Pandora's Key (15 page)

“And look at this!”

Evangeline turned to the portrait Raphe was gaping at and she felt all the air suddenly evaporate from the room. It was her mom. She was dressed in her usual paint-splattered white T-shirt and ripped Levis. Shafts of weak light accentuated the pale-gold of her hair and the brightness of her eyes. Her bowed lips curled into the soft smile she always made when Evangeline came down to breakfast. And resting at her mom’s throat was the gleaming black key. Evangeline felt her own throat tighten.
When did mom pose for this painting? Did she even know it was being done? Why was it done?

“Why?”

“I don’t know, E, but this is weirding me out. I think we should get out of here before someone finds us!” He pulled out the asthma inhaler he always carried in his jeans and took a puff.

“Okay, in a minute,” Evangeline said.

After seeing her mother’s portrait, Evangeline couldn’t deny her growing certainty that every single one of the women depicted in these paintings were her ancestors.
Why else would they look like me? Why else would they be wearing the same necklace?
And then she saw the next portrait.
Don’t look at it.
But it was too late.

“You look beautiful,” Raphe said, staring at the painting Evangeline’s mother had made for her sixteenth birthday.

“It was a present from my mom. But it doesn’t look anything like me.”

“Come with me for a sec.” Raphe led her by the hand to a silver filigreed mirror hanging over the front hall table. He took the candle and held it up so she could see her reflection. “What do you see?” he asked.

Wild curls framed a heart-shaped face. Cat-like eyes of storm-cloud-blue drank in the candlelight. Her lips were wide, full, provocative.

“You’re beautiful,” Raphe said. “I don’t know when it happened, but it did.”

He’s right.

It was as if all the pieces of her jigsaw-puzzle face had fallen into place and found a strange balance. It wasn’t a conventional beauty…but the result was the same. Evangeline had always been the ugly duckling—until now.
Why now? Why me?
The key resting on chest seemed to glow in response to her question and she felt it pulsing as if had its own heartbeat.

Backing away from the mirror, Evangeline tripped over the edge of the carpet, her shoulder knocking into an end table, toppling it, and spilling the contents of its half-open drawer. “Still clumsy, though,” she said, grinning up at Raphe.

A pile of photographs had fallen out of the drawer and Evangeline turned to pick them up. The shot on top came to life in the flicker of the candlelight. It was a picture of Samantha with two other women and a teenage boy. One woman was Evangeline’s English teacher, Mrs. Hopkins. The second woman was athletically built, wearing a tailored gray business suit—it was Beca Petersen, Raphe’s mother. Standing beside the three women, his arm casually draped over Sam’s shoulder, was Raphe.

“You okay?” Raphe asked, kneeling to help Evangeline up. She scrambled away from him. “E, what’s wrong?”

And then he saw the photograph. He stared for a split second and then turned to Evangeline, a confused look on his face. “That’s me and my mom with her two best friends, Mrs. Hopkins—which is weird for me at school, so I didn’t tell anyone, and Sammy, who works with my mom in sales. I don’t know what it’s doing here…”

Sammy? That’s Samantha! You know her—your mom knows her—and Mrs. Hopkins—she’s connected to Sam, too?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Samantha Harris?” Evangeline demanded.
Raphe can’t be part of this—he can’t be—he’s my friend—he’s more than that.

Raphe took another puff of his inhaler. “I—I didn’t
know
that I knew her until I saw her picture in this morning’s newspaper. To me, she’s always been Sammy, my mom’s partner at work. I never even knew her last name. And I was going to tell you, but everything started to happen so fast. One minute we were in the hospital and the next, we were breaking into this building. E, seriously, I don’t know why that picture is here, but you’ve met my mom—there’s no way she’d be involved with Samantha and her fellow freaks.”

Stop being paranoid. Raphe cares about me—he helped me, didn’t he?—he likes me—he kissed me—he can’t be part of this…can he? But why would a guy as cool and cute and popular as Raphe like a girl like me?
A small voice in the back of Evangeline’s mind whispered.
If things seem too good to be true, they usually are.

She continued to back away from Raphe, feeling overwhelmed, nauseated, terrified.
Raphe and his mom are friends with Samantha. They know Sam. Their picture’s here, in Sam’s lair. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…they’re part of this thing, too.

Raphe took a step toward Evangeline and she backed further away. “E, stop it! You’re looking at me like I’m your enemy. We’ve been friends for a long time—we’re more than friends. I’m here to help you!”

An overwhelming premonition of danger washed over Evangeline.
Raphe helped me break into this building—and it was easy—maybe it was too easy. Is that it? Sam wanted me in her apartment. This, right here, right now, is a trap laid out by Samantha and Raphe so that Sam can try to kill me, too!
But why
? Evangeline’s mind screamed, scrambling for answers.
It doesn’t matter—just get out—NOW!

Whirling, Evangeline bolted by her grandmother’s portrait. “Beware,” Cleo cried, one graceful arm darting out of the painting. She felt her grandmother’s fingers grasping at her hair, pulling out a few strands as she ducked beneath her pale hand.

A chorus of women’s voices shouted after Evangeline: “Beware!” She ignored them all and raced toward the door, leaping down the steps five at a time. Raphe called out to her, but Evangeline didn’t dare stop.

Tearing down the hallway of the floor below Sam’s, Evangeline heard Raphe’s footsteps behind her and accelerated, skidding to the top of the stairs and leaping the first set to the landing in one bound. She landed hard, her right ankle twisting, pain shooting around the joint and up her leg, but she ignored it and plunged down the next flight, using the banister to swing around the corner and—

Evangeline collided into bodies. Hands grasped at her down sweater, hair, shoulders, and they held on tight. A soft cloth was pressed over her nose and mouth. She tried to twist free…it smelled…smelled like…she frantically shook her head back and forth…it smelled like grass and…chemicals…and…and…and then the world went black.

Melia and Tristin were making out in the backseat of the black Lexus he’d borrowed from his mother. His hands slid under her sweater, but she pushed them away.

“What’s wrong?”

Melia snorted. “Evangeline is going through a world of pain. I’m her best friend and I should be with her. I can’t believe she ditched us at the hospital.”

“She’s probably off somewhere with Raphe,” Tristin said, kissing her neck. Melia squirmed away.

“Did you see what she looked like this morning?”

“Yeah, totally hot,” Tristin said.

“Wait, what?”

“I meant, totally messed up.”

“You think she’s hotter than me now, don’t you?”

Tristin took Melia’s hand. Half-heartedly, she tried to pull it away, but he held firm and spun the silver bracelet he’d given her. The ruby winked in the weak light. “Evangeline isn’t my type. You are.”

“Bullcrap. She’s totally gorgeous and it happened practically overnight,” Melia said, frowning. “I had no idea
that
was going to happen.”

“Seriously, Melia, she’s not my type. Don’t you get it? I love you.”

“You’re just saying that because—”

“Because you’re super smart, pretty, fun, and—”

Melia leaned in and kissed him, her tongue twirling inside his mouth.

“Wait,” Tristin said, pulling back. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“Do you really love me?”

“Yes,” Melia said. “You know I do.”

“Even if I tell you something that’s bad?”

“Try me.”

“There’s something wrong,” he began, his voice faltering, and then he pressed on, “and I need your help…”

When Tristin had finished telling Melia his story, she hugged him tightly. “Everyone has their secrets,” she began, “even me…”

Evangeline opened her eyes. She lay curled in the center of a wrought-iron bed covered by a purple quilt, her head resting on a soft down pillow.
Where am I?
The last thing she remembered was running from Raphe. Somehow Raphe was a part of what had happened to her mom.
How do I know that?
Her mind felt slow, fuzzy.
A photograph.
That was it. Raphe’s mother, Samantha, Mrs. Hopkins—they were in that photo together.

It all came flooding back and Evangeline’s cheeks burned. The whole time she and Raphe had been breaking into the building, searching for Sam, finding her apartment, looking at all those portraits, Raphe had been acting. He was part of Sam’s cult and he’d led Evangeline into a trap. She’d been so stupid to think that he was a friend—more than a friend. And she’d told him things she hadn’t even shared with Melia.
Raphe said I was beautiful and I believed him. I am such a pathetic cliche.
And everything that had happened with the paintings
had
to have been an illusion perpetrated by Raphe, his mother, Samantha, and God knew who else.
Cleo said beware—it wasn’t real—but she’d been right.

Pushing herself into a sitting position was hard. Her twisted ankle was swollen and throbbing. Her head felt like it was filled with lead and her vision was fuzzy around the edges. They’d held a rag to her face and forced her to breathe whatever poison it had been soaked in.
They. Who were they?
Evangeline hadn’t been able to see any faces. She’d just felt their hands holding her tightly as she struggled to escape. And then the lights had gone out.

“Why?” Evangeline asked aloud. But there was no answer other than the ticking of a round Mickey Mouse clock set next to a lamp on a bedside table.
I had a clock like that when I was six-years-old. Samantha bought it for me when she took me to Disneyland.
Evangeline looked around the room. The walls were decorated with posters of Pink, Adele, Bonnie Raitt—her favorite musicians. On the table next to the clock was an iPod with earphones. Evangeline picked it up and scrolled through the artists—Wilco, Eminem, Fergie, Kanye West, Beyonce, Rhianna—all music she loved.

Dragging herself to the edge of the bed, she peered at the bookshelf in the corner. Anne Rice, Jodi Picoult, Tim Powers, Joe Hill, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King. Evangeline liked reading all those authors’ books. There was also an entire shelf of DVDs from “Talladega Nights” to “28 Days Later” and “Something About Mary.” She and Melia had watched “Something about Mary” at least ten times and it still cracked them up. Evangeline felt her eyes burn and fought back a surge of emotion. Crying wouldn’t help her now. There was a flat screen TV on the far wall. Music. Books. Movies.
Someone must think I’m going to be here for a long time.

Evangeline shivered and looked down—she wore only a cotton camisole and underwear.
Where are my clothes? Who took them? Who undressed me?!
Evangeline’s face burned. At the foot of the bed were a neatly folded white thermal shirt, Levis and a gray sweatshirt. She yanked on the shirt and jeans, wincing as she put weight on her ankle, and then pulled on the sweatshirt.

Evangeline noticed her mom’s beat up guitar resting in the corner of the room and her heart skipped a beat.
How—why was it here?
Her mom could play any song she heard on the radio—Evangeline could, too. When her mom sang, her voice was so pure that Evangeline would stop whatever she was doing to listen. Sometimes they’d harmonize, but lately Evangeline had acted like that was babyish and beneath her—she’d made herself too busy with school, Facebook, texting Melia, and all the other stuff that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Standing on wobbly legs, she limped over to the guitar. Gingerly, she picked it up and returned to the bed. Leaning against the headboard she began to play. It wasn’t any song in particular—just the same familiar melody in her mind that she didn’t know the words to but that was always there. Humming along with it, she felt her fingers begin to tingle. When the sensation in her hands turned to throbbing and became uncomfortable, Evangeline put the guitar down. She didn’t play often and she guessed her fingers weren’t tough enough to play for long.