“So they changed the spelling of the character’s name,” Wyatt said.
“But she doesn’t say what the movie was called.” My voice sounded slightly frantic. “How could she not say what it was called?”
Wyatt reached over and scrolled farther down the page to the comments. The first one, from someone called “G.A. Green,” read: Fascinating. What was the movie called?
And Paige P. had replied: The Final Honeymoon. It had a different working title, but I don’t know what that was, sorry!
We Googled The Final Honeymoon, but nothing came up. Interest in the project vanished when Diana Del Mar died. It was strange to think that even the stuff that was really important to a huge, famous movie star could disappear forever, except in dusty old copies of Hollywood tabloids.
“We need to get in touch with this Paige Pollan person and see what else she knows,” Wyatt said. “This is a solid lead.”
“I’m not denying that it seems significant,” I said. “But how does it connect to the murders? Is the killer going to use this scene? Does the ghost somehow know that?”
“That would break the pattern,” Wyatt said. “This screenplay never became an actual movie.”
I breathed into my balled-up hand. “Are we ignoring the obvious answer?”
“That Diana Del Mar is the ghost?” he asked.
I nodded. “And she knows something about the killer.”
“No. Let’s not ignore it. Let’s look into it. Maybe when you get home you could …”
“I could what?” I asked, even though I knew what he was going to say.
“Ask her?”
I bit down on my knuckle and stared out at the dark blue of the morning sky. “Oh, goodie.”
“In the meantime, let’s try to find out more about the movie itself. That’s obviously an important part of her message to you. Even if we know who she is, we’d better find out what she wants.”
“All right,” I said, going back to the blog. “Fine. I’ll ask the ghost what she wants. And I’ll email Paige.”
“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” Wyatt asked. “My mom is addicted to paying for designer water. For every four million bottles they sell they adopt an elephant or something. I’d be happy to bring you a bottle.”
“No, thanks,” I said. As he left, I opened a new-message window in my email.
I kept it simple: I read your blog about Diana Del Mar and her project The Final Honeymoon. I have some specific questions and wondered if you’d be willing to talk to me over the phone. If so, my number is 323-555-8333. Thank you for your time.
I hit SEND and sat back, looking around Wyatt’s room and trying to picture him there. It was simple and spare, but if you looked closer, you saw some personal touches — a stack of books in the corner, a small movie poster, artfully framed.
There was more to it than there seemed to be at first glance.
Kind of like Wyatt himself.
He came back, carrying a glass of water.
I read him the email I had sent Paige Pollan, and he nodded in approval, but he was distracted.
“All right,” I said. “Let me have it.”
He looked perplexed. “What?”
“Whatever it is you want to tell me, but were holding back on before,” I said.
He frowned, then kind of smiled. Then frowned again. “Well, last night, I … How do I say this? … I figured something out. Something that I think you’ll be interested to know.”
“Great.” I sat back in my chair, expecting to hear him gleefully recount that Leyta Fitzgeorge actually had a long criminal history or something. “Hit me.”
He looked nervous, which was unusual.
It made me a little nervous.
Then he spoke. “A normal, healthy adult won’t have a heart attack from an isolated burst of anger.”
“What?” I said, almost laughing. It was so random….
And then the words sank in, and it wasn’t random anymore.
“Wait,” I said. “What?”
“Your dad.” His smile was long gone. “I know what you think happened, but you’re wrong. You didn’t kill him.”
It was like my body had turned to stone. My voice had turned to stone, too. “What do you know about my dad, Wyatt?”
“Um,” he said, “I overheard Leyta last week … when she said his name. So I Googled him, and saw how he … he … passed away.”
With every word, he seemed to be growing sorrier and sorrier that he’d brought it up. But, because he was Wyatt, he kept pushing forward.
“The morning of May sixteenth,” he said. “When you guys were at the YMCA for your regular morning … swim.”
He’d caught sight of my face. I don’t know, honestly, what he saw there. I wasn’t really occupying my own body at the moment. I felt like I’d been launched into outer space without warning. Or oxygen.
Unwisely, he took my silence as a cue to continue. “You had a big argument about something, and the desk clerk saw you storm out of the natatorium —”
“What is a natatorium?” I asked, my voice low.
“A room with a swimming pool.” He waited to see if I’d ask anything else.
I did not.
“And after you went back in, she heard you screaming for help, and then she ran in and saw your …” It was like he couldn’t stop. It was like he was a machine, a heartless, cold, meaningless creature whose only actual purpose is to spew information, and if he stopped, he’d short-circuit and explode. “She saw your dad. And then the ambulance came, but it was too late. It was a heart attack. And you blame yourself, and that’s why you’re so afraid to be angry.”
I let my stare slide from his face to the floor.
“But it couldn’t have been your fault,” Wyatt said. “Healthy adults don’t have heart attacks provoked by anger or stress. That’s not a normal physiological response to —”
“Enough.” The word was like a concrete wall, twelve feet thick. “Enough, Wyatt. Stop.”
“I’m … sorry,” he said.
“All right,” I said. “You’re sorry. Great. Just do me one favor.”
“Okay.”
“Never speak to me again.”
“But …”
I turned away. My eyes burned like they were fighting back a million tears, but the rage inside me was so hot that the tears vaporized. I felt pressure in my face, and electrical currents flooding my fingers with every thump of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sounding helpless. “I thought you’d want to know.”
I stood abruptly. “I should have listened to Marnie,” I said. “She told me you were a stalker. But I thought, nah, maybe she misunderstood something you said or did — maybe she was exaggerating.”
The light had gone out of Wyatt’s eyes. He stared up at me, but he didn’t answer.
“Here it is,” I said. “Proof. She was right. I must be the dumbest person on the planet. I was actually starting to trust you, Wyatt. I thought we were … friends or something.”
He didn’t say a single word.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
Somehow, I got out of his room and down the stairs and out the front door without losing my mind. And then somehow I made it home and ran upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom before Mom could see the look on my face.
In my room, I melted to the floor and stared at the ceiling.
And somehow — but I don’t know how — I didn’t die of a broken heart.
The next couple of days passed in a dull blur. At school, I wouldn’t even look at Wyatt. He followed my instructions and didn’t try to talk to me, either. At home, the ghost was mercifully silent, which was good, because my nerves were down to their last gasp.
My investigation had been on hold since Sunday morning, but I knew I couldn’t pretend the calm was going to last forever. Regardless of my feelings about Wyatt, I had to figure out what was going on in the house.