Famous Last Words Page 8

  When I entered the kitchen, my mother looked up at me. “Oh, hi, Willa.”

  “Hi,” I said, more to Reed than to her.

  Mom cleared her throat a little awkwardly. “Thanks, Reed. We’ll definitely let you know if you can help.”

  “Absolutely,” Reed said. “Anytime.”

  He gave me a little eyebrow raise on his way out, and I had to fight to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up as I went to the sink to get a glass of water.

  “He’s very nice,” Mom said, after he’d been gone for a minute.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I’m going to have to talk to Jonathan, though,” she said slowly. “I’m just not sure how I feel about having him in the house all the time.”

  I set my glass down with a louder clatter than I’d intended. “What do you mean? He’s not here all the time.”

  “You know what I’m saying.” She shrugged. “This is our home. Having a stranger here doesn’t seem like —”

  “He’s not a stranger,” I said. “He works for Jonathan. He’s just trying to save money for college. You don’t have to kick him out. Where will he go?”

  “Oh, Willa, don’t be so dramatic,” Mom said. “He can work at Jonathan’s office.”

  “But there’s stuff that needs to be done here,” I said. “He doesn’t just do work on the movies. He handles a lot of random stuff around the house, too.” I fought to keep my voice light and unemotional, when really, I was flipping out at the thought of not getting to see Reed on a regular basis. It wasn’t that I had a crush on him — I mean, maybe I do, but so what? — but he was the only person in California who seemed to see me as the person I wanted to be.

  My mother stood up to her full height (which was the same as my full height and therefore not terribly intimidating). “Anything that needs to be done here can be done by me.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Because you’re suddenly some little wifey? What is this, 1950?”

  She frowned, her eyes searching my face. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

  Her question hit me someplace deep and raw. I looked down quickly, embarrassed.

  Mom put the back of her hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling all right? Is it a headache?”

  For once, it wasn’t a headache, but I nodded anyway. “A little one.”

  “You’re not getting them a lot, are you?”

  I backed away from her gentle touch, shaking my head. “No, I’m fine. Forget it.”

  Her eyes flashed, a little wounded. “If you have something to say to me, then we should talk about it. But I feel like what you’re trying to say doesn’t have anything to do with Reed anymore.”

  I swallowed. Mom was always good at getting to the heart of things. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin now.

  “Willa?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not trying to say anything. I just wanted a glass of water.”

  Mom’s cell rang, and it was Jonathan, so she excused herself and went out the sliding door into the backyard. I let out a breath, put my glass in the dishwasher, turned to leave — and saw Reed standing in the kitchen doorway.

  He was hovering, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  “Oh … hey.” My words felt all stumbly and loose. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “How much of what?” Seeing the skeptical look on my face, he gave me a sheepish smile. “All of it. Sorry I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to embarrass your mother.”

  “She doesn’t mean any offense,” I said.

  “Of course not. I didn’t take any. She’s totally right. This is your house now. Jonathan has to change his bachelor ways.” His lips twitched mischievously. “He might even have to take the Porsche to the car wash himself now.”

  The subversive little glint in his eye was gone as fast as it had appeared — but I’d seen it. And I was pretty sure he knew I’d seen it.

  It kind of made me want to grab him and kiss him.

  Reed tilted his head. “So that’s what your real smile looks like.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What?”

  “Nothing.” His fingers traveled absently up the side of the doorframe. “It was cool of you to defend me. But I don’t want to cause any strife between you and your mother.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “There’s never any real strife.”

  He was less than two feet away. I could smell the boy smell of his perfectly rumpled jacket.

  I looked up into his eyes. And he looked down into mine.

  “Willa,” he said, “you’re …”

  I held my breath.

  The room was silent — for a few seconds, anyway. Then I heard:

  Drip …

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, looking up at the ceiling.

  Reed took a jerking step back. “I’d better get back to work.”

  I stared at him, watching for any reaction to the sound.

  Drip …

  Nothing. He didn’t hear it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And I have some homework. Not a ton, but enough that I should … do it. I mean, get busy. I mean …” I mean, ugh, SHUT UP, Willa.

  Then we both started for the stairs at the same time, which was incredibly awkward. But what was the alternative, him standing at the bottom watching me go up? Or me watching him?

  “I think I’ll get a — another glass of water,” I said, ducking back into the kitchen as he went up toward Jonathan’s office.

  But I wasn’t thirsty, so I simply stood in the kitchen, waiting.

  And listening to the last sound I wanted to hear in all the world.

  Drip … drip … drip …

  That night, I sat in my room, my homework done, staring at the clock. It was only nine, and going to sleep so early felt like committing myself to nine solid hours of staring despairingly at the ceiling. I’d convinced myself that calling Leyta Fitzgeorge would be a fool’s errand. It would waste her time and my own. Worst of all, Wyatt would be proved right.

  Drip … drip … drip …

  The sound had followed me around the house through dinnertime, until I wanted to pull my ears off and throw them out the window.

  My fingers itched to take some concrete action. But what action can you take when your problems are the furthest thing from concrete?

  When your problems are caused by a …

  You know what it is, said some tiny, traitorous voice from someplace in the back of my mind.

  In a fit of frantic, frustrated energy, I dug my fingernails into my palms, trying to suppress the thought — but it was too late. The word was in my head, and there would be no getting rid of it.

  I grabbed the journal out of the drawer next to my bed and flipped it open. I took the pen, determined to let everything inside me come out on the page.

  But despite how complicated my feelings seemed, it all came down to one simple thought:

  GHOST, I wrote.

  IT’S A GHOST.

  And just like that … the dripping stopped.

  I set down the pen and picked up my phone.

  Willa?” Wyatt was winded, his cheeks pink and a lock of sweaty golden-brown hair stuck to his forehead.

  I pulled my French textbook from my locker and then shut the door, turning to face him. “Yes?”

  He looked like he’d run all the way from the parking lot. “I have to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “No.” He glanced around at the almost deserted hall. “Not here.”

  “Wyatt, I’m not going to run and hide in the library every time we have four words to speak to each other. First bell’s going to ring in like three minutes. If you need something, now’s your chance.”

  He didn’t look happy about it, but he conceded. “About yesterday — about that woman —”

  “Leyta Fitzgeorge,” I said.

  “I just wanted to ask you not to call her.”

  “Too late. I called h
er last night.” I almost said sorry, but I stopped myself. Because I wasn’t.

  For a moment, Wyatt seemed too dismayed to speak. “What did you ask her?”

  “If I could go see her today.”

  He was so jittery that it almost made me nervous. “What? Why? What did she say?”

  “She said yes,” I said.

  “But that’s —” He stood up straight. “You need to cancel.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “Um, no. You weren’t willing to help me, so I’m helping myself. And now you don’t even want me doing that?”

  “You’re not supposed to have that information.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’m not supposed to have that information. If she complains to the police about you getting in touch …”

  I waited for the second half of that “if,” thinking he might reveal something about his source. But he clammed up.

  “Why would she go back to the police?” I asked. “According to you, they ignored her before.”

  He huffed unhappily.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell her where I got her name. Although she’s a psychic, so …”

  “You’ll be wasting your time.” There was a hint of presumptuous authority in his voice. “She’s a crook.”

  I felt oddly protective of Leyta Fitzgeorge all of a sudden. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know her.”

  “It’s obviously true,” he said. “Psychic abilities? More like made-up nonsense.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out for myself.”

  “So … wait. You actually think she could be right about something? All that stuff about water and the roses and …”

  “Henry?” I said.

  “Right, Henry.” He rolled his eyes. “You know what she said? She said she got a ‘feeling’ about the name, but she couldn’t be sure if it was a first name or a last name or even a middle name. Hey! Maybe it’s the killer’s dog’s name! Ridiculous.”

  “It’s a first name,” I said.

  For a beat, Wyatt was surprised into silence, which I found extremely rewarding.

  Then he squinted at me. “How would you possibly know?”

  “I know because I’ve … seen it. And heard it.”

  Wyatt adjusted his glasses. “What are you saying?”

  “That Leyta Fitzgeorge might be right.”

  He shook his head and laughed nervously. “So you believe in psychics?”

  Be careful, Willa. Where you’re going, you can’t come back from. “Well … I don’t know, actually,” I said. “But I do believe in ghosts.”

  He spluttered. Like, “Spluh!” Only he didn’t say the word aloud. You could just see it coming out of his brain.

  I hadn’t quite meant to break it to him that way. On the other hand, it was a bit of a relief to have part of my secret out in the open. Even if I was telling it to someone who assumed everything I said was a lie.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “I said, I believe in ghosts,” I pressed on. It felt like riding a bicycle down a steep hill — I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, but there was something exhilarating about it. “Specifically, I believe in a ghost who’s living in my house and refuses to leave me alone.”

  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 a
nd 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.