Summer's Edge, page 7
But the words were spoken, and you can’t un-ring a bell. People already thought I was a freak. Now they also thought I was a criminal.
I stood my ground, showed up at Kennedy’s door, and politely but firmly told her mother that I was very sorry to hear about her stolen goods, but I didn’t have them. She had no idea what I was talking about. Either Kennedy lied, or Emily made it up to turn me against Kennedy and earn her spot as the leader of our group. Ryan took Emily’s side, Chase took Kennedy’s, and I was stuck in the middle, alone. It took six months for us to even start speaking again.
I tear the page out of the book, crumple it up, and stuff it into my pocket. If Mila is right and it was Ryan up here, why would he leave this? Is it a message to me to remind me whose side I’m supposed to be on?
I flip through until a flash of white catches my eye. I thumb back, looking for the page that hasn’t been inked out. It’s a stick-figure drawing. I skip a few pages ahead and find another, then a couple more. It slowly dawns on me that someone has created a flip-book—that if I flip the pages quickly, it will look like animation. I go back to the beginning and slowly fan the pages through my fingers. Before my eyes, five stick figures line up on a dock. A lightning bolt flashes above, and four nooses drop. Four of the figures hang and one figure remains. Another lightning bolt, and then a sudden rush of air blows out both of my candles as the attic door is slammed shut, leaving me in total darkness.
18
Attics are places for secrets.
Attics are places to hide.
Attics are places to set traps
For creatures that creep inside.
19
I feel my way over to the attic trapdoor on my hands and knees and slam my heels down on it in an attempt to kick it open, but it won’t open from the inside. The way the ladder folds up into itself and automatically latches underneath makes it impossible. My breath comes out in hot, wild bursts. It sounds like roaring in my ears. It’s too hot. I scream and bang my fists on the floor, then listen. I know at least Chase and Mila are down there.
The silence seems to stretch out for an hour, and the sound of my own panicked breathing echoes in the hollow room so loudly it creates the illusion of a chorus. I squeeze my eyes shut so a stray beam of moonlight won’t seep in through the window and illuminate a roomful of faces, quiet watchers sitting silently around me, breathing the same hot air in unison, still and patient as death. It strikes me that the chorus that isn’t there sounds louder the more I panic, and if I hold my breath, I would have proof that it’s my fear getting the best of me. But if I hold my breath and the chorus continues, what then? A quiet shuffling, dust scraping across the attic floor, a sense of sudden closeness? A rhythmic pulse of air on the back of my neck, timed to the gasping breaths? A hand on my arm, or throat, ice-cold and strong as steel, the grip of bones closing to crush? Terror washes over me as my breath freezes in my throat, and I cover my ears and scream.
There’s a sudden burst of fresh air, and I hear Chase’s voice. “Chelsea?”
I launch myself toward him and feel my way down the stairs, and he grabs my waist halfway down and helps me back into Kennedy’s room. “There’s something up there.”
He climbs the stairs cautiously, looks around, and returns. “It looks empty to me.”
“There was something. And someone slammed the door on me.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“Looking for Ryan!” I point to Mila. “You said you heard him up there.”
“I said I heard someone up there. Everyone else was accounted for.” But Ryan was accounted for too. If Kennedy is telling the truth, he wasn’t even here. Mila gives me a look. “It wasn’t a ghost.” But as she speaks, she tugs at her hair like a child clutching a security blanket, so hard it makes my skull ache.
I hand Chase the book and hold the candle up for him to see. “Someone made this into a flip-book. Look.”
He glances down at it dubiously but begins to flip the pages. As the stick-figure scene plays out before him, his face transforms, his lips going taut. When the book flips to the last page, a flash of color catches my eye and I reach for it. It’s the tarot card. The woman standing on the boat. I gaze up at the attic. Wherever he is now, Ryan was up there at one point.
Mila takes the tarot card. “What is this?”
“Nothing. One of Emily’s cards.”
“It looks a lot like Kennedy. Trust at your peril?”
But Chase ignores us, still staring at the flip-book. “This isn’t funny.”
I stuff the tarot card into my pocket. “I didn’t do this. Look at me.”
Chase raises his eyes to mine. For the first time this evening, I see actual fear in them.
“I didn’t do it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Chase, she’s not lying. She’s terrified.” Mila takes the book and flips through several times, studying it without emotion. “Five figures. One is a hangman.” She snaps it shut. “There are only four of us. Unless Ryan really is still here. But then where is he?”
“Unless it’s Emily,” I whisper. Ryan wouldn’t do this. Couldn’t.
“What’s going on?”
We snap our heads up in unison. Kennedy stands in the doorway, holding another candle.
Chase puts his arm around Mila. “Chelsea got trapped in the attic.”
He had to throw me under the bus. “I thought I heard something up there.”
Kennedy’s eyes fall on the book in Mila’s hand. “What are you reading?”
“Some old library book.” Mila hands it to Kennedy. “A ghost story.” There’s no mistaking the mocking undertone in her voice.
Kennedy flips through the pages carefully. “Lovely.” She drops the book and slams her purse down on the dresser. “I assume whoever made that masterpiece is responsible for this, too.”
Chase reaches into the purse and pulls out a handful of cards from the Truth or Dare game—blank ones. “These are templates. Someone used these to make the messed-up cards.”
Mila glances at me but doesn’t say a word. Someone with a beating heart.
“The question is, who planted them in my purse,” Kennedy demands.
Mila folds her arms over her chest. “You have unrestricted access to this house and everything in it. It would take a ridiculous amount of planning for anyone else to pull this off.”
Kennedy looks taken aback. “The only one who has the slightest reason to mess with any of us is Ryan. Emily was his sister. He blames us for her death.”
Chase shakes his head. “No. No way.”
Kennedy looks to me. “Tell them.”
I avoid Chase’s anxious gaze. “He doesn’t blame us—he just has some questions, that’s all.”
Mila groans, and Chase and Kennedy immediately start arguing.
“What is so wrong with that?” I shout above them. They quiet down. “I agree with him. Last year was messed up, but the worst part is the feeling that everything we think we know is a lie because the truth is, maybe one of us did start the fire. Maybe it wasn’t outright murder, but it didn’t just happen, either. This house did not spontaneously burst into flame, no matter how good a lawyer Mr. Hartford is. Am I really the only one who isn’t afraid to admit that? I know there are things that don’t make sense to all of us. Like why were you outside, Kennedy?”
“I don’t recall,” she says quietly.
Mila looks at her sharply. “You don’t recall taking us out on the boat?”
Kennedy sighs, frustrated. “Sure. Yes. Fine. We went on the boat. Why does it matter?”
“Everything matters,” I explode. “Why were all the doors locked? Why did Ryan come back for Mila? Why did no one come back for me? Or Emily? How did the attic door break? How did she get in there if it was broken? She climbed up, closed the door behind her, and it spontaneously broke in that precise window of time?”
The others are looking at me meaningfully, and my face flushes. I know what that look means. I was the only one in the room. I’m the only one who can answer that question. “There’s more to the story,” I say finally.
“Maybe all that’s left of the story is the end,” Chase says gently.
“No.” Kennedy pushes the Truth or Dare cards across the dresser, away from herself. “Someone is trying to make it look like I did this. It’s obviously not over.”
Mila rises. “It is for me. I am officially opting out. It doesn’t matter who’s doing this. Just why. Maybe it’s a creepy revenge game. Or maybe there really is a killer. Maybe someone decided to lure us back to the crime scene, figure out what we know, then bam. Sharp, shiny things at high velocities. I tried to stick it out for you, Chase, but I am not waiting around to find out which one of us dies first. This is not going to end well.” She spins on her heels and runs down the stairs to the front door.
Kennedy runs after her. “Wait!” The front door slams behind them.
“Mila!” Chase calls after her. He turns to me reassuringly. “She’s not going anywhere without her bags. She’s just freaked out.”
I glance up at the attic. “She’s not the only one, Chase.”
“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “You’re not kidding.”
I follow him downstairs, but as Chase joins the others outside, I stop short. The cellar door is ajar. I reach out hesitantly to close it, but pause when a flash of white at the bottom catches my eye. Another tarot card. My heart pounds against my rib cage. I should be completely alone in the house. Unless.
“Ryan?” I call out.
Silence.
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, then open them and run, taking the steps two by two, skidding across the dusty cellar floor as I collect the card. I gaze back up to the door beginning to close, almost imperceptibly slowly, and my heart is bursting in my chest as my shoes pound against the wooden stairs, dust in my lungs, just a sliver of light, an inch of space until the door clicks shut and seals me in. I throw myself against it with a scream that comes from deep, deep within me, from a place of childhood fears and forever anger, of the unfairness of time, of one inch left and closing.
And I make it. I barrel through.
Gasping in disbelief, I gaze down at the tarot card. It’s a dark-haired girl on a starlit wooden path lined with tall trees that looks very similar to the path leading to the dock, beckoning, her long hair lifted by the wind in ribbons, her eyes glowing in the darkness. The caption reads: Queen of Wands: follow not into the dark. It looks a lot like Mila. I look out the open front door with a sinking feeling and join the others.
I follow Mila into the dark.
20
They say letting go is hard.
That it will come with time.
That forgiveness is key. Forgiving the others for surviving, and most of all, forgiving myself. For remaining.
But I don’t buy it.
Because the others didn’t just survive.
Survival is passive.
It implies clean hands and a clear conscience. It implies innocence.
It assumes that survival is something they earned, or were destined for, or just happened upon.
That they deserved life more.
And that would be a lie.
Survival is something they stole.
Because Chelsea and Kennedy and the others created the tragedy they survived.
They’re killers.
And I can’t wait any longer.
21
When we reach the driveway, Mila is sitting in her car, her face ashen, violently yanking at the ignition and slamming on the gas pedal. The car is still, lifeless. Kennedy drifts to her car as if in a trance, opens the door, and flicks at the headlights. Nothing happens. She slides the key into the ignition and turns it, then shakes her head. Both cars are dead, and Ryan’s is gone.
“Holy shit,” Chase murmurs under his breath. He tries his own car, with the same result.
“What does this mean?” I try to avoid looking at my car. There’s something sinister about a dead car at a dark house. Like a warning. We should not be here. The headlights stare like lifeless eyes, like that shot in Psycho of the dead woman in the shower. I blink and turn away.
“Someone either drained the batteries or removed them,” he says.
“Someone?” Kennedy gets out of the car. “Well, fuck Ryan and his horrible, no good, very bad year.”
I glare at her. “There is zero evidence that this was him.”
“There is plenty of evidence.” She ticks the reasons off on her fingers. “He shows up and disappears. He stalls us with a note, allowing him to tamper with the lights and the cars without anyone noticing. He probably got that creepy book from Emily’s room.”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “Emily wrote the last message. Which means it ended up in my hands.”
Kennedy looks at me, irritated. “Well, did you do it? Because unlike you, Ryan has a motive: we didn’t save his sister. According to him, we killed her with our own bare hands.”
Chase cringes. “Come on. Negligence, maybe.”
Kennedy stares at him. “I’m glad you’re warming up to the idea.”
“I’m not,” he protests. “Just…” He looks uncomfortable. “You don’t feel guilty at all?”
“Oh my god.” Mila jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind her. “Emily died. It was a terrible accident, and granted, the circumstances don’t look good for any of us. I don’t even blame Ryan for being suspicious. We all have excuses for not knowing how the fire started. But they’re not alibis. And Kennedy.” Mila looks straight into her eyes. “I think you know more than you’re saying, and I don’t want to know what you’re hiding.” She whips her phone out of her pocket.
Kennedy sighs. “No cell service.”
“Shit.” Mila drops her hand to her side and looks to Chase desperately. “What do people do around here when their car breaks down?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “There’s usually a landline. When it’s busted, hike to the cell spot or walk to town. Preferably in the morning.”
She shakes her head. “No way. Something is happening, and you know what? I’m the outsider here. I have the most unbiased perspective. And it could be any of you torturing us right now. Chelsea says she wants the truth. How far would she go to push her friends into confessing? Kennedy won’t talk about what happened last year. Maybe she really does want to find out what we know and eliminate whoever knows too much. Chase—sorry, babe—you make mistakes, and you don’t like to be called on them. What would you do to cover them up? And the elusive Ryan? He didn’t even try to save Emily. Maybe we were never supposed to know about that. And now we’re being punished for it.” She shrugs. “It could be any of you. And I’m not going to be next. Two dead girls don’t make a right. So I’m out.” She walks toward us briskly, and I have to jump aside to avoid being knocked over. And then she walks right back into the house.
“Did she say out?” Kennedy’s forehead creases.
I turn to Chase. “Do you know what she has that the rest of us lack?”
He stares at me, speechless.
“Spirit.” I can’t help it. I don’t know why I am the way I am. I need to joke when I’m fizzing with fear. To smile sometimes when the world is crumbling. I need to silence the room. I wish I was a better person. But I’m not. I survive and let my friends fend for themselves.
Chase sighs and launches himself after her.
Kennedy pauses at my side, looking beaten down. “You can’t even entertain the idea that it might be Ryan, can you?”
“I can entertain it. That’s what makes me sure it’s not him. He’s our friend.”
“What if he wasn’t the person you thought he was?”
“You really believe he would do all of this? Trap me in the attic, kill the car batteries?”
She shoots me a wary look. “Do you really want to know what I think?” I study her. Kennedy wears a hard, polished exterior. But it isn’t the real Kennedy. Not the one I fell in love with. I may have always been in love with Kennedy a little, but the summer between ninth and tenth grade was when I fell, and kept falling, and never really stopped. She’d been whispering about her secret crush for weeks, building it up to be the revelation of the year. And then one night after a fish fry, Kennedy and I took out a boat to watch fireworks, and out of the blue, she told me it was me all along. I was the secret. I was stunned, she was nervous. That made her so much cuter—she was carelessly oblivious to the fact that half of the class had a crush on her. I’d never kissed anyone before and I was too scared to do it, so we just agreed that we liked each other, and sat there awkwardly in the boat with all these explosions startling the fish and forcing us to shout at each other. You think, middle of the lake, starlight, fireworks, first kiss, how romantic. But it wasn’t. It was scary and awkward and important.
But eventually we agreed that kissing is customary in these situations, so she promised not to laugh, and I squeezed my eyes shut and clambered over the emergency gear, and we found each other. It was too short. Every kiss with Kennedy was always too short. We kissed all weekend, in every private moment. She laughed every time. I always opened my eyes before the end.
But when summer was over, she showed up at my doorstep and said she wanted to make sure we were still best friends, and Emily too. And my heart shot itself to pieces, because I understood. Emily felt left out. And starting high school with a girlfriend would be “limiting” in a lot of ways. We were back together by the end of the year, but I was still devastated, and it stuck with me. It still does. Kennedy always held all the cards.
“I want to know what you don’t recall,” I say finally.
