Silver Is for Secrets Read online

  “Stacey,” he breathes. The wooden floor creaks with each step he makes toward me. “Can you hear me?”

  Tears stream down my face. I hear myself whimper, my breath choking up inside my throat. I tighten my grip around the letter opener, readying myself to fight.

  “Stacey . . . are you all right?” He tugs at my arm, jiggles me back and forth.

  Until I wake up.

  “Jacob,” I say, all out of breath.

  “Yeah,” he says, still lying beside me in bed. “You were crying.”

  I look by the side of the bed at the candle stump. We didn’t end up falling asleep until after the candle had burned down through the knots, until after Jacob had extinguished the flame with a snuffer. I shake my head, disappointed that I didn’t sleep longer, that I don’t remember any secrets being revealed.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, leaning over to kiss me. “Did I screw up a premonition? It’s just that you were whimpering a lot. I got scared.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, noticing how his lips taste like the sea. “I probably would have done the same.”

  “So do you remember anything?”

  I nod, remembering pretty much everything—the shadows at the shoreline, not being able to stand, the cold, the words, being chased, the lilies.

  “Death,” I whisper. “The death flower. I dreamt about it.”

  “What death flower?”

  “My grandmother taught me that lilies mean death. The guy in my nightmare was holding a whole bouquet of them, just like in the premonitions I was having about Drea a couple years ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the nightmares I was having about Drea, there was this faceless guy and he was carrying a bouquet of lilies. It turned out to be Donovan. Maybe the guy in my dream was supposed to be him.” The thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. After everything that happened, Donovan was sent to a juvenile detention center until his twenty-first birthday, still three years away. When he told the jury that he was in love with Drea, that his stalking—as most dubbed it—was the result of his confusing their friendship for loveship à la temporary insanity, I think they felt bad for him. So bad that it almost didn’t even matter that someone else got killed in his path—an accident, he called it. And everyone believed him.

  “Yeah, but why?” Jacob says. “That doesn’t make sense. He’s locked up.”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Did you see the guy’s face in your dream?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe it was someone else.”

  I shake my head, getting more confused by the second. And then it occurs to me. I look at Jacob, at the murky aura that surrounds him. “Did you dream about anything?”

  He looks away, obviously not wanting to tell me.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I told you I can handle it.”

  “Are your nightmares the reason why you’ve been acting all quiet lately?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. “I haven’t been quiet.”

  “Last night at Cape Chowdah you barely said a word. And then when we came back to the house and played Pictionary with everyone, you were still kind of mute. Plus, yesterday morning when Clara came over . . . you sort of clammed up, and then when I looked back you were gone. It’s like you haven’t quite been yourself lately.”

  “I have a lot on my mind, Stacey.” He sinks back into the pillow and chews his bottom lip, his aura all hazy and gray.

  “I know, so we should talk about it. Is it that you don’t trust me?”

  “How can you ask that?” He reaches out to my forearm.

  “Then what?”

  “Then nothing.”

  “Fine.” I clench my teeth. “Maybe I need some air.”

  “Stacey—wait.”

  I go to get up and a trickle of blood rolls down my lip.

  Jacob grabs a wad of tissues and applies it to my nose.

  “Thanks,” I say, pulling back a bit.

  “Don’t be mad at me. I’m doing this for us.”

  For us? Is he serious? The idea that he expects me to believe that only infuriates me more. “Keeping secrets doesn’t bring people together; it only pulls them apart.”

  “Is that really how you feel?”

  I look at him, into his grayish-blue eyes, the color of steel—and yet they look like they could break at any second. “How do you feel?”

  “I love you,” he says.

  I nod and look away, swallowing down the moment of awkwardness.

  “Say something.” He takes my hand, forcing me to look at him.

  My chin shakes. Part of me wants to yell at him for keeping secrets from me. The other part wants to tell him how much I care. I slip into Amber’s pair of frog slippers and press the wad of tissues firmly over my nose. “I’m gonna get a glass of water.”

  “That’s it?” His voice rises.

  But I don’t know what else to say, and I don’t want him to see me get teary over this. I stumble my way out the door and into the hallway, maneuvering the corners of the tissue to blot my eyes so I can see. But I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  It’s Clara. She’s sitting on the living room sofa with PJ. He’s consoling her—wiping her red and weepy eyes, cuddling her with an arm, and bringing a freezer-chilled glass of lemonade up to her lips.

  “Stacey,” she says, almost surprised to see me.

  PJ lets out a sigh as though my sudden presence has infringed upon his attempts at seduction.

  “Are you all right?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head and wipes her runny eyes. “We really need to talk.”

  twelve

  I ask Clara if she wants to take a walk somewhere so we can be alone to chat, but she declines. “Let’s just talk here,” she says. “I don’t have anything to hide.” She peers over at PJ, still sitting on the sofa, which perks him right up from slouch mode.

  “What’s going on?” Jacob emerges from my room, his hair all disheveled from our nap, his eyes a bit red.

  “You remember Clara,” I say.

  He nods, taking a moment to glance at her, but then he focuses back on me, probably feeling as much as I do that we have some unfinished business to attend to.

  But first I have some business with Clara.

  While Jacob goes off to his room, Clara and I take a seat at the kitchen table.

  “So,” Clara begins, her lips all grimaced. “Something’s going on.”

  PJ joins us at the table, his posture completely turned toward Clara like he’s genuinely concerned, even though I know he’s just trying to score himself a date. He plucks at his hair spikes, checking for proper alignment, maybe, and props his elbow on the table to listen.

  “Someone was in my room,” she says, her hands all fluttery from nerves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, after our conversation at the Clam Stripper, I went back to my cottage, went into my room to change, and noticed it right away.”

  “Noticed what?” PJ leans in farther, practically sitting in her lap now.

  “My stuff was moved around.”

  “What stuff?” I ask.

  “Random stuff—like my diary. I usually keep it under my bed, but instead it was just lying there on my corner chair. And my bathrobe. Normally I just drape it at the foot of my bed, you know, so I can just grab it easily, but someone hung it on the door hook.”

  PJ’s shaking his head emphatically, like this is the worst turn of events he’s ever heard, but all I can think is how it sounds pretty typical. How if it wasn’t for my kicking skills, maneuvering through the gobs of laundry Amber, Drea, and I manage to deposit on the floor of our room, I probably wouldn’t be able to find a thing.

  “Is that it?” I ask, sensing the bitchiness of my words. “I mean, was anything else moved?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “My hairbrush. It was on the left side of my vanity table. Not the right.”

  “Maybe your
mom came in and did some rearranging while you were out.”

  Clara shakes her head. “My parents are visiting some friends of theirs this week. It’s just me.”

  “All alone?” PJ asks, horns sprouting up on his head. He gets up from the table to fetch a container of mayonnaise and a jar of sour pickles from the fridge. He opens both and sets them in front of Clara as an offering. “Comfort food, my little damsel-in-a-dress.” He glances down to admire her sarong, or more accurately, the juicy thigh that peeks out through the slit. “Trust me,” he says, “a few of these and the world will seem like a much happier place.”

  Clara cocks her head at him, like she doesn’t quite get it. PJ responds by extracting a fat and bumpy pickle from the jar, dunking it into the mayo, and taking a big and crunchy bite. He closes his eyes in sheer delight, like it’s the best thing since the plate of Mallomars Jacob fixed for me.

  I’m just about to tell PJ that Clara and I could definitely use some alone time when I see her follow his lead. To my complete and utter shock, she takes out a big green mother of a pickle, dips the entire thing in the mayo, and crunches down.

  “This is actually pretty good,” she says, smiling for the first time since we’ve sat down. She double-dunks her pickle and takes another bite, making yummy-good groans the whole time. PJ follows suit—for him the ultimate test of love, I’m sure—sharing the mayo jar.

  “We should really talk about your room,” I say, forcing the look of horror off my face.

  More groans.

  “Um, Clara?” I repeat in an effort to interrupt the little food-love thing they’ve got going between them. Clara is looking up at PJ, her runny eyes a little bit calmer than just minutes ago. She smiles at him between crunches, a globule of mayo stuck to the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh yeah,” she says, as though forgetting I was even here. “Sorry.”

  “So was there anything missing?”

  She shakes her head and grabs another pickle.

  “Okay,” I say, racking my brain for something else to ask. If it wasn’t for my nightmares, for the cold vibrations that came over me when I touched her hand, I probably wouldn’t even bother. I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s completely just looking for attention.

  “Was the door unlocked?” I persist. “Did you notice if any of the windows were left open?”

  “Well, yeah, I always leave a few windows open to let the air in.”

  “The ones on the first floor?”

  She nods. “There only is one floor.”

  “Right.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I know it sounds all funky,” she says. “But if you knew me, you’d know that I’m an extreme neat-freak.”

  “You, too?” PJ asks, accidentally dribbling pickle juice on the table. He attempts to wipe it up with his hand and then licks his fingers.

  Clara eyes the dribble and continues to explain: “I have this thing about putting things in just the right spot. I’m one of those people who has a place for everything and puts everything in its place—notebooks, top left drawer of my desk; tissue box, top of my desk on the right; gum, in the ceramic seashell bowl on the dresser; white socks, at the front of my sock drawer; blue socks—”

  “I keep an impressive stash of chewy things myself.” PJ looks at her, taking a giant, purposeful bite of pickle. “Care to sample the inventory, my little kosher dill?”

  I ignore PJ and keep focused on Clara, on how she’s chewing on her thumb now. “You’re really bothered by this.”

  She nods.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t maybe just have a bad day and put stuff away in the wrong place?”

  “No,” she sighs. “You don’t understand.” She takes a deep breath to calm herself down. “My mother is blind. Her whole life is about order, about putting things in just the right spot. If she didn’t, she’d never be able to find anything. So I’ve sort of become the same way.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

  “How could you have? I mean, you’re not psychic.”

  I pause at the comment, at the sheer irony of it, but choose not to respond. Sometimes I think my grandmother’s secret to getting the answers was to keep her mouth shut—being comfortable with the silence, knowing how to listen to people, how to keep a firm bite on the tongue, and just let people babble the answers out for themselves.

  “I’m really scared, Stacey. Especially after everything you said earlier.”

  “What did you say?” PJ turns to me.

  “She said I was in trouble,” Clara blurts. “She said something bad is going to happen to me.”

  Clara slumps into PJ’s arms, and he mouths me an enthusiastic “thank you,” like I plotted this whole thing for the sake of his lackluster love life.

  The door whips open a second later. It’s Amber. Her eyes lock on PJ and Clara. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s what we were talking about earlier,” I say. “About Clara.”

  But it seems Clara’s welfare is the last thing on Amber’s mind. Amber folds her arms in front, her jaw locking into stress mode.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask her.

  “Perfect,” she says, eyeing PJ and Clara, clutched together as though for dear life.

  “Hi, Amber,” Clara says, resting her head on PJ’s shoulder.

  “Hi,” Amber says, her face completely deadpan.

  “Hey there, Miss Thing,” PJ beams. He wipes the mayodribble from the corner of Clara’s mouth and cuddles her against his chest. “Something bothering you?”

  Amber shakes her head and retreats into our room, which almost surprises me. It’s just that after all the time PJ has spent trying to win her back after their break up, not to mention all the boys she’s dated in the meantime—probably more than there are pickles in the jar they’re snacking from—I forget how territorial she can be with him.

  “Is she okay?” Clara asks.

  “Just perfect,” PJ says, a huge grin married to his face.

  “We need to focus,” I say, grabbing at the sudden ache in my head. “Where were we?”

  “Something bad’s gonna happen to me.” Clara huffs.

  I rub my temples, trying to gain mindfulness, trying to concentrate despite the chaos going on all around me. Regardless of how bland her story might sound—a few random items misplaced in her room, especially while her mother is away visiting friends—Clara’s life is truly in danger. I need to do my best to listen to her, to help her, and to stop the danger before it happens.

  “You said that in your nightmare I was whispering something,” Clara continues.

  I nod, thinking about it a moment, about my nightmares and what I saw in them exactly. And then it hits me. In the nightmare I just had, when I struggled my way on hands and knees from the beach to the cottage, when I crawled inside the door and looked around, I saw that everything in the cottage had been moved around, rearranged.

  Just like Clara was saying.

  “Um, Mars to Stacey,” PJ says, snapping his fingers to get my attention.

  “Wait,” I say, leaning forward to focus on Clara. “I need you to start over; tell me everything that happened again.”

  “Again?” She cocks her head.

  I nod and she obliges, reiterating every detail about her journal, her bathrobe, and her hairbrush. “Oh,” she lights up. “And my letter opener. Normally it’s in my desk drawer, but instead it was on my night table.”

  My heart jumps, remembering how I saw a letter opener in my dream, how I was using it as a knife for protection. “Is your letter opener shiny silver with a curly handle and a knifelike blade?”

  Clara’s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.” PJ snickers.

  “What matters is that I believe you,” I say. “I believe your stuff was moved around. And I believe that someone besides you moved it.”

  Clara’s face falls and then her hands start to do that fluttering thing again. They
tremble midair in front of her eyes, as though she’s trying to cool herself off—or simply hold it all together. It’s almost as if my believing her and acknowledging what happened has made it worse, like maybe she could have been talked into believing that she simply mislaid the stuff in her mother’s absence.

  “You told me something bad was going to happen,” she says.

  “Not with me around.” PJ goes to crack his knuckles, but his fingers are as loud as he is helpful.

  “So what now?” Clara asks. “Should I call the police or something?”

  I shake my head. “There’s no evidence. They’ll just think you put your things back in the wrong place and label you temporarily insane.”

  “Yeah, but you can tell them about your nightmares, about how you dreamed about me.”

  “And then they’ll label me temporarily insane.”

  “We need to be crafty,” PJ says, rubbing his palms together.

  “I need you to be super aware of where you put stuff for the next few days,” I say. “If someone went through your stuff once, I’m sure they’ll do it again. Until that time, keep your doors and your windows closed and locked.”

  “So I’m just supposed to sit around until someone breaks in and goes through my stuff again? What if I’m home when they do it? What if they want to hurt me?”

  “I won’t let them,” I say, but even as I do I remember the blood in my dream and how I saw the death lilies. How there was some guy carrying a whole bouquet of them following after me.

  thirteen

  I tell Clara that she’s welcome to stay at our place but she declines, even when I insist. PJ agrees to accompany her back, a bright and cheery smile across his sunblock-white lips.

  “I think I should come, too,” I say. “Maybe I’ll be able to sense something.”

  “No,” Clara says. “I mean, not right now. I’m not sure I could take it if you were able to sense something else.”

  “Then when?”

  “Don’t give it another thought, Stacey-bee.” PJ drapes his arm around Clara, accidentally elbowing her ear in the process. “With me around, Clara will be as safe as a ten-dollar bill slipped down the front of a spinster’s bustier.”