Central Maine Express Times
Is this thing on?
Ha-ha, I’m a laugh a minute.
Anyway, Andrew. It’s me. Vic. I wanted to say I’m sorry. Sorry for… Well, where do I begin? I—
Cough, cough, cough.
Sorry. I’m losing my voice. Something bitter is stuck in my throat, and the air is so cold it’s hard to breathe. This place reeks of decaying leaves, of the musty, damp rot of dead things returning to the earth.
There’s something soft and wet under my head. I hope it’s not brain matter. I can’t raise my arms to check because of the way I’m twisted here. I think my leg is broken. Or maybe my back? Damned if I can twitch a muscle without pain screaming its way up my spine.
Somehow I managed to pry my phone out of my jacket pocket and prop it on my chest, but you know how spotty service is around Duchess. All charged up with zero bars—not that I’d be calling anyone but you. I wish I could see the background photo of you and me. It’d keep me company. You know the one. It’s the picture of us at the Renaissance Faire when we were fourteen. We’re both grinning like mad and you have your arm around me, claiming me as your own. It’s probably the only time you were ever comfortable with yourself. With us. I miss that.
Anyway, you know how glass half-empty I am, Andrew. I wanted to record a note for you on my phone. You know, in case I don’t get out of here.
Of course I’ll get out of here. I wouldn’t be lucky enough to die here. But maybe this’ll be easier than telling you in person.
Cough, cough.
Where should I start?
It’s so quiet. You must have left me, Andrew. But you’ll come back. You always come back. You were scared, maybe, when you saw what you’d done. And now I’m all alone here.
I don’t really know where “here” is. I think it’s a drainage ditch on the side of Route 11. The last thing I remember is rushing down the road near the Kissing Woods, feeling powerful. Immortal. Like everything I wanted could be mine. For an instant, I felt like he could be mine.
But that’s not possible now.
I know what people have said behind my back in hushed whispers. They call me delusional. But I’m not. I know what is real and what isn’t.
No, wait. The last thing I remember is you with that fierce look in your eyes. You sure surprised me. Who knew that my boyfriend, quiet, unassuming Andrew Quinn, had that in him?
I thought I knew you inside and out, but…I was wrong.
I guess I should explain. After all, I have no other pressing engagements. And you’re overdue an explanation, aren’t you? The tall pines can be my witnesses. They can pass judgment as they see fit.
I’m not sure when it all began, but Lady M said it best. Hell is goddamn murky.
Whoops. Blasphemy. Yet another sin to add to my act-of-contrition list.
Looking back, you knew when I started to change, didn’t you, Andrew? You know everything about me. It was that very first day of school, the day my life began and the day it began to unravel.
So here are the gory details. It won’t be enough, but I’ll try. You can’t know it all until you’ve smelled that intoxicating cinnamon-and-cloves scent, read those texts that elevated even the blandest words to poetry, and seen those heart-stoppingly blue eyes.
His eyes. Even now, I can see them with perfect clarity. I’ve seen them in my dreams, in the sky when the sun hits the clouds just right, and in my morning breakfast cereal. It all goes back to him. Every single thought always winds right back to him. Always. Always. Always.
It’s no use. I want him out of my head. I wish I could scrape him out of my memory. I don’t want to live with him etched in the deepest part of me. I don’t want to die thinking of him.
But I know I will.
Chapter 2
Abigail Zell of 12 Spruce Street called at 8:33 a.m. to report her daughter’s disappearance. The girl, Victoria Zell, 16, a student at St. Ann’s Catholic School in Bangor, was not in her bed when her mother went to wake her for school. Officer advised Mrs. Zell that missing persons report can be filed after a 24-hour waiting period.
—Duchess Police Department phone log
Do you remember that night, Andrew? Right before I started junior year? We were cr
ouched in our hiding place, between the rosebushes at the white picket fence separating our yards, you on your side, me on mine. Just like bookends. The grass stopped growing where I used to plant my backside, but it was thick on your side, probably the result of your mom’s green thumb. It was already chilly, the crickets chirruping their summer good-bye. When I was young, I used to count fireflies while we talked. That night, there were no fireflies.
“Vic,” you whispered through the fence.
I giggled, lovesick. I adore your voice. It’s so low and musical, even when you’re not singing. If a voice made a whole person, I would be utterly, desperately in love with you. Most of the time, it’s painful to watch you struggle to get the words out. Not because it bothers me, but because I know how much it bothers you. You’ve never liked yourself much, but I think you hate your wayward tongue most of all. How can something that behaves so angelically while singing music betray you so terribly the rest of the time?
You rarely stutter with me. When we were alone and darkness cloaked us, your voice was perfect. Life was perfect then. Stupidly, I didn’t realize it.
“Y-you have fun at school tomorrow, OK?”
“Fun?”
You paused. “OK. Don’t run screaming from school tomorrow. Better?”
“Much.” I pushed a piece of foil-wrapped Juicy Fruit between the slats. A second later, I could hear you chewing the gum. “I wish you would be there.”
I felt you push against the fence. You liked to fold the silver paper into squares and wedge them between the slats. “Save your wishes,” you muttered.
It’s true that wishing was useless. As if your mother would suddenly decide not to homeschool you so you could enroll at St. Ann’s. As if you’d be able to enter a classroom without crumpling into a panicky mess.
“You out there still?” Your stepfather’s voice boomed from the darkness.
I peered between the slats at the lit tip of his cigarette, cutting through the darkness near your back porch. Since he worked so much of the time, all I ever saw of your stepdad was that tiny orange fireball. You jumped to attention and the fence rattled. “Y-y-y-yes, sir,” you said.
I poked my head up and your stepdad muttered something about me. Nothing nice, I’m sure. Your stepdad has never been the sweetest of men, which makes him the opposite of your mom. You told me the story about a thousand times, about how they married when you were seven, mostly because your dad died unexpectedly and left you two in major debt… A “marriage of convenience” you’d said, but it never seemed very convenient for you. Your mother is prim and proper and likes the finer things in life, and your stepfather, well, doesn’t. Somehow though, they fit together. There’s only one piece in that puzzle that never seemed to fit. You.
I told you good night, then turned to go inside. My parents had the kitchen blinds parted in a vee, squinting into the dark yard in their attempt to spy on us. “Good night, Vic,” you called to me. Most people call me Victoria. People are always formal with me. They think I am oh-so-serious and uptight because I don’t know them well enough to say, “Hey, let’s not be formal. Vic’s fine.” And, well, I can’t help it. “Relax” is a mantra I repeat over and over in my head. And do I ever? Nope.
Victoria is a serious name, an old name. Everything about me screams old, from the way I dress to my often-hunched posture. Even my hands look old, veined and thin and fragile.
I guess we’re just two peas in a pod, Andrew: You and your premature balding, and me and my old-lady habits. You and your agoraphobia, and me and my crippling anxiety. We belong together. And yet something in me wanted more. I am sorry to say that I wanted what I knew couldn’t be. What shouldn’t be.
And because of that, I blindly let him lead me.
Chapter 3
When did you realize something was off?
Off… What do you mean?
When did things start to change? Can you pinpoint when the trouble began?
Oh. It had to be that very first day he walked into the classroom. He…he infused the room with… It’s hard to explain. Energy, I guess?
In a good way?
Well, yeah. Mostly. He spurred people into action, made things happen. But…I guess not all of that was good.
—Police interview with Rachel Watson, junior at St. Ann’s
I know you can’t forgive me, Andrew. I fastened the collar around my own neck and handed him the leash. But some people—oh, some people are just so damn like that. Intoxicating. Spellbinding. You find yourself aching to belong to them, dreading freedom, thinking freedom itself is the cage.
My mom had my lunch packed and ready. She had all my pencils sharpened and supplies organized in my L. L. Bean backpack. Breakfast was lined up for me on the counter: a banana, a glass of OJ, one Effexor, and an Ativan. The Effexor was usually all I needed to control my anxiety. I only took the Ativan for super-stressful situations, and I guess my mom assumed this qualified. As I sucked down the pills, she asked me how I was doing and if I was ready for the three-thousandth time.
I swear my parents barely let me breathe on my own anymore.
Honestly, I didn’t feel nervous at all. I knew the Ativan would combat any first-day-back freak-outs; it usually works like a charm.
Usually.
I felt magically good for an entire hour. Believe it or not, that morning, as I waited for the bus to school, I thought only of you. And I smiled. You’ve always been my constant, easily readable, black and white, like the piano keys you adore. The first day of my junior year was sure to be more of me hiding behind my books, then rushing home to complain to you, just as I’d done during my first year at St. Ann’s. You always listened, no matter how much I ranted. Back then, that patch of dirt in the backyard was my haven, my sanctuary… Like you, I wanted nothing more than constancy.
The bus ride into Bangor was mostly uneventful, long as it was. Most kids in the upper grades drove or carpooled together, so I was stuck with a handful of chatty, jumper-wearing elementary-school girls. I didn’t mind. I looked out the window and watched the tall pines of rural Maine as we passed.
The real nerves didn’t hit me until after I sat down at my desk.
That’s when I met him.
That morning I had on my uniform from last year. My old, pilled plaid skirt that I’d bought two sizes too big with hopes of scraping through senior year before it was above my knees. My Peter Pan–collared blouse was wrinkled, but it is butt-ugly even when it’s nicely pressed. My knee-highs had long since lost their elasticity and had already begun to descend toward my scuffed loafers, but the right one was winning by several inches. I never cut my hair, so a ponytail was the best style my stick-straight, beige hair could manage. Activities my classmates lived for—shopping, getting a car, partying—hardly mattered to me. Little did I know, that was about to change.
When I got to my homeroom, number 46B, the junior room, all the desks were arranged in rows of five, as usual. The symmetry hit me right away. There were only twenty-nine kids in my class: fifteen girls and fourteen boys. I knew this well because last year, they’d pair up for projects and lab experiments, leaving me out in Siberia.
But now, there were thirty desks.
I hurried to my seat in the back corner. My last name always lands me at the end of everything. I put my brown-bag lunch on the desk and waited for the other students to arrive. They filtered in, sporting summer tans and crisp, new school uniforms. None of them looked at me. I was OK with that. I figured it went with the territory of being the New Kid in a class where all the other students had known each other since kindergarten.
When Z arrived, everyone stared. His body seemed to absorb the attention. He stood straighter, glowed more. Z sauntered, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead, like nobody else existed. He didn’t carry anything, as if lugging books or a bag or whatever was beneath him. He just had a pencil behind his ear, drowni
ng in his unruly, golden mop of hair. He was tan and had nice stubble on his chin, like a full-grown man. But it was those eyes. Like a baby’s eyes, they took up half his face. They made me think of billiards, even though I only watched you play, Andrew. His eyes were bluer than pool cue chalk.
In a split second I went from New Kid to…nobody.
I peeked at him for only a second. A guy like that wouldn’t notice me, wouldn’t even say “excuse me” if he smacked me on the head with, say, a pool cue. I watched everyone else gawk. Parker Cole ran her perfect tongue over her glossy lips and threw doe eyes his way. Her arsenal of sweet, sexy looks was as abundant as her collection of fuzzy black sweaters. She was wearing one over her uniform, which I’m sure was not regulation, but having a dad as principal has its advantages.
Even though Principal Cole’s morning announcements always included a plug for going green, Parker never rode in with him. No, he had an SUV, and she commuted in from the coast in a bright-red sports car that could stop traffic from all the way over the New Hampshire state line. I’d never seen the Cole family estate, but I imagined it to be majestic and storybook perfect, with breathtaking ocean views.
I realized everyone was looking at me. Me, nothing-to-see-here, back-corner-hugging Victoria Zell. But that was because he was standing over me.
“I believe you’re in my seat,” he said.
His voice resounded like yours, Andrew, so like the voice that constantly lulls me out of my bad moods and comforts me during the worst days.
I almost looked around for you, but I shrugged, then pulled out my brand-new notebook. “Er. No. I always sit here.”
“Alphabetical?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m Zell.”
He thrust his hand under my nose.
“Zachary Zimmerman. People call me Z. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand. It was smooth. I had hangnails. I’m sure he noticed.
I stood up and moved over a desk, clumsily, the way I always do. Sliding in the new seat, I already felt strange, like my world was tilting ever so slightly.