Return to the Dark House (30 page)

Mom takes the cover off the soup and sets it down on a tray. “Eat this,” she says, as if it could possibly make everything better.

There’s a rap on the door. A woman with dark purple hair appears. “Natalie?” she asks, glancing at both of my parents, silently asking permission to come in. “I’m
probably breaking the visitation rules, but...my name is Apple. I’m Ivy’s mother.” She bypasses my parents when they don’t respond, and sits down on the chair beside my bed.
“You must be thrilled to see your daughter,” she says to them.

Mom musters a polite smile, as if this moment is at all smile-worthy, while Dad merely clears his throat.

“Mom and Dad love you,” Harris says. “They just don’t know how to show it.”

Apple takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. She smells like oranges. “You saved my daughter’s life. Ivy tells me that if it weren’t for you, she’d have never made it out
of there.” Her eyes locked on mine, tears of gratitude trickle down her cheeks. She leans in to kiss my forehead. Her palm glides over the crown of my head. “Thank you,” she says,
without a second glance to my hair.

I want to tell her how strong Ivy is; that if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here either. But I’m crying too hard to speak. Her kindness is too much to bear.

I peer over her shoulder at my parents. My tears have made everything blurry, but somehow, despite the blur, things are starting to look a whole lot clearer.

TWO WEEKS LATER

T
HE DOORBELL RINGS
. I
T
’
S
A
PPLE
and core, bringing me bags full of
groceries. They’ve been stopping by at least a couple of times a day to check on me. I can’t really say I blame them. My apartment is under twenty-four-hour surveillance, because I saw
the killer’s face—again.

I’ve been racking my brain as to why he might’ve revealed it. Was it because he thought he’d won—because he was convinced he was going to kill me? Or maybe it was his
twisted way of trying to reward me for a job well done.

Whatever the reason, I don’t think he’s going to come after me—at least not for a while anyway. The killer spent years of his life studying me—my choices, my psychology.
But I’m no longer the same person. These past several months have changed me. If he wanted to come after me again, he’d need to discover this new person I’ve become.

“How are you doing today?” Apple asks, sitting across from me on the sofa. Her crumpled expression tells me that she already knows the answer.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “I want to go back to work.”

“Are you sure?” Her dark eyes narrow. “Maybe it’s best to wait a few more weeks.”

“I’m ready.” I need the money. I need to appear normal. I need to show the killer that he didn’t get the best of me.

“Miko’s been asking about you.” She runs her hand over her freshly cut hair spikes. She recently hacked off more than ten inches for Locks of Love. “I think he might have
a crush.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Most people are calling me crazy for going after a killer with little more than a knife. Others are calling me selfish—myself included—for
getting Taylor involved. I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself for letting her come along.

“I wouldn’t be so
unsure
either.” Apple winks.

I love Apple, and I know she means well, but the fact that she thinks I can move on after everything that’s happened just distances us more.

After Parker and I were saved, the police scoped out the August Prep building, but they couldn’t find any traces of Shayla, Frankie, or Garth—aside from the items left in the trunk.
The blood I saw seeping through the door crack in the basement indeed belonged to Taylor, but, like the others, she was nowhere to be found.

What they
were
able to find? A bunch of the audio and video equipment, but none of the footage from that day. The killer had obviously been in a rush, but he knew just what to take. And,
in the end, he got what he wanted—his sequel, right down to the final chase scene where the heroine faced her opponent.

The school’s become a crime scene, not to mention a hot spot for Dark House series fans seeking a little thrill, eager to learn more about the legend of Ricky Slater. The good news: Though
they won’t reveal his identity, the police assure me that they know who the killer is. Now it’s just a matter of finding him.

The police also have Natalie’s testimony—for whatever it’s worth. She claims that Parker was the only other survivor she saw during her time in captivity, and that, according
to Harris, the bodies of Frankie, Shayla, and Garth are buried in a sinkhole somewhere in South Dakota. “Taylor’s body will be dumped too,” she told police. “That is if you
don’t find it first; Harris doesn’t think you will.”

Even though, so far, Harris has proven correct on pretty much all accounts, I’m still holding on to hope, praying that the others are somewhere out there still.

Core lifts a pot of something heavy onto the stove. “Apple and I stopped by the diner earlier,” he says. “Miko made you a batch of his famous chicken gumbo soup.”

“I’ll have to call him to say thank-you.” I force a smile—and not because I don’t think the gesture was incredibly sweet. I’m just not sure I’m capable
of spontaneous smiles anymore.

“Dr. Donna called the house earlier,” Apple says. “She’d love to start seeing you again.”

“I’ll call her too.” I smile wider. The irony: I was never into acting before, but ever since the Dark House weekend, it’s become a way of life—a means of survival
even.

I move to the kitchen table and eat a bowlful of soup, forcing down each bite, hoping I’m playing a convincing role.

Once they finally leave, I head into the bedroom. Beside my bed is the box of letters from Parker. After the police found Parker and me in the woods, I asked an officer to go back to the lake
for my bag. I gave the officer the items I took from the trunk: Garth’s skull necklace, Shayla’s glasses, Frankie’s sheet music, Natalie’s scarf and wig. But I kept
Parker’s box of letters for myself, because I didn’t want it to get taken away.

Parker has my letters too—the ones I wrote to him and mailed to myself. I packaged them all up before he flew back home. We’ve been talking every night since he left, and texting a
few times a day. He says he can’t wait to get back here and see me again. Part of me can’t wait either—the part that still holds on to hope.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and run his bracelet over my cheek, remembering our first kiss—on the deck, holding hands, facing one another; the warmth of his breath against my skin, a
hot buttery heat spilling across my thighs.

I gaze at the wall—at the giant, mural-size posters (cityscapes of Paris and Nice) that hang from a curtain rod I was able to rig. I get up and unclip them, revealing hundreds of pieces of
paper—maps and charts and graphs I’ve made; a wall covered in conclusions I’ve drawn, questions I have, facts I know, pictures I’ve found, hours I’ve spent trying to
get into the mind of a killer.

He may be a step ahead right now, but he won’t be for long. The heroine always wins in the end.

The End

I’
VE TAKEN UP RUNNING AS
a way to clear my head—perhaps the very best form of therapy. When I’m running, there’s nothing else.
My thoughts clear. My worries flee. With the wind combing through my hair and the warmth of the sun against my cheeks, I imagine myself like an animal—wild, free, unstoppable.

My birth mother often joins me on my runs. I know that probably sounds crazy, but sometimes I’m even able to catch a hint of her lilac perfume. She may’ve passed on seven years ago,
but she’s never far from my side—I know that now. The Nightmare Elf was right about one thing: sometimes it’s the things that scare us most that teach us the biggest lessons.

I inhale the smells around me—of freshly cut grass, morning rain, tree bark, and lilacs—and I listen to the birds chirp. It’s only when I feel my legs betray me that I start to
head back.

I’m just about home now. My aunt’s car is parked in the driveway. She hasn’t left for work yet. I slow my pace, moving up the walkway, noticing a large envelope sticking out
from my mailbox. I take it. My name and address are printed across the front. It was postmarked in Canada, but there’s no return address.

I unlock the door to my apartment and then lock it back up—three bolts, plus a chain, and a chair propped beneath the knob.

I unload the pockets of my jacket first—chewing gum, pepper spray, a knife, my cell phone—and then I sit down on the edge of the couch and tear the envelope open.

There’s a book inside. It’s navy blue, hardcover, with a torn spine and gold trim. My heart begins to pound, because I’ve seen this book before—in Ricky’s room, on
the bedside table, when I left the suicide note.

There’s a tiny lock for a key.

I reach into my bag and search for the key ring from that night; I’ve been keeping it tucked inside a zippered compartment. I pluck it out and insert the smaller key into the lock. It
turns. I open it up. The words T
HE
P
ROPERTY OF
E.W. G
RADE
7, A
UGUST
P
REPARATORY
S
CHOOL
are printed on the inside cover.

The doorbell rings.

I look toward the windows. The blinds are drawn. Apple and Core are at work. My aunt is going to be late if she hasn’t already left. Who else could it be?

My pulse racing, I stuff the book beneath the sofa and go to the door. I peek through the peephole, almost unable to believe who’s standing there, suitcase in tow.

I remove the chair, unlock the bolts, retract the chain, and open the door wide.

“Hey,” Natalie says.

“Hey.” I smile—probably my first genuine one in weeks.

Natalie looks the best I’ve seen her yet. Her eyes are no longer red and swollen; they’re a brilliant shade of blue, made more dramatic with inky-black lashes. Her hair is different
too. It’s been cut super-short, about an inch long all over.

Without another word, I move closer to give her a hug. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, and we melt into each other’s embrace. There’s so much I want to say—so much I need to
know. Aside from a couple of texts back and forth to share our contact info, we haven’t seen each other or spoken since the night of our escape (and our brief overlap at the hospital).

Our embrace breaks. Our eyes lock.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her. “Over a thousand miles from home.”

“They just don’t get me. I guess they never did. But that’s okay.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’ll be okay.”

I bite my lip, remembering calling her house during the Dark House weekend. Natalie’s mother picked up, and when I told her how troubled Natalie was and asked for her understanding, all
she gave me was anger and resentment.

“Do you think I could maybe stay here for a while?” The words come out shaky. Her face turns bright pink.

Maybe, like me, she isn’t used to being vulnerable. And maybe, like her family, I don’t understand her either. But still we share something pretty significant in common, and maybe
that’s more than enough for now. I take her bag and invite her inside.