Famous Last Words

Okay, well. Maybe that was a fair point.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “But this —” I held the notebook out again, and this time he took it.

“Not here,” he said quietly. “We should talk someplace more private.”

“I don’t understand.”

He gave me a level, appraising look. “You haven’t made a lot of friends yet, have you?”

There was no point in lying just to save my wounded pride, so I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, “if you ever want to make friends at Langhorn, you should try not to be seen with me.”

I didn’t have the energy to protest. “All right. Where can we talk?”

“The library,” he said. “After Chemistry.”

“Fine.”

He nodded briskly. “See you then.”

I found Wyatt in the far back corner of the library, well clear of the circulation desk and the handful of students studying at the tables near the door. He was already leaned over, absorbed in his notebook. When he noticed me, he sat up and closed it automatically. I dropped my backpack and sank to the floor beside him.

“Okay,” Wyatt said. “What did you want to talk about?”

First things first. “Why are you still investigating the murders?” I asked. “Your project’s been done for months. Don’t you think the police can solve them?”

He sat back, looking offended. “I didn’t come here to defend myself.”

“I’m not attacking you,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out what kind of person is so completely obsessed with someone else’s crimes.”

He looked up, his brown eyes walking the line between insulted and amused. “Me,” he said. “My kind. Now, did you have real questions or are you just trying to psychoanalyze me?”

I held out my hand. “Can I see the notebook?”

He hesitated for a second before handing it over. I began looking for the page I’d seen last night.

“If you’re worried about the killer,” Wyatt said, “I think you should know that you’re not his type.”

I let the pages slip between my fingers and looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“In the first place, you’re not an actress, are you?”

“Not remotely.”

“Then you’re off his radar. He exclusively targets young female actresses with a specific body type, an isolated home life —”

“Thanks for your concern,” I said, “but I’m not worried about myself. What I want to know about is this.”

I held up the page so he could read it:

WATER (BATHTUB/POOL)

ROSES

NECKLACE (ALSO ROSE)

HENRY

“What does this mean?” I asked. “How do these things tie into the murders?”

He stared at the writing and seemed to choose his words carefully. “They don’t.”

“Obviously they do,” I said, “or they wouldn’t be in here. Don’t tell me this is a shopping list.”

“It’s information,” Wyatt said, frowning and pulling the notebook from my hands, “but not real information. Yes, it’s co

“What source?” I asked.

He flipped back a page. “Leyta Fitzgeorge,” he read out loud, a sarcastic flourish in his voice. “Psychic to the Stars.”

I stared at the page he was looking at. He had actually written out Psychic to the Stars under her name.

“Leyta Fitzgeorge submitted those words to the police with a suggestion that they would help solve the murders,” he explained. “But they’re meaningless.”

They had meaning for me. And for a second, I thought about telling him as much — relaying my stories about the pool, the writing on the wall, the name “Henry.” But then I remembered that this was Wyatt Sheppard I was dealing with. I wasn’t eager to draw any more of his scorn.

Finally, I asked, “What does the number eight-one-eight mean?”

“It’s one of the LA area codes. For the Valley.” Wyatt watched me intently. “It seems like there’s some major thing you’re not sharing.”

“Do you know anything about Diana Del Mar,” I asked, “aside from where her house is?”

Wyatt sat back, thinking. “She starred in movie musicals, right? Did she date Howard Hughes? No, that was what’s-her-face. Why? What about her?”

An idea popped into my head. “The movies the serial killers used to pose his victims — were any of them Diana Del Mar movies?”

He shook his head. “Nope. She was long dead by the time any of them were released.”

Another question occurred to me. “What did you mean before, when you said I shouldn’t be seen talking to you if I want to make friends?”

He glanced down. “Nothing specific.”

“Now you’re lying,” I said.

“I’m not lying,” he said. “I’m just not going to provide you with the sordid level of detail you seem to be craving. If you want stories, you can get them from Marnie.”

“Marnie has stories about you?” I asked.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at me, his brown eyes a little distant and sad. Then he blinked the mood away. “No doubt she does. Are we done? Because —”

“Almost,” I said. “Can I ask a question that’s not about the murders? Or Marnie?”

He nodded, a little wary.

“What did you mean at my house when you said I lie about everything?”

He shook his head. “That was out of line. I apologize.”

“But you were right,” I said, feeling a sudden heat in my chest. “How could you tell?”

He took a second to study me before answering. “Your body language is closed off. See how you lean back, cross your arms? You never maintain eye contact. And the touching, like I said — your face and neck. Covering your mouth.”

I nodded, letting it all sink in.

“I didn’t mean you tell actual lies.” His voice was lower, almost gentle. “More like omissions — like you’re shut off from people on some fundamental level.”

Ah, yes. Where had I heard that before? A memory of my last talk with Aiden flashed painfully through my mind. “And you’re not?” I said.

“Is this about me now? I am who I am. People can take me or leave me. I have nothing to hide.” He wrote something in his notebook, and then tore off the sheet and handed it to me. “If you need to talk — I mean, if you have more questions — you can text me. Here’s my number.”

I pocketed the piece of paper. “One more thing?”

He narrowed his eyes. “If I can ask you something, too.”

“Fine,” I said. “What are you after? What’s your endgame? At what point are you going to say you’ve done enough — when they catch him?”

“Maybe,” Wyatt said. “Or maybe it’s more like … Have you ever walked into a room, and you know something’s different? Like your little brother’s been messing with your stuff and tried to cover it up but you can tell?”

I shook my head. “I’m an only child.”

Wyatt gave me a look. “I am, too. It was a metaphor. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re missing something you shouldn’t be missing?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I feel that way all the time.”

“That’s how I feel about these murders. Like we’re all missing something. There’s some piece of the puzzle we haven’t found yet. So I don’t know if it’s catching the killer I’m after … or just figuring out what’s off. Making it easier for someone else to catch him.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“My turn, right?”

I looked at the carpet and waited.

“What is it?” he asked. “What you’re afraid of? The thing you hide.” His voice was low and had a note of compassion in it that made me want to shove him.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I reached up to swipe them away. “I don’t think that’s a fair use of your question.”

“It’s being angry, isn’t it?”

I stared at him in shock. I didn’t need to answer, because the look on my face was all the confirmation a person could ask for.

“I can tell…. I mean, I make people angry on a pretty regular basis,” he said, giving me a self-conscious smile. “Apparently I come across as a little abrasive sometimes. But with you, I’ve said things that make you mad on some caveman level, but it’s like … the emotion dies inside you. Without ever coming out.”