Deadly Little Voices (23 page)

We drove for several minutes down a long, dark road, where there wasn’t a lot of traffic.

I looked out the window, scanning for shops or businesses, but they were few and far between.

“Where are we going?” I asked you.

“Surprise, surprise, will meet your eyes. Be a good little girl, and get a great big prize.”

I swallowed down a mouthful of bile with more lemonade.

“Relax,” you said once again. “I’m going to take away your pain, remember?”

“But I’m not in pain.”

“No need to pretend, my little friend. Just tell the truth again and again.”

I clenched my teeth and held back tears, still trying to convince myself that everything would be okay, that we’d eventually stop somewhere, that I’d excuse myself to go to the bathroom and would be able to escape.

A few moments later, you pulled down a side street and into a back parking lot. We were partially concealed by a long row of trees. I peeked through them, spotting a couple of ivy-covered brick houses sandwiched together. There was a sign outside one of them. I squinted hard, trying to make out what it said, but all I could see was a picture of a piano sitting beneath a string of blurry words.

Still trying to be hopeful, I asked, “Is this where you live? Are we here to look at your photographs?” I knew that we had to have been at least a town or two from home.

You put the car in park and cut the ignition. Without turning to face me, you told me to be a good girl and to do as I was told.

“Why are we here?” Hearing the tone of my own voice scared me even more.

“Be a good girl,” you repeated, your voice was. smooth and even.

Shaking all over, I glanced toward the door handle, wondering if I could get out now and run away. But to my complete and utter horror, the handle had been removed.

…

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, my parents are already gone by the time I wake up.

Aunt Alexia is gone, too. Her bedroom door is open a crack, and when I peek in, I see that her bed’s been made, and her room’s been cleaned up—aside from the mural, that is.

In the kitchen, Dad’s left a note for me, saying that he, Mom, and Alexia have gone to meet with Aunt Alexia’s doctor—no doubt in response to what happened last night. I grab a rag and make an attempt to wash the glow-in-the-dark paint from my wall, but my phone rings, interrupting me.

“Hey,” Kimmie says when I pick up. Her tone is oddly cheerful.

Whereas mine is completely spent. “Hi,” I manage to utter.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, as if there were any doubt.

Anger bubbles up inside me as I think about how desperate I was to talk with her last night and how she refused to answer my calls.

My thumb hovers over the off button, wondering if I should let her go. It’s what she’s been wanting for a while now anyway.

“Okay, so you’re obviously mad about how completely standoffish I’ve been. Am I right?”

I don’t answer.

“And I totally get that,” she continues. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around for you last night—for the last couple of days, actually.”

I think it’s been longer than that. It feels like she’s been pulling away for weeks—like there’s been less and less I can share with her.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “But I want to make it up to you.”

“Why?” I ask; I’m suddenly feeling as guarded as Danica—as if there may be some secret joke being played on me.

“What do you mean,
why
? Because I’m your friend.”

The word makes my lip tremble. In some way I feel relief, because I seriously thought that I’d lost her. But I also can’t help feeling furious, because I needed her friendship last night.

“So, what do you say?” Kimmie asks. “Shall we go get ourselves some answers?”

“Answers to what?”

“To all this Danica drama, of course. What do you say?

You and me, at Danica’s house, in one hour. I’ll come pick you up.”

“What’s with the sudden change of heart?”
Did something happen? Does she know
something I should?
“I thought you said I shouldn’t get involved.”

“Yes, but you kind of already
are
involved. And if you are, then so am I. So, what do you say? Are you game, or what?”

“Game,” I say before hanging up.

I forgo washing the wall and instead leave a note for my parents (tacked up on the fridge, right below theirs), telling them I’ll be home around lunchtime.

Kimmie pulls up about twenty minutes later in her mom’s car. “Feeling bold?” she asks, giggling at my bright yellow sweater.

“Feeling like crap?” I joke, nodding toward her brown one. She’s got it paired with a matching checked skirt.

“Okay, so, I already know that Danica’s not at work,” she begins. “I called the Press & Grind earlier and asked if I could speak with her. Whoever answered said that she was off until tomorrow.”

“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework.”

“You honestly have no idea.”

“Meaning?”

“I found a skater, or at least a
former
skater,” she says, clarifying matters. “Mandy Candy.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling a bit lost.

“Let’s just say a friend of a friend of my mom’s hairstylist of a friend got talking to me about sports and stuff. I brought up skating, because, let’s face it, you never know who’s in the know. Not to mention the fact that hairstylists know just about everything. And, anyway, yes, it’s true: Mandy used to skate. Apparently pretty well, but then she ended up sucking ass during an all-important competition. Not literally ass-sucking,” she says, as if I needed the clarification.

“And so she up and quit.”

“When?” I ask, wondering if Danica used to skate as well—if that might explain some of the animosity between her and the Candies.

“Unfortunately, the friend of a friend couldn’t remember,” Kimmie says, “but she said that it had to have been at least five years ago.”

“Interesting,” I say, gazing out the window, at a sudden loss for words. There’s so much I haven’t told her, but I’m not quite sure I should.

“Look,” she says, forcing me to face her by yanking the sleeve of my coat. “I
am
your friend. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

“Is this because I called you a kajillion times last night? Because now you’re feeling guilty about not picking up?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. But
you
have to understand, too: this hasn’t been easy for me.

So much has changed between us.”

“You’re right,” I say, thinking how it wasn’t so long ago that the height of our adventures involved afternoons spent making double-fudge fajitas behind my mom’s vegan back. “But I’ve given things a lot of thought. And, well, it was stupid of me to try and take away my friendship when I was accusing you of potentially doing the same one day.”

“That’s awfully deep for a Saturday morning, don’t you think?”

“It’s Wes’s psychoanalysis, not mine. Don’t tell him I said this, but that boy is freaking brilliant, and his dad’s an absolute tool for not seeing it.”

“His dad’s an absolute tool—period.”

“Brilliant Boy also told me that he recommended you talk with Ben.” She bats her gold-coated eyelashes at me.

I nod, and then tell her about our time together at the labyrinth. “I honestly don’t know why I let myself open up to him, because he clearly isn’t interested.”

“Are we both talking about the same touch boy here?”

“Well, he has a funny way of showing his interest.”

“Because coming to your work, whisking you away to an enchanted labyrinth, and sticking his tongue down your throat are such unclear signs.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really,” she says, looking at me the way the kids at school do—like I’m some freak science experiment that they don’t quite understand. “I haven’t even mentioned the fact that Ben gobbled his pride by contacting his ex–best friend just to make sure that you’re okay while he isn’t around. I mean, it’s obvious the boy’s in love with you.”

“I’m not so sure,” I say, thinking how it isn’t obvious at all.

“Where’s he going, by the way?”

“He said he had to head home for a bit, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Translation: more secrets.”

“And speaking of…you’ve yet to tell me why you called last night. I mean, I know you don’t need a reason, but it seemed kind of urgent.”

“It was Aunt Alexia,” I say, proceeding to explain what happened. “I feel partly to blame—like maybe I pushed her too far, which got her upset.”

“She’s mentally
ill
, Camelia. They do things like that: biting body parts, painting walls, talking all gibberish…But still, you have to admit, it’s pretty impressive that she was able to predict the camera clue and some of the stuff that happened in the locker room.”

“Not to mention the sea glass clue,” I tell her. “I saw Danica wearing it around her neck on the day I stopped by her house.”

“See, there’s no denying it.” Kimmie wraps her faux ponytail around her finger. “You and your aunt are clearly connected. I mean, it’s almost eerie how much.”

I nod, remembering how Dr. Tylyn said that life was about making choices, and that I shouldn’t choose to become overwhelmed by how similar Aunt Alexia and I seem.

“So, we need a plan,” Kimmie says, taking a sip of soda (even though it’s barely ten a.m.). “Should we tell Danica that we were just in the area and thought we’d stop by? Or should we go for brutal honesty and say that we have reason to believe that her days are numbered?”

“I’d go with option number two,” I tell her. “But I don’t think we need to be that brutal.”

“Agreed. Now, what do you say we go get ourselves some answers?” She gives me a high five, and we set out for Danica’s.

WE ARRIVE ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER. Kimmie is already halfway up Danica’s walkway before I even step out of the car. I look around, checking to see if the Taurus is parked anywhere, but luckily it doesn’t appear that it is.

“Are you coming?” Kimmie asks, just before ringing the doorbell.

I join her at the door, and Danica answers almost immediately. “Shall I call the police to report you for harassment
now
?” she asks, glaring at me. “Or wait until Monday, when I’ll be sure to find a dead rodent with your fingerprints all over it stuffed inside my locker?”

“Calling the police is actually a good idea,” Kimmie says. “Word is, your life could very well be at stake.”

“I was referring to Camelia’s apparent need to stalk me,” Danica says.

“FYI: stalkers don’t ring doorbells,” Kimmie tells her. “They follow you around when you least expect it, prank you with harassing phone calls, and then tie you up in the back of trailers.”

“Well, the two of you should know,” she says, folding her arms.

Kimmie peers past Danica into the house. “Can we come in to talk? I promise it’ll just be a couple minutes.”

“And then
she’ll
be out of my hair for good?” Danica asks.

Kimmie doesn’t answer this, but Danica lets us inside anyway. She leads us to a family room at the back of the house. Like the outside of the house, the interior has definitely deteriorated with age. Similar to a fraternity house, minus the beer-guzzling college students, there isn’t much in terms of decor. A portable fridge in the family room doubles as a coffee table, and there’s even the requisite stack of old pizza boxes collected near a recycling bin.

“Are your parents at home?” I ask, remembering how she mentioned that she barely ever saw them.

Danica shakes her head, but once again she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she takes a seat on the arm of a chair (because the chair itself is loaded with old newspapers and take-out menus) and demands to know what all of this is about.

“I know I told you this before,” I begin, finding a vacant spot on the couch beside Kimmie, “but I think you might be in trouble.”

Danica lets out an obnoxious yawn.

“Camelia doesn’t make this stuff up,” Kimmie insists.

“No, she just has full-on convulsions in her sculpture classes, shouts out random phrases, and claws at people’s eyes.”

“That only happened one time,” I say, knowing how stupid the excuse sounds. “And it wasn’t exactly like that.”