Deadly Little Lies Read online

  “Please know that it’s not you,” I say.

  “Yes it is. Because I’m not Ben. And I obviously never will be.”

  54

  After Adam leaves and I’m finally alone, part of me’s relieved, but I also can’t help feeling like something’s been lost, too. I glance down at the pottery wheel, knowing that I should probably clean up. The water bin is empty now, and the remnants of my bowl look like they’ve already started to dry. I go to toss the clay scraps into the recycle bin, when I get an overwhelming sensation that I’m being watched.

  I take a step back against the wall and scan the studio. Most of the lights are on in the work area, but they’re all off in the back, where there are no windows, making it hard to see. I strain my eyes. At the same moment, a cracking sound comes from the back stairwell.

  “Spencer?” I call, checking to see that his work light is shut off too.

  When no one answers, I grab a vase and move into the darkness. The light switch that illuminates the back area is several yards away by the kiln. I head in that direction, but then a squeaking noise stops me. It sounds like someone’s coming up the back staircase, like rubber-soled sneakers against metal steps.

  I duck into a corner, behind the tubs of glaze, hoping the darkness will hide me.

  “Camelia?” a male voice whispers. “Is that you?”

  My cell phone rings in my pocket. I reach for it, but the phone slips from my grasp and clanks against the floor. My heart starts hammering inside my chest.

  I peer toward the exit door, wondering if I should try to run. Meanwhile, a shadow moves along the wall, getting larger with each approaching step.

  “Where are you?” the voice whispers.

  The vase still clenched in my hand, I ready myself to fight. But then the lights flash on, stinging my eyes. I blink a bunch of times, trying to regain focus.

  Finally I’m able to see the blur of someone standing only a few feet away. The vase falls from my grip with a crash. A cold hard scream tears from my throat.

  55

  Standing only a few feet away, Ben looks like I’ve scared him too. His face is white. His lips are parted in surprise.

  “How did you get in here?” I shout.

  “The front door was wide open. Spencer was busy unloading boxes when I came inside. I don’t even think he saw me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you, but you weren’t working up here, so I went downstairs. The next thing I knew, Spencer was gone, the door was locked. I couldn’t get the back door open either, so I ran downstairs to see if there might be another way out, but then I heard you guys come in and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “So you were spying on me?”

  “I was looking for you,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have walked away before.”

  I clench my fists, suddenly noticing the boxes of clay on the floor outside Spencer’s workroom. Is it possible that Ben’s telling the truth? Or did he follow Adam and me here, breaking in through the back somehow?

  “How did you know where to find me?” I ask.

  “It was the only place left. I already went by your house, the coffee shop, and that ice-cream place where you and your friends like to go. I thought that maybe, even if you weren’t here, I could check your work schedule.”

  “Well, I’m done talking. You had your chance.” I grab my coat, readying to leave. But then the door whips open.

  It’s Adam.

  “Camelia?” he gasps, all out of breath. “I heard you scream. . . .” It takes him a second to put the pieces together: my troubled expression and the broken vase at my feet.

  He moves a bit closer, finally able to see Ben.

  And then he lunges toward him.

  “Adam, no!” I shout, grabbing his arm to hold him back.

  “Did he hurt you?” Adam asks. “Did he lay even a single finger on you?”

  “Adam, stop!” I’m still gripping his arm.

  Ben moves behind a worktable to avoid being touched.

  Adam stands opposite him. A satisfied smirk creeps across his lips. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I could ask you the same,” Ben says.

  Adam slides his arm around my shoulder. “Just making sure that my girlfriend is safe.”

  I take a step back, so Adam’s arm falls limp. “Do you two know each other?” I ask.

  “I told you that you were being tricked,” Ben says.

  “Maybe you’re the one tricking her.”

  “Adam and I go way back,” Ben explains. “We used to be friends, but then he betrayed our friendship when he started seeing my girlfriend behind my back.”

  “She wasn’t your girlfriend,” Adam corrects. “She only felt sorry for you. That’s why she didn’t break up with you right away.”

  “You mean Julie?” I ask.

  “He killed her,” Adam says. “He pushed her off a cliff and left her for dead.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben snaps. “I stayed with Julie. I got help right away—”

  “Which one was it?” Adam asks.

  Ben doesn’t answer. Instead he looks at me, trying to see if I believe him.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  “Do you know how long it took me to get over her?” Adam continues, still focused on Ben.

  “Is that why you came here?” I ask him. “Is this some sort of payback?” I shake my head, thinking about his persistence with me—how he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Adam’s eyes soften as he looks into my face. “I don’t expect you to understand. And I know it doesn’t look good, but I meant it when I said that I care about you. I just never expected to care so much.”

  “I trusted you,” I say, hating myself for having opened up to him.

  “I care about you,” he repeats. “You can trust me.” Adam reaches for my hand. This time I let him take it, almost wishing that I could be like Ben and read the truth just by touching him.

  Ben moves to take my other hand, but stops just shy of my wrist.

  “How does it feel,” Adam asks him, pulling me close, “to have someone you love taken from you?”

  I try to pull away, but Adam’s grip on my hand tightens. “Please,” he insists. “Just hear me out. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “Maybe you should go,” Ben says, smacking Adam’s hand away.

  Adam responds by shoving Ben into a worktable. Tools go flying. Ben’s head snaps back; he falls down hard against a large ceramic mold.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Ben.

  Ben dives into Adam’s midsection. They land with a loud hard crash that causes the entire floor to rumble and shake.

  “No!” I shout, trying to pull Ben off him.

  Still, Adam rebounds, pounding his fist into Ben’s jaw. Ben lets out a grunt but remains straddled on top of him.

  Adam grapples to break free, to jab his fingers into Ben’s eyes and swing at the sides of his face. But Ben grabs Adam’s hands and pins them under his knees. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.” He grips Adam’s neck, stopping just shy of applying pressure. His eyes are filled with rage.

  “No!” I shout again, knowing that Ben is on the brink of losing control. The muscles in his fingers are taut, as if ready to clench.

  Adam’s eyes water, brimming with fear.

  Unable to pull Ben off him, I search the floor for my phone—I want to call the police, but I can’t find it anywhere. Meanwhile, the studio phone extension is off the base. I press the locator button, only to discover that the receiver’s locked up in Spencer’s office.

  “Don’t do this,” I shout; tears fill my eyes. I grab a ceramic plate and whack it against Ben’s back.

  Still, he doesn’t move. It’s like there’s a power struggle inside him: something’s telling him to walk away, but he can’t seem to move.

  “Please,” I beg Ben. I kneel down at his side, noticing the sudden look of fear in his eyes
, as if maybe he’s scared too.

  I place my palms down over his hands. It forces him to look at me—to cross back over and come to his senses.

  Ben finally backs away and Adam moves to sit up.

  Standing now, Ben searches my eyes as if checking for my reaction. All I feel is fear.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, though I can’t tell who he’s directing his apology to. He looks at Adam and then back at me, as if completely at a loss for what could have happened.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Adam.

  Adam manages a nod, but his eyes look red and puffy. Meanwhile, Ben moves even farther away, finally fleeing out the door.

  56

  June 19, 1984

  Dear Diary,

  I tried to end my life two nights ago. I slit my wrists, watched the blood trickle out for a few seconds, and then panicked and wrapped the cuts up with my bedsheet.

  I’ve been wearing long sleeves to cover the scars. I’ve been wearing a smile to mask the pain.

  Alexia

  57

  After the incident at Knead, I find myself standing in the lobby of the town library, not really knowing where else to go. Or what to do.

  Adam left the pottery studio shortly after Ben. I offered to call him an ambulance, but he wasn’t interested, saying that I still needed to hear him out; that he never imagined falling for me; and that, despite their fight, Ben could never hurt him again.

  I didn’t point out that Ben could have done much more than hurt him. He could have taken his life.

  Once I found my cell phone, I too ended up bolting from the studio. I checked my caller ID to see who had phoned earlier. It was my parents. They’d left me a message saying they’d arrived safely in Detroit and asking me where I was.

  I know I should call them back. I know that Kimmie must be wondering about me too. I just need a little silence right now.

  I gaze out the library window at the street. It’s a little before six, but it already looks well past nine. The pavement glistens with a layer of frost.

  The thing is, I know how I should be feeling about Ben right now. I know it should be nothing more than pure anger mixed with fear. And I do feel those things. But there’s a sadness too, almost like death. And I’m not talking about the death of our relationship, or any of the residual feelings that still might be lingering. I’m talking about the sadness I feel for Ben. I mean he’s worked so hard at isolating himself and not touching anyone, and then this happens.

  He could have killed someone.

  I close my eyes, trying to sort through the last two hours. I just can’t believe that Adam would go to so much trouble to find Ben and try to make him jealous—more than two years later.

  But maybe in some small and twisted way, it sort of makes sense. For Ben, coming to Freetown and trying public school again was like a new beginning, a fresh start—the perfect opportunity for Adam to crush him.

  “It’s about freakin’ time,” Kimmie says, when I finally dial her number from the library breezeway. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you. I thought Adam was dropping you off.”

  “Sorry,” I say, proceeding to give her the entire scoop, including the stuff about Julie’s pendant.

  “Why is it that all the hot ones have to be megawatt assholes?” she asks, referring to Adam. “So, you know that’s why he landed himself a job at Knead. When he got to town, he must have found out about you and your connection to Ben.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have been very hard.”

  “No kidding, in a small town like this . . . ? Yesterday, when I went through the checkout at Munchies, the owner—that Harrison guy—asked me if I was still seeing Todd. I didn’t even think he knew my name, never mind the sordid details of my love life.”

  “Don’t you mean your lust life?”

  “Don’t remind me. I feel like total trampage. I mean, what was I thinking by letting Todd hickey me like that?”

  “You were thinking it might distract your parents from their feuding. Or at least that’s why Frannie let Joey plant a big fat hickey on her for the season finale of Totally Teen Princess.”

  “Todd finally called me, by the way. About an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “And he asked to see me again, but I told him no.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Better for my neck. And speaking of necks . . . will Adam press charges against Ben?”

  “I doubt it. He seemed more worried about what I might think of him.”

  “Okay, so maybe he’s only a deci-watt asshole.”

  “Still an asshole.”

  “Where are you, by the way? You’re supposed to be staying with me, remember?”

  “I’m sort of on the verge of a major breakdown.”

  “Because of Ben?”

  “Because here I’ve been defending him all along, and I just witnessed him almost kill someone.”

  “But he didn’t kill him. You stopped him. As twisted as it sounds, it’s almost like he needs you. Like you need each other.”

  I let out a breath and watch the way it steams up the window—ironically, in the shape of a heart. “I just feel like I should have seen this coming. I mean, even earlier at the studio, before Ben showed up, I could sense Adam wanted to tell me something. He kept saying how much he liked me. How he never imagined feeling that way.”

  “Yes, but you did see this coming,” Kimmie corrects me. “At least part of it. I mean, I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but your sculpture helped predict this.”

  “The horse,” I whisper, picturing my tall dark sculpture as a pendant on Julie’s necklace.

  “It’s pretty bitchin’, wouldn’t you say? I mean, that kind of foresight can take you places. It can take us places.”

  “I guess.” I sigh, not really wanting to get into it.

  “So, what about all the pranks? Do you seriously think it was Adam calling you and leaving all those notes and photos?”

  “That wouldn’t make any sense. It wasn’t me, after all, that he was trying to get back at. I was merely a casualty in the process.”

  “A casualty who needs her friends around her. Where are you? I’ll thief my mom’s car keys and come pick you up.”

  “I’m not even packed yet.”

  “You don’t need to pack. You can borrow my stuff.”

  “We’re not exactly the same size,” I say, cringing at the thought of having to wear one of her chain-adorned skirts or the top with the latex corset. “Plus, it’ll only take me a little while to stuff a few things into a bag.”

  “Then I can pick you up?”

  “Fair enough. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  “If I don’t call you sooner. I refuse to wait around this time, Chameleon. Got it?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  After we hang up, I dial my mom’s cell phone. “Are you okay?” she asks. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Are you with Kimmie?”

  I mumble a yes and then add to my lie, telling her that Kimmie and I have been far too busy mall-ratting to even think about answering phone calls. At first I feel bad, but then I hear the relief in her voice, and I know I’ve done the right thing.

  “How’s Aunt Alexia?” I ask, eager to switch the subject.

  “It’s still early, but we’re making real progress. We met with her therapist this afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll have a lot to tell you when your dad and I get home. So I’ll give you a call tomorrow?”

  “Okay,” I say, almost wishing that I could just be honest with her. My eyes well up and sting at the corners. “I gotta go,” I say, hearing a slight quiver in my voice. “Kimmie’s waiting for me.”

  Somehow I make it to the end of the conversation without losing it completely. And then I allow myself to crouch down in the corner, behind the newspaper machine, and cry until my eyes feel swollen and raw.

  58
r />   When i get home, the light on the answering machine is blinking. I push PLAY, almost startled by the voice: “This message is for Mr. and Mrs. Hammond. This is Denise Beady, the school counselor at the high school. I was wondering if we might schedule a meeting to discuss some things. Could one of you please call me just as soon as you get this message?”

  She goes on to leave both her office and cell phone numbers; then she reiterates most of what she already said, adding in all the dates and times that she’s available to meet. But I can’t really listen anymore. I smack the DELETE button, accidentally knocking the phone receiver to the floor.

  The mantel clock in the living room chimes seven o’clock. It’s a familiar sound, but now, in the solitude of the house, it sends shivers down my spine.

  I move quickly through the hallway to my bedroom, anxious to pull together a few things and have Kimmie come pick me up. I click on my light. And spot it right away.

  My sweatshirt. The one Ben accidentally took from my bedroom, the one he supposedly left in my homeroom at school. It’s propped up on my pillow, positioned so I can see it.

  Someone has written over the chest. At first I can’t quite process what it says. I blink a few times, as if maybe it’ll go away. But it doesn’t. And the words don’t. The message stares back at me in thick black letters: YOU’RE DEAD.

  I take a step closer, flashing back to the message on the bulkhead doors, suddenly realizing that someone was in here—that it’s possible they never left.

  A second later, a door slams somewhere in the house, followed by the sound of my cell phone ringing. With jittery fingers I reach into my pocket and check the caller ID. It’s blocked, but I click the phone on anyway: “Hello?”

  No one answers.

  “Hello,” I repeat, louder this time.

  “You’re dead!” a voice screeches, then breaks into a menacing laugh.

  “Who is this?”

  The laughter continues, and then the phone goes silent, like the call was dropped, or maybe the person hung up. I flip the phone closed, open it back up, and dial 9-1-1, but the call doesn’t go through. It’s still silent on the other end.