Splintered

The urge to scratch out her eyes boils in my veins. “At least I have a dad who cares enough to be there.” The words shoot out like poison arrows. Her wounded expression makes me regret them instantly.

The doorbell chirps and the scent of espresso wafts in.

“Oh, fark.” Jen evil-eyes Taelor as the door slams behind her. “What are you doing here?” She stops next to me, setting down a croissant and a fruit smoothie.

Taelor clears her throat and her mask of nonchalance drops back into place. “Alyssa and I were just discussing London and why she won’t be welcome to stay with Jeb and me.” She snatches up her shopping bag. “It stinks here in the land of the dead. I’m out.”

The minute she’s gone, Jenara turns to me. “One of these days, she’s going to slip up and show Jeb her ugly side.”

I pluck at the edge of my croissant. “She’s why he didn’t want me to go. He didn’t want me getting in the way of … them.”

Twisting her fishnet tights with a pen, Jen doesn’t answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes fill with regret. “I just found out about her going this morning. And I didn’t know how to tell you when you came in. You’ve got so much crap going on with your mom.”

Folding my Wonderland notes, I study the blank computer again. What does it matter that the website’s gone? Jeb doesn’t have my back anymore, and we’ll never have what we once did.

“Al?”

The sobs I’ve been smothering since my fight with Dad gather in my chest. They burst like a thousand acidic bubbles, silently eating away at my heart. But I refuse to cry.

“C’mon,” Jen nudges. “If anyone can convince him to give her up, it’s you. Tell him already. Tell him how you really feel.”

I think of Jeb’s amazing paintings. Of all the things he can be if given the opportunity. He doesn’t need any more emotional baggage to hold him back. And I’ve got enough to sink an oil tanker. Besides, I can’t bear to have him turn me down to my face. He’s already chosen Taelor over our friendship.

I tuck my notes into a skirt pocket. “Nothing to tell. I crushed on him when we were in sixth grade, so it doesn’t count.” She starts to say something, but I shut her down. “And you’re not spilling, either. Pinky swears are forever.”

A worried wrinkle appears on her forehead as she gathers her prom dress and makeup. “This isn’t over.”

“It is. Jeb’s made his choice.”

Shaking her head, she leaves.

The instant the door closes, I turn to The Crow. The emo guy stares back, his eyes bleeding black tears as if he knows my pain. I have the strangest longing to be in his arms—wrapped up in leather.

I’m waiting inside the rabbit hole, luv. Find me. His gaze burns the challenge into my soul like a brand.

Startled by our deepening co

I fight the urge to toss her things out into the street. Instead, I lift the purse’s straps to store it under the counter until she comes back. One half of the zipper gapes open, revealing a huge wad of cash.

Almost in a daze, I dig out the money, unrolling the lump of twenties and fifties. There’s over two-hundred-and-forty dollars. If I added it to my savings at home, I’d have enough for a one-way ticket to England with a little left over for a fake passport and expenses; then all I’d have left to do is find an address for the sundial.

It wouldn’t be the first time we owed the Tremonts a debt. In fifth grade, Dad took out a loan from Taelor’s father to help pay Alison’s medical bills. That was how Taelor learned about my ancestry to Alice Liddell in the first place.

So, in a way, this is justified compensation. Taelor’s payment to me for all the years she made my life miserable.

My fingers quiver as I shove her gutted purse into the bottom of the trash can, piling papers on top. I reach under the counter to grab the air freshener and slide it—along with the money—into Persephone’s tome on mystical crystals. The book has an elastic band sewn into the binding that holds the pages shut.

I turn to the poster again. The darkness behind the guy’s eyes seems to be driving everything I do, and there’s nothing to pull me back from the brink this time.

No mother, no father, and definitely no Jeb. Not even his smile could save me now.

Once Dad and I get home, I add the stolen stash to my savings in a small pencil box secured with a rubber band and hide it behind my cheval mirror.

Plugging my phone in to charge, I text Hitch to meet me outside Underland around midnight and tell him why. He’s the only one I know who can make a fake passport. I still can’t believe I took Taelor’s money and hid her purse. But like Dad said, we’ll do whatever it takes to get Alison home. Thinking about how lit Jeb would be if he knew I was meeting Hitch in the dark alone makes me all the more determined to follow through.

A low rumble shakes the windows and rain pelts the roof as another storm closes in.

Spreading a palm along my aquarium’s cool glass, I search the back and flip on a soft bluish light. Aphrodite and Adonis perform a graceful dance, entwining their long bodies.

On my way to check my bug traps in the garage, I cut through the living room. Dad’s there, sitting in his recliner while staring at those giant daisies Alison appliquéd all over the arms and back. He sobs.

I want to hug him and make up for our fight, but when he sees me watching, he claims to have something in his eye and leaves to pick up burgers for supper.

Dust motes drift in the amber glow of the floor lamp beside his recliner. The weird lighting, coupled with the dark paneled walls, gives the living room a strange aura, like an aged sepia photograph.

Photographs. Why did Alison say that about pictures … how people forget to read between the lines?

I stand there, a few feet from the recliner, while everything she babbled skates along my mind like pebbles cast into an endless well. One keeps rising back to the top: “The daisies are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”

The explanation is staring me in the face. It has been for years. I drop to my knees in front of the recliner, crumpling the layers of netting and lace beneath my miniskirt as I shove my backpack out of the way. Hard to believe it’s only been seven or so hours since I was at school. So much has happened, I’ve lost track of time.

I pluck at one of Alison’s cloth daisies where two appliquéd petals curl down from frayed stitches. On a hunch, I slide my index finger between the appliqué and the upholstery to find a hole burrowed deep into the recliner’s stuffing.

Holding my breath, I tug at the appliqué until it’s hanging by no more than one petal and a few threads. The dime-size hole stares back, too perfectly round to have been accidental. All this time, I thought she’d sewn the patches on to cover threadbare places. All this time, I was wrong.

Digging into the torn upholstery, I pull out stuffing until I hit something tiny, hard, and metallic. I trace the object, following a round shape that stretches to a long, thin leg with grooves and teeth. A key. My forefinger drags it to the hole’s opening and tugs it out. An attached necklace chain coils on the cushion like a snake.

The challenge from the website comes full circle: “If you wish to save your mother, use the key.”

Maybe I should be freaked out, but I’m thrilled to finally have tangible proof that Alison is trying to tell me something … that her babbles weren’t babbles at all. They were coherent clues.

Tapping the cold metal with a fingertip, I imagine what the key might unlock. I’ve never seen one like it, so intricate, with strips of burnished brass interwoven like ivy. It looks old—antique, even. As tiny as it is, it might open a diary.