by Taylor Hale
West and I are still kissing when headlights flash in my peripherals. The cottage isn’t far from downtown, but only the Myerses and West know we’re here. Roger’s cruiser pulls into the driveway. My parents must have seen him through the window, because they hurry onto the porch. That same panic I felt when Keely went missing in the woods resurfaces. Roger exits the car holding a black fabric briefcase.
“What’s going on, Rog?” Dad says.
Roger walks up the steps to the porch. “Evening. Sorry to intrude on you folks like this, but I felt it was better to do this in person.”
“Why?” I ask. “Is Keely okay?”
“She’s fine. Don’t worry, that’s not what this is about.”
I let out a breath of relief, but another fear takes over: if it’s not about Keely, I don’t know what other reason he could have to be here.
“Can I come in?” Roger asks.
“Yeah, of course,” Dad says. “Hey West, maybe it’s better if you take off.”
West looks at me. “But—”
“Dad, no,” I say.
“Sorry, but I agree,” Roger says. “You mind, West?”
He nods. I tell him I’ll text him and then he’s gone. Anxiety fastens around my throat as we go back inside. Roger unzips the bag and takes out a laptop, placing it on the kitchen table.
“I need to show Olivia something and get her opinion.” Roger looks at me. “That night, when you thought you saw something in the shower window. Are you still sure of what you saw?”
Completely caught off guard, I picture that night—the hand I knew was there—and everyone looking at me like I was insane. Frustration throbs through my brain as I try to materialize the images in my head. “I’m sure of what I saw, but not if it was real. All of you seemed to think I was imagining things. I’m sorry, but why are you bringing this up?”
Roger pauses, opens the laptop, and types. He says, “We caught someone sneaking around our property, trying to see in the windows. On camera this time, Olivia. I saw him with my own eyes.”
This has to be a joke. I can’t help the exasperation that comes out of my voice. “You all said I hallucinated, Roger. Are you telling me it really happened now?”
“It’s possible. For that to happen to you, and for this to happen now—it’s too coincidental. He could’ve snuck by the cameras the last time.”
That’s exactly what I said before. I dig my nails into my palms. I knew it. I knew what I saw that night was real. “You didn’t believe me,” I say, unable to hide the anger and betrayal in my voice.
The room goes silent. Guilt fills Roger’s eyes, and he reluctantly meets mine. “You’re right, and I really am sorry, Olivia. I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss you.”
Hugging myself, I turn away. “You shouldn’t have.” Pause. “When did it happen?”
“About an hour ago, but he got away. My officers are over there searching the area, but nothing yet. You thought you saw a hand, correct?”
“I know I saw a hand. Like someone was trying to grab onto the ledge and peek into the window. You said there weren’t any prints.”
“There weren’t, but—but maybe they just didn’t touch the glass. Maybe I didn’t look hard enough.”
I say nothing else, though I’m still steaming, still trying to process this.
“Here.” Roger shows us the screen. Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s shoulder, and I lean my palms onto the table to get a better view of the screen.
It starts with the guest room window, which up until today, was my room. A hooded man sneaks up to the windows and peeks inside, but his face is completely hidden. I’ve seen this before, but somewhere in a dream. The man’s face in the window.
Miles?
“Do you recognize him?” Roger asks.
He has a thin frame—maybe athletic—but I can’t tell. Processing the picture is like drilling nails into my brain. Mentioning Miles would be a serious accusation. Just because I dreamt of him doesn’t mean he was ever really there.
“I . . . can’t tell.”
“Here’s another angle.” Roger switches the camera to the front of the house, where the man sneaks along the wall with his head low.
“I don’t know,” I say. Mom rubs my back to calm me down.
“You can tell by his posture that he’s a younger man,” Roger says. “My best guess would be someone trying to get to know the layout of the place in order to break in and steal. But it’s also possible someone was trying to spy on one of us.”
Or on me.
Miles knew I was leaving, but I never told him if it was today. For all he knows, I could still be at the Myerses’ house.
“I’ve already talked to Keely,” Roger says. “She insists there aren’t any boys in her life who might want to spy on her, but what do you think? Could Keely be hiding something else?”
“She’s only dated Shawn.”
“I plan on having a word with him.” Roger squints at me. “What about you, Olivia? Is there anyone you might suspect would want to spy on Keely? Or yourself, even?”
“Well . . . I made Miles pretty mad when I started dating West.” Please don’t let this be a mistake.
“Livvie, not Miles—” Mom puts her hand over her mouth.
Even Roger looks surprised. “Really? You think Miles is capable of this? I thought he was your friend.”
“I really don’t know. Please don’t tell him I said his name. It’s—it’s not like I can prove it, but I upset him a lot this summer. But we had a good talk yesterday when they all dropped by your house. Things seemed better, but—”
My mind is being jerked back and forth on a fair ride like the Zipper. I see the sweet Miles I knew as a kid, the civil Miles I spoke to last night, and then the one who was livid with me for being with West.
“Thanks, Olivia,” Roger says. “I’ll take a look at Miles. The motive is there. And again, for what it’s worth—I really am sorry I didn’t believe you. I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll keep you updated.”
Dad questions Roger as he packs up his stuff, but my head drifts out into the sea. I blink, still in shock, still unsure if giving Miles’s name was the right thing to do or the biggest betrayal of my life.
When I snap out of my daze, Roger is gone.
“Livvie, get some sleep,” Mom says. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”
“No!” My parents flinch. When I realize I’ve snapped, I say, “I’m sorry. But please, don’t make me leave town yet. I’m not ready.”
“Olivia,” Dad says, “if there’s some kind of lunatic in this town, it’s best if we head home. Especially if you think it’s someone you know.”
“I’m not leaving yet.”
Storming to my room, I crawl into bed. Static fuzz in my brain makes it hard to think. It isn’t a coincidence that guy is suddenly creeping around Keely’s house right after I came to town. Maybe it isn’t Miles, but whoever he is, he must have gone there looking for me. And when Keely went missing—maybe this is all connected. Maybe whoever is following me was trying to get to me by getting to her first. I don’t know. But I feel responsible for everything that’s going on.
I stare at the ceiling for hours, my mind on high alert.
When a shadow moves behind the window, my breath halts. Something scuffles outside. On rickety bones, I move to the window. My trembling hand extends to the edge of the polyester curtain, and I rip it so hard it almost tears from its hooks. Behind the glass, wooden posts hold up the roof. There’s a spruce tree and a dark, narrow street. Clouds canvas a moon rimmed with yellow. This side of the house faces away from the water, into the street, and there’s distance between every cottage on this road, so whatever the sound is can’t be a neighbor. I take a wary step closer.
On the ground, below my window, is a pool of crimson. My pulse pounds as I
follow the trail until it lands on the mutilated carcass of a deer. Its throat is slit the exact same way it had been splayed out at town hall.
The man outside Keely’s house. The animal killer. They’re the same person.
And he found me.
My brain throbs. Anger, thick and oozing. I blink and I’m outside. Stones dig into my bare soles, and the cottage is now several feet behind me. I don’t know how I got here. Moments ago, I was in my room, but now a cold air swallows me. I can’t remember anything. I can’t think. Blue and red lights flash all around, and the world turns sideways. Suddenly I’m on the ground and holding the knife above me. Two police officers shine flashlights in my face.
“Miss, what happened?” one of them asks. I can’t see his face, only the silhouette of his hat over that bright, bright light.
“Michaels, turn that thing off,” the other says.
The street goes dark again. I scuffle back.
“We’re going to need you to put down the weapon,” a man says.
“Are you hurt?” the other asks. “Where’d you get that knife?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!”
Someone grabs me. I fling the knife. My right cheek is pressed into the gravel, and everything goes black.
18
Blinding white light surrounds me. Voices murmur beneath the steady sound of beeping.
“What happened to her? Is it because of her medication?”
My vision is trapped in a fish-eye lens: the ceiling, the corners of the room, a bag of fluid hanging next to me. Flashes of blue and red flicker in my memory. My hands were bound. The back of a car.
The animal killer.
No, more than that. People in white lab coats, muttering words.
Psychosis. Schizophrenia. A result of her PTSD.
My reality is fragmented. Disjointed, stained-glass memories. They feel as real as my nightmares. I try to look around the room, but a sharp pain jabs my neck when I move. Fear takes over my body, just as my parents rush to my side and hover over me, their faces as pale as the ceiling above their heads.
“What’s going on?” I say drowsily.
My skull throbs, and I pull myself up in the bed. A gangly tube sticks out from my hand like a piece of spaghetti. I scream and rip it out. Pain fires up my arm and blood pumps from the wound. Mom gasps. A woman in blue scrubs appears and presses a cotton pad onto my skin, but I shove her away.
“What are you putting in me? Why am I in the hospital?”
The room spirals. My parents are replaced by two other nurses, and their faces glitch in and out of my vision. I kick and scream until someone binds me. A pinprick, and the IV is back in my other hand. My limbs become numb, and my body is being weighed down by sand.
All at once, everything slows. I black out—I’m not sure for how long, but when I come to, the beeping is calm. Steady, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. If I listen hard enough, I can hear waves. It reminds me of when Miles and I were kids and we’d press seashells to our ears, even with the sea right in front of us. I close my eyes and I’m on the beach.
“Liv, you have to listen to me practice,” Miles says.
I stretch my legs out on the white sand. The sun glares above us. I’m building a paper boat like the one West showed me while Miles holds out his copy of The Secret Garden.
“I don’t get why you’re so obsessed with it,” I say. “Everyone has to read it and perform in groups. It’s not like we’re even doing it as an actual play.”
“But Mr. Burton said we could organize a real play if enough people care.”
A beach ball appears at my feet. I look up, and my face heats because West is running over. I pick up the ball, still stunned when West appears in front of me. I blink at him, my voice caught in my throat.
“What are you looking at, Olive? Can I have it back?”
“S-sorry.”
West takes it and runs off. I look at Miles, but he’s storming away with his fists balled at his sides.
“Miles, wait!” I chase after him.
I used to always chase after him.
“She’s awake,” someone says.
Cold tears wet my cheeks. The hospital room materializes around me again, and I’m dizzy. This time, I don’t have the strength to rip the IV out, but I’m conscious enough to understand where I am. Whatever they’re putting in me must be a sedative, because I’m so, so heavy. Mom places a warm hand on my cheek.
“Did they catch him?” I murmur.
“Catch who, sweetie?” Her voice is desperate, like she’s already asked the question a hundred times.
“The animal killer. He found me. There was a deer.”
“You’re certain it was a deer?” That voice belongs to someone I don’t know. My vision adjusts to a woman who stands next to me and observes me like I’m some sort of science experiment. She has full eyebrows and a long black ponytail, and she’s young for a doctor, maybe thirty.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out grainy, full of distrust.
“Olivia, I’m Dr. Reddy.” She extends her hand, but I don’t shake it, so she holds her clipboard to her white lab coat. “I work in the emergency ward here at the hospital. I’d like to talk to you about what happened last night. What do you remember?”
It hurts to think—to remember—but images flicker through my mind like damaged film. “There was someone outside, they put a dead deer on the ground for me to find. I remember getting really angry, but then . . . I don’t know.” I cover my mouth as the memory returns. “Oh my God, I went outside. Did I chase him? Why would I do that?”
Even the thought of it chills me to the bone. I wasn’t myself last night; someone else took control of my body.
“And there were cops,” I say. “Did they catch him?”
Dr. Reddy’s lips are in a tight smile. “No one has been arrested. Do you remember trying to harm a police officer, Olivia?”
“I wouldn’t do that. It was him, the animal killer.”
“The police officer said it was you, but it was an accident. Why do you think it was the animal killer?”
“Because . . . he was there.”
“But I don’t think the officer would have any reason to lie. Do you?”
“Hold on,” Mom cuts in. “Doctor, we really appreciate everything you’ve done, but Olivia has a psychiatrist back in New York. We should get her home right away.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Though I wouldn’t recommend traveling until we know she’s stable.”
I hate the way they’re talking about me like I’m not even here. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Olivia, we need to get you home,” Mom says.
“No!”
“Carrie,” Dad says, “can we step back and let the doctor do her job?” He puts his arms around her shoulders and leads her to the other side of the room. Dr. Reddy pulls up a stool and examines her clipboard. I shift as far away as I can.
“Olivia, your parents updated me on your past, and we were able to get some information faxed to us from your doctor’s office in Manhattan. You were diagnosed with PTSD—”
“Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Sure. You’re here because it appears you had an episode last night. Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course I do. I’ve been dealing with flashbacks since I was twelve.”
“That’s not quite what I’m talking about.” Her face softens. “When I say you had an episode, I mean that you lost touch with reality for a little bit. Does that make sense?” She’s stepping on eggshells. When I don’t answer, she taps her pen on the clipboard. “Last night, you claimed there was someone after you. That someone put a deceased animal outside of your window. Can you describe what you saw?”
Images of blood strobe th
rough my mind. “It was a deer, and it was bleeding everywhere. Its throat was slit just like the deer the animal killer left at town hall.”
“You’ve seen that exact deer before?”
“No, it was laid out differently.”
“Olivia, this might be difficult for you to hear, but the police didn’t find anything like that outside your window.”
“That’s impossible. If they couldn’t find anything, then the killer must have come back and moved it.”
“Why do you think he would he do that?”
“To mess with me.”
“Do you think he messes with other people?”
“Maybe . . . I don’t know.”
“The officers went back and checked, and there was no sign of any animal, or any evidence of blood.”
She’s lying. She has to be. I know what I saw. I feel like I’m being tested and filmed, like they’re shoving me into a corner. The walls close around me—my airways close up, and my vision goes white.
“How have you been sleeping lately?” Dr. Reddy asks.
“Terribly,” I squeak.
“A lack of sleep can be damaging to the psyche. It can even cause hallucinations.”
Every click of her pen amplifies the throbbing in my head, and when I process what she’s saying, frustration rockets to my cheeks. “I know what I saw. My friend’s dad thought I was crazy before when I thought someone was outside the house, but then we caught video evidence of him. I’m not crazy.”
“No, no one thinks you’re crazy. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of why you saw what you did.”
“I saw it because it was there.” The feeling of water swells above my head. “I want to go. I can’t breathe. Mom, I can’t breathe.”
“Livvie, you’re okay.”
Mom is at my side again. I grab onto her arms and beg her to get me out. I don’t trust Dr. Reddy. I hate the way that nurse looks at me like I’m feral. My pulse hammers my eardrums as the panic returns—I try to thrash, but I’m strapped to the bed. The nurse comes over and puts something else in the IV bag. My head becomes featherlight. Mom and Dad are yelling, but I can’t hear them anymore.