Return to the Dark House (14 page)

I reach into my bag and pull out one of my many notebooks. “Okay.”

“I trust that you’ll keep these notes between us as well. One wrong move…”

“If you wanted to keep things so private, why did you contact me while I was at Taylor’s?”

“You’re a very smart girl, you know that?” His voice is soft and slow.

“She wants to go to the police.”

“But I’m sure you’ve convinced her otherwise. I know you, April. I can predict your every move. And if you ever let me down, I’ll find out and simply adjust accordingly.
I always have a plan in place—an insurance policy that safeguards myself against disloyalty.”

“You don’t deserve loyalty.”

“I may not deserve it, but still you’re extending it to me, aren’t you? By keeping our little secret. You must really want to see your costars.”

“Where do I need to go?”

“Drive northeast on Route 87 from Sturbridge, Maine. Get off at exit 4 and take a right on Chelsea Avenue. Park in the lot behind Chalmers Chocolate Factory.”

I write everything down, almost unable to imagine going through with any of these plans.

“When you get to Chalmers,” he continues, “cross the street to the bus stop and take the number 452 going south. Get out at the Lancaster Road stop. You’ll see a field;
cross it.”

My pulse races as I scribble down his every word. This is just too surreal. It can’t possibly be happening.

“When you come to the other side of the field, there will be a small boat attached to a dock,” he says. “Use it to cross the lake. Look for a tall maple tree with a yellow
scarf tied to the branches. There you will find further instructions. Goodbye for now, my princess.”

“Wait,” I stammer. “When am I supposed to go there? When do I need to do this?”

“
The sooner the better to see a fine letter
.”

“A fine letter?”

“Don’t wait too long.
Ticktock. Ticktock
.”

The ticking’s inside me as well, clouding over my mind, making everything feel urgent, broken, dire, desperate.

“This offer is only available for a limited time,” he chides.

“How limited?”

“By the count of one, my honeybun.” The phone clicks. He’s hung up.

I
SPEND THE NEXT COUPLE
of hours driving around, trying to sort out my manic thoughts. I pull over a couple of times—to respond to a text from
Apple and then to answer a call from Core: “Therapy went fine,” I tell him.

“Are you on your way home?”

“I’m spending the night at Candy’s, from the Depot. She broke up with her boyfriend and now she’s a wreck. She asked if I’d stay the night.” Even though I no
longer live at home, I know that he and Apple check up on me. They notice when my car isn’t parked in the driveway.

“Aunt Tillie should be back from her trip on Monday,” he says. “But you know that if you ever get lonely, you can always come home.”

“I know. And thanks. I’ll call you in the morning.”

We hang up and I recheck my screen. Miko sent me a text: “You looked out of it this AM. The flu? I made chicken soup. LMK if I can drop it off.”

Everyone’s looking out for me. I have such a cheering squad on my side. And yet I feel so desperately alone.

I rest my head against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to bang it. What did the killer mean when he said “by the count of one”? One day? One week? It couldn’t possibly
have been one hour. He would’ve said if there was that much of a ticking clock…
right?

In the same vein, I doubt he’d give me one week. Too much could happen in such a lapse in time—I could devise too much of a plan, become distracted, get others involved, or even
change my mind.

It’s one day. I’m sure of it. Just enough time for me to pack up some stuff and come up with an excuse for being away.

I drive onto the Gringle College campus and park in the lot by Taylor’s dorm, wondering if coming here wasn’t a big mistake.

It’s raining again. The droplets pound against the glass, making it hard to see. I pull out my phone and call Taylor’s number.

“Hey,” she answers.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Are you kidding? I never go to bed before eleven; there’s way too much goodness on TV, and speaking of…have you seen this week’s episode of
Relationship
9-1-1
?”

“I doubt it.”

“Wait, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“I don’t know. I guess you sound a little lost.”

I look at my reflection in the window glass—tired eyes, pasty face, hair pulled back in a messy braid. “You’ll never guess where I am right now.”

“Paris? Sitting beside a hot French guy at some chic café? In which case, why are you calling me?”

“I’m right outside your building.”

“Seriously?”

My breath fogs up the window. In the condensation, I write Parker’s name.

“Um,
hello.
Earth to Ivy.”

“I’m here. I mean, I’m
really
here. I can see the entrance doors to your dormitory,” through the letters in Parker’s name.

“Well, then what are you waiting for? Get your spontaneous ass up here.”

“Okay,” I say, relieved by her cheery disposition. Just hearing it, despite the darkness—in the car, in my heart—my spirits lift.

I
OPEN THE DOOR OF
my room. Ivy’s standing there. Her clothes are wet. The mascara has run down her cheeks. “Get in here,” I tell her.
“Let me find you some dry clothes.” I fish an acorn-pattered bodysuit from my basket of clean clothes. “Feeling squirrelly?”

“Why do you have that?”

“Because sometimes I feel like a nut.”

She can’t help but smile, despite how deflated she seems. Meanwhile, I continue to dig, finally finding a ho-hum pair of sweats. “These good?”

“I’m actually fine,” she says, twitching from the cold.

“You look about as fine as the monster zit on my forehead.” I force the sweats into her arms and point her to the bathroom down the hall.

She comes back only a few minutes later, all changed, and sits down on the edge of the futon. “He called me again.”

“He, as in our resident psychotic killer.”

She nods. “He gave me directions—for what I need to do, for where I need to go—to find the others.

“And where
are
the directions?” I ask her.

“I’m keeping them someplace safe.”

Translation:
I don’t trust you enough to say
. “There’s no place safer than with the authorities,” I tell her.

“He wants you to join me too—the killer, I mean—to find the others, to star in his film.”

“Did he actually say that?”

“It was more of what he
didn’t
say.”

“Call me crazy, but there’s something about the words
killer
and
join
in that gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“This could be your opportunity,” she says, “to right the past, to show everyone you’re not selfish the way they think.”

“The only opportunity is the one that involves calling the police. It’s nutty that we haven’t already.” I mean, yeah, it sucks that I’ve become a social leper, but
I’m hardly willing to risk my life to change that.

“You promised me three days.”

“And so I’m obviously a total idiot.”

“You made that promise because deep down you know I’m right. All the horror movies say so. The police are never the ones who find the killer in the end. They simply show up after the
climax—after all the hard work has already been done.”

The girl
does
have a point. But still, “I’m going to the police first thing tomorrow morning.”

She stands up from the futon. Her forehead looks sweaty. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to come here. I just thought…” She lets out a sigh. “I actually
don’t know what I was thinking. To anyone else, this must seem crazy.”

“Ivy—don’t go.” I stand up too. “I mean, truly don’t go. Let’s just drive down to the police and tell them everything we know.”

“I can’t.” There are tears in her eyes. “I have to see this through—for my parents, for Parker and the others, and for myself. He’ll continue to haunt me
otherwise. I’ll always be waiting for him to strike if I don’t.” She starts to go for the door. “I’m really sorry that I bothered you.”

“Wait, are you kidding?” I move to block her from the door. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re spending the night here—on my pickled futon. Harry
wouldn’t have it any other way.” I grab Handyman Harry from a heap of random stuff on my desk. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since your last visit.” I wink.
“He’s been dying to get you into bed.”

Finally, Ivy smiles. I’ve cracked the code, broken through her wall. I grab an extra pillow and some blankets from the closet, and start making up the futon before she can try to weasel
her way out.

Surprisingly, she follows my lead and settles into bed. I’m just about to slip on my eye mask when I notice that she’s rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and that her shoulders
are slightly jittering.

“Ivy?” I gaze over at Handyman Harry, knowing that we’re so far beyond what even he is able to repair. And so I do the only thing I can. I get up and move to snuggle in beside
her. I stroke her back, the same way that Darcy Conner did for me, four years ago, after the Starbound Dance Competition, when my ex-boyfriend Max dumped me for Paula Perfect Pirouette with the
huge beaver teeth. “Do you want to talk some more?” When she doesn’t answer, I pull a tear-soaked strand of hair from in front of her eyes. “We can just sleep on things for
now.” I wait until she falls asleep; only then do I go back to bed.

S
OMETIME AFTER SIX IN THE
morning, with Taylor still asleep, I get up and write her a note:

I set the note on her night table, and then open the door to leave, accidentally catching my bag strap on the knob. The fabric makes a ripping sound.

I turn to look.

Luckily, she remains sleeping, her eye mask still in place.

I move down the hallway. The dorm is quiet at this hour. A cleaning woman in the lobby asks if I’m going for an early run, but I’m too uptight to answer.

It’s still somewhat dark out. The sun is tucked behind a cluster of clouds, making the day feel even more ominous. I hurry to my car, get inside, and turn up the heat. Sitting with my head
pressed against the steering wheel, I try to concentrate on just my breath, but it’s balled up inside my chest, pushing against my ribs.

I check my cell phone. There’s only twenty-five percent of the charge left. My fingers tremble as I reach inside the glove box and pull out my wool scarf. I unravel what’s tucked
inside it.

A knife. The blade is six inches long. The handle has a nice grip—slip-proof, hard plastic. I turn it over in my hand, reminded of its ample weight, assured by its curved tip.

Ticktock, ticktock
.

I grab my phone and text Core that Candy’s still in a bad way, and so I’ll be spending the day trying to cheer her up. The mere idea that I could cheer up anyone should be a dead
giveaway.