Deadly Little Voices (32 page)

“What happened that day didn’t
make
Rachael depressed,” Danica explained on a visit to my house right after the incident at Jack’s apartment. “It just shined a spotlight on her already depressive thoughts.”

And just knowing that—how unhappy Rachael was, even when she was much younger—brought everything full circle for me. Rachael’s depression was most likely the reason the voices in my head had been so dark and self-loathing all the time.

But now that the danger’s over, I haven’t heard those voices again.

“Anybody home?” Danica asks, poking her head in through the open door. She steps inside, armed with a box full of treats from the Press & Grind. “Your dad let me in.”

“Great,” I say, perking up, glad that she’s been feeling comfortable enough to come around on occasion. She’s even ventured to have lunch with us a couple of times at school.

“Are you sure?” She looks at Kimmie and Wes. “Because I don’t want to interrupt.…”

“Not at all,” Wes says, eyeing the box of treats.

Danica sets the box down on my lap. “Double-dip chocolate cookies,” she says. “They always make me feel better.”

“Thanks,” I say, noticing how cute she looks in a hooded pink rain jacket with matching rubber boots. Her hair is tied into two tiny pigtails, and a silver heart necklace dangles around her neck (instead of the sea glass pendant that she once borrowed from her sister). “Have a seat,”

I tell her. “We were actually just talking about you. Or at least about the whole Jack incident.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t really stay.” She looks down at her watch. “My dad’s just doing a loop around the block.”

“Well, at least tell us how your sister’s doing,” Kimmie says.

“Better, I guess.” She shrugs. “I mean, I think it helps that she’s been writing about what happened. When you look into her eyes, you can see that she wants to talk—that she has a lot to say. Initially, her expression was pretty lifeless.”

“You know what’s really weird?” Wes says, unable to resist the box of cookies. He opens it and helps himself. “For all the time I spent at the Press & Grind, I never even noticed your sister worked there. I mean, not that I even knew the girl, but I was pretty sure I could ID all the employees.”

“It was a relatively new job,” Danica explains. “My father thought it’d be good for her—thought it’d help her gain some self-confidence—and the guidance counselor at Humphrey said it was fine. Rachael was originally only supposed to be working in the back.”

“But then she quickly got promoted to the front,” I point out.

“Right, which is when
I
got hired,” Danica says. “They needed someone to take her place baking treats.”

“And that’s when she met ‘Jack,’” I add.

Danica nods, tension visible in her jaw. “I really wish she’d told me about him.”

“Do you think that’s why you were getting harassed at school?” Kimmie asks. “Because of your sister, I mean, and her history with the Candies?”

“Guilty by association.” She nods again. “Only, the difference between Rachael and me is that she actually cares what people say.” Danica looks away, leading me to assume that Rachael cared a little too much.

A little too deeply.

Which was probably just one of the reasons she’d found Jack so appealing. Instead of making her feel as if something were always wrong with her, he made her feel like everything was always right.

“Rock-out Mama?” Kimmie offers, holding up a bottle of coral nail polish. “This is what always makes
me
feel better.”

“Excuse me?” Danica makes a face.

“That’s the name of the shade.” Kimmie giggles. “I bet it’d look pretty stylin’ with that supercute outfit of yours. Interested?”

“I actually have to go,” Danica says. “I just wanted to say hi and drop off the cookies.

Another time?”

“Sure,” Kimmie says.

I get off the bed to walk Danica out, giving her a lame-o hug at the door, so as not to smudge the polish on my fingernails. “Thanks again for stopping by,” I tell her. “Come visit whenever you feel like it.”

“I will,” Danica says.

And I happily believe her.

“Do you think we freaked her out?” Wes asks when I return to my room. It appears he’s eaten over half the box of cookies.

“I think she’s just leery of trusting,” I tell him, returning to my spot on the bed. “But she’s definitely coming around.”

“And considering what happened to her sister,” Kimmie says, applying Rock-out Mama to one of her pinkies, “it probably takes more than our mere presence to get her freaked.”

“You know what’s
really
freaky?” Wes segues. “The fact that the psycho in question was the same guy who was after Debbie Marcus.”

The whole fiasco with Debbie Marcus happened at around the same time that I was getting stalked. But instead of taking her seriously, people chalked her stories up to pranks and practical jokes, concluding that Debbie had gotten paranoid as a result.

But there was obviously a lot more to it.

“Actually, it’s not nearly as freaky as the fact that Camelia decided to go to the psycho’s house without even calling us first,” Kimmie says.

“I already told you guys, I didn’t have my phone.”

“And you’ve obviously never heard of a
collect call
,” Wes says.

“Nor have you heard of nine-one-one.” Kimmie’s barbell-pierced eyebrow rises high.

“Because I hear that’s free as well.”

“What’s going to happen to that freak-o, anyway?” Wes asks.

“Word’s still out,” I say. “Those other two girls, whose pictures were part of the Jack and Jill shrine, never reported the fact that he took them to his apartment for photo shoots. And, unfortunately, they’re still not willing to talk, so no one’s sure how they escaped or if they even had to.”

The police said that Jack had been described by neighbors and former classmates as a loner. He ended up dropping out of school and changing his appearance so he could feel as if he fit in. He targeted those he believed to be “lost souls” in hopes that he could heal himself by healing them—by making them his partners, while at the same time boosting their self-confidence (and “taking their pain away”).

“I’ll bet his dad knew what he was up to,” Wes says.

“Because where family’s concerned, there’s only so much you can hide, right?” Kimmie asks, painting a giant capital
F
on my thumbnail with the white polish.

I bite my lip, knowing she’s talking about what happened a few days ago, when Kimmie and I took a walk to China Moon.

It was late afternoon, so the restaurant was pretty dead, but there was an overly amorous couple in the corner booth. Kimmie and I tried to kill time while waiting for our order by making fun of the couple’s audible kisses and the way at one point the girl actually sat in the guy’s lap.

But then the guy got up to pay his bill. And we were able to see his face.

It was Kimmie’s dad, cheating on Tammy the Toddler with some girl he’d recently met.

“I never told you this,” Kimmie confessed after a full-on scene at China Moon (as a result of which we’ve been forever banned from the place), “but I knew my dad had been cheating on my mom. It’s sort of why I hate him.” She wiped her purple-shadowed eyes on her anti-D scarf.

After that, we went back to my house, and Kimmie opened up about her family, really talking about how she felt and what she feared. It was nice to be able to be there for her—to be able to reciprocate her friendship in spite of all the chaos going on in my life.

While Kimmie paints capital
F
’s on all of my fingernails, Wes gives said
F
’s a curious look. “Do you really think Prana Mama will approve?” he asks.

“FYI: the
F
stands for ‘fearless,’” Kimmie says, “because that’s what our dear Chameleon truly is.”

“The ovaries of a champion,” Wes agrees. “And the snout of one, too.” He gestures at my nose. It’s still slightly swollen from falling on my face at Jack’s apartment, but luckily, it isn’t broken. “And fearlessness such as yours,” he continues, “is just one of the reasons I’ve brought you a long overdue present.” He pulls his poetry journal out of his bag. “I’d love your honest—and fearless—opinion.”

“You got it,” I say, knowing that in showing me his work, exposing another side of himself, he’s being fearless, too.

“I’m sure your Neanderthal of a dad loves that you’re writing poetry,” Kimmie says.

“Does he still plan on having the Audi painted pink?”

“Are you kidding? No matter what he says, he’d rather die than see me in anything pastel, vehicles included,” Wes says.

“Did he report the vandalism on your car?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Now he thinks I deserved what happened, that people are saying someone like me doesn’t deserve to drive a car like mine—that the car’s way out of my league and people are disgusted with my ways.”

“What ways?” I glance down at his poetry journal, excited to finally
get him
, and still wondering if it wasn’t indeed Jack who keyed his car.

“Not being more like him, I guess.” Wes shrugs.

“More grotesque, sluggish, and stupid, you mean?” Kimmie asks.

“Camelia?” Mom says, interrupting us. She raps lightly on the door (the lock of which has recently been removed). “I’m heading to the hospital to visit Aunt Alexia, but your father will be home.”

Both my aunt and I have been meeting with Dr. Tylyn regularly—not together, just on our own. My parents have been meeting with the doctor, too, trying to comprehend fully just what I’m dealing with as far as my psychometric powers go. That’s one of the few blessings that’s come out of all this—my parents have actually bonded over my gift.

And luckily, I wasn’t punished after everything that happened. Initially, my mom accused me of not keeping her in the loop (once again), but the truth was, at some point, she stopped being able to be in it. Her behavior at the hospital was a direct example of that: of her regressing back to childhood, to everything Aunt Alexia had been dealing with. She couldn’t handle the idea of my following in my aunt’s path.

My dad, on the other hand, seemed a bit more reliable. And so I tried to open up to him on more than one occasion, though it was sort of like part of him didn’t want to know the truth, either—didn’t want to accept the possibility of my mother’s biggest fears coming true.

For now, the most important thing I want both my parents to know is that I’ve chosen to handle things differently from the way my aunt has.

For as long as I possibly can.

Before Mom leaves, I grab Miss Dream Baby from my closet. After Aunt Alexia was admitted to the hospital, I retrieved the doll from her room, cleaned her up, and wrapped her in a silk-trimmed blanket. “Can you give this to her?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, giving me a puzzled look. But still she doesn’t question it.

A moment later, I hear the familiar engine rumble of Adam’s car pulling up in front of our house.

“You’re not planning to have a party here, are you, Camelia?” Mom asks in a lame attempt at sarcasm—as if having three people over makes a party.

“Wes and I should probably go anyway,” Kimmie says. “I’ve got some design stuff I want to finish up for Dwayne.”

“Sketch class,” I say, knowing that I need to get back to it if I ever want to finish my bowl.

Both Kimmie and Wes give me hugs good-bye, and then my mom walks them out, warning me not to let Adam stay too long. “School tomorrow,” she reminds me.

Even though it’s barely three p.m.

As expected, Adam’s been great since the incident, calling me daily, coming by my house, surprising me with Mexican takeout one day and tabloid magazines the next.

While Dad does some work at the dining room table, Adam and I move out onto the back patio, where the signs of spring are definitely present. Mom’s tulips have sprouted in the garden, and the buds on the cherry tree have already started to bloom.

We sit on the porch swing, facing one another. Adam’s brought along the most delectable hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted—so rich and thick I can actually stand a piece of biscotti in the center and it won’t even lose a crumb.

“You don’t have to bring me treats all the time,” I tell him. “It’s nice just to see you.”

“So, no more hot chocolate and biscotti, I take it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly go that far.”

We drink our hot chocolate and make small talk about school. But I can tell there’s something more pressing on his mind: his shoulders are tense, his face looks slightly peaked, and he keeps shifting against the bench as if he can’t quite get comfortable.

“Is everything okay?” I reach out to touch his forearm. He looks more fearful than I’ve ever seen him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.

“What is it?” I ask, expecting the worst.

“It’s about Ben.”

“Ben?”
I repeat, surprised to hear his name brought up.

Adam looks down into his cup. His wavy brown hair is ruffled slightly by the breeze.

“You should know that he’s been calling me every day to see how you’re doing—if your wounds have healed, if you’re getting on with things…”

I nod, thinking how, like me, or perhaps
because
of me, Ben also got the sense that Danica, or someone connected to her, was in trouble, which is why he tried to spend time with her. “Where is he?” I ask.

“Back home. That’s where he was just before the attack. This is a really tough time of the year for him—the anniversary of Julie’s death.”

“Anniversary?” I ask, hating myself for not knowing that fact, for not figuring out the dates and putting two and two together.

“Yeah. It was the weekend when all that stuff went down with Jack—when he asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“I really wish he’d told me,” I say, disappointed that, once again, Ben hasn’t wanted me to be there for him.

“I was going to mention it,” Adam says, “but then Ben asked me not to…”

“Did he say anything else? Anything about why he was already on his way home that night?” I’ve gone over the scenario several times in my head. Ben’s hometown is more than three hours away. He supposedly called Adam to check in around seven, and then showed up at Jack’s house sometime after eight.