Famous Last Words

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I thought for a second that I was seeing another terrible specter: a girl with matted dark hair, white skin glowing in the dark room, hideous black bruises all over her body like spots of decay.

But nope, it was just me. Soaking wet and covered in rose petals.

The door opened without being touched, which was not a comfort. I fought the urge to scream and race down the stairs to Mom’s room, and wake her and Jonathan with my story of what had happened.

Instead, I forced myself to walk slowly — not calmly, but slowly — toward my open bedroom door. I didn’t bother to avoid the rose petals this time. I shuffled right through them. They clung to my wet skin and covered my feet like moist, flaking socks.

They seemed as real as anything else you could touch and smell and see. But when I had passed back into my own room, I knew without having to look that they would be gone when I did turn around.

All that remained to prove anything had happened was the sopping-wet hot mess that was me — and the soggy piece of paper clutched in my right hand.

Under the bright lights of my bathroom vanity, I managed to uncrumple the page and gently stretch it back to its normal dimensions.

I’d never seen a screenplay before, but I knew that’s what I was looking at. There were character names and lines of description and action.

It started in the middle of a scene in which two people were eating di

One of them was a woman. Her name was Charice.

And one of them was a man.

His name was Henry.

And the last thing on the page was a line of dialogue.

CHARICE

This is the kind of dream you don’t wake up from, Henry.

I managed to hold off until seven o’clock in the morning before texting Wyatt. I figured someone as OCD as he was had to be the early-bird-gets-the-worm type — even on a Sunday.

I typed Are you up? and leaned against the headboard to watch my phone for his reply. Ironically, that was when the sleep I’d waited all night for decided to sneak up on me. My heavy lids slipped shut as I stared at the darkened screen.

Then the phone vibrated, startling me back to full awareness.

Yes. Everything okay?

I replied: Ha ha ha ha NO.

Need to talk?

Yeah, I typed. Where can we meet? Not my house.

There was a pause, and then his reply came through: Mine?

I must admit that I was dying of curiosity about the home life that would produce a specimen like Wyatt. Were his parents studiously brilliant, obsessed with research and The Truth? Tinfoil-hat conspiracy theorists? Lifelong paint-chip eaters?

I was about to reply Yes, but I guess I took a little too long, because another pair of messages popped up from Wyatt:

Promise I’m still not the killer.

Murderer’s honor.

At eight o’clock, I slipped on a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my house key, phone, and the monstrosity of a backpack, and set out for Wyatt’s house. I left a note for Mom explaining that I was meeting Marnie, which I knew she’d believe since (as far as she knew) I’d never gone anywhere else.

The Sheppards’ house was only about a five-minute walk away, and Wyatt was out front when I rounded the corner.

“What happened?” His eyes darkened with concern when he saw me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” I asked.

He looked startled for a second, then realized what he’d said. “Oh,” he said. “No. Sorry. Nice overalls, by the way.”

I was wearing my softest long-sleeved black T-shirt and Mom’s overalls, with a chunky blue scarf wrapped around my neck — the fashion equivalent of comfort food. Wyatt wore jeans and a red plaid fla

Inside, Wyatt’s house was starkly modern, a two-story rectangle made of glass and wood. The whole back wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over trees, at precisely the right height so you couldn’t tell you were in a city at all. It felt like being in a tree house, or a cabin somewhere out in the wilderness.

“This place is cool,” I said. “What do your parents do?”

“My mom’s an artist,” he said. “My dad’s a … consultant. Are you okay going up to my room?”

I nodded, and followed him up a set of stairs that didn’t even have a handrail. You could have fallen right off. When we reached the second floor, I found myself facing a wall that was covered in dozens of black-and-white photos of Wyatt at different ages.

“Wow,” I said.

“For the record, I’ve asked them to change this,” he said. “But they’re kind of attached to it.”

His bedroom was straight ahead, and I almost hesitated before crossing through the door. But Wyatt went straight toward a leather sofa in the corner of the room and gestured for me to sit. Then he pulled over a bright orange plastic chair for himself.

I sat cross-legged on the sofa and rested my chin in my hands, staring at the floor. “It’s in my house,” I whispered. “It won’t leave me alone. I think it’s trying to kill me —”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Slow down. Take a breath. Start at the begi

I took two deep breaths, but they were that weird jerky kind of breath that happens right before you bust out in epic sobs. Somehow I managed to hold all that in and describe everything that had happened the night before, starting with the knocking and ending with the screenplay.

“So it is a line from a script.” Wyatt sat back and looked out the windows at the trees.

“It’s a scene where they’re eating di

“Okay, yes, that’s what it sounds like.” Wyatt shook his head. “But there are no unsolved murders fitting that profile anywhere in southern California. I checked after we met with Leyta last week.”

“Then maybe … maybe it hasn’t happened yet.”

“So now you’re seeing the future?”

“I don’t know, Wyatt,” I said, practically hissing in aggravation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. For all I know, none of this is real. I could be strapped to a bed in a mental institution. You could be a figment of my —”

“I’m not a figment,” he said. “You’re not making this up. You’re not strapped to a bed in a mental ward. You’re here with me.”

I half laughed and looked up into his wide brown eyes, thinking he was joking. But he seemed perfectly sincere. I sat back and tried to relax. Something about his steady, unflappable presence centered me.

“Let’s focus on what we know,” Wyatt went on. “There’s a force in your house trying to call your attention to this particular scene, which appears to be from a movie. So the next logical step is to figure out what the movie is.”

“I brought my laptop.” I unzipped the monstrosity, pulled the computer out of its neoprene sleeve, and set it in my lap. Wyatt leaned closer to look at the screen. I half expected him to try to snatch the computer away so he could apply his superior research skills, but he didn’t.

There was a Wi-Fi network called SHEPPARD. “Password?” I asked.

He blushed slightly. “Um … I’ll type it.”

“Just tell me what it is,” I said. “I’m not going to come steal your Wi-Fi when you’re not home.”

“It’s, uh … ‘Wyattcutiepants.’ All one word. Capital W.”