Famous Last Words Read online

  I stayed at the edge of the road, where the asphalt met the curb, and kept my head high to listen for oncoming cars. Thanks to the tall shrubs and blind corners, they seemed to sneak up on me at fifty miles an hour. By the time I completed the looping route that took me back to the house, I was panting from the uphill climb, my feet were aching in my flip-flops, and I was totally jumpy from almost being run over about nine times. But at least the walk served its purpose — it took my mind off the Hollywood Killer and Wyatt’s awful notebook.

  I couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes and drink a tall, cold glass of water. I reached for the handle of the heavy wood gate and pulled.

  But the gate was locked.

  I didn’t bother trying the call box, because I knew no one was home. And even if I had my phone with me, there was no point in bugging my mother at the salon.

  The skin on my cheeks felt like it was cooking in the brutal sunlight. My throat was parched. It was so dry here — as Jonathan pointed out once, with his usual misplaced pride, the city of Los Angeles is an actual desert.

  I tried typing numbers into the keypad — 1-2-3-4. 0-7-2-0, Mom’s birthday. 0-2-1-4, Mom and Jonathan’s anniversary. I knew they wouldn’t work, but it was all I could think to do, and I had to do something. Then I just started randomly punching the buttons.

  Finally, I stepped back to assess whether I could climb over the fence. Not a chance. It was eight feet tall, with metal spikes at the top. It went all the way around the property, and the backyard was bordered by a steep ravine that was full of cactuses and probably snakes.

  I was on the verge of crying, but before I could muster a sniffle of self-pity, the gate swung open.

  “Excuse me.” The guy standing there was a couple of years older than me, with messy-on-purpose dark hair and piercing green eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I had no idea who he was.

  “Trying to get in?” I said.

  He stared me down. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you shouldn’t be ‘trying to get in’ to someone else’s private property?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, mortified. “I just moved here and … I must be at the wrong house. I thought I was locked out. I’m sorry.”

  Loser, loser, loser.

  I was about to turn away to find the right house when his green eyes brightened with understanding.

  “Hang on — what’s your name?” he asked.

  “Willa.”

  “Willa?” he repeated. “You’re Willa? Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.”

  He held the gate open, and I hesitated, still unsure as to who he was or what he was doing at the house.

  He gave me a friendly, slightly crooked smile. “I’m Jonathan’s assistant, Reed.”

  This was Jonathan’s assistant? I guess in Hollywood even secretaries look like they could be on TV.

  “I just got a call from the alarm company saying somebody was punching a bunch of random codes into the gate,” Reed explained. “How long have you been stuck out here?”

  Heat and frustration were under my skin like a coating of grit, and I was a little afraid I’d burst out crying if I tried to talk. So I shrugged without making eye contact, and we walked in silence across the front yard.

  “Come on.” He opened the door, and clean, cool air came billowing out of the house. “Let’s get you some water.”

  I followed him to the kitchen, where he filled a glass from the filter next to the sink. After a few gulps, I felt a little more stable. Brave enough to look at him again.

  Holy crab shacks, was he cute.

  “Your name is Reed?” I said. “I’m Willa … but you knew that.”

  He gave a little bow. “Reed Thornton, at your service.”

  The old Willa might have said something flirtatious. Bold. And maybe it would have made me blush, but I would have done it, because I used to do things that were unknown and even a little scary just for the thrill of it.

  But not anymore. I didn’t feel thrilled about anything these days. Not even being in the presence of someone so unbelievably handsome.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry for inconveniencing you.”

  He shook his head, smiling. “I’m an assistant. It’s all part of the job.”

  I tried to smile back, but I was pretty sure that my attempt came out as a weird grimace. So I drained the rest of my water glass and darted out of the kitchen.

  Back in my room, I got my bookbag out of the closet, vowing not to let some stupid rude boy’s stupid notebook scare me.

  I’d just sat down on the foot of my bed and pulled my chemistry book out again, when there was a knock on my door.

  As I swung it open, I said, “You’d better not be blond.”

  “I’m not,” Reed said.

  I gasped, then felt my cheeks grow warm. “Sorry, I — I thought you were my mother.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He grinned, and it felt like someone had opened a window and flooded the room with sunshine.

  “Um … what’s up?” I asked.

  “Well, I …” He frowned slightly and scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I’d say good-bye, because I’m leaving, only … it seems way weirder now than I imagined it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s because I make everything weird.”

  He laughed. “I thought I was the only one.”

  I searched for something semi-intelligent to say. “Do you come to the house every day?”

  “No,” he said. “Mostly I work at Jonathan’s office at the studio. But sometimes there’s random stuff that needs handling, so I come by here.”

  I nodded. “Are you going to be a director, too?”

  He shrugged, his modest, crooked smile returning. “That’s the dream.”

  “Did you go to film school?”

  “Not yet. I’m taking a couple of years off before college to get experience and make some money. I figure working for Jonathan will get me into any film school I want.”

  “Is he that big of a deal?” I thought back to how Marnie had described the other Hollywood kids — as if their parents were the industry elite — and how it was unspoken that I fit right in.

  “He’s good at what he does,” Reed said. “That’s more important than being a big deal.”

  I hadn’t seen a single Jonathan Walters movie until he and Mom started dating and she’d made me watch them all with her. Actually, I liked them a lot. They were exciting without being mindlessly action-packed and thought-provoking without being boring or preachy.

  Then again, I didn’t know enough about movies to know if that made someone a good director or not. I guessed I’d have to take Reed’s word for it.

  “Right.” I felt weird about wasting his time and figured he must be eager to go. But he didn’t act like he was in a hurry.

  He leaned against the doorway and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You started at Langhorn today, right? How’d you like it?”

  “It’s okay. I haven’t met many people yet.”

  He nodded. “They can be a bit closed off, until they get to know you.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I’m a proud fighting Rattler. Graduated two years ago.” He smiled. “Ebony and emerald forever, right? ‘Rattle, rattle! is the cry of our battle!’ ”

  “Yeah … guess I don’t quite have the rattle in my heart yet.” I thought of Wyatt’s icy rejection. “And ‘closed off’ might be putting it mildly.”

  Reed sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I was on scholarship, and my parents were nobodies. I had no connections. No famous friends. A lot of doors never opened for me.”

  “I’m extremely nobody,” I said. “That doesn’t bode well, door-wise.”

  “No, it’ll be different for you,” he said. “You’re Jonathan Walters’s stepdaughter. Even if I weren’t obligated by the terms of my employment to say that counts for something, I’d say it counts for something.”

  “And you wor
k for Jonathan,” I shot back. “So you’re connected, too. See how it all worked out?”

  Reed laughed again. I felt a twinge of happiness, realizing that I could make him laugh. I wanted him to like me — not necessarily like me like me, but to want to be my friend. Being in his presence was like being on a walk in a peaceful forest. The longer it went on, the calmer and more grounded I felt.

  He gestured to the floor next to the bed. “Gucci isn’t your style, is it?”

  He’d noticed the backpack.

  If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

  I smiled.

  The sunlight danced in Reed’s eyes. “It’s okay. I’m the one who picked it out. Now that I know you, I would have picked something completely different. I just figured, east coast … probably uptight … I was wrong, obviously.”

  The thought of Reed buying a gift for me — even if it wasn’t technically from him — sent a tiny electric charge through my body. Instantly, I liked the bag about five times more.

  “It’s all right,” I said, picking it up. “It’s growing on me. The zipper’s, like, unbelievable.”

  “You’re a good sport.” Reed glanced out into the hall. “Well, I guess I should get going….”

  Was I crazy, or did he actually sound a little reluctant to leave?

  Trying not to smile too brightly, I stood up to say good-bye. Just as I got to my feet, I felt a tremendous head rush.

  A blinding white light flashed in front of my eyes.

  It suits you,” says the voice — friendly and soft, amused. He reaches down and gently touches the delicate chain he’s fastened around my neck. Tests the weight of the rose charm in his fingers.

  I turn my head away. I don’t want to look at him. I know it will make him angry, but I can’t help it. If I look at him, I’ll throw up.

  “Fine. Be that way.” He withdraws his hand, stands, and walks a few feet away. “You’re all the same, you know that? So self-involved. You only think about me, me, me.”

  The room is cool and dark, with a low ceiling. A lightbulb hangs down over a table in the corner. He’s leaning over something on the table, a large box. When he turns back, he’s holding up a pea-green dress.

  “You’re going to change into this,” he says. “And you’re not going to try anything stupid. I’m going to be right here, do you understand?”

  I nod, and he reaches down to free my ankles. Then he extends his hand. I’m supposed to take it, to let him help me to my feet. But I can’t — I can’t bring myself to touch him.

  I manage to get up on my own. He gives me the dress.

  “What if it doesn’t fit?” I choke the words out.

  “It’s your size,” he says.

  This is my chance to run — to scream, to fight back — it’s what I’ve been waiting for since I woke up. How long ago was that? Hours?

  No. That’s wishful thinking. It’s been days.

  But the world swims around me. The air feels thick and heavy. My legs are like the trunks of trees, useless, numb. I can’t run.

  I can’t do anything.

  “Right over there,” he says. “In the bathroom.”

  I can feel a lump in my throat — hopelessness threatens to overwhelm me. I want to collapse to the floor and sob.

  “Brianna.” Now there’s a warning in his voice. “Do you remember our talk?”

  I sniffle and nod.

  “There’s an easy way, and a hard way. I prefer the easy way — and I can’t help but think you will, too.” His voice hardens. “So do as I say before we have to change our tack here.”

  I can feel tears biting at my eyes.

  “Don’t cry!” he snaps. “How many times have I told you not to cry?”

  I blink and stare at the ceiling to keep my eyes dry, and then I slowly walk toward the open bathroom door.

  As I pass the box, I look down and gasp.

  There’s a head in there.

  A millisecond later, I realize that it’s not a head. It’s just a blond wig on a faceless Styrofoam form. But somehow that’s almost as bad as a head. And what surrounds it is even worse —

  Shiny black feathers.

  Birds. Dead, or stuffed, or just realistic-looking fakes, I don’t know.

  Dozens and dozens of birds.

  “It’s going to be great,” he says. “Just like we rehearsed. Your star-making performance.”

  I gasped and raised my hands to my face, pressing them over my mouth.

  “Willa?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Hey — Willa?”

  Maybe the only thing in the entire universe that could have snapped me out of my shock was the feather-light touch of Reed’s hand on my cheek.

  I blinked and turned to look at him.

  “What happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head and managed to say, “Nothing.”

  He wasn’t convinced.

  “I … I just remembered I have a huge test tomorrow, that’s all,” I said. “I should start studying.”

  Reed’s eyes searched my face for a few moments, then he relaxed slightly. “I remember that feeling. It’s the worst. And Langhorn takes academics pretty seriously.”

  I nodded, wondering if I’d be able to hold it together for the amount of time it took him to leave.

  Thankfully, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating phone. “It’s Jonathan. I need to take it. Good luck on your test.”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Hey, Jonathan,” I heard Reed say. “Yeah, I’m at the house. Just finished up. On my way out right now, in fact.”

  As soon as he was gone, I closed the door and sat on my bed, shaking.

  What just happened? What was that?

  It felt like a dream — like the most realistic dream I’d ever had. I could still picture the box on the table, with the wig and the dead birds in it. I could feel the leaden heaviness of my legs. And I could hear the voice. Low, gravelly. Distorted in a dreamlike way, just like the rest of it had been — the room I was in, the dress, the strange square outline of light in the distance.

  It had to be a dream.

  Except, of course, I wasn’t asleep.

  For a moment, I was tempted to reach into my bag for the red notebook, but I didn’t need to look. I already understood the full meaning of the name I’d heard.

  “Brianna,” the gravelly voice had called me.

  But the voice wasn’t talking to me —

  It was talking to Brianna Logan, the first victim of the Hollywood Killer.

  My mother was blond.

  When she poked her head into my room and saw me sitting dazed on my bed, she cried, “Don’t be mad, Willa! Francisco said it suited my skin tone.”

  I stared at her. She didn’t look like herself, but she didn’t look like a stranger. More like a long-lost cousin from Norway.

  “He said dark hair was too severe at my age,” Mom went on, her voice oddly pleading. “Do you hate it?”

  I shook my head. How could I focus on my mother’s hair minutes after having a full-on serial-killer hallucination?

  “Oh, no, you hate it,” Mom said. “You look horrified. Is it that bad?”

  I had to tell her. This was as clear an opening as I was ever going to get. I should tell her about the corpse in the pool, and the terrifying vision — and even if it meant I was totally crazy, at least then …

  I shied away from letting myself think at least then everything will be better.

  Because the fact is, everything would be worse. Immediately. Much, much worse.

  “Joanna! Willa!” I heard Jonathan calling from downstairs. “Dinner! I picked up sushi.”

  I swallowed back anything I planned to say and followed my newly blond mother downstairs.

  As the three of us sat down at the dining room table, Jonathan cleared his throat. “So, Willa, I think this is a good time for us to talk about last night — about the pool, I mean
.”

  I glanced up. “Excuse me?”

  Mom was making such an effort to seem nonchalant that I thought she might bust a blood vessel. “Jonathan and I were thinking that you should probably stay out of the water unless someone else is around. Just to make sure we don’t have any more incidents —”

  “Accidents,” Jonathan said, giving me a magnanimous look. Like his not assuming that I was a juvenile delinquent was one more generous gift. “Obviously, it was an accident.”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “It’s only for your safety, honey.”

  Inside me, a little volcano of rage began to spew ashes and fire. I stared at my plate for a second, studying the neat line of sushi rolls.

  Get a hold of yourself, Willa.

  So my mother and Jonathan clearly thought I was unreliable, maybe even unstable. Thank God I hadn’t actually told Mom the truth. What would they say if they knew what was really going on in my head?

  “Okay,” I finally said, the words as cool as stone.

  Jonathan nodded neatly and picked up his water glass. “You met Reed today?”

  I looked at him, not wanting to talk but determined not to show them how upset I was. “Yes,” I said.

  “He’s so handsome,” Mom said. “Don’t get any ideas, Willa.”

  She was teasing, but I wasn’t in the mood to be teased.

  “He’s too old for me,” I said, fighting not to blush.

  “He’s only nineteen,” Jonathan said. Mom must have shot him a meaningful glare, because then he added, “Too old. You’re right.”

  I went the rest of dinner without speaking another word. Then I stood, carried my dish to the dishwasher, and walked up to my room without even saying good night.

  I sat on my bed, staring down at the journal. Just one line every day, Mom had said.

  How hard could that be? I used to write long articles for the school newspaper. I wrote a story that won second place in the entire state of Connecticut. Words used to come to me so easily.

  But now, staring down at the clean white expanse of space, I felt like I was locked up in a cell, and anything I could possibly think to say was on the other side of a six-inch-thick steel wall.