Dare You

by Jennifer Brown

  He shook his head as if to process something. “Your dad? What does he have to do with this?”

  I’d said too much. If I told him about the photos I’d found, it would lead to conversations that I didn’t want to get into. Conversations about my mom, about Brandi, about the metal box under my dad’s desk. We had enough going on without adding ancient family drama to the list. Plus, I still wasn’t sure how hard I was actually looking for Brandi, and I didn’t want to be forced to look harder. “Nothing. I’m just . . . I’m tired.” I took a sip of water, stretching it out to stall.

  He squinted, as if he didn’t believe a word I’d said, and then decided to let it go. Maybe he figured if he expected me to accept his secrets, he had to accept mine. We stood there awkwardly, me pretending to take the longest drink in the universe, and my eyes roved over to the TV.

  Stupid Rigo Basile. Guilty as hell, but unless we figured out something, I was going to go down for his crime. Surely someone out there knew where he was. Someone out there knew something.

  Silver-brown-purple.

  I squinted harder at the TV.

  Silver-brown-purple.

  It hadn’t jumped out at me before, because it was so quick, and the colors so muted by the things I’d associated with Vanessa—fear, danger, death. From the couch, it might have looked like a glare on the TV screen, maybe from the overhead light in the kitchen, but from this angle it was definitely . . .

  “That address,” I said, my voice echoing in my glass. I set it down, distracted. “I know that address.”

  “What?” Detective Martinez followed my gaze.

  I skirted the bar and hurried across to the TV, where I knelt with my face just inches from the screen. Now the numbers glowed, screaming out at me from Rigo’s hand. He had taken something from Vanessa, the move so subtle we had both missed it. But now I could see it, her fingertips still pressing the paper into his palm. I touched it. “That’s the address of the parking lot.” I tapped the screen and looked back at Detective Martinez, who had followed me and was bent over, so close to my shoulder I almost bumped noses with him. “The parking lot, Detective.” He still looked uncomprehending. “The one where Peyton was attacked.”

  I stood and paced back to the couch, thoughts flipping and fluttering through my head so fast I could barely hold on to them. I was wide awake now. “Of course. She’s giving him the address of where the attack is supposed to go down. We’ve got him. We’ve got him receiving the address from Vanessa Hollis while holding the cane in his hand. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this will be enough for them to at least consider Rigo another possible suspect.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Detective Martinez asked.

  “What do you mean? I just told you. The address and the cane and—”

  “No, not that.” He narrowed his eyes at the screen and then looked at me with curiosity. “The address. I can’t even see it, and you’re claiming that you can see it and not only that, but you remember it from seven months ago?”

  “I had to type it into my GPS,” I said. “And maybe my eyesight is better than yours.”

  He shook his head, rejecting that theory. “Who does that? Who memorizes addresses that they’ve punched into their GPS one time? And my eyesight is perfect.”

  I could feel unease well up inside of me. This again. Detective Martinez getting too close to the truth, looking for answers that I didn’t know how to open up and give. But, like it or not, I would have to. He probably wouldn’t believe me, just like the counselor at the high school.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s . . .”

  “A hunch,” he said with a sarcastic nod.

  “Well, you don’t have to say it like that.”

  I let out a frustrated breath, feeling totally crestfallen. Crestfallen: an ugly peppered word, something like a cross between sadness brown and ragemonster red with flecks of black.

  “Well, how am I supposed to say it, Nikki? You have these weird hunches—something isn’t right with them, and you know it—but every time I ask you about them, you clam up and guard yourself. You shouldn’t shut people out like that. I—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’re just trying to keep me out of prison and I really should be more cooperative and let you in and blah, blah, blah.” I searched for my shoes by the couch, and then remembered that I had taken them off at the door. I breezed past Martinez.

  He grabbed my elbow. “It’s more than that, Nikki.”

  Something passed between us. Something that I could only describe as a feeling of being washed over in a rainbow, and sliding down, down, down, the violet stripe. I had no idea what it was, but something in the core of me felt shaky from it. I yanked away from him.

  “It isn’t that easy for me, okay?” I said. I hurried down the hall and stuffed my feet into my shoes, palmed my keys, and opened the apartment door. Somehow he was right behind me again. How did he keep doing that? “It’s not like you tell me everything about yourself, either.”

  He placed his hands on his hips and tipped his face to the ceiling, letting out a sigh. “Fine. You win. I have a case that I’m working on,” he said. “Some gang stuff. It’s kind of a personal thing, and I’m just being extra careful right now. Vigilant. It’s not a huge deal that you need to know about.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t been expecting him to actually come clean. Cleanish, anyway. It felt too intimate. Too real. If he was expecting me to open up and start spilling my guts everywhere, he was crazy. I just needed to get home. Get alone and clear my mind. “Well, my hunches aren’t a huge deal that you need to know about,” I said.

  He looked disappointed, but he didn’t press. “Let me walk you down.”

  I stepped through the threshold of the door, glad to be standing in the fluorescent-lit hallway, where I could see again, where I could think straight without all that crazy color tossing me around. I turned to face him. “How many times do I have to tell you, Detective? I can take care of myself.”

  I WAS STILL fuming when I got home. There were a hell of a lot of things I didn’t like, but being doubted was definitely one of them. I’d seen that address, and did it really matter how? Why couldn’t he have just taken my word for it and moved on?

  But was he really doubting you? my mind tried to ask. Or was he trying to understand you?

  What was the difference?

  I went straight to my room, kicking off my shoes and tossing my keys onto the desk. They slid across and rattled against the side of the painting I’d bought at the auction. Another one of my hunches. As exhausted as I was just an hour ago, I was completely amped now.

  I picked up the painting, studied it, and then took it to my bed, scooting backward until I was leaning against the headboard and holding it in my lap.

  Detective Martinez had said a similar painting in his bathroom had scared him as a child. I could see it. The grays and blues and the white mist. The shouting men, the listing ship in the background. Not a vivid ship but the ghost of one. It looked like mayhem. Like it would be a miracle for any of those men to make it to shore without drowning.

  Which was sort of how I felt sometimes. Through all of this Peyton nonsense, the ocean of lies and mist obscuring the truth. Most of the time I was certain I was swimming against the tide, and if I ever made it to dry land, I might not recognize it anymore.

  It occurred to me that maybe this was how Peyton had begun to feel. I remembered the SOS photo—Peyton standing in water, a life preserver looped over one arm. She’d been asking for help in the one way she knew how: through art.

  It seemed impossible that she hadn’t left this painting—a similar theme with the word Rainbow in the title—just for me. But did she leave it for me to help me find answers, or did she just leave it for me because she thought I’d like it?

  There was only one way to find out. I turned the painting over and over in my hands, studying it so closely I could see the individual fibers of the canvas. I held it at an angle to let the
light reflect off it. I felt my way around the frame, I studied the back side, rubbing my hands over it. Nothing.

  I pried open the clasps and pulled the cardboard backing off the frame. A folded-up piece of paper fell out and landed in my lap. I set the painting down and picked up the paper, unfolded it.

  It was a poem.

  The Seeker

  Peyton Hollis

  If we meet in the willow wood

  The air thick as sweet Brandi

  And we talk to the night

  Our ruby hearts beating

  Will you give me the answers that I seek?

  Will I find myself in your eyes?

  Will you take me home?

  My fingers tingled and my eyes burned as I read the poem again and again, the words jumping out at me in golds and greens and reds and pinks and leathery browns, all tricks, since the poem was written in pencil.

  Except when I cleared my mind and ignored the colors, I realized that not all of it was written in charcoal pencil.

  Nine words were drawn in with colored pencil, the letters in a repeated rainbow pattern, making them stand out to me in bold.

  The Seeker

  Peyton Hollis

  If we meet in the WILLOW WOOD

  The air thick as sweet BRANDI

  And we TALK TO the night

  Our RUBY hearts beating

  Will you give me the ANSWERS that I seek?

  Will I FIND myself in your eyes?

  Will you take me HOME?

  Rainbow colors. Rainbow. Had to be for a reason. I was more certain than ever that Peyton was helping me, using her rainbow to lead me where I needed to go.

  I read the poem again. And again. Trying to make sense of what she was hoping to say. Brandi, misspelled. That one was easy. If I was right, the poem was intended to lead me to Brandi. Great. If only she’d known how much I’d been avoiding finding Brandi, she might not have wasted her time.

  But what if Brandi was somehow linked to the reason why Peyton was attacked? What if that was what she’d been trying to tell me all along?

  I grabbed my laptop and slid back in bed, bringing it with me. I Googled “Willow Wood.” Ohio, South Dakota, Fort Lauderdale. Apartments, medical supplies, assisted living, music stores. There were tons of places called Willow Wood, but none of them made sense. I scrolled and scrolled, waiting for something to jump out at me. Something to shoot fireworks into my brain.

  But I had nothing.

  I decided to concentrate on ruby instead. A gemstone. Why? Why would Peyton be talking about gemstones? Was I supposed to be finding jewelry? God, was this just a random poem not meant for me at all? Peyton was artistic. She wrote the lyrics to all of Viral Fanfare’s songs. Maybe this was just another song. It was melancholy. Viral Fanfare liked melancholy.

  But why would she hide it in a painting called The Rainbow if it was just song lyrics, Nikki?

  It didn’t make sense. I did more Googling—looking for anything to do with rubies that might fit. I came up with nothing.

  Frustrated, I tossed my laptop and Peyton’s poem to the side and flopped down on the bed. What was I missing? I closed my eyes to concentrate.

  Fear Is Golden. Peyton had led me to answers with that phrase before. Did that somehow come into play now? Not that I could see. Live in Color? No. The word ruby was red to me, but how was I supposed to know what color the word ruby was to Peyton? It seemed unlikely that she would have expected me to know, but even if her synesthesia told her it was red like mine, what did red have to do with Brandi? And what did either of those have to do with Willow Wood, whatever Willow Wood was?

  Ruby. Precious gems. Jewels. Woods. Brandi. Home.

  Talk to.

  My eyes flew open. I grabbed the poem and studied it, blocking out everything except the rainbow words.

  Willow Wood

  Brandi

  Talk to

  Ruby

  Answers

  Find

  Home

  Shit. As usual, I had been letting my synesthesia make things way too complicated. Ruby was more than a gemstone and more than a color. Ruby was also a name. The Ruby in the poem must have been a person—a person who had answers about Brandi. Peyton was trying to lead me to her, telling me to find her home. It was all so incredibly obvious once I let Peyton talk to me in the language we both understood—the language of color.

  I stood and paced, then picked up the laptop and brought it back to my desk. I plugged in Willow Wood California. It had to be a place, and it had to be nearby. How else would Peyton expect me to find Ruby? I got a hit. Sure enough, there was a market cafe called Willow Wood up in Graton. Graton wasn’t that far away, but it was a tiny town—the kind of town where a Hollis would definitely stand out. That couldn’t be it. Frustrated, I smacked my hand down on the keyboard, making the screen jump to the next page.

  It was late and I was exhausted. Between the auction and the surveillance videos and the poem, I’d had enough mystery for one night. My eyes were tired and heavy.

  I was just about to shut the laptop and give up—you overestimated my abilities, Peyton—when I saw a link for an apartment complex called Willow Wood.

  It was fifteen miles away in Los Angeles.

  20

  JONES WOKE ME with the doorbell.

  He’d been ringing it repeatedly for what felt like half an hour, commingling with my dream, just as my dream had absorbed Detective Martinez’s shake the night before.

  I sat up in bed, blinking away the ten minutes of sleep I’d gotten. My laptop was still open, the battery dead, and the poem was still lying half-folded next to it. The painting had fallen to the floor. I stumbled into the bathroom, grabbing my phone off my desk on the way and texting Jones to hang on. Mercifully, the doorbell stopped.

  I was still in my clothes from the night before, my mascara smeared into raccoon rings under my eyes. My hair was a knotted mess. My chest felt tight and my throat scratchy. I studied myself in the mirror and then leaned away. I looked as bad as I felt. I splashed some water over my face and ran a brush through my hair. There wasn’t enough time to do anything about my clothes, but at least I looked halfway human again. Hopefully I smelled at least halfway human, too. I sniffed my shirt—sweat and garlic and a hint of something distinctly Martinez-y. I spritzed perfume over it.

  When I opened the front door, Jones was there, head bowed, hands on hips.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “Of course. Come in.” I backed up to make room, and shut the door after him. We went straight to the living room, Jones easing himself onto the very edge of Dad’s recliner. I sank into the couch, yawning, trying not to give in to the pull of sleep. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you haven’t been answering my texts. You totally misinterpreted everything,” I said, but he held up a hand to stop me.

  “I have some things I came here to say,” he said. “So I would appreciate it if you’d just let me say them.” I nodded. He took a deep breath and began talking, mostly to his feet. “I don’t know what exactly is going on between you and that cop.”

  “Sparring, Jones. That’s all that was going on between me and that cop,” I interrupted, and again he held his hand out to stop me.

  I’m not one who likes to be shushed, and it must have shown on my face, because he followed it with, “Please? Nikki?” I glared but kept my mouth shut, and he began again. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and that cop, but you’re more than just working partners or whatever you’re trying to tell me.” I squirmed, a flash of last night going through my head—that weird floaty rainbow sensation that I’d had when he looked in my eyes. I willed it away before it freaked me out again. Jones was wrong. Martinez and I were working partners, and that was it, violet rainbow stripe or no violet rainbow stripe. “But I’ve decided that I don’t care.”

  He finally met my eyes. “I mean, I care. I don’t really want you sleeping with him. Or anyone else, actually. But you’re not my girlfriend and I don�
��t have any right to tell you who to be with. If I don’t like it, nothing’s keeping me here. I think I finally got the message.”

  Something whooshed around inside me—both sadness and relief that Jones didn’t consider me his girlfriend, and a sense that it was pretty unfair of me to be sad about that when I definitely didn’t consider him my boyfriend. Did I? I had an uncomfortable feeling that maybe I had begun to think of him that way. “I’m going to be leaving for New Mexico soon, and I don’t want to spend these last few weeks together fighting. And I don’t want to spend them apart, either. I don’t love you. . . .” He dipped his face to the floor again when he said this, his cheeks brightening and his hands picking at each other. He was lying. He did love me. But he knew that telling me that would be the best way to get me to leave him. He finally looked up. “I don’t love you. But I care about you. And I have fun with you. And I want to keep doing that.”

  For a few seconds we just sat there in awkward silence. I was trying to let everything he’d said sink in, without me feeling like a total asshole. This was the relationship I’d always wanted with Jones—attachment free. So why did it feel so crappy when I finally got it?

  “That’s all,” he said. “You can talk now.”

  Unsure what to do, I got up and walked over to him. I put my hands on his shoulders and he let his forehead rest against me. “Jones,” I said, and then realized I didn’t know what else to say. I ran my fingers over his scalp and down through his hair. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, burying his face into my stomach. I reached down and tugged on his chin so that he was looking up at me. “Detective Martinez is . . . a necessary evil. Just for right now. But I can promise you it doesn’t go any further than that. And it won’t. As soon as we clear me, he’s gone.” Now the gray that seeped into the room was settling around me. I leaned down and kissed Jones’s forehead to drive it away. “He has a girlfriend. And I have . . . you. We may not be boyfriend-girlfriend, but we are something. And I want to enjoy the rest of our time together too.”