A blend of emotions swept across Wyatt’s face: disappointment, curiosity, and stubbornness. But his voice was utterly blank when he said, “A ghost … in your house.”
“A ghost,” I repeated. “In my house. Want me to say it again?”
“No. Thanks.” He started to turn away. “Good luck with that.”
“Wait,” I said, grabbing the strap of his backpack. “You’re seriously walking away from me right now?”
“Yeah, I’m seriously walking away.” He looked flustered and upset. “I have no idea what you’re doing. For all I know, this is all some bizarre prank that Marnie put you up to … And I’m not playing along anymore.”
“It’s not,” I said. “Marnie wouldn’t —”
“Oh,” he said, and he laughed, a single bleak ha. “Oh, I can assure you, Marnie would.”
“She didn’t!” I said. “Nobody put me up to this — unless you count the stupid ghost who’s giving me horrible visions about the murders and leaving me messages and trying to drown me —”
“A ghost tried to drown you?” he repeated, incredulous.
“In the pool,” I said. “The night I moved in. I went swimming and I couldn’t surface and —”
His eyes went mockingly wide. “Are you sure you actually know how to swim?”
I glared at him, and he shrank back a little. “I’m an excellent swimmer,” I said. “My dad and I used to swim every morning. I know the difference between not knowing how to swim and not being able to swim. Something held me under the water. And I saw —”
He was listening raptly, but I cut myself off. I wasn’t sharing any more with him until he stopped being a jerk, which basically meant never.
“What?” he asked, interested in spite of himself. “What did you see?”
“Never mind,” I said. “I was starting to think maybe you would listen to what I had to say without judging me. But I guess I was wrong.”
“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I just don’t believe you.”
“Fine.” I could feel nervous, angry sweat beading at my hairline.
“Look, I get it,” Wyatt said, startling me — he sounded almost understanding. “You move to a strange new city, into an old, drafty house with a lot of history. You’re feeling uncomfortable in your new family situation, and —”
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
He looked a little hurt. “Trying to talk to you.”
“You’re trying to talk me down from believing in ghosts?” I said.
He seemed vaguely confused about it himself. “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Tell me this — if the psychic is a fraud and I’m hallucinating, why do the things that are happening to me appear on her list?”
“What? Really?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Well … it must be a statistically improbable set of correlations. I can see why you’d find it curious, though — if you’re telling the truth.”
“If I’m telling the truth?” Flabbergasted, I tried to muster what remained of my dignity. “You know what? Forget it. This has been a total waste of energy.”
I was done being insulted and second-guessed. Just when I’d managed to convince myself I might not be insane, now Wyatt was actively trying to persuade me that I was. I wished I hadn’t told him anything.
“Wait,” he said, and the smirk disappeared from his face. Regret flashed through his brown eyes.
I held up my hand to stop him from saying more, and turned to head to class.
But then the world went white.
It must be almost morning. He blindfolded me but I’ve managed to get the blindfold down past the corner of my eye, and I can see a dim, blurry slit of my surroundings.
This is a different place. Not the place where we’ve been rehearsing. The table is set. I can see the roses. They’ve begun to wilt, just the faintest lack of crispness at the edges of the petals. He’s so obsessed with detail, I wonder whether he’ll replace them — and then, my heart drops into a dark, echoless chamber inside me.
He won’t replace them. He doesn’t need to.
Today will be the day.
I’m sure of it on some level I don’t even understand.
He keeps telling me that if I behave, if I do well, he’ll let me go, but that’s a lie. He’s a pretty good actor, but when it comes to outright lies, I can read him like a book. I know I’ve done a great job. Every cue, every mark, every line, I’ve delivered beyond his expectations. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he gets lost in the scene. I’ve been better than good enough.
I’ve been great.
And still, he’ll never, ever let me go.
I know he’ll be back soon, because he never stays away long. He comes and goes, bringing water and food and letting me use the restroom. He’s perfectly hospitable.
I hate him.
What’s more, he hates me. I can tell. I’m not like he thought I was. I’m not quiet and obedient — that was an act to earn his trust. But once I figured out he was lying, something inside me changed. Call it my foolish pride. I couldn’t grovel to someone who was just waiting for the right moment to turn me into another trophy in his case.
Today is the day. I know it in my soul. And part of me is terrified — how could I not be? Every time he comes near me or speaks, something in me turns into a lost, frightened little girl.
I have a plan, though. It’s not an escape plan —
I know better than that. I’m going to die here.
But I’m going to do it on my terms, not his. I’ve already broken his stupid necklace. He hasn’t noticed. I stuffed it in the pocket of the skirt he makes me wear, my costume. Maybe when the police find me — afterward — they’ll find it, and make some kind of connection.
Maybe they’ll catch him, and keep him from doing this to anyone else, and it’ll be because of something I did.
He’s made me sit here at this table, my ankles and wrists bound so I can’t run away, dressed in an old-fashioned skirt and scratchy blouse, with my hair pinned so tightly my scalp feels bruised, and talk about love and Namur and old ladies and apple carts. He’s been in control. It’s all been on his terms.
But tonight is on my terms.
He can take away my ability to run, but not my will to resist.
He can kill me … but he can’t kill my spirit.
I slumped back, hoping I’d run into a wall to lean against, but there wasn’t one.
Wyatt grabbed me a split second before I could tumble to the floor.
“Hey!” he said. “What’s going on? Willa?”
“Stop yelling,” I said, because I didn’t want him attracting attention. “Please. I’m fine.”
Then we were faced with the fact of my being in his arms — a twelve out of ten on the awkwardness scale. I tried to straighten up and pull away, and he held on too long, and thank God nobody was watching.
I fought to steady myself, wanting to be as far from Wyatt as I could get, as soon as I could possibly get there.
“What just happened to you?” he asked. “Was that a seizure?”
“No,” I said, though I’d never actually considered that possibility. “I mean … I don’t think so. I don’t want to talk about it.”