Exposure (2 page)

Kaycee sighed. Families were so hard. But so was not having one.

Someday. At thirty, she still had time.

Kaycee stepped away from the counter — and heard a click. A flash lit the room.

Her head snapped up, her gaze cutting to the round table across the wide kitchen. A camera sat upon it.

Where had
that
come from?

It had taken a picture.
All by itself.

She stared at the camera, stunned. It was small and black. Looked like a digital point-and-shoot. She had one of those. Only hers was silver. And bigger. And the last time she saw the thing it was in its case, sitting in the bottom drawer of her desk.

The camera’s lens stuck out. Aimed at her. It had taken a picture of
her
.

Kaycee looked around wildly, her paranoia like a thousand skittering insects across her back. Who had done this? Somebody could be watching her by remote through that lens
right now
.

No. The thought was too petrifying. And far-fetched. Someone was just pulling a joke.

But who would do that? And how would they get into her house? She hadn’t given a key to anyone.

Kaycee edged toward the table sideways, palms up, as if the camera might explode in her face. Dark imaginings filled her head. Somewhere in a shadowy room sat a man, eyes glued to a monitor, chuckling at her terror as she approached.

Who was he? What group was he a part of? What did they want?

Kaycee
,
stop it. There’s a rational explanation . . .

Her thigh grazed the table. The camera sat no higher than that part of her body. Did it have a wide enough lens to include her face when it took the picture?

She extended a trembling arm and knocked the camera ninety degrees. There. Now they couldn’t see her.

Shallow-breathing, she leaned over to look down at the black rectangle. Its “on” light glowed golden.

What other pictures had it taken? Had they gone around her house, photographing every room?

Nobody was here. It’s a joke
,
just a joke.

Kaycee reached out a tentative hand, drew it back. Reached out again. On the third try she picked up the camera.

She flipped it around and studied its controls on the back. Turned a dial to the “view” mode. A picture of herself filled the screen — with her head cropped off. Kaycee saw only her wiry body, the loose-fitting jeans, and three-quarter-sleeve purple top. So much for a wide lens.

Her finger hesitated over the back arrow button, then pressed.

Onto the screen jumped the close-up gruesome face of a dead man. Eyes half open, dark red holes in his jaw and forehead. Blood matted his hair. Printed in bold in the bottom left corner of the picture, across his neck:
WE SEE YOU
.

Kaycee dropped the camera and screamed.

Hannah Parksley slumped on her bed, knees pulled up to her chin. Her eyes burned, her throat ached, and her insides felt empty. Just dead. She should have begged Kaycee harder to go live with her. Hannah knew she wanted to say yes. Kaycee was always there for her. But tonight while Hannah poured out her heart to Kaycee behind the closed door of her bedroom, where was her own father? Out in the den with Gail, his new wife, and Gail’s twelve-year-old daughter, Becky. Watching TV.

Fresh tears filled Hannah’s eyes. How could she stay in this house another night?

Sniffing, she picked a piece of lint off her pink bedspread and dropped it onto the carpet.

A little over a year ago Hannah’s mom would have been putting her to bed right now, even though she was weak from fighting cancer. That was another lifetime.

Hannah didn’t even know who she was anymore.

Pushing off her bed, she crossed to her dresser and picked up the gold-framed picture of her mom. It had been taken two years ago, when her mother was healthy and normal. When she still had her shiny brown hair and could laugh like in the photo, with her head thrown back and eyes half squinted.

Hannah hugged the frame to her chest. If only she could press her mom inside her heart so she could fill the big hole that ached and ached there.

She heard laughter from the den. The sound wrenched Hannah’s insides. Weren’t they just one happy family.
Laughing
at a TV show. Like they didn’t even care she was in here by herself, crying.

Truth was, they didn’t.

She might as well face it: this wasn’t going to change. Her mom was never coming back. Looking through the house, except for this bedroom, you’d never know Hannah’s mom had even lived here. All pictures of her on the fireplace mantel, in the master bedroom — gone. All her clothes cleaned out. Everything in the house she loved, even the color of the den and kitchen — gone. The walls had been repainted, their old couch traded for a new one. All because Gail thought the colors were “too blue.” The plates Hannah’s mom had loved, and her silverware — gone. Gail had brought her own.

Hannah set her mom’s picture on the dresser and pressed her palm against the glass. She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of her mother’s hugs. Her smell. Her voice. Hannah’s heart ripped at the memories. She backed away from the picture, pressing fists to her chest. And now she didn’t have her father either. He kept telling her they had to “build a new life.” She didn’t want to build a new life. She just wanted her old one back.

“Can you see me from heaven?” Hannah whispered to the photo. “Please tell God to make Dad send Gail away.”

A loud cackle from the den. Gail, laughing.

Hannah’s teeth clenched. She stared toward the den, picturing Gail with her bleached blonde hair, the red, red lipstick. Hannah knew the truth about her and Hannah’s dad. He’d started hanging around with Gail before Hannah’s mom even died. He didn’t think Hannah knew that. Well, she
did.

In the picture, Hannah’s mom smiled on. Had
she
known when she was sick and dying? Had she known she’d already been pushed aside?

The terrible thought swept Hannah into motion. She swiveled toward her closet and threw open the door.

She yanked out her small pink roller suitcase and dragged it to her dresser. Out of a drawer she pulled a couple pair of jeans and three tops. Threw them into the suitcase. Her hands worked feverishly, her breath hitching on little sobs as she opened her top drawer and scraped through underwear and socks. Hannah tossed some of each into the case. Then added her pajamas. She ran to her bed, picked up the small white pillow she’d had since a baby, and pressed it inside. Then stood in the middle of her room, turning in a frantic circle, thinking,
What else
,
what else?

Only then did it hit her. She really was running away.

Hannah picked up her mother’s picture and placed it on top of her small pillow.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, she zipped the suitcase. She turned it upright and pulled out the handle.

A note. Shouldn’t she say something to her dad?

Hannah fumbled in the middle drawer of her little desk and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. She wrote the first thing that came to her mind and stuffed the note under her pillow. The paper and pen went back in the drawer.

Her eyes roamed to the window. It was dark out there.

She gazed into the night, courage flagging. Where would she go? In her mind’s eye she saw herself hurrying down her street and through her neighborhood. At Main she’d turn right and go over the railroad tracks, past the downtown area to South Maple. Kaycee lived at the very end of that street. Of course. Hannah would go to Kaycee’s. She’d convince Kaycee to let her stay there.

It would be a long, scary walk.

Hannah gazed at her bed — where she’d cried countless tears — and knew she couldn’t sleep there again. If she stayed in this house another night, she would drown. Hannah looked back to the window. She could do this. Didn’t Kaycee always write about fighting your fears?

Hannah swiped at her cheeks. No one here would miss her anyway.

She returned to her dresser, grabbed a sweatshirt, and put it on.

Quietly she opened the door to her room. The sound of the TV grew louder. She could hear Becky giggling. Hannah’s mouth tightened. Pulling her suitcase into the hall, she closed the door behind her. The carpet hushed her footsteps as she crept toward the kitchen. Every step she took gave her more courage. No changing her mind now. She couldn’t bear to face Gail’s anger if she was caught.

Reaching the end of the hall Hannah turned into the kitchen. She couldn’t get to the front door without being spotted. On the linoleum she slowed, picking up her sneakered feet so they wouldn’t squeak. The rubber wheels on her suitcase made no sound.

At the door to the garage Hannah held her breath as she rotated the knob. Holding the door open with her body, she picked her suitcase up over the threshold. Inch by inch she closed the door. She turned the outside knob, brought the door into place, then slowly released the handle.

Hannah wiped her forehead and listened. No sound from the kitchen.

She grabbed the handle on her suitcase and scurried past two cars to the side garage door. Hannah slipped through it quickly.

Fresh air slapped her in the face. It wasn’t that chilly, just dark here between her house and the neighbor’s. Hannah drew in her shoulders and surveyed the sidewalk out front. Streetlamps would light her way.
Please
,
please
,
no one see me.
Especially some policeman driving by. She’d be stopped for sure.

Heart beating in her ears, Hannah clutched her suitcase and ventured into the night.

Kaycee jumped back from the table, casting crazed looks all around. A dead man. That mangled, bloodied face . . .

We see you.

Her worst fear come true.

Kaycee tore across the kitchen and grabbed her keys. She rammed out the back door and hurtled to her car. With its engine running, she barely waited for the garage door to open before screeching backwards, down her driveway, out onto the street. Gripping the steering wheel, she punched the accelerator and flew down South Maple. She skidded right onto Main and down a block. Kaycee carved out a parking space in front of Casa de José Mexican Restaurant. She jumped from her car, leaving keys in the ignition, and raced across the deserted street toward the white stone building that housed the Wilmore police station. Inside the entrance she veered left past the Ale-8-One and Pepsi machines and pounded on the locked door to the offices. She pulled back, gasping. Kaycee caught sight of herself in the one-way mirror — her face white, her kinky-curled red hair wilder than ever. Her light blue eyes glazed with shock.

The police station door shoved open to reveal Officer Mark Burnett. Great, of all the policemen it would have to be thirty-five-year-old Mark. Last month he’d accused her of “living off other people’s fears” through writing her column. She’d known he was just being defensive. “Who’s There?” had apparently struck a nerve about his own private fear. Not that he’d ever admit reading it. But the memory still stung.

“Kaycee.” Mark pulled her inside the station. “What is it?”

Her tongue tied. “I . . . there’s a camera in my house . . . a dead man.”

“A dead man in your house?”

“No, he’s in the camera.”

“A dead man in a camera?”

“No-no, in a picture.”

Mark raised his eyebrows, turning them into their signature spread V. His deep brown eyes narrowed. “Who’s the dead man?”

“I’ve never seen him before. He’s all bloodied and . . .
dead
!”

A nonplused expression flitted across Mark’s squared face. His lips, usually turned up at the corners, drew in. He knew her too well — all the Wilmore policemen did. In the past year since Mandy’s death, Kaycee had run to the police four times, convinced someone was lurking around her house.

Now make that five.

“This time it’s for real, Mark. I walked into my house, and the camera was just there — out of nowhere. And it took a picture of me!”

“How’d it do that?”

“I don’t know, it just did! And the picture said, ‘We see you.’ ”

“Who sees you?”

“I don’t
know
!”

“Okay, okay, calm down.”

Calm down?
“I’m not being crazy. It really happened.”

“All right, I hear you.” He nudged her back out the door. “I’ll go with you to your house. Take a look around.”

The thought of going back to that house, even with a policeman . . . “Okay. Thanks.”

“Where’s your car?” Mark held the outside door open as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Light from a tall black lamppost on their left shone golden on his brown hair.

“Over there.” She pointed toward the restaurant and its yellow curb. Mark said nothing about the fact she’d parked close to a fire hydrant.

“You all right to drive yourself? I’ll follow you.”

“Yeah, I’m . . . good.”

He gave her a little smile.

Kaycee crossed the street while he peeled left toward a black-and-white cruiser in the parking lot. Driving back to her house, it was all she could do to keep her eyes on the road. The rearview mirror pulled at her, as did the shadowed yards on her right and left. Somewhere out there people were watching. Not imagined this time. For real.