Deadly Little Secret (20 page)

40

The remainder of my day at Knead is pretty uneventful. While Spencer spends most of my shift pulling molds downstairs, I use my time setting up for classes, firing a bunch of greenware, and trying to decide what to do.

This whole Debbie scenario has got me completely on edge, especially considering the timing of things. I mean, just when I decide to trust Ben, something like this happens, that makes me question everything all over again.

After work, I take a bus to the stop at the end of our street, despite Spencer’s offer to drop me off. But when I get to my house it’s completely dark. It seems my parents aren’t home yet, even though it’s after eight o’clock.

Not knowing where else to go, and feeling stupid for considering hanging out at one of my neighbors’ houses, I unlock the door and switch on some lights. I tell myself everything will be fine, even though my stomach is in knots.

In my room, I glance toward the mirror. For a split second, I see the red letters splotched across my face, but when I blink, they’re gone.

I continue around the house, making sure that all the doors and windows are locked. I even go down to the basement, passing by my pottery station and noticing the jump rope–like worm I sculpted the other day; I’m surprised I forgot to clean it up.

A second later, the phone rings, startling me. I decide to ignore it and head back upstairs to check out the bathroom. My dad’s tacked some plastic up over the broken window, but someone could easily break through it.

I grab a razor from the shelf and look over my shoulder. At the same moment a shadow moves across the wall. I let out a gasp and peer down the hallway in both directions. There’s nothing there. Meanwhile the phone continues to ring. It’s like someone keeps calling back because they know I’m home.

Alone.

I move into the kitchen and check the answering machine, but no one’s left a message.

Completely unnerved, I drop the razor on the counter and pick up the receiver, hoping that it’s my parents. I click the phone on and mumble a hello, but no one answers. It’s just quiet on the other end, like someone’s listening in.

“Hello?” I repeat, a little louder this time.

Still nothing. I hang up, feeling my skin ice over.

I click the phone back on to leave it off the hook and then grab my cell phone from my bag, but unfortunately I can’t get a signal.

I move toward the window, hoping that will help. I catch a glimpse of a note tacked up on the fridge. It’s from my mom, along with a twenty-dollar bill, instructing me to order a pizza from Raw. It seems she and my dad won’t be home until late.

Still without a cell phone signal, I take a deep breath and sit on a stool, literally counting to ten, trying to reassure myself that everything will be okay, despite the buzzing sound of the phone off the hook and the racing of my pulse.

After several seconds, the phone finally stops, and I’m able to calm down, but my stomach rumbles, and my head feels foggy. I reluctantly click the phone back on and peer up at the list of take-out numbers by the fridge, realizing I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. The number for Raw is highlighted in bright melon pink, but instead I order a good old-fashioned cheese-and-mushroom from the pizza shop downtown, and then sit perched on the living room sofa waiting for it to arrive.

Still holding the phone in my hand, I’m tempted to give Kimmie a call. A moment later it rings—the sound cuts through my bones. I click the receiver on and place it up to my ear.

“Camelia?” a male voice says before I can speak.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s me.” The voice brightens. “Ben.”

My heart tightens, and my stomach twists.

“Did you call before?” I ask.

“Yeah, but the line was busy. I would have tried your cell, but you didn’t give me the number.”

“How did you know I was home?”

“I didn’t. I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

“But I just got here,” I say. “How did you know the precise time to call me?”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Maybe I should be asking you the same. You never made it back to school today.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“We really need to talk,” I say, trying to be brave.

“About what?”

“Not over the phone.”

“Are you alone?”

“No,” I lie.

“Good. Your parents are there?”

I look out the living room window, noticing that the streetlamp in front of our house is still out. It seems my neighbors aren’t around, either. The porch lights across the street and next door are all off.

“Camelia?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I grab an afghan from the foot of the sofa and drape it over me, to try and take the chill off.

“You’re alone, aren’t you?” he says, his voice is barely above a whisper.

I reach up to yank the curtains closed and then check around the room, making sure no one can see me through any other window. “I’m coming over,” he continues. “You don’t sound right.”

“I’m fine,” I say, to reassure him. It’s quiet on the other end for several seconds, but then he tells me he’s coming over anyway. “I’ll be there soon,” he says. I hang up, opting not to argue, but instead to go with my gut, especially since there’s so much I need to ask him about. A few seconds later, the phone rings again. “Hello?” No one answers, but I can tell someone’s there. I can hear breathing on the other end, followed by a weird scratching sound. “Hello?”

“Don’t forget the mailbox,” a voice whispers finally, sending chills straight down my back. “Excuse me?”

“The mailbox,” he hisses. “You forgot to check it on the way in.”

“Who is this?” I move to a corner window and peek out from behind the curtain. But I don’t see anyone. “Good things come to those who wait,” he says, his voice softening again. “I’ve waited for you. Now it’s your turn.”

“Who is this?” I shout. “Luckily, you won’t have to wait too long.” He hangs up. The receiver clutched in my hand, I go to the door.

Meanwhile, the phone starts ringing again. I ignore it and peer through the peephole. The mailbox flag is in the up position.

41

Instead of checking the mailbox, I end up pacing across the living room floor, trying to decide whether or not to call my parents and ask them to come home. I’m dialing my dad’s number when I hear a car door slam in front of the house.

A second later, there’s a knock on the door—a hardfisted bang, followed by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Too afraid to go to the door, I grab a pottery bowl and position myself behind the buffet, away from the windows so no one can see me. Meanwhile the doorbell continues and so does the banging.

I take a deep breath, trying to stop the tightening sensation inside my chest.

The outer door swings open. The doorknob jiggles back and forth. I click the phone on, prepared to dial 911. But then the banging stops—just like that. The outer door closes, too. A few seconds later, I hear the car door slam again.

Slowly I move from behind the buffet to look out the window. A small dark car peels away with a screech.

But then the doorbell rings again.

Shaking, I walk toward the door.

“Camelia?” a male voice calls from just behind it.

I peer through the peephole. It’s Ben. And he’s holding a pizza.

I unlock the door and whisk it open, having completely forgotten I ordered dinner.

There’s a huge grin across his face. “Did you order a large cheese with mushroom? You owe me fifteen bucks, by the way.”

“You scared me.”

“I can see that.” He gestures toward the pottery bowl, still gripped in my hand.

The mailbox is in full view now, just behind him, with the flag pointed upward. I close my eyes a moment, still able to hear the caller’s voice in my mind’s ear, telling me to look inside.

“What is it?” Ben asks.

I motion to the mailbox.

“Do you want me to check?”

I shake my head and step outside, wondering if I’m being watched. But I don’t see anyone, and nothing looks unusual.

“What’s wrong?” He takes a step closer to me.

I inhale the cool night air and let it filter out slowly in one long and visible puff. Aside from the screeching of Davis Miller’s electric guitar at the end of the street, it’s eerily quiet. I glance around, spotting Ben’s motorcycle parked on the corner. “Did you just get here?”

He nods.

“Are you sure?” I ask, almost positive I would have heard the motor rumble his arrival.

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know,” I say, meeting his eye.

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” His dark eyes narrow.

I ignore the question and look away, back toward the mailbox. With trembling fingers I open it up.

There’s a large manila envelope inside with my name written on the front. “Another photo,” I say, recognizing the red lettering. I take the envelope, lead Ben inside, and then lock the door.

“Let me open it,” he says. “If he recently left it, it may still have his energy. I might be able to sense something.”

We sit opposite one another at the kitchen island. Ben brushes his fingers over the surface of the envelope.

“Do you feel anything?” I ask.

He closes his eyes to concentrate. The muscles in his forearms pulse. “Soon,” he whispers, letting out a giant breath.

“Soon what?”

Instead of answering, he opens the flap and reaches inside. He pulls out a bunch of cut-up photos. I take a closer look, noticing how they appear to be part of a whole.

Ben flips through them, running his fingers over the edges.

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” I say.

Ben spreads the pieces flat on the marble surface and begins to put the image together. The bright red letters scrawled across the photo’s surface makes it easier. It’s only a matter of seconds before the message becomes clear.

“Time’s almost up,”
I whisper, reading the words aloud.

It’s a picture of me glancing down at my watch. “It was taken today,” I say, noting that my clothes and hair are the same. “On my way to Knead.”

Ben turns to me. A strand of his dark, wavy hair falls into his eyes. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says.

“Promise?”

He reaches for my hand, but then stops just shy of it. His fingers tremble, like he wants to touch me but can’t.

Please,
I scream inside my head. There’s an aching inside me so strong my head feels suddenly dizzy.

Ben grazes my thumb with his finger. I wonder if he can read my mind—and this is all he can manage for now. “I promise,” he says. “But right now we need to keep focused.”

“Right,” I agree, glancing back at the photo and the message scribbled across it. “Because there isn’t much time.”

And my life depends on it.