Authors: Jennifer Walkup
Then Vaughn’s at the curb, and I’m in the front seat, eyes trained on the floor until we’re blocks past the bunny carcasses.
“Lange?” Tentative.
“Okay.” Deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was just, so, I don’t know, unexpected. And disgusting. And sad. And everything else today … ” I shake my head. “Did anyone know we were coming down here?”
“Uh—no one. Who do you think I would tell about this?” It’s then I notice how tightly he’s gripping the steering wheel. And how fast he’s driving.
“Okay, okay. We both need to chill. Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere,” I say, pointing to a sign. “Take this exit.”
Eventually we hit a fast food drive through and pull into a spot in the back, under the brightest streetlamp, by my insistence.
I pick at my French fries and stare out the window. “Okay, here’s the story. In Ginny’s diary, she wrote about the same thing happening. She found five dead rabbits under her window. Thing is, the entry was dated five days before her murder.”
The air in the car is heavy with my words.
“So you think someone is giving us another message? About Ginny and Beau?”
“Not sure,” I say. “It doesn’t make sense. She’s been dead eighty something years, right? Why would someone care? And more, how would someone know about us coming down here tonight?”
“Unless we were followed.” He looks in his rearview. “So what happened next?”
“Next?”
“After the rabbits? What came next in the diary?”
“Next was the violin entry. That’s as far as I got.”
He motions to my bag. “Well, let’s hear it.”
But I don’t move, can barely think about what happened next in the diary. Because something Vaughn said sparked an idea.
“Beau!” I say. “We don’t know what happened to him. We were so caught up in Ginny’s death, we never considered him. They had this achingly perfect romance, right? And then she was murdered. So what happened to him? Where is Beau? No one ever said.”
“Good point.”
“Okay,” I say. “First things first, we’ll hit the old yearbooks tomorrow and find out his last name. After that, we can look up what happened to him. How did we not think of this yet?” I slap my forehead.
“Maybe because we didn’t even know about you and Ginny as of yesterday.”
I nod, shoving a few more fries in my mouth and take a big gulp of soda.
“Okay.” I reach for the diary, a wave of dread swelling as I open to the last entry I read the night before. “Here goes.”
I
READ TO
him on the way home.
August 26
Things are getting stranger than I could have imagined. After the rabbits yesterday, when I made a big screaming mess of myself, Mother told me to stop being dramatic. Can you imagine! I didn’t dare tell her about this morning. A few minutes ago, I was out back. I wanted to stand in the spot where the rabbits were. It’s weird, I know, but I felt like it was a tribute to them. Well, I didn’t expect that in that spot, on the side of the house, just beneath my window, four x’s had been drawn, right at my height. They weren’t huge, each about the size of my hand. But they were drawn in blood. It was bright red and still wet too. Why I put my finger in it, I’ll never know, I just thought it would be dry or paint or, well, I’m not sure what. But it was slippery. It was recent. And then the darn rain came and they were gone. I think today I will tell my love. He’ll know what to do. He always does. He’ll figure out exactly what kind of person would do this. And why! I’ll write later. Have to get to school now
.
I hold the diary against my lap with trembling hands. “Blood on the side of her house! How is she so calm about it, writing in her diary? I would freak!”
Vaughn taps the steering wheel and stares at the road ahead. But I can tell his thoughts are somewhere else.
“Go on,” he says. “Keep reading.”
August 26
Telling him was the best thing I’ve ever done. Unlike Mother, he didn’t tell me to stop being dramatic. He did, however, think we should lay low a bit. With everything else we’ve been dreaming about. Let’s slow down, he said, what’s the rush? And he’s right. He had a gleam in his eye though, when I cried against him. He soothed me all the right ways, hugs and kisses and promises in my ear. But there was anger in his eyes. Whoever is behind this, I know he’ll find out
.
I guess I shouldn’t worry. I can’t help it though. And I shouldn’t even say it, shouldn’t think it, as he told me today. What if this has something to do with that other stuff? We’ve been reading about that killer and he’s been playing detective, trying to figure things out. But from all the way out here in Shady Springs, who would ever know? Now I fear Mother’s right and I am being paranoid. I need to focus elsewhere and ignore the sick prankster
.
“Killer? What killer?” Vaughn flips on his signal and switches lanes.
“Don’t you remember? She mentioned something, in one of the letters. Some murderer. Damn, I can’t remember.” I reach for the letters, but Vaughn waves his hand.
“Just read the next entry. What happened to her next?”
I turn the page, the old paper crinkling in my hands.
August 27
Three horse tails. In the yard this morning. No blood, no sign of violence, but still. Three long tails
.
I ran to the barn first, flying in and out of the stables. But all our gals and guys were there, looking fine and intact. Thank God
.
So what does that mean? Five rabbits, four blood x’s and now three tails. Who is playing this prank and is it a countdown? Sure feels like it. But to what?
I close my eyes and let the book fall closed.
Vaughn’s hand slides over mine as we come to a stop at a red light. He gnaws on his bottom lip.
“Keep going,” he says. “We have to know what comes next.”
August 27
Okay. Now, I feel like I’m losing my mind and I’m torn – so torn! When you have a fella like I do, intent on becoming a big shot detective someday, you expect maybe he’d help in a situation like this. But when I told him about the horse tails, he became so quiet. He calmed me down, but he refused to let me call the police. At first I thought he was just being stubborn, but it’s something else completely. And I’m scared. The look on his face. And oh, the things he said! I’m not sure what he’s gotten mixed up in or who’s doing this, but he knows something he’s not saying and he pleaded with me tonight. He begged and pleaded and said absolutely no authorities. No police. No Mother. He asked me to trust him and I do. I trust he’ll do what he can, but who is this terrible person we’re dealing with?
I’m breathless with Ginny’s fear, laid out on these pages this way. And my own, running rampant through me like a fever.
“What did you know, Beau? What didn’t you tell her?” I murmur as I turn the page.
The next page isn’t dated. It’s just a few lines, written in handwriting I can barely read, scribbled as though she was shaking when she wrote them.
I
DIDN’T THINK
it would come to this. I’m finding it so hard to keep my promise of not calling the police. Maybe I’m foolish, and the way he spoke to me tonight, yelling at me for getting upset, acting erratic and crazed when I mentioned the police. Something is going on and he won’t tell me, but maybe I don’t want to know, especially if it is about those darn Sweeney murders! I just want it behind us. Whatever it is
.
“Sweeney murders!” Vaughn swerves. “Sweeney murders?”
Sell. Her. Sweeney
.
Sweeny murders.
There it is. The second half of the words that have been haunting us.
First, Edith Sellers. And now this. The Sweeney murders.
I try and untangle the facts. “What does it mean? What does one have to do with the other? And why the hell was Beau acting like that? What did he know? What was he mixed up in?”
Vaughn can only shake his head.
When I turn the page, a blank sheet stares up at me, its emptiness like a slap. I flip quickly, but I already know. The rest of the book is empty.
I’m hollow inside, as empty as these pages.
“That was the last entry,” I say. “The last words Ginny ever wrote before she and her family were murdered.”
I’
M GOING TO
be way late for school.
I take too long getting dressed, then run around my house and yard looking for red, bloody X’s. Once I’ve checked every single inch on the outside of the house, I hit the first floor hard, searching inside cabinet doors, above fireplaces and along the plank floors. I search the second and third floors thoroughly, opening every bedroom and bathroom door and even looking under the rugs. I’ve already searched my room, but I do it again, just in case. Desperate really, for some clue I may have missed.
The first bell rings as I walk through the front doors, rushing to English. I’m so happy there were no bloody letters in or on my house, I don’t even mind being late.
I slide into my seat and hang my coat on the back of my chair. Still no Mrs. Mantoney, which is really no surprise.
I know I’m being kind of ridiculous. No one says we’re going to follow Ginny’s path. Or Beau’s—whatever it was. And as for the Sweeney murders, well … I try not to let it twist too much in my mind. Not until we get the facts. Plus, there’s still Edith to find. But we’ll do it all today. We’ll finally make the connections we’ve been searching for.
Sell. Her. Sweeney
.
I sigh, wondering why every time we decide to walk away from Ginny and Beau’s past, something falls into our lap, dragging us back into it. But that’s beside the point. There was no blood this morning. No creepiness at my house. We are
not
following
the events of a dead girl’s diary. Even if that dead girl happens to be me.
“Did you hear?” Ben leans over my desk and I jump, blinking until I’m back in reality.
“Huh?”
“A Hunt clue has been leaked!” His grin is stretched so wide he resembles the joker from the Batman movies. He wiggles his eyebrows and laughs.
“Did you drink too many Frappuccinos or something?”
He ignores my comment, rattling on like Kelly does when she’s on a roll. “Apparently they’re kicking the night off at the community center downtown, which is when Purgatory will play. First time ever they’re doing it this way. It’s going to be some type of scavenger hunt.”
I yawn. I could use a Frappuccino myself.
“You’re coming right?”
“I guess so,” I mumble just as Mrs. Mantoney finally comes into the room. When Ben turns away, I let out a breath. Saved by the teacher.
Who has time to think about The Hunt murder when there’s a real mystery to figure out?
W
HEN THE BELL
rings, Kelly’s waiting outside our classroom.
“Hey!” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “What’s up?”
“Hey yourself.” I try to act natural, but it’s not easy. After the way we left things last time, everything about us feels awkward now, even the way the three of us push together through the mass of people in the between-classes rush. I’m tempted to ask if she’s only my friend when Stace isn’t around, but her genuine smile tells me she’s sorry.
“So, how’s the costumer stuff going?” I pull loose scraps from my notebook’s spiral, scanning the hall for Vaughn.
“Pretty good. They’re running auditions this week. Once the cast is set I’ll really be able to go nuts.”
“But of course she’s done amazing stuff already,” Ben says.
“As if he knows.” Kelly giggles. “Anyway, I could show them to you sometime, if you want to meet me during a free period?”
“Sure,” I say. Like I have time for this. “I can come during my Motions class tomorrow. I have that extra creative period.”
We stop, finally in front of my locker.
“Lange?”
I wait, fingers on my combination lock.
“I think it’ll blow over,” she says quietly. “Just give her some more time.”
Keeping my eyes trained on the floor, I nod. With a last squeeze of my arm, she’s gone, pulling Ben behind her.
“Later, Lange!” He calls over his shoulder.
For a second, I almost feel like things are normal. Or a millisecond. Or however long it takes me to open my locker, where I find an envelope taped inside the door, with big scrolling letters, just like Vaughn described on the one in his mailbox.
I don’t breathe or think or turn away.
I just stare, the top shelf of my locker tilting in my vision. Wobbling.
Written in those big red letters is one word: Lange.
And inside the envelope, four terrifying photographs.
T
HE ENVELOPE IS
heavy, ivory with a textured linen finish, the writing way fancier than any I’ve ever seen. Tucked inside are four pictures that terrify me, filling me with bottled up screams and a deep sense of horrible things closing in. Yet all morning, I can’t stop looking at them.
At lunch, I drop the package with a thud on top of the books Vaughn has spread across the corner library table.
He looks up. “Well hello to you too.”
I gesture to it. “Is it the same writing?”
His expression answers for him, mouth pulled tight.
“Open it.” My voice trembles.
Disbelief and fear mingle on his face as he flips through the pictures.
“Found them in my locker.” I drop into my chair. My stomach, which has been churning all day, really kicks up now.
“How recent is this?” He asks.
I look over my shoulder before leaning closer. “She was wearing that same nightgown this morning. And that smudge on her chin, see it,” I point. “It’s from her attic excavation last night. I’m almost positive that was there this morning, too. I’m pretty sure these were taken last night.”
His eyes dart around the library as if we’re being watched.
I put the pictures away, but there’s no way to erase the images from my mind. The first photo is of my back door, swinging open in the dark, the kitchen lit only by moonlight, shapes and
shadows lurking. The second a picture of the north stairs, leading up to the third floor. It was taken from the second floor landing, the cracked window in the bottom corner of the photo, a shadow stretched along the stairs. The third is a big, bulky hand, wearing a dark leather glove.