Deadly Little Lies

• Also By Laurie Faria Stolarz
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Chapter 47
  
• Chapter 48
  
• Chapter 49
  
• Chapter 50
  
• Chapter 51
  
• Chapter 52
  
• Chapter 53
  
• Chapter 54
  
• Chapter 55
  
• Chapter 56
  
• Chapter 57
  
• Chapter 58
  
• Chapter 59
  
• Chapter 60
  
• Chapter 61
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About The Author
  

Also by Laurie Faria Stolarz

Deadly Little Secret
Project 17
Bleed
Blue Is for Nightmares
White Is for Magic
Silver Is for Secrets
Red Is for Remembrance
Black Is for Beginnings

I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Most nights, I find myself lying awake in bed, unable to nod off.

And unable to take my mind off him.

The strength of his hands.

The way he smelled—a mix of sugar and sweat.

And the branchlike scar that snaked up his arm.

Ever since Ben left four months ago, I’ve been getting fixated on these little things, trying to remember if his scar had three branches or four, if it was his left or his right thumb knuckle that always looked a little swollen, and if his sugary smell was more like powdered doughnuts or cotton candy.

Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. And I’m not just saying that to be dramatic. I really question my sanity. Things just haven’t been right lately.
I
haven’t been right.

And I guess that’s what scares me the most.

Like last night. Once again unable to sleep, I crept into the hallway and down to the basement. My dad, who firmly believes that we all should have our own personal work space, has designated the area behind his tool bench as my pottery studio. And so I have a wheel, bins full of carving tools, and boxes of clay just waiting to be sculpted.

Wearing a nightshirt and slippers, I decided to work in the dark, inspired by the moon as it poured in through the window, slicing a long strip of light across my table. I cut myself a thick hunk of clay and began to knead it out. With my eyes closed I could feel the moonlight tugging at the ends of my hair, shining over my skin, and swallowing my hands whole.

Keeping focused on the clammy texture of the clay and not what I was actually forming, I tried to relax—to stop the whirring inside my mind.

But then it hit me. The image of Ben’s scar popped into my head. And so I started sculpting it—feeding this weird, insatiable need inside me to form his arm, from his fingertips to just past his elbow. My fingers worked fast, as if independent of my mind—as if they knew exactly the way things should be, while my brain just couldn’t keep up.

At least thirty minutes later, long after my fingers had turned waterlogged, I took a step back to take it all in— what I had sculpted and what it could possibly mean. Sitting on my worktable was my sculpture of Ben’s arm— his scar, the muscles in his wrist, and the bones in his hands.

It was exactly the way it should be—exactly the way I remembered it.

His scar had three branches, not four.

It was his left thumb that looked a little bit swollen, not the right.

The answers to my obsessive little thoughts were right there. I’d sculpted them all out, which absolutely baffled me.

And that’s when I heard him: “Camelia,” he whispered. His voice sounded just like I’d remembered—soft, smooth, deep, able to steal my breath and make my heart pound.

I turned to look. But, aside from the lingering glow of the moonlight, there was just darkness behind me. A cold, dank basement with cement floors, boxes piled high, and old bicycles parked against the wall. Still, I strained my eyes, wondering if he was there somehow. Maybe he’d snuck in through the garage. Could my mom have forgotten to lock it again?

“Ben?” I whispered into the darkness. I wiped my hands and took a couple steps, but I didn’t see anything. An anxious sensation formed in the pit of my stomach.

I reluctantly turned back to my work.

And then I heard it again: “Camelia,” he whispered, only louder this time.

My hands shaking, I grabbed a carving knife, just in case, and then switched on the overhead light. Two of the three bulbs blew. A bright bolt of light flashed and then everything went dark.

I moved back, toward the cement wall, hoping for stability, noticing a sudden scraping sound. It was coming from just behind me. I turned to look, realizing I’d bumped a can of paint. It toppled to the floor. Paint spilled out in a creamy dark fluid that reminded me of blood.

I let out a breath and headed toward the back of the basement, past our collection of ski equipment and gardening shovels, knowing that he must be here somewhere.

Watching me.

“Ben?” I called, focused on the stack of boxes in the corner. My insides stirring, I moved closer, accidentally tripping over an old bicycle pump. A yelp sputtered from my throat. The furnace kicked on with a roar, sending a chill straight up my spine.

I peered over my shoulder, wondering if my parents had heard me, if they might come downstairs.

“Is that you?” I whispered, feeling my pulse race.

When no one moved and nothing happened, I pushed the stack of boxes so that they toppled to the ground. Old clothes spilled onto the floor.

“Camelia,” he whispered.

It was coming from the top of the stairs now.

I gripped the knife and moved in that direction, following his voice as it led me through the dark kitchen, down an even darker hallway, and then into my bedroom.

I clicked on the light—it stung my eyes—and peered around the room. I checked inside my closet and underneath my bed. But there was no sign of him.

“Ben?” I whispered, wondering if he’d snuck out the window.

I dropped the knife, unlocked the pane, and opened the window wide. The cold January air bit at my skin.

Finally I saw him. He was standing across the street, shrouded by a clump of barren trees in front of my neighbor’s house, staring back in my direction.

My head still spinning, I managed to wave. With my other hand I pinched myself, wondering if in only a few moments I would wake up.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. He was there. The clock on my bedside table read 2:49 a.m.

I waved again, but he didn’t wave back. So I grabbed my phone and dialed his cell. It barely even rang before I heard him pick up.

“Ben?” I asked, when he didn’t say hello. I looked again out the window, hoping to see him with his phone.

But the figure was no longer there. A second later, the phone clicked off. And when I called back, it went straight to his voice mail.

January 22, 1984


Dear Diary,


Today I turned 13 and my sister Jilly gave me you, Diary, as my present. She wrapped you up in a pretty acrylic painting she made of a vase full of roses with swirly stems.


Jilly swore me to secrecy, saying that if I ever told our mother where I got you, she’d never speak to me again.


Because my mother doesn’t want me to have presents. Because my mother doesn’t want me period.


I promised Jilly I’d do whatever she says. I want her to like me. I want more surprise gifts like you in the future. And I also want someone to give them to.


Instead of a cake, I grabbed one of my sketches, erased most of the angry scribbles, and then blew the eraser dust into the air as I made a wish.


I wished for my world to be as pretty asa vase full of roses with swirly stems.


I wished that I didn’t hate myself all the time.


Love,
Alexia