Silver is for Secrets (4 page)

But, once again, I barely sleep at all. I end up tossing and turning in bed all night, even waking up Amber and Drea a couple times.

As soon as I feel myself start to nod off, the tightness in my chest, like piano wire, reminds me how stressed I am, how much there is at stake. I mean, if I don‟t figure all of this out, Clara could seriously die—just like Veronica Lee-man, almost two years ago now; just like Maura, three years before that. The premonitions I‟d had involving them had been tel ing but, in Maura‟s case, I ignored the nightmares and they came true. In Veronica‟s case, I wasn‟t able to figure everything out in time. The result—two girls dead, and me scared to death that another might die.

I press my eyes closed and roll over in bed, thinking how this is just like what happened to Jacob last year, how he was having premonitions about a stranger—

me—but he still felt compelled to put his life to the side and help. And what if he hadn‟t? Would I even be here right now?

I have to help Clara; there‟s real y no other choice.

As a result, I‟ve decided to start early this morning. I grab a few spel supplies and head out for a walk. I just need to be alone right now, though the throngs of people starting to fill up the beach despite the early hour, dragging their towels, beach chairs, and coolers full of soda onto the sand, is making that a bit difficult.

Still, I keep close to the water, trudging along through the wet sand as it tugs at my feet, trying to concentrate on the lapping of the water and not the voices of the tourists all around me.

I keep hearing that other voice, though. Clara‟s voice, warning me not to tell. But tell who? Or what?

The icy feeling returns to my fingers just thinking about Clara. I do my best to shake it off, but it just won‟t let me go. The chil travels up my arm and over my shoulder, hugging around the right side of my neck. It must be at least eighty-five degrees out here, but still I pull my sweater tightly around me in fear of icing over completely.

When I feel I‟ve gotten far enough away from the clusters of people, I sink down into the wet sand and breathe the salt air in, doing my best to calm this nervous feeling inside me. I look up toward the sun, knowing that if I focus enough on its energy, I‟l be able to concentrate on what‟s important.

Clara.
I repeat her name over and over again and then write it out in the thick, wet sand with my finger. I picture the sun‟s rays beaming down over her name and over me, opening up the channels of clear thought. And it works, to a point—my hand, arm, and neck are a little less tingly, less cold.

From the pocket of my sweater I grab the few spel supplies I‟ve brought along—

an old perfume bottle I‟ve been saving, a purple pen, and a slip of paper. The bottle has been bathed in the moonlight, left on my windowsill for two complete moon cycles. I remove its cork and position it on the sand before me, imagining the warm ocean air filtering in through the mouth; the heat of the sun, like fire, washing over the glass. I uncap the purple pen and, on the slip of paper, write the words DON‟T

TELL ANYONE, hoping the purple color will help promote psychic awareness.

I slip the paper into the bottle and top it off with elements of earth and water—a palmful of saltwater from the ocean and a sprinkling of sand from the beach. I cork the bottle and hold it out to the wind. “O Spirit, Spirit, I beg of thee to help me see with clarity. I offer you earth, wind, and sea, and pray that you wil answer me.” I kiss the bottle and then throw it out into the ocean as far as my strength will allow. It collides with a wave and gets swallowed up for a couple seconds, but then it bobs its way back up to the surface. The incoming tide pushes the bottle toward my feet.

I throw it out again, harder this time, but it comes back just the same. Instead of plucking it out of the water, I decide to just let the bottle swim along with the incoming tide. Maybe instead of relying so heavily upon my spells, I should trust my instincts more. Right now my instincts are telling me that I need to find Clara.

I distinctly remember Clara mentioning that her place is a few houses down from ours—to the left, I think.

There‟s a cottage to the left that looks pretty tame—beach chairs stacked neatly on the porch, a portable grill tucked away in the corner, seashell-shaped wind chimes hanging down over the stairs. I‟m thinking this is the place since I also remember her saying that she‟s here with her parents and not a flock of beerguzzling fraternity boys. It appears as though the frat guys have taken up at least three or four of the houses to the right of us.

I climb the stairs and knock on the door. It creaks open slightly from the impact, like it wasn‟t quite closed. I hold it shut and try knocking again.

Still no response.

“Hel o?” I cal into the door crack. The seashel wind chimes jingle just behind me, forcing me to remember that I heard the same sound in my nightmare. “Clara?” I call, edging the door open a bit wider.

I close my eyes a moment and concentrate on the jingling. But then I hear something else. It‟s coming from inside—a high-pitched, beeping sound. I push the door open farther. “Clara? Are you in here?”

It‟s dark in the living room; al the shades are pul ed down. There‟s a clamoring noise coming from one of the rooms, like someone‟s struggling with something. I open the door even wider and take a step inside, noticing that the layout of this cottage is exactly like ours. The living room and kitchen are connected, like one big open area. I move toward the short, narrow hallway and the bedrooms that branch off it.

But now it‟s just quiet. And dark—the only light available is what‟s coming in through the door I entered, and the farther I get away from it, the darker it gets. I peer over my shoulder at the door, thinking how maybe I should go and get help, but all I can focus on are those stupid wind chimes—and the thought that Clara might be in trouble. I call her name yet again.

Still no response.

I move toward the bedroom to the right and place my ear up to the door. But it‟s just quiet, al except for my heart; it‟s pounding hard inside my chest. I place my hand over the doorknob, half thinking that it‟s going to be locked, but instead it turns. And I go in.

It‟s even darker in here—too dark to see. I feel over the walls for a light switch, but can‟t seem to find one. I move toward the center of the room, my arms outstretched, and end up tripping over something hard, a footstool maybe.

A loud cracking sound comes from out in the living room, like the front door has been shut. But maybe it‟s just the wind. I bite the inside of my cheek and tel myself this is so, that the breezy ocean air drew the door closed, that no one‟s here, that in a few seconds I can just sneak back out.

But then I hear footsteps, the sound of floorboards creaking in this direction. I stand behind the door and hold my breath to keep from gasping out.

“Hel o?” whispers a male voice, one I don‟t recognize.

I close my eyes and try to picture myself someplace else.

“Come on out,” he sings. “I don‟t bite.”

I clench my teeth and ball myself up in the corner just as the light in the room flicks on, making everything red. I look up toward the ceiling at the red light bulb that shines down over what is obviously a darkroom. There‟s a clothesline hung at the back of the room with pictures attached to it, a large workstation set up with bins for solutions, and racks lining the walls.

I can hear him breathing from the other side of the door. Clutching the crystal and wil ing Jacob‟s strength to assist me, I close my eyes and silently count to twenty, praying that he won‟t come al the way in, that he‟l close the door back up and go. I peer around the room for a window. There‟s one in the far corner, but it looks as though it‟s been boarded up.

The light flicks off a few seconds later and he leaves, just like that, drawing the door closed behind him. I wait a few seconds, listening at the wall as his footsteps travel down the hallway and into the living room. And then I hear the front door slam closed as though he‟s left.

I leave too. I get up, open the door just enough to allow me through, and move down the hallway as quickly and quietly as possible. I go to the living room door, but the knob won‟t turn. I twist the lock until it clicks and try the door again. Stil locked.

“Where are you going so soon?” a voice asks from just behind me.

I turn around. He‟s standing just a few feet away, but it‟s stil so dark. The only light is coming in through the kitchen window.

“We haven‟t even met,” he continues.

He‟s older, maybe thirty or fortyish, with a face ful of hair—a thick and wiry honey-colored beard and a moustache that sticks out on both sides.

“I have to go. I‟m so sorry. I‟ve made a mistake.” My jaw is shaking.

“Let me help you.” He stretches his arms and lets out a giant yawn, like he just woke up.

“I was just looking for someone. I‟ve made a mistake,” I repeat.

“Who?” he asks, taking a step closer toward me. He‟s wearing a pair of paintsplattered jeans with an old and ratty T-shirt.

“No one.” My hands behind my back, I try turning the lock the other way. I pul the knob, but it stil doesn‟t budge.

“Trick lock,” he says, smiling at me. He grabs at his facial hair, giving it a good tug. “Stay a while. Let me take your picture.” He moves over to the sofa to grab his camera just as I pul on the knob and turn the lock, remembering how that‟s the way the trick lock works at my aunt‟s house.

It works. The doorknob twists, enabling me to open it, to fly out the door and down the steps.

When I get a safe distance away, I turn to glance back. He‟s stil standing there, still watching me.

I boot it down the beach strip, eager to get away from him—from his stare and the way he made me feel, like a victim waiting to happen.

My heart is still hammering; all I can think about is what would have happened if I didn‟t get out, what he would have done. Needless to say, it probably wasn‟t a good idea that I went in there in the first place. It‟s just that those wind chimes, the sound of them jingling just behind me on the porch, reminded me so much of my nightmare.

When I feel I‟ve gotten far enough away, I stop to catch my breath, to rol my shoulders back and remind myself that I need to find Clara. I‟ve practical y walked this entire beach strip with the ful intention of looking for her, but I haven‟t been looking at all.

I take a deep breath and start to backtrack toward our cottage, keeping focused the whole time. There are tons of people sunning themselves on the beach. But I don‟t see Clara anywhere.

“Hey, sexy girlfriend,” a voice shouts toward me.

Amber.

I look up and see her piggybacking one of the frat guys around on their back porch; it looks like her legs could snap off at any moment.

“I am
so
glad to see you,” I shout, heading over to join them.

“Rough morning?” she asks.

“The roughest.”

“Details?”

“Later,” I say, noticing how Frat Boy is hovering, quite literal y, over her shoulder.

“Hey there,” he says, extending a leg toward me as though I‟m supposed to shake it. “I‟m Sul y.”

“And I‟m Stacey,” I say, looking at the scab on his knee, deciding that the last thing I want to do is touch his sweaty skin.

“That‟s Casey over there.” Sully points with his foot to the guy sitting on the ground in the corner, drinking from a cozy and looking off toward the beach. I didn‟t even notice him there. Though it doesn‟t appear as though he notices me either.

He hasn‟t looked up from the beach once. I peer in the same direction to see what he‟s hawking at. As if I needed to ask.

It‟s Drea. She and Chad have set up camp at the shoreline, complete with beach blanket, cooler, and tilty umbrel a. They‟re goading each other to jump into the water

—Drea in a two-piece, stringy number and Chad in a pair of swim trunks that go down to his knees.

“So,” Amber says, practical y beaming like a kagil ion-watt bulb, “notice anything?”

“What?”

“Double trouble.”

“Huh?” I feel my face curl up in cluelessness.

“Or double the fun—depending how you look at it.”

“Um, what are you talking about?”

“Sul y and Casey are twins.” She‟s practical y birthday-party clapping now.

I look back and forth at the two guys—brownish hair, dark eyes, round faces, same slender build with long, wiry legs.

“Isn‟t that the coolest?” she gleams.

Absolutely thrilling,
I think to myself. I nod and fake a smile in an effort to feign enthusiasm.

“There‟s an overnight cruise Thursday night. One of their frat brother‟s fathers owns a party-cruise company.”

“It‟s a fundraiser,” Sul y explains. “The boat wil leave at night, anchor for a few hours, and then we‟l be back by morning.”

“And it‟s only a hundred bucks per room,” she continues. “If we al pool our money . . .”

“We‟ve capped it off at four per room.”

Amber arches her eyebrows, probably doing the math, probably picturing herself finding alternative sleeping arrangements. But since I hardly feel like arguing with her about some overnight fratboy drink-fest, I nod a few more seconds, waiting for the moment to pass. “So have any of you seen that Clara girl around here?” I ask.

“Clara?” Casey perks up.

“Yeah, you know her?” I ask.

“Not real y,” he says. “Why are you looking for her?”

“Because I want to talk to her.” I can hear a twinge of irritation in my voice.

“Why?”

Why?
Try none of your freaking business. I stifle the thought with yet another plastic smile.

“She was around here a little while ago, but then she took off.” Casey looks back out toward the beach.

“He
made
her go,” Sul y says.

“I didn‟t make anyone go anywhere.”

“Tel ing her to get lost is a funny way to show it.”

“Whatever,” Casey says, taking another sip from his cozy. “I‟m just sick of her always trying to hang on us.”