Return to the Dark House (4 page)

I shake my head, glad that he asked. “I threw all of that stuff away—not long after the doctor confiscated my notebook, actually. It was feeding an obsession and keeping me from
moving forward. I can see that now.”

“Do you still feel the need to help solve the case and find the missing victims?”

I shake my head again. “That isn’t up to me. The FBI know what they’re doing. My job is to get better and to get out of here.” The very same words that Detective Thomas
used on me.

“Well, you’ve certainly come a long way.” He eyes me for several seconds, studying my body language and nodding his head.

Meanwhile, I do my best not to swallow too hard or blink too often.

“I’d like to talk to you about the hospital’s outpatient program,” he says, finally. “It’s important that you continue your therapy upon discharge.”

I hold in my elation by squeezing my thighs together. “I’d like that.”

“You’ll be responsible for taking all of your medication. And should you ever feel overwhelmed, or overly stressed, or excessively anxious or fearful about anything, it’s
essential that you tell someone. Before your discharge, we’ll establish a list of go-to people to call. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect.” I flash him another closed smile.

In my room, I celebrate my get-out-of-jail card by packing up my stuff. While my roommate is at her group session, I move to the far wall by my dresser. I peek over my shoulder to make sure no
one’s looking in from the hallway, and then I scoot down by the heat vent and take off the cover. My notebook—a new one—is stuffed inside the duct. I snag it, replace the cover,
and flip the notebook open to the back—to a letter I’m writing to Parker. The pages warm me like a blanket.

I
T
’
S BEEN NEARLY FIVE WEEKS
since my release from the hospital, and a lot of things have changed. For starters, I
didn’t go home to my foster parents. I moved into the basement apartment of Tillie, my foster aunt, just down the street. It’s better this way. More privacy for me. Less potential
danger for them.

For my entire life, no one around me has ever been safe.

“Aunt Tillie has a security system,” Apple reminded me, zipping up my suitcase.

Without any of my things, my room looked like it belonged in a hotel—like a place that one might inhabit for a limited amount of time, which, I suppose, is exactly what I did.

“This will always be your home,” Core insisted, standing in the doorway.

I thanked them, hugged them, and told them I felt the same way. But, all the while, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Things would be easier on my own.

Another thing that’s changed: I’m working now, full-time at the 24-Hour Depot, Apple’s new restaurant in the center of town. I never did end up going to Paris for culinary
school, as I’d been planning for the past three years.

I’m at the Depot right now, working the overnight shift, since it’s not like I get any sleep anyway. One thing this job has taught me: I’m not alone in my insomnia. We have
dozens of regulars who frequent this place, seeking camaraderie in their sleeplessness and solitude.

I pick up my knife, feeling an instant jolt of power, relishing the fit of the handle inside my grip. Using a soup bowl as a guide, I point the tip of the blade into a rolled-out sheet of dough
and cut out a series of disks.

Gretchen, the hostess, pokes her head through the pass-through window, nearly knocking over a plate full of chicken-fried pickles. “Just a little FYI: there’s a heaping hunk of
hotness sitting at table eleven.”

“I’m busy,” I say, eyeing the trays full of pastry dough that I still need to cut.

“Suit yourself.” She pops a pickle into her mouth. “Just trying to keep you in the know. Isn’t that what you said you wanted? Candy and I have dubbed him the sexy
squatter, by the way, because he’s been nursing a cherry Coke and cheese fries for the past two hours.”

I look up from my slicing. “Did you ask him if he wanted anything else?”

“Well, of course, I’m not an amateur.” She rolls her big blue eyes. “But he says he’s happy just sitting.”

“Is he working on a laptop? Or waiting for someone?”

“No. And no. I already asked about that latter one.”

“And you’re sure it’s been two hours?”
Ticktock, ticktock.

She nods and pops another pickle.

The knife still gripped in my hand, I dart out of the kitchen. The dining area is sprinkled with customers—a mixture of regulars, some newbies, and a gaggle of college students pigging out
after a party. “Where?”

“There.” Gretchen nods.

Sitting at the corner booth with his back facing us, Mr. Mystery has slick dark hair and a leather jacket.

“A pretty fine specimen, wouldn’t you say? And that’s just from behind. Wait till you get the full-frontal view.” She gives me an exaggerated wink, revealing a bright red
heart stamped to her shimmery gold eyelid.

I slide the knife into my pocket, blade pointed downward, and then I make my way in his direction. “Can I help you?” I ask, standing at his booth.

He gazes up at me with dark gray eyes and a knowing grin. He looks to be about twenty-something with a tan face covered in stubble. “Well, hey there, Sunshine. When did you get here? I
thought I’d have to wait all night.”

“Do I know you?” I ask, my nerves ignited.

“Well, I’ve been coming in here at least once a week for the past few weeks, and you’ve been here each time, so I’d like to say that you’ve at least
noticed
me.”

“I work in the kitchen.”

“I know. I’ve seen you.” He smiles and licks the salt off his fingers. “Through the kitchen window. Plus you’re always coming into the counter area for something or
other—with fresh plates and silverware or to give out samples of whatever you’ve been whippin’ up back there. Am I right?”

“Do
you
know
me
?”

“I know your name. Does that count...
Ivy
?” He nods to my name tag, making my skin crawl.

I peer over my shoulder at Gretchen. Spying on me from the front counter, she gives me another wink.

“I wouldn’t mind getting to know you,” he continues.

I focus back on him, irritated that I don’t recognize him from his past few visits. Has he been sitting with his back to the counter each time? Or maybe he’s come in with other
people? Though I’m mostly in the kitchen, it’s true that I’m often in the counter area. I like to keep an eye on the people that come in, especially repeat customers.

I gaze up at one of our surveillance cameras, suddenly eager to watch the footage. “Why would you want that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He rolls his eyes, still grinning. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

“The mirror?” I ask, growing more confused by the moment. Does this have something to do with Natalie’s nightmare essay? Her fear of her own reflection?

“Maybe it’s because you’re a princess,” he says.

I give the knife a hard twist, feeling the tip tear through the fabric. “
What did you call me?
”

He looks around, as if someone could possibly help him now. “Did I say something wrong? I called you a princess.”

“Who are you?” I demand. “How do you know me? Did someone send you here?”

“Wait, whoa.” He leans back in his seat.

“How do you know about
princess
?” I snap.

“
Seriously?
” His mouth gapes open.

“Did you read my essay?” I continue. “Is it online somewhere I don’t know about?”

“Okay, um, reality check?” He holds up his hands, as if to stop my words. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“
Liar!
” I shout.

A moment later, someone tugs my arm from behind. I whip the knife out of my pocket, ready to fight.

It’s Gretchen and Candy.

“Holy shit,” Candy mutters, cupping her hand over her mouth.

That’s when I notice.

The attention I’ve drawn.

The stir I’ve caused.

A couple of the college boys stand nearby, ready to pounce. Mrs. Sterling, who lost her husband six months ago and hasn’t been able to get a full night’s sleep since, sits at the
front counter, staring in my direction.

I drop the knife. My face feels fiery.

“What the hell just happened?” Gretchen asks.

The boy who called me princess slides out from the booth. “Don’t ask me. Ask
her
.” He nods at me, tosses a ten-dollar bill onto the table, and heads for the door.

“What happened?” Gretchen demands.

I look out the window, into the parking lot, watching to see which car is his—a Ford pickup, dark blue, tinted windows, trailer hitch on the back. He opens the door, climbs inside, and
starts the ignition.

“I have to go,” I mutter.

“Ivy?” Miko calls, poking his head through the kitchen window.

I know he’s in the weeds right now, elbow-deep in night-owl specials, but I grab my coat from behind the counter. “I’m really sorry,” I tell him. My car keys clenched in
my hand, I bolt out the door.

B
Y THE TIME
I
MAKE
it out to the parking lot, the pickup is already gone. I drive down the main road, searching the streets.
It’s just after three in the morning and the glare from overhead streetlamps cuts across my eyes, making my head ache.

It’s raining out; the droplets beat against my windshield. The sound makes it hard to think. I turn down a narrow road, following a laundry truck, only to discover that
the street is a dead end. The truck parks below a sign that reads S
AL
’
S
C
LEANING.

I look in my rearview mirror. There’s a Dumpster behind me on one side and a stack of milk crates on the other—too narrow for a three-point turn. I go to put the car in reverse, but
then I come to a sudden halt.

Someone’s standing in my headlights, staring straight at me.

The laundry guy.

His driver’s side door is open.

He smiles when he sees I’ve noticed him, seemingly unaffected by the rain. It drips down over his glasses, pastes his hair against his forehead. He looks about fifty years old.

I honk my horn, keeping my palm pressed against it. But he doesn’t move. He just keeps on smiling.

I throw the car into reverse and start to back up, smashing into one of the milk crates. It crunches beneath my wheel.

I stop. And turn to look forward.

The laundry man is gone now. His driver’s side door remains open. There’s a bar across the rear door to the dry cleaner’s; he obviously didn’t go in.

I go to back up again, stepping on the gas, but the car doesn’t move. The engine revs. My heart pounds.

It takes me a second to realize that my gear’s in neutral. I shift to reverse. My tires screech as I back away, fighting to stay straight, rounding the corner, and returning to the main
road.

I drive to the police station, knowing that Detective Thomas isn’t in until six in the morning on Tuesdays. But I pull into the parking lot anyway and check my phone messages. I have three
missed calls from Miko and a text from Apple.

I peek in the rearview mirror. My skin looks pale. My eyes are red and veiny. And my hair’s in a messy heap of mousy-brown on top of my head.
So
far from princess-worthy.

I push the mirror away, pop a couple of my meds (several hours late), and then wait for Thomas’s arrival.

Hours later, I wake up with my cheek pressed against the steering wheel. My neck aches. My mouth is dry. My cell phone vibrates against the dashboard.