To Whatever End

by Frydman, Lindsey

  “You can photograph me. If you want, I mean.” Jack smiles, lifting his shoulder. “I don’t mind having my photo taken. I’ll happily sign a release form. If you find me edgy and alive enough, of course.”

  “Edgy and alive.” Olivia giggles and pins Jack with an amused look. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see, right Quinn?”

  “Hopefully I won’t be a massive disappointment.” He grins, then kisses Olivia on her temple.

  When they’re done making googly eyes at each other—of which I’m slightly envious—I clear my throat, eager to ask Jack for his help. I’m worried he’ll tell me the same thing Griffin did, that no level of hacking in the world will bring me any closer to answers, that the police are handling it, and that maybe I should stop worrying so much.

  I lean in, lowering my voice. “Did Olivia bring you up to speed on what’s been going on and what I might need help with?”

  “Sure. I got most of the details, but I’m not sure what you’re exactly hoping to find.”

  “Someone has been doing awful things to Griffin. Lethal things, even. But after that note crashed through his window, I realized that I’m the cause of everything.”

  “Quinn, you are not the cause of anything,” Olivia says, not for the first time, and likely not the last.

  Jack scratches under his chin, considering. “You think someone wants to hurt you by hurting Griffin?”

  When I don’t immediately respond, Olivia says, “So he’s in danger because of you, and you’re in danger because you have a stalker. Maybe you should reconsider your relationship with him.”

  “I have. But it’s not his fault. He—he didn’t do anything. Maybe I thought that before, but not anymore. Not after the note.” I pause, sighing. “I need to push him away slowly. I can’t just end things out of the blue without an explanation. He needs to be the one to end things.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best plan,” she says.

  “Trust me, it is.”

  She sighs. “I know you feel responsible, but I also don’t want you getting hurt by taking these matters into your own hands. Hell, I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do, but I want you to stay safe.”

  “That is an interesting turn of events,” Jack says. “The note about you, I mean.” His face lights up with curiosity, the way I imagine a detective might look—wide, open eyes, a hint of curious excitement. “Could it be a jealous girl vying for Griffin’s attention? Or a jealous guy who wants you all for himself?”

  “Either option is a possibility. Or someone wants to make him believe I’m the reason behind this shit so that he’ll do what the note said and stay away from me.”

  I turn my head to see if Griffin’s on his way back to the table yet. “Listen, I’d rather keep this extracurricular snooping quiet around Griffin for now. He knows about my theories, but he seems to get upset anytime I make a big deal out of it. I can’t add arguing to all this stress without internally combusting. I’m going to keep digging until something comes up. I don’t need Griffin’s permission to worry and follow through by acting. If we find anything useful, I’ll let him know. In the meantime, it’ll just be easier to keep him out of the loop.”

  Jack nods his understanding. “Incognito on the down low is kinda my specialty.”

  Guilt floods my veins, my fingers pulse, my heart kicks up a notch, and I know keeping Griffin out of the loop—just a little—is for his benefit. But is it the right move?

  Olivia dips her head and says quickly, “Target closing in. Abort. Change the subject. Say something funny. Or hell, just start laughing.”

  I don’t need to turn around to know Griffin is approaching. I’m unable to say something funny on the spot, and my fake laughter is unconvincing. Olivia forces a laugh, covering her mouth, making the whole thing a tad too dramatic.

  “What’d I miss?” Griffin asks, sitting beside me.

  “Ah.” I shift in the chair. “Liv is bad at telling jokes. She could only make herself laugh. It was sad, really. She didn’t even get a single pity laugh.”

  “I am not that bad at telling jokes! I just sometimes get the punch line wrong.”

  We all laugh at that.

  Griffin leans in closer to my ear and says playfully, “Good thing you’re smiling again, you were about to hurt my feelings.” He rests his palm on my thigh and sends me a smile that goes straight to my heart. Ugh, why does he have to be so cute and sweet? Why do his smiles always remind me of his lips against mine? And how I want it again and again?

  I’m not supposed to want Griffin. I’m supposed to be keeping him from falling in love with me. I absolutely cannot let him kiss me again.

  The lights in the café dim, and I use this as a reason to not respond and avoid his gaze. A soft spotlight highlights a microphone and a man standing behind it. He has index cards in his hand, and his pinched expression says he’s nervous. When he finally starts to speak, I’m surprised to not hear an inkling of nerves. Impressed, really.

  As the man continues his poetry, I glance around the table, meet Jack’s eye, then quickly look away. I’m hoping to see a photo opportunity before the next performer takes the stage. Snapping shots in the middle of a performance is rude—unless you’ve been given prior permission.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Griffin asks. “You seem”—his eyes flick to Jack and Olivia then back before continuing— “distracted.”

  Griffin doesn’t sound angry, but his expression is one clearly less than thrilled. It’s fair—I’ve been on edge and half ignoring him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I am a little distracted. It’s loud in here. Lots of people. Crowds sometimes make me nervous. I’m still settling in.”

  He nods, his face relaxing.

  What I said is true, sure, but there’s no denying I’m looking for ways to make Griffin annoyed with me, and I haven’t managed to dodge the ever-present guilt.

  Olivia starts talking about their last time at Therapy Café and about how awesome Jack is with his poetry readings. Jack just sits there, grinning, but at least he’s not looking too cocky about it.

  “Have you always been into poetry?” I ask.

  “It was my only outlet when I was a kid,” Jack says, splaying his hands against the tabletop. “Growing up in foster care wasn’t fun. I got bored easily. Angry easily, too. I never thought I’d be the guy to stand up on a stage and display my private thoughts. But look where I am now.” He laughs. “Never say never, I suppose. Do you like poetry, Quinn?”

  I shrug. “Sure. I don’t write it, though.”

  “But you can appreciate it?”

  “Of course,” I say immediately.

  “When I was young, I had a lot of things I wanted to say to people who weren’t around.” His features harden, like he’s remembering something painful. “Poetry was a way to get my thoughts out.” Jack’s gaze never wavers from my face.

  Nope, not awkward at all. I force a partial smile.

  The chatter continues, and Olivia tells me how much she loves my skirt and that she needs to borrow it sometime. We often exchange clothes. It’s kind of perfect having a best friend who wears nearly the same size as you. It’s like having two wardrobes. Though her chest is twice the size of mine, so some of her tops are a no-go for me. But talk about mundane things such as clothing is making my brain spin. That’s less than important right now. But I can’t do anything other than eagerly anticipate what more Jack can dig up in the next few days.

  As the minutes tick by, I do my best to conceal my fidgeting, and the room fills up a bit more. Jack is full of random things to say, keeping the energy at the table lively. I manage to keep my anxiety under wraps. He and Griffin start talking about something car related. I have zero clue when it comes to cars, aside from changing a tire—that one I can do.

  I discreetly lift my camera and aim a few shots at the ceiling. Th
ey’re vaulted with rows of track lights. The construction of a building isn’t the first thing people consider when taking professional photos, but I find them highly underrated.

  When Griffin steps away to go to the restroom, Olivia leans in close.

  “So. Jack. Quinn,” she says, glancing at us both. “You’ll figure something out. Together. I know it.”

  Jack leans in, sliding his hand across the table. “Would you like to get together Saturday to discuss things?”

  I look to Olivia. “As long as you’re okay with it.”

  She waves a hand. “Sure, I don’t mind. I work Saturday anyway.”

  “I’ll still dig more into Griffin, just in case anything was missed,” Jack says. “If there’s dirt to be found out about the guy, I’ll find it. I’ll look into your background if that’s really what you want. You sure you won’t mind me digging? I don’t want to cross any lines. But sometimes people are disappointed with the kinds of answers they get.”

  “I’m seriously desperate. I need your help. Please, please dig away. Promise not to keep anything from me—even if it’s something I might not like to hear. Also, I don’t need another person saying I’m overreacting and that this is all some giant prank. I feel ridiculous enough already.”

  “No.” His brows pull in, a look of utter seriousness overcoming his features. “I believe you.”

  I nod, giving him a weak smile. Jack at least seems to care, and if he truly believes me, he’s the only person who might understand my curse. Could telling him my truth help or drastically destroy any progress we’ve made?

  I think again about the possibility of telling Jack the truth about my visions. Maybe not right now. But eventually…when I feel he trusts me. Oh, who am I kidding? He’s no more likely to believe me than Olivia or Griffin. I’m just so desperate to confide in someone other than Grandma Ruth, even though Grams wouldn’t condone that idea. No one needs to end up carrying unnecessary weight on their shoulders.

  That’s my responsibility.

  The performances continue after my thoughts collide, and everyone in the audience quiets down. The next three to get onstage are girls, all probably in their mid-twenties. I’m surprised at how good they are, at how they command the stage and their words. The way their hand gestures and facial expressions show the emotion behind their poems is admirable. This is way better than watching spoken word poetry on YouTube.

  I take a few interesting images of their feet, all versions of sparkling sandals. I try my best to step outside my box and snap more images of the girls’ expressions, from their chest down. The way they express pain through their voices and hand motions makes for an emotional image. You don’t even need to know what they’re saying to feel the emotions emanating from them.

  By the end of the third performance, I’m riveted, smiling because I don’t even know why.

  “Sorry if you’re bored,” I whisper to Griffin.

  He grins. “I’m never bored when I’m with you.”

  My face warms, my hands, my flipping everything. I tell myself he’s just good at this—at being charming. Maybe that’s the case, but boy, it’s working. With no response, I turn away.

  Now it’s Jack’s turn onstage. As he makes his way up there, my best friend leans forward, her chin resting on one hand, grinning like she’s just won the lottery or a brand-new car.

  “Are you going next?” I ask her, already knowing the answer.

  She twists her head and raises both brows. “Oh no. Maybe next time.”

  “You’re going to have to get over your fear, you know, if you really want to be an actress.”

  “I’m not afraid of the stage. I love the stage. It’s the writing poetry and sharing it with the world part I’m afraid of. I want to perform brilliant monologues that lead to believable pain and real tears.”

  “You’re the one who said you’d love to attend an open mic night somewhere,” I say.

  “Yeah, attend.”

  Olivia’s attention swivels back to the stage, and I shake my head.

  Jack looks extra tall and lanky standing yards away, up on the raised platform. Extra pale under the lights, but his confident stance remains firmly intact. He takes his place behind the microphone and smiles at the crowd. “This is a piece I’ve been saving for a while. It means a lot to me.”

  I lift my camera, adjusting for a clever shot. I make sure the flash is off so I won’t disturb the audience. I’m in a prime position to have a clear view of Jack without obstructing anyone else’s view with my bulky camera.

  And then he starts in with a voice made for radio, every word clear and concise. There are inflections in his tone at the right moments, and maybe he’d do well with a career in audiobook narrating. Or voice acting. Or simply poetry reading, if such a career exists.

  From the angle and the shimmering lights, Jack looks almost otherworldly, like he’s glowing and totally in his element. Now this is what edgy and alive feels like, sounds like. His poem is dark and light at the same time, about the sun, though I’m fairly certain the sun is a metaphor for something else. I can’t figure out what, though. As I listen to him and watch him express emotions with his hands and face, I can see why Olivia fell so hard for the guy. He is really good at this. Almost like he was born to be on stage.

  “Abandoned and left to wander through life alone. I have always been without a home.” Jack pauses, straightening his spine. “No compassion or trust, so I was left with only dust.” His gaze drifts toward our table, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s staring at Olivia. But another few heartbeats pass, and holy crap—he’s staring at me.

  I look away, down at my interlocked fingers. Everyone claps after he’s done, like they have with all the other performers. My own clapping is delayed and halfhearted. When I look over at Griffin, he’s eyeing Jack with pinched brows. My gaze flitters between them until I catch them both staring at me. My cheeks burn. What in the world was that about? I bite the inside of my lip, a nasty habit I can never seem to ditch.

  Olivia leans over toward me and squeals. “Wasn’t that so good? I mean, man, I wish I were that good at writing poetry.”

  “You don’t need to be good at everything,” I say, forcing a light tone. She’s an excellent student, a fabulous actress. The best our high school drama club has ever seen. And even though her movie-star dreams are a long shot, if anyone can do it, she certainly can.

  “Why not? Wouldn’t it be fun to be good at everything?”

  “Yeah, but then you’d be annoying.”

  She grins. “You’d still love me.”

  Jack rejoins our table, and Olivia gives him a quick kiss, praising his talents and gushing about the parts she loved most.

  “You think you got some decent shots?” Jack asks me.

  “I think I got some quality stuff, for sure.”

  We watch the remainder of the performers, which takes about another thirty minutes. I keep wanting to talk to Jack more, but I can’t with Griffin sitting next to me. I need this to work, for Jack to stumble onto something that could be of use. Too bad patience has never been my strong suit. Even more so when I’m trying to prevent murder.

  When the last performance wraps us, Jack tells us, “They do this every week on the same night. So if you guys want to come again sometime, we’ll be here.”

  I nod, and Griffin acknowledges the balls it takes to do something like that. And my reply is, “But you play the guitar. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

  “You play the guitar?” Jack repeats, grinning wider.

  “Yeah.” Griffin’s eyes pinch and there’s a hard set to his jaw for a moment before he shakes it off and the smile reappears—and I regret bringing up his guitar. “I’m not in league with Johnny Cash or anything, but I have my moments.”

  “Dude, I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

  Griffin looks away f
rom Jack, his eyes pinching again. “Yeah, maybe some time.”

  If Olivia or Jack notices the change in Griffin’s tone, neither of them show it. I can almost see the thoughts written across his forehead.

  “Which one of you is Quinn?”

  We all look over at the girl wearing all black, who I assume works here, and I raise my hand slowly.

  “Someone dropped this off for you,” she says, laying a small envelope on the table in front of me.

  Prickles of ice coat my skin, and my heart slams its outrage hard and fast. I don’t know anyone who would know where we are, aside from Grandma, and she surely didn’t leave it for me. Rubbing my fingers along my jeans, I wish the pinpricks of nervousness away, but wishing doesn’t do crap. The others all stare at me while I unpeel the envelope and pull out a piece of paper.

  A few seconds later, I’m staring at a typewritten note. In large letters it reads:

  YOU LET YOUR FAMILY DIE.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My throat closes up, and I don’t want to believe my own eyes. But it’s right here in front of me. Beneath the large letters is a smaller headline: Two perish in tragic car accident. Included in the note is an image of the news article about my parents’ deaths.

  What the hell is this? Who would send this to me?

  “Something wrong?” Jack asks.

  I clear my throat, looking up at his worried face. “Oh, uh, no.” I can tell him about this freakish new occurrence later.

  His lips twist downward, the worry lines deepening on his face. “You look like something’s wrong. Are you sure?”

  At least I think that’s what he says. I can hardly hear anything aside from the violent buzzing that’s taken over my senses. “I’m okay. It’s a note from Griffin.” I force a half smile on my face as I simultaneously nudge his toe with mine, hoping he’ll play along.

  Griffin returns my half-assed smile, but I can tell he doesn’t like my plan. I tuck the note into my purse and try to pretend everything is normal. When the performances end, we say goodbye to Olivia and Jack, who both wear matching expressions of apprehension. Lightheadedness takes over, but I make it to my car. Tears prick and burn behind my eyelids. I can barely keep my lips from quivering and my fingers from shaking.