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“Look, I get it,” Wyatt said, startling me — he sounded almost understanding. “You move to a strange new city, into an old, drafty house with a lot of history. You’re feeling uncomfortable in your new family situation, and —”
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
He looked a little hurt. “Trying to talk to you.”
“You’re trying to talk me down from believing in ghosts?” I said.
He seemed vaguely confused about it himself. “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Tell me this — if the psychic is a fraud and I’m hallucinating, why do the things that are happening to me appear on her list?”
“What? Really?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Well … it must be a statistically improbable set of correlations. I can see why you’d find it curious, though — if you’re telling the truth.”
“If I’m telling the truth?” Flabbergasted, I tried to muster what remained of my dignity. “You know what? Forget it. This has been a total waste of energy.”
I was done being insulted and second-guessed. Just when I’d managed to convince myself I might not be insane, now Wyatt was actively trying to persuade me that I was. I wished I hadn’t told him anything.
“Wait,” he said, and the smirk disappeared from his face. Regret flashed through his brown eyes.
I held up my hand to stop him from saying more, and turned to head to class.
But then the world went white.
It must be almost morning. He blindfolded me but I’ve managed to get the blindfold down past the corner of my eye, and I can see a dim, blurry slit of my surroundings.
This is a different place. Not the place where we’ve been rehearsing. The table is set. I can see the roses. They’ve begun to wilt, just the faintest lack of crispness at the edges of the petals. He’s so obsessed with detail, I wonder whether he’ll replace them — and then, my heart drops into a dark, echoless chamber inside me.
He won’t replace them. He doesn’t need to.
Today will be the day.
I’m sure of it on some level I don’t even understand.
He keeps telling me that if I behave, if I do well, he’ll let me go, but that’s a lie. He’s a pretty good actor, but when it comes to outright lies, I can read him like a book. I know I’ve done a great job. Every cue, every mark, every line, I’ve delivered beyond his expectations. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he gets lost in the scene. I’ve been better than good enough.
I’ve been great.
And still, he’ll never, ever let me go.
I know he’ll be back soon, because he never stays away long. He comes and goes, bringing water and food and letting me use the restroom. He’s perfectly hospitable.
I hate him.
What’s more, he hates me. I can tell. I’m not like he thought I was. I’m not quiet and obedient — that was an act to earn his trust. But once I figured out he was lying, something inside me changed. Call it my foolish pride. I couldn’t grovel to someone who was just waiting for the right moment to turn me into another trophy in his case.
Today is the day. I know it in my soul. And part of me is terrified — how could I not be? Every time he comes near me or speaks, something in me turns into a lost, frightened little girl.
I have a plan, though. It’s not an escape plan —
I know better than that. I’m going to die here.
But I’m going to do it on my terms, not his. I’ve already broken his stupid necklace. He hasn’t noticed. I stuffed it in the pocket of the skirt he makes me wear, my costume. Maybe when the police find me — afterward — they’ll find it, and make some kind of co
Maybe they’ll catch him, and keep him from doing this to anyone else, and it’ll be because of something I did.
He’s made me sit here at this table, my ankles and wrists bound so I can’t run away, dressed in an old-fashioned skirt and scratchy blouse, with my hair pi
But tonight is on my terms.
He can take away my ability to run, but not my will to resist.
He can kill me … but he can’t kill my spirit.
I slumped back, hoping I’d run into a wall to lean against, but there wasn’t one.
Wyatt grabbed me a split second before I could tumble to the floor.
“Hey!” he said. “What’s going on? Willa?”
“Stop yelling,” I said, because I didn’t want him attracting attention. “Please. I’m fine.”
Then we were faced with the fact of my being in his arms — a twelve out of ten on the awkwardness scale. I tried to straighten up and pull away, and he held on too long, and thank God nobody was watching.
I fought to steady myself, wanting to be as far from Wyatt as I could get, as soon as I could possibly get there.
“What just happened to you?” he asked. “Was that a seizure?”
“No,” I said, though I’d never actually considered that possibility. “I mean … I don’t think so. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He wasn’t going to let it drop. “You froze up completely,” he said. “It looked like a petit mal seizure —”
“They’re not seizures,” I said, careful to keep my voice cool and calm but betrayed by the drop of sweat trailing down the side of my face. “They might be hallucinations, but they’re not seizures.”
In spite of my desire to cut and run, I wasn’t going anywhere until the heavy, dizzy feeling passed. Wyatt seemed to sense that, and — much more gracefully this time — he put his hand on my arm and gently eased me down onto a bench behind us.
He watched me anxiously. “What do you mean ‘they’ — this has happened more than once?”
“Yes,” I said, too dazed to lie. “That one makes three times.”
“What is it that actually happens?” he asked.
I tried to find a way to explain it. “It’s like a dream, except I’m actually there.”
“Where?” His eyes searched me, taking in every detail of my appearance, the way he always took in every detail of everything. It made me feel prickly and self-conscious.
“Wherever the Hollywood Killer kept his victims.”
“You’re there … with the victims.” The disbelief in his voice sent an angry chill through my body.
“Not with them,” I said, bristling. “It’s like I am them.”
That shut him down long enough that I could continue.
“Like the one from The Birds,” I said, “Bria
Wyatt stared at me.
“It’s like … a vision, or a trance or something. I feel what they felt. I can even see the necklace he makes them all wear — the rose necklace. I can’t see the killer’s face, and I can’t really hear his voice … I don’t know how to explain it, only — I’m there.”
“Willa.” Wyatt frowned. “I’m sorry. There’s got to be some other explanation.”
“Why?” My voice was hollow and brittle. Maybe because he really did sound apologetic.
“Because there hasn’t been a murder with a di
No table. No roses. No necklace.
Could I really be making it all up? The headaches, the visions, the flashes of light — could there be a tumor pressing on my brain, convincing me that all these crazy things were real? I thought of the dead body that wasn’t in the pool and the water that wasn’t in the tub and the writing that wasn’t on the walls.