Marnie gave me a saucy smile. “Well … I might have written a press release from a publicist about Ramona Claiborne and Bernadette Middleton, Hollywood’s hottest new BFFs.”
“Wait — you actually put in writing that I’m Kate Middleton’s cousin?”
She grinned and shrugged.
“Marnie!”
“Oh, stop acting scandalized. What are you, a pilgrim?”
“You mean a puritan? No … but that’s lying about a real person.”
“Lying?!” She drew back, pretending to be scandalized. “On the Internet? No! I don’t believe it! I’m pretty sure Kate Middleton is too busy trying on tiaras to care whether someone halfway across the world is pretending to be her distant relative. I mean, think about it. Can she prove you’re not related?”
I ignored her crazy talk and stared at the picture. “Won’t we get in trouble when they find out?”
“For heaven’s sake, no,” Marnie said, rolling her eyes. “This is Hollywood, Willa. I don’t even know how old my own mother is. Everyone lies, and there are no consequences. It’s like a magical fairyland!”
My plan for avoiding Chemistry went off without a hitch, so for seventh period I lay on a cot in the nurse’s office, thinking about Marnie. After a while, the nurse left me alone, so I pulled out my phone. It took me a few different combinations of search terms, but eventually I found what I was looking for:
A photoblog called MARNIE + WYATT = FOREVER.
As the posts loaded on the page, one by one, I felt like I’d been spun around a hundred times and dropped down on a balance beam.
Photo after photo of Wyatt and Marnie. Sitting together at a football game. Holding hands. Him giving her a piggy-back ride. Him standing behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Tenth-grade Marnie had a short chin-length bob and wire-frame glasses. In every photo, she was smiling brilliantly.
It was surreal, seeing them together. I felt an unpleasant twinge, and told myself it was because this was confirmation that so much of what Marnie had told me was outright lies.
Or maybe, I mused, flinching at a photo of him kissing her on the cheek, there’s more to it than that.
The pictures spanned almost their whole sophomore school year. One from the winter formal with Marnie in a pale blue dress and Wyatt in a gray suit, posing together. A picture from Valentine’s Day, showing Marnie holding a tiny teddy bear.
And then there was one of Marnie standing in the courtyard at school, holding a dozen balloons. The caption read, Surprising Wyatt on our 6 month anniversary!
I tucked my phone back in my purse and closed my eyes, thinking, My life could not possibly get any more complicated.
I was wrong about that, though. So wrong.
After all I’d been through, all the care I’d taken to stay out of trouble, in the end it was a human, not a ghost, who got me called into a parental after-school judgment session.
It was Marnie, who I thought was supposed to be my friend.
I sat at the dining room table with Jonathan and Mom. My stepfather’s iPad sat on the table, and the front page of Starstalkerz stared up at us. The website, to my incredible non-delight, had added the following tidbit to the item about Marnie and me:
EDITOR’S NOTE: Whoops, Stalkerz! As many of you pointed out, this glamorpuss is NOT Bernadette Middleton, despite her claims to the contrary — in fact, we have it on good authority that her name is Willa Cresky and she’s the newly imported stepdaughter of Infinity Realms director Jonathan Walters. Gotta watch out for those east coast girls. Hey, she may not be royalty, but we’ll give her this — she looks great in red!
That was it. Not a word about Marnie, or the fact that she was lying, too. Not a word to say that I hadn’t been the one to start the story, or send out a stupid press release.
Jonathan’s publicist had called him that afternoon in a red-hot fury, claiming that his new stepdaughter was a total embarrassment to his public image.
“What would make me feel better, Willa,” Jonathan said now, “is hearing some explanation as to why you thought it was okay in the first place.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“But you went along with it,” Mom said.
“I don’t know if you understand how reputations work in the real world,” Jonathan said. “Your word is your bond. When you get a reputation for not telling the truth, it can follow you forever.”
I nodded. After a half hour of useless attempts to defend myself, quiet acquiescence seemed like my best chance to get out of there before my twenty-first birthday.
“We’re not angry, exactly,” Mom said. “Just disappointed.”
But I could tell by the way Jonathan frowned that he was a little angry.
I apologized again. And then they rehashed it again. And that happened four more times and then they finally told me I could go up to my room and think about what I’d done.
As if I didn’t have any other problems to think about in my spare time.
I’d forgotten how delicate my old computer was. If you pushed the screen open too fast, or a millimeter too far, the whole display would turn a very alarming shade of muddy green. I pulled it closer and held my breath until the backlight came on again.
Then I clicked on the folder labeled DAD’S STUFF. It was only a backup, meant to be deleted after he transferred all of his files to the new computer. But I never got around to deleting it.
I clicked through, looking for the backup of his contacts list. Then I opened that and did a search for DR.
Dr. Pamela Tilliman, General Practitioner.
And a phone number.
It was four o’clock, which meant seven o’clock in Connecticut, which meant that Dr. Tilliman was probably long gone for the day, but I figured I could leave a message and ask her to call me back on Monday.
To my surprise, someone picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Dr. Tilliman speaking.”
“Um, hi, Dr. Tilliman,” I said. “My name is Willa Cresky. My dad was a patient of yours. Paul Cresky?”
“Paul Cresky,” she repeated. Her voice was deep and rich with authority. “Oh, Paul Cresky — yes, of course. It’s been about two years since he passed away, hasn’t it?”
“It’ll be two years May sixteenth,” I said. “I know it’s late, but I was hoping I could ask you some questions.”
“Well, I may not be able to answer everything,” she said, “but I’ll see what I can help you with.”
“My dad died of a heart attack —”
She interrupted me, and I heard typing. “Hang on. I’m pulling up his chart…. You said you’re Willa? I think I met you at the funeral. And I remember your dad used to talk about you. Didn’t you guys exercise together?”
“We swam,” I said, gripping a handful of my comforter in my tightly balled-up fist. “But he died. While we were swimming.”
“Oh, right …” she said. There was an embarrassed silence.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just have a question about heart attacks. Because the day my dad died — I mean, right before he died — we had a big fight.”
“A fight?” she echoed.
“An argument. I mean, we weren’t even yelling or anything, but we were both really angry.” The sting of the memory made my throat tighten but I kept talking, unable to stop. “I left the pool, and when I changed my mind and went back, he was … floating. I don’t know if he was dead at that point or not, but the paramedics declared him dead after they tried CPR. Everybody tried CPR. The gym even had a defibrillator, but it didn’t work.”
“Right,” she said. “I see all that here, in the notes from the hospital. What’s your question?”
I pressed the phone to my ear, my breath coming in shaking bursts. “Did I … um … kill my dad?”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “No.”
I waited for her to elaborate.
“That’s it,” she said. “That’s my answer. A categorical no. Not a chance.”
“But I stressed him out. I gave him a heart attack.”
“Your father was exerting himself physically. And, honestly, a normal, healthy forty-four-year-old man should not have had a heart attack from that level of physical exertion. Certainly not from an argument. One where you weren’t even yelling.”
Wyatt had basically said the same thing.
“But then …” I stared at the keys on the keyboard until they all seemed to meld together. “Why did he die?”
“Hold on, let me look at something, okay?”
The line was filled with jazzy hold music. The sudden contrast almost made me laugh, in a crazy way.
A couple of minutes passed, and I was afraid Dr. Tilliman had forgotten about me. Then there was a click, and the music disappeared.
“Hello, Willa?” she asked. “Still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here.” My heart was beating a thousand beats a minute.
“I just called the hospital and had the medical examiner’s records emailed over,” she said. “Hang on … ‘the findings were consistent with asymptomatic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy … resulting in sudden cardiac death.’ ”
“I don’t know what that means,” I whispered.
“It’s a genetic heart condition,” she said. “It means that your father lived his whole life with a mutated gene that predisposed him for a condition known for causing sudden cardiac events, often without any hint of a symptom prior to the event. Tell me, Willa … how long had you guys been swimming that morning?”
I tried to dredge up the details, so long suppressed under an avalanche of guilt and pain. “Maybe about fifteen minutes? We usually swam for a half hour, but Dad stopped.”
I drew in my breath sharply.
“He stopped,” I said, suddenly remembering. “He said he was suddenly really tired. He thought he’d rest for a minute and then we could start again, but that’s when we started talking about Aiden — my boyfriend, Dad hated him — and it turned into an argument, so I left. I went back to the locker room.”
“Obviously I didn’t have a chance to examine your father myself,” the doctor said, her voice gentle. “But given what you’ve just said, and the findings from the autopsy, nothing you did caused your father’s death. What’s more, Willa … nothing you could have done would have saved him.”
I stared at the computer screen, feeling a tightness in my own chest.
“Don’t take this in an alarming way, but you should probably be screened for the condition at some point. An echocardiogram or MRI —”
“I’ve had those,” I said. “Both of them. Everything was normal.”
I remembered Mom’s panic over my headaches. Was it because she knew what had really killed Dad? Then why didn’t she tell me?
Maybe because I never asked. And whenever she tried to talk to me about Dad, I simply refused. I’d never been willing to talk about it.
“Well, that’s good,” Dr. Tilliman said. Then, after a long pause, she spoke again, with a note of curiosity in her voice. “Why did you call now? Why two years later?”
I swallowed hard. “I think I just finally wanted to know the truth.”
Monday, when I set my tray down beside him, Wyatt looked at me as if I’d lit the table on fire.
Then he instinctively glanced over at the couches, where Marnie’s group of friends sat without showing the slightest hint of wondering where I was.
“She’s home sick today,” I said. “It’s safe.”
“Someone might tell her,” he said.
Without answering, I pulled out a chair and sat down, pushing some of his books aside to make room for myself.
“Since we’re on the subject of Marnie,” I said. “Can you please tell me exactly what went on with you guys?”
“You want my side of the story?” He glanced up sharply. “Does this mean you don’t believe I stalked her?”
“On reflection,” I said, “Marnie seems to have a complicated relationship with the truth.”
He snorted. “You can say that.”
“I don’t understand, though,” I said. “What’s her deal?”
He looked unhappy. “In my estimation, Marnie’s kind of pathological. She’s charming, smart, and incredibly manipulative, with shockingly little concern for the feelings or well-being of other people. But hey, maybe that’s just my experience.”
“But why does she do those things?” I asked. “To what end?”
“To her own end,” he said, shrugging. “That’s the point. For the glory of Marnie.”
“She was so nice to me, though,” I said.
“Of course she was,” he said. “She wanted you to like her. She still wants you to like her. Heck, she still wants me to like her, even though she’s told half the school I stalked her. As much as she tries to pretend otherwise, she thrives on the approval of other people. And there’s basically no limit to what she’ll say to get it.”
I nodded.
“I don’t say this lightly,” Wyatt said. “And I’d rather you didn’t repeat it. Frankly, it’s not my business how Marnie wants to deal with the world. She taught me a pretty valuable lesson, and for that I’m actually grateful. It’s not my intention to spread rumors about her.”
“Even though she spreads them about you?”
He nodded.
“So what do I do?” I asked. “Stop hanging out with her?”
“You do whatever you feel the need to do.”
“Is she going to spread rumors about me, too?” As I asked the question, I realized the whole Bernadette Middleton drama wasn’t too far off the mark from rumor-spreading. “Actually, scratch that. I think I know the answer.”
Wyatt gave me an understanding look.
I sat back in my chair. Then I looked at Wyatt and took a huge breath. “And … also … you were right,” I said, studying my sandwich on the lunch tray. “About my dad. I talked to his doctor. He had a genetic heart condition.”
“Genetic?” Wyatt looked alarmed. “Then you should probably be screened for it.”
“It turns out I have been. Thanks for your concern, though.” Then I tried to smile apologetically, but I’m pretty sure it came out as a pained grimace. “And I’m sorry for what I said at your house.”
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. You were wrong about a lot of things, but you were right that I had no business looking into your personal affairs.”
“We were both wrong,” I said. “Do two wrongs make a right?”
“Maybe in Marnie’s world.” He gave me an ironic smile. “So … anything to update?”
“Um, yeah,” I said. There was a pretty major update. I told Wyatt how I’d discovered Paige’s death online.
“Hold on.” Wyatt stared at me with his eyebrows raised. “You sat down and led with Marnie, rather than this huge revelation?”
“Because I knew that once I told you about Paige, we wouldn’t be talking about anything else,” I replied.
“Good point.” He nodded. “So did you look up the details of her death?”
“No,” I said. “I just … ran out of energy. I mean, I’ve been begging the ghost of Diana Del Mar to throw me a bone — not literally — and she’s gone. I mean, what’s the point?”
“The point?” Wyatt looked genuinely confused. “The point is to find out the truth.”
I’d forgotten how comforting it was to have someone around who believed you. Who was willing to help. I felt a grateful smile fighting its way to my lips.
But as my eyes met Wyatt’s, the cafeteria and everything in it faded to a white oblivion.
I can’t stop staring at the rectangle of light. For the first couple of days, it represented so many things — hope, my chance of escape. Now there’s only the abject terror that courses through my veins when he lifts the door and walks down the steps.
He’s here, demanding that we go back over the scene, over and over, even though I know my lines by heart. Right up to the part where the script cuts off, without tel
ling how it ends.
But I know how it ends — I’ve seen the movie. It ends with me plunging backward through a glass coffee table. Dead.
He approaches me, and I try not to flinch — one of my strategies is to make him think of me like a friend, not a victim. Like we have a rapport. To humanize myself.
It might even be working.
“Brought you something, Lor,” he says. “Can you lean forward? Like that, thanks.”
He reaches around my neck and fastens a thin gold chain, then looks down at it, frowning.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to see. “Thank you.”
I smile, giving him as trusting a gaze as I can summon, but the look in his eyes chills the warmth from my smile.
“It’s nothing,” he says coldly. “A cheap imitation. It’s totally disposable.”
Then he walks away.
Hey,” Wyatt said. “Look at me. Take a breath. You’re here. You’re okay.”
I blinked, hearing his voice and obeying his words without questioning them.
“You had another episode,” he said.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “No kidding. He … he called her Lor.”
“Lorelei.” Wyatt’s mouth was set in a grim line as he automatically flipped open the notebook and started making notes. “Any new information?”
I shook my head. “No, no … But … there was something weird about the necklace. I think it might have been different this time.”
After school, Mom had to run to the mall, so I made her drop me off at home first. As I opened the front door, I heard a low rumbling sound. I didn’t think anything of it — for a second at least. There was always construction going on in the neighborhood, people pulling down old houses to build new ones, or replacing parts of their houses so they wouldn’t slide down the hillside in an earthquake.
But this particular rumbling was coming from inside the house.
I set my backpack on the entry table and turned around.
The rumbling became a roar, and I looked up the stairs just as a wall of water came rushing down toward me. It was like someone had taken the contents of the pool and dumped them from the second floor.
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