Deadly Little Lessons (14 page)

A
S I LEAVE MRS. BECKERMAN’S HOUSE
, I notice a car parked down the street: a dark green, beat-up Buick with a bashed-in taillight. It starts up just as soon I get inside Wes’s car. At first, I don’t think anything of it, but then it pulls away from the curb moments after I do, and follows me for four blocks, continuing behind me even when I take a turn.

I keep driving for another half mile, slowing down slightly to close the gap between our cars. I peek in the rearview mirror. The driver appears to be a girl; I catch a glimpse of her straight, dark hair whipping in the wind.

I slow down even more, searching for someplace to pull over. There’s a farm stand in the near distance with a parking lot out front. I flick on my directional and turn in, eager to see if the Buick does the same. But it ends up swerving around me. The car speeds up—so fast that it jolts forward, the tires making a screeching sound—and I’m not able to catch the license-plate number.

A second later, my phone rings. It’s Kimmie. I consider calling her back later—after I finally catch my breath—but instead I pick it up.

“Hey, there, miss,” she says. “How’s college life treating you?” Her chipper voice reminds me of how far apart we really are, both emotionally and physically.

“It’s certainly been an adventure.”

“With Wes as your sidekick, I can only imagine.”

“I miss you,” I say, almost wanting to tell her what I’m up to. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You bet we do,” she agrees. “Guess who’s about to pull clothes for a photo shoot?”

“Hmm…
you
? So, I take it that things are going good?”

“Better than good, my dear. But I’ll have to fill you in later, okay? My supervisor just walked in…fifteen minutes early, mind you,” she says, lowering her voice. “Anyway, I can’t wait to hear all about your room and classes and stuff.”

We hang up and I drive back to campus, happy that Kimmie’s enjoying this time. It kills me not to tell her what’s going on with me, but I feel like that would distance us even more. And I’m not so sure I could handle that on top of everything else.

Back on campus, I park Wes’s car exactly where he had it, and then I give him a call.

“I want details,” he says, in lieu of a hello.

I arrange to meet him on Sumner’s back lawn. When I arrive, I find him sitting on one of the benches that overlook the ocean.

“Thanks,” I say, handing him back his keys.

He moves his blue-tinted sunglasses to the top of his head. He looks better than I’ve ever seen him before. His dark brown hair is slightly sun-kissed, his face is Malibu tan, and his whole demeanor seems more relaxed, less tortured. “Can you stand it?” he asks. “I mean, could this day be any more perfect?”

I hadn’t really noticed, but he’s right. The sky is absolutely cloudless. There’s a group playing volleyball in the distance, and the incoming tide crashes against the rocks below, creating a soothing sound. “I take it you had a good day?”

“Great new friends, stellar classes, and a resortlike campus… I’d say it’s going pretty well. And you? Since you’re still here, I’m assuming that all went swimmingly at the Beckerman residence?”

“Since I’m still here?”

“And not in jail for harassment and/or stalking, I mean.”

“Ha-ha.” I fake a laugh.

“Details, please. What happened? And don’t leave anything out.”

I take a deep breath, inhaling the cool, salty air. And then I begin by telling him about what happened today in the pottery studio, including how the frog-in-a-box sculpture turned out to be a premonition. I also tell him about the daisy clue and the fact that, according to Mrs. Beckerman, Sasha often hiccups when she cries.

“And so, wait. Did the Beckermans actually believe you about everything?”

“It was just Mrs. Beckerman,” I explain. “I’m pretty sure her husband was at work. But I think she believed me. I mean, it took some convincing, but the clues definitely helped.”

“You do realize, however, that she’s going to tell the police about your visit, and that they’re going to want to know all about you, especially about how you discovered those clues.”

“I already told Mrs. Beckerman about my touch power.”

“And you really think the police are going to buy that? You may have Mrs. Beckerman convinced, but unless you’re dealing with crystal-ball-loving coppers, they’re going to be a lot more skeptical. They’ll assume that either (a) you have an inside angle, one that they’ll be eager to hear more about, or (b) you’re actually involved in the disappearance or know the person who is.”

“No one will think that,” I say. “I didn’t know the girl, and I’m not even from this area. Plus, how else could I have found out about the clues?”

“Well, for starters,
anyone
could’ve known about the frog-in-the-box gift. In the cops’ eyes, someone probably told you.”

“Except, no one else knew. Mrs. Beckerman said so herself.”

“
Someone
knew. Even if it was just the salesperson. Or, how about the person who gift wrapped it? Then there are all the people hovering over the jewelry counter at the time of purchase.…”

“Okay, but what about the daisy clue—the fact that Sasha’s name was originally Daisy? How else would I have known that?”

“Same way anybody else would.” He yawns like this is all elementary. “The Beckermans could’ve shared the info with someone. Or, on second thought, maybe it was even the birth parents. Do you know who they are?”

“I do.… And there’s not much of a story there. The mom’s a church administrator. She lives in Seattle and has her own family. The father is an electrician, I think. They no longer keep in touch with each other, despite the fact that when the mom got pregnant, they were actually considering getting married and trying to make things work.”

“Color me impressed,” he says, referring to my investigative skills.

“It’s actually not that impressive. Their lives became an open book as soon as Sasha went missing. Their info’s been all over the Net.”

“You’re right.” He yawns again. “That
isn’t
so impressive. Where’s the scandal?”

“No scandal: they were both completely cooperative with the police.”

“So, if they’ve both been questioned, it wouldn’t be unheard-of for old emotions to resurface,” he says. “Ample reason for each of them to talk about the birth, the child they couldn’t keep—a child who they named Daisy just before they decided to give her away.”

“Okay, but then what about Sasha’s crying?” I ask, hoping to stump him. “How else would I have known that she sometimes hiccups between sobs?”

“You don’t seriously think you’re the first person to ever hear Sasha’s ugly cry, do you?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

I let out a sigh, more confused than ever.

“I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here, Camelia, because you can bet the police are going to be questioning this stuff, looking for some sort of logic. Not that your claim to have psychic powers won’t be logical to them.” He smirks. “No insight on the
t
-shaped clue yet, I take it.”

“Not yet. And, by the way, you sound like one of the detectives on
CSI
.”

“That’s honestly one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me.” He rests his head against my shoulder.

“Except I’m not exactly trying to be sweet. It’s actually pretty annoying. But I’m not going to worry about the police right now, because the truth is that I have nothing to hide.”

“Right.” He sits up and stifles a laugh. “Because it’s perfectly normal to have a history on your personal computer that shows hours and hours of case tracking of some girl that you
supposedly
don’t know.”

“I
don’t
know her,” I insist.

“Yes, but the police will be looking for some sort of connection.”

“And when they can’t find one…”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe they’ll be too distracted by the fact that you moved to the victim’s hometown and then stalked her primary residence.”

“I came here to get away,” I remind him.

“Right, right.” He rolls his eyes. “And I’m sure they’ll think it’s purely coincidental that the school you decided to attend is practically in the victim’s backyard. Of course, it probably doesn’t help that you’ve also been the victim of a stalker in the past, as well as the stalker of a stalker.”

“To which you were an accomplice.”

“Then there’s the whole psychiatric rap sheet,” he continues, ignoring me, “which includes public fits and a suicidal aunt. And don’t even get me started on the trail of injured parties you’ve left in your wake.”

“Okay, it’s settled, you officially suck.”

“I know,” he says, gloating over his criminal mind. “But just remember that my sucky self is here for you. And I’m willing to help every sucky step of the way.” He smiles. His whole demeanor is nauseatingly neutral.

“I’m almost surprised you’re not calling me crazy and suggesting that we head back home.”

“Are you kidding? Head back to Freetown, population: negative lameness? I’m trying to figure out a way that we can graduate early and move here permanently.” He nods to a row of students lounging on beach chairs, all of them wearing bathing suits and slathered in suntan oil. “If this is college, then sign me up.”

“Hence your Zenful mood.”

“You sound like Kimmie. She called me, by the way.”

“Yeah, she called me, too.”

“But you didn’t tell her about all this Sasha business, did you?” he asks.

“It’s better this way.” I shrug. “I don’t want my drama to put a damper on her New York state of mind.”

“Justifying reasons for keeping secrets, are we?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, fairly certain that he’s alluding to my parents—to the fact that they had their reasons for keeping secrets, too.

“You’re a smart girl; you can figure it out. And, in the meantime”—he drops his keys into my lap—“take my wheels whenever you like.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” he says, looking back over at the sunbathers.

“Thanks,” I say, utterly grateful and more than a little surprised. “And speaking of wheels, after I left Mrs. Beckerman’s house, a Buick started following me.”

“Year and make?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Male or female? License-plate number and state? Age of driver?”

“Female. I wasn’t able to catch the plate number or state. And I’m assuming that she was young. I mean, her hair looked young.”

“And tell me, oh, observant one, what does young hair look like?”

“What can I say? I did my best.”

“Yes, but when a missing girl’s life’s at stake, you have to do
better
than your best. It could’ve been someone casing the house, someone following you, a reporter taking photos, or even a fan of
Open Cases
.” He grabs his keys away from me. “Anyway, I take it back about the car. You need to go somewhere, you call me. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, relieved to have his help.

B
ACK IN MY ROOM
, I glance at my suitcase, not yet unpacked. I still have to go through my orientation paperwork. Mom’s cooler full of fruit and nut bars is sitting on my desk, unopened. It’s like I’m only half here, half into my art, mostly because I’m half afraid of sculpting something new.

A few months back, Spencer advised me to give myself over to my sculpture, to form whatever it was my clump of clay wanted to be, and not to feel compelled to force it into any predetermined shape.

But what if the sole purpose of my clay is to reveal a clue about somebody else’s future? What if I’m never able to sculpt normally again? Is wanting to do so selfish, especially since my premonitions have proven to be helpful?

After several moments of brooding, I force myself to unpack my suitcase. With each item that I place into a drawer or hang in the closet, I start to feel a little less sorry for myself, a little more in control.

That is, until I see my aunt’s journal, the last thing I take out of the suitcase. The spine is all weathered and frayed, and there are pen-mark tracks etched into the cardboard. I flip it open and run my fingers over the pages—over her years of documented misery. Having it now—holding it, reading it, and seeing the way she wrote the words—takes on a whole new meaning, because she’s no longer
just
my aunt, and if she’d succeeded in ending her life, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

My cell phone rings. I get up to retrieve it from my bed, frustrated that the number is blocked. I answer it, thinking that it may be Mrs. Beckerman.

“Is this Camelia Hammond?” a female voice asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Who’s this?”

“We need to talk.”

“Who is this?”
I repeat.

“You need to go to the bakery at the end of Chansky Street. Look for the bright red mailbox at the side of the building. There will be something for you inside it.”

“Wait, is this a joke?” I snap.

“That depends. Do you think Sasha Beckerman’s life is a joke?”

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

“I didn’t think so,” she says, answering for me.

“Do you know where Sasha is?”

“Haven’t you heard? She ran away. They found a note. They even found her packed bag.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

She laughs. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“Are you the girl who was following me earlier…in the dark green Buick?”

“Don’t listen to what the skeptics say,” she says, skirting the question. “Just because Sasha left her bag behind doesn’t mean that she didn’t run away. Could be a million reasons why she didn’t take it. Maybe wherever she was going, she knew she didn’t need those things. Maybe opportunity knocked before she could get back home to retrieve any of her belongings. Or maybe the suitcase was staged—a cry for help, only no one answered that cry, and so she ended up leaving anyway. You know what a heartless bitch Mrs. Beckerman is, don’t you? If she ever noticed that Sasha had her bag packed, I doubt she even cared. Maybe that’s why Sasha left.”

I shake my head, thinking about how tormented Mrs. Beckerman seemed. “Did Sasha and her mother not get along?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Media reports made it clear that they’d been fighting from the moment Sasha found out the truth about her birth parents.

“First, answer my questions,” the girl continues. “Why do you even care about Sasha? Was she a friend of yours?”

“Was she a friend of
yours
? How do you know about me? And how did you get my number?”

“Go to the bakery,” she insists.

“Will you be there? Can’t you just tell me what you need to say over the phone?” I clutch the phone harder, as if that’ll make more sense of this conversation.

“My advice to you, Camelia Hammond, is stay out of it. Walk away, before you get in over your head.”

“And what if I don’t?”

There’s silence for several seconds, and then she finally hangs up.