Pretty as a Picture

by Elizabeth Little

  He shakes his head.

  “Where are you getting all this?” I ask Amy.

  “Twitter.”

  “I thought you deleted your account.”

  “I signed back up, okay?” She makes a strangled noise of frustration. “I called eight thousand times, and you didn’t pick up. I didn’t have any other options. There’s so little credible information coming out, it’s like . . . pre–internet era. Even Josh’s sources have dried up, and you know he’s like the gaffer-whisperer. Whoever’s handling crisis PR at the studio deserves a raise.”

  “I bet I know who’s in charge of it. She’s terrifying—you’d love her.” Isaiah taps my shoulder and makes a wrap-it-up gesture. “Amy, look, I have to go, but—but I’ll call tonight, okay?”

  “You’re safe, right?”

  “Of course I’m safe.”

  “You answered that way too quickly.”

  “I’m saaaaaaaaafe.”

  The laugh this gets is tiny—very tiny—but I’ll take it.

  * * *

  —

  I unlock the door to the theater and duck under the police tape. I look back at Isaiah. “Stay close. Be careful on the stairs. And for God’s sake, watch your head.”

  One side of his mouth kicks up. “The tables have turned.”

  “Yes, well—you’re in my world now. We’re smaller here. I hope you brought a flashlight.”

  Isaiah promptly produces one and clicks it on.

  “There’s no way you weren’t a Boy Scout.”

  He shrugs. “Guess you’ll never know.”

  The projector room is more or less in the same shape I left it in last night. Someone dragged a ghost light up from the theater and kicked the majority of the broken glass into one corner, but that’s the only difference. They didn’t even bother wiping down the Autowind: I can see the dark, bloody smear on the edge of the lowest platter. When I crouch down to examine it, I find a few crusty bits that can only be my own dried flesh.

  Should I be bothered by that? I think maybe I should. A normal person would be.

  A regular person, I mean.

  A typical person.

  But despite it all, I still feel at home here, calm and warm, surrounded by projection equipment and acoustic tiling, by the sharp, sweet smell of industrial carpet cleaner and, beneath that, the whiff of vinegar that tells me the film that’s loaded is starting to deteriorate.

  I pick my way across the floor, glancing briefly at the photos still tacked to the wall.

  Liza, Liza, everywhere.

  My eyes linger on that first shot, on the picture of a dead girl who was, for me, a game, a triviality, a neat little puzzle to figure out. I cringe at the memory now. How did I put it again?

  That just stands to reason. Why else would you make a movie about it?

  “What is it?” Isaiah asks.

  I nod at the photo. “Liza’s body was posed in an identical fashion.”

  He ducks under the doorframe and crosses the room in two giant strides. “You’re saying her body was arranged to match the movie?”

  “Well, either that, or she was arranged to match Caitlyn. There’s no way to tell the difference. Tony probably based this shot off the crime scene photos.”

  Isaiah swings his head around to look at me. “For real?”

  “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t he?”

  He lets out a long breath, then reaches over my head and plucks the still off the wall. He unzips my backpack and slides it inside.

  “Hold on to that for me, would you?”

  “Shouldn’t we be worried we’re contaminating the crime scene?”

  “I’m sure the police did that well enough on their own.” He steps back and surveys the room. “Now, the attacker was in that corner when you came in, right? About where you’re standing?”

  “The lights were out, so I can’t be sure. But he came at me from this direction.”

  “Did he attack you as soon as you walked in?”

  “Not really—not until I opened my phone.”

  He crouches down next to the Autowind and peers at the bloodstain. “So he pushed you, you fell—you made contact here. And you rolled to the side.”

  “Then I crawled over there,” I say, pointing to the wall behind the projector.

  He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Next time maybe crawl somewhere with an escape route. Better yet, run.”

  I put my good hand on my hip. “Look, everything was moving very fast, okay?”

  “So while you”—he makes air quotes—“‘hid’ here—”

  “Seriously?”

  “—your attacker presumably carried the computer down the stairs, and—”

  “Dragged.”

  His chin comes up. “What?”

  “They didn’t carry it. They dragged it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. I could hear it. Those stairs are loud.”

  Isaiah strides out of the room, sliding the flashlight out of his back pocket and shining it across the ceiling, the walls, the length of the hallway. My eyes catch on the slow swirl of the dust motes caught in the light. Brownian motion, my mind supplies, dimly recalling one of my father’s dinnertime lectures. Movement that only makes sense once you account for objects invisible to the naked eye.

  Isaiah’s asking me something.

  “What was that?”

  “Can you turn on the lights out here?” he repeats.

  I shake my head before remembering he can’t see it. “No, the light’s broken. It goes out if you look at it sideways. This place probably predates modern building codes.”

  He glances over the edge of the walkway. “The way these stairs are built, I’d say it predates modern engineering.”

  He runs the flashlight back and forth across the top tread of the stairs and begins his descent. He moves slowly, methodically, checking each step in front of him before he moves on. But when I go to place my own foot on the stairs, he holds up a hand.

  “I don’t want to put any more weight on this thing. Pretty sure I already half broke it on my way up.”

  Two-thirds of the way down, he stops short—and the entire staircase starts, as if taken by surprise. He bends down to pick something up. “Looks like you’re right,” he says, holding it up. “A piece of the computer casing. Must’ve broken off.”

  “Of course I’m right, I told you—I heard it.”

  “Yeah, well, shock and blood loss don’t make for the most reliable witnesses.”

  “I didn’t lose that much blood.”

  He gestures vaguely at the stairs in front of him. “Splatter says otherwise.”

  My eyebrows knit together. I distinctly remember thinking the gash wasn’t that serious, but I guess that’s another symptom of shock. I lean forward as far as I dare. Sure enough, if I squint I can make out a few dark spots in the beam from Isaiah’s flashlight. It’s hard to tell against the steel tread, though.

  “Are you sure that’s not rust?”

  “Could be,” he allows. “It’s fresh blood I’m familiar with. How heavy would you say that CPU tower was?”

  “I don’t know, pretty big. Forty pounds, maybe? Why?”

  He hums in response, then turns and moves purposefully down the hallway. I clamber down the stairs after him.

  “Why does it matter what the computer weighs?” I ask again.

  He doesn’t answer. He just stares at the lobby door and taps his toe.

  “You were bleeding, badly,” he says after a moment. “But those doors were locked when the cops came to investigate. Did you really take the time to lock the door behind you when you left?”

  “No, I didn’t think it was safe to go that way. I went out back, down the fire escape.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Show me.�
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  * * *

  —

  To my great dismay, Isaiah isn’t interested in examining the fire escape—the wind and water would have long since done away with any evidence, he says.

  Nor is he particularly concerned about the boardwalk or the beach.

  He does, however, want to see the cave.

  I would have preferred to spend another twenty to twenty thousand minutes talking about the sea slime, but apparently my opinion on this particular subject holds little weight.

  Admittedly, in the daylight, with Isaiah at my side, the cave isn’t as intimidating. The water’s higher than it was last night, but at least this time I can see it.

  I still want to hurl, though.

  “Where did you say you were from again?” Isaiah asks.

  “Illinois.” I pause. Then—“You?”

  He slants me a faintly amused look. “I wasn’t making conversation.”

  “I thought maybe you were trying to distract me.”

  “No, I was just trying to figure a few things out.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. That talking makes you more nervous.”

  My arms try to wrap themselves around my stomach, but I will them down to my sides.

  “I’m going to go in, take a look around,” he says. “Do you think you’re up to it? Or would you rather wait here?”

  My first inclination is to fashion a blithe expression—like this is the easiest thing in the world, like I’m just going to bed or to a movie or home to my mom. But then I change my mind.

  “I’m really scared of caves,” I say. “I almost drowned in one when I was a kid.”

  He nods. “Figured it was something like that. I’ve almost drowned a couple times myself. It’s not great.”

  “No,” I agree.

  He extends a hand. “How about we not do it again?”

  Is it just my imagination or is he looking the other way on purpose, like maybe he’s giving me the chance to pretend he’s just gesturing me forward? But his palm is up, and his fingers are curved in. There’s something almost courtly about it, an ermine-trimmed cloak being tossed across an Elizabethan puddle, and I can’t decide if I’m supposed to be annoyed at the presumption or grateful for the assistance.

  Or maybe there’s some third option I have yet to consider.

  When my fingers brush against his, something hot and sharp rouses beneath my right shoulder blade. Something new. It’s not necessarily unpleasant.

  His hand curls around mine, and he leads us into the cave.

  * * *

  —

  In the light, I recognize the passageway immediately.

  “It was here,” I say. “Last night, I stopped here—I thought I heard something.”

  “You didn’t think to mention that?”

  “I figured I was imagining things.”

  “Or maybe your attacker came this way, too.” Isaiah shines the flashlight through the narrow opening. “Do you know what’s back there?”

  My mouth opens to tell him about my meeting with Gavin and Billy, but for some reason, I hesitate. “It’s a grotto,” I say instead, sticking to the bare minimum. “You can get a boat in that way—which means you could get a boat out.”

  He splays his hand out across the opening. “I’m not sure I’ll fit.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been in tighter spaces.”

  “Only figuratively.” The set of his jaw and his brow and his shoulders is all business, but his lips still press into something very nearly smile-adjacent. Like he can’t quite help himself.

  And I guess I can’t quite help myself either, because the suggestion just bubbles up out of me. “I could go first?”

  He looks over at me in surprise. “Really?”

  “Sure,” I say, turning my head so he can’t see the way I’m screaming behind my eyes. I tuck my backpack into a secluded niche, grab the flashlight, and ease my way into the crevice. I did it before. I can do it again.

  This time, through, I’m even more keenly aware of the physical dimensions of the space. There’s plenty of room for my hips and shoulders, but if I were a foot taller—which Isaiah easily is—this would be a tight fit. Maybe if he turns to the side, though, and sort of scoots to the left—

  I turn to say as much to Isaiah.

  The ground disappears beneath me, and I pitch backward into the water.

  * * *

  —

  I come up sputtering, confused, dimly aware that Isaiah is calling my name.

  “Marissa? What’s happening?”

  I sweep the water out of my eyes and suck in a breath. “I’m—”

  My mouth dips back below the surface. Dammit, I’m out of practice. I’ve forgotten how to tread water, and the cavern leads straight out to the ocean, so this water is moving.

  (Not rising, I tell myself sternly. Moving.)

  I kick my legs hard and sweep my arms out to my sides. There’s nothing graceful about my movements, but I manage to stabilize myself just enough to take another deep breath before I sink back under.

  The water’s warm and gritty, like the liquid left in the bucket after you mop. I clench my jaw and arrow my arms out in front of me, trying to ignore the pain in my left arm, to pretend that salt water isn’t seeping between my stitches, under my skin. I reach for the cave wall, desperate for something, anything, to hold on to, but my fingers find only sleek, smooth stone. The strain in my lungs and my diaphragm and my cheeks is becoming unbearable.

  I’m not going to be able to hold my breath much longer.

  I arch my back and stretch my neck and flail my legs and—there—I steal another sip of air, another burst of energy, and I cast wild eyes around the cavern. I see it just in time: the rock shelf. It’s just five feet to my right.

  I go under again, twisting myself into what I hope is the right direction—

  Brad Pitt, in an awful jacket and an even worse shirt: “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”

  —and I appreciate what my brain is trying to tell me, I really do, but I swear to God, if Fight Club’s the last movie I think of before I die. . . .

  Still: I kick and I pull as hard as I can.

  My forehead slams into the shelf. A second later, the water tries to pull me back.

  I fling my good arm toward the rock, curling my fingers into claws to gain purchase. I catch the edge, but one hand’s not going to be enough. The water’s too strong.

  My thumb slips off.

  I clamp my lips shut against the pain and heave my bad arm up out of the water, slamming it into the rock. I give it everything I have—

  The water rolls back toward me, and I have the presence of mind, just barely, to use the momentum to pull myself out of the water, up onto the shelf. I tumble onto my side and let my mouth fall open even though I’m not sure why I’m bothering. The oxygen doesn’t seem to be doing much for my brain.

  “Marissa!”

  I lift my head, weakly. Isaiah’s standing at the entrance to the passageway.

  “You fit,” I rasp.

  “You weren’t answering,” he says, as if that explains how he managed to shrink his entire body down to half its size.

  A noise shudders out of me, a noise I think is trying to be laughter, and it’s followed by a splash that for a single, dazed second, I assume is the sound of my own body falling back into the water. But no, it’s just Isaiah. He boosts himself up onto the shelf and peers down at me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I flop over onto my back and cover my face with my hands. “You ask so many questions, Isaiah.”

  Eventually, I manage to sit up. I scoot myself back until I’m up against the wall, as far from the water as it’s possible to get. I breathe in, deeply. My shoulders start to settle.

  Then Isaiah lunges toward
the water, and my hand shoots out to save him, to pull him back, to stop him from going in, even though this man could probably swim the English Channel and back—he could probably swim the Pacific Ocean and back.

  My face heats when I realize he isn’t going anywhere. He’s just fishing something out of the water. I sit up to see what it is.

  Oh. Of course his flashlight floats.

  He wrings a good two cups of water out of his Henley before wandering over to the far edge of the shelf. He turns on the flashlight and aims it at the mooring pole. “What is this place?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I say. “I think local kids like to come here. Make mischief. That sort of thing.”

  He begins to search the cavern, sweeping the beam of the flashlight back and forth across the rocks. When it hits the far corner, my eye catches on something new.

  “Stop,” I say.

  I lean forward on my hands and knees to get a better look. There, caught in the cool light of the LED, is a spiral of iridescent green paint.

  CAITLYN KELLY DIED HERE.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Isaiah says.

  I glance back over my shoulder. “Is that true? Is this where she was killed?”

  “No idea. Like I said, that’s not the job I was hired for.”

  “Kind of a weird place to kill someone, don’t you think?”

  He shines the flashlight at the entrance to the grotto. “Well, you can get here by boat, so that’s a plus. And it’s private, dark enough that you could catch someone off guard. The acoustics aren’t ideal, but with all the ocean noise, you probably wouldn’t be able to hear anything out on the beach, no matter how loud the echo. How did she die, again?”

  “Blunt force trauma.”

  “That could mean anything.”

  “We should probably talk to Grace and Suzy. I think they have the coroner’s report.”

  “Of course they do.”

  I wrap my arms around my legs and prop my chin on my knees. “But why would you go to all the trouble to lure a girl to a secluded location, only to then go to all the trouble to drag her dead body out to an incredibly unsecluded location? Could you even get a corpse out through that narrow passageway? Wouldn’t there have been abrasions? Debris? Something?”