Hexed (7 page)

M
om sits propped against a wall with a mug of cocoa in her hands. She refused to get into the ambulance, even though the paramedics practically begged her to get her arm checked out. Mom
hates
hospitals. Plus, she says her arm is fine, just a little sore. Right. Even though it looks like she got in a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost. Her head’s okay too. Just a bit of a headache. And so what if her knees buckle when she tries to stand too long? Who needs to walk anyway?

So the ambulance took off, and we’re left with one police officer, who takes pictures of the damage, and another (I’ve dubbed him Chief Wiggum) who interviews Mom.

“So, let’s go over this again, Mrs. Black—”

“It’s Ms.,” Mom interrupts. “I’m not married.” She gives him a weak smile. I thank God she’s in a bad mood and that he’s not cute; otherwise she might recount the tale of Dad leaving when I was three—or, in her words, being abducted because of his knowledge of the CIA. Seriously.

“Okay, Ms. Blackwood. You say the last thing you remember is dusting the bookshelf?”

“Yes. Like I said before, I don’t know what happened after that. Just that I woke up and was underneath the bookcase. Did you know that thing weighs over three hundred pounds? Lucky it got caught on the cauldron or I’d be dead.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” the officer says.

Like three times. I think he’s worried about head trauma. I know it’s just normal Mom.

“You don’t remember anyone coming into the shop? Even earlier? Someone acting strange?” He tips his head forward, urging her to speak.

“No.” She grips the mug tighter. “No one unusual. Well, except for the boy who helped lift the bookcase. The one Indigo was telling you about.”

Or partially telling him about. I left out the bit where he knew Mom was hurt. The last thing I need right now is to get Mom worked up with conspiracy theories. I’ve got big plans to fill the officer in on the rest of the story when Mom’s out of earshot.

“I thank you for your patience, ma’am,” Chief Wiggum says, “but just a few more questions. You say there’s nothing missing that you’re aware of ? Nothing of value that someone would want to steal?”

Mom sighs.

“I’m sorry to ask so many times, it’s just that … well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’ve seen a lot of cases like this in the last few weeks. Blackouts. Memory loss. It’d really help us out if you could think hard on this one.”

Lots of blackouts? I dart my gaze to Mom, and sure enough, she’s rubbing her chin. Great.

“What’s this about blackouts?” She sets down her mug and leans forward.

Wiggum clears his throat. “Look, I really shouldn’t have said anything. If you could just let me know if anything is missing.”

Mom looks around the shop. “Everything looks just like it normally does. Well, except for the booksh—” She straightens, her skin turning pale.

“What, Mom?”

“The book,” she whispers.

“What’s that, ma’am?” Wiggum asks, pen hovering over notepad.

“Indie?” Mom says, pleading with her eyes.

She can’t be serious. Just who does she think would break into her shop to steal a crusty old book? But I can’t exactly say that, not after what she just went through.

“I’ll check,” I say, reluctantly climbing to my feet.

This sucks. This really, really sucks.

The attic access is at the rear of the shop. It’s a tiny, unfinished space with exposed insulation for walls and a low ceiling. And I hate it. It’s dark and creepy and I don’t care if my fear is immature. Mom knows about my aversion to the attic and makes a point of not asking me to go up, but when it comes to the book, she can be pretty unreasonable.

I jump up, grab the chain that hangs from the ceiling, and pull the stairs to the ground.

“Hurry, Indie,” Mom calls.

“I’m hurrying.” I grip the sides of the ladderlike stairs and look up into the black-hole opening.

Okay, just do it. Just get it over with.

I climb the rungs with slow, purposeful steps until I’m surrounded by black and the only thing I can see is the circle of light from the floor beneath me. The scent of dust and cardboard envelops me, and my heart thrums so fast I can’t distinguish one beat from the next. This is the worst part—walking in utter darkness to the light that hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room.

Sucking in a breath, I run across the attic, claw around in the air for the chain, and pull. I gasp as the low-wattage lightbulb flicks on, despite the fact that everything looks as it normally does—boxes, boxes, and more boxes, lined high against every wall. Aside from them and some cobwebs, the only other thing up here is an antique table that Mom bought at a yard sale but is too small to do anything useful except hold her ashtray. Which, I note, has about half a dozen cigarette butts smushed inside.

I tut under my breath. I should have known better than to think Mom would really quit this time. I walk over and pick one up. Marlboros? Weird. Mom’s been smoking Virginia Slims ever since I can remember. I drop the cigarette back into the ashtray.

“Is it there?” Mom’s worried voice carries up the stairs.

“I’m looking,” I answer, and it makes me feel a bit better, somehow, to speak loudly up here. Like I’m claiming the room. Like the shadows aren’t hiding ax murderers.

I push aside boxes until I see the access panel in the faded wood floorboards. Dropping to my knees in front of it, I edge my nails under the wood and lift. When the plank comes free, I toss it aside with a clatter and peer inside.

Nothing.

“What?” I frantically swipe my hands along the inner walls of the space, even though I can clearly see the shoe-box-sized hole is empty. How can the book be gone?

“Indigo, are you all right?” Mom calls.

I sweep my forearm across my brow. Upsetting Mom is the last thing I want to do right now—the last thing I ever want to do—but really, what other option do I have? I go to the stairs.

“Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?” I call down.

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s not there?” There’s panic in her voice. “Check again. It has to be there.”

My legs shake as I descend the rungs.

“Indie, didn’t you hear me? I said to check again, please, it’s really important that—”

“It’s not there, Mom.” My tone has an air of finality.

“What’s missing?” The officer poises his pen over his notepad.

I look to Mom for an answer.

“Just a family heirloom,” she says after a delay. Then she clucks her tongue. “And you know what? How silly of me. I forgot I took it home the other night. Sorry to alarm you, Officer.”

His brow creases.

“You know,” Mom says, rubbing her arm, “this arm is actually starting to really bother me. I think I’ll have my daughter drive me to the hospital now.”

“Oh, sure, just a few more—”

She climbs to her feet, wincing in pain, and practically pushes the officer and his photo-taking partner out of the shop.

The minute they’re gone—really gone, as in “Mom watched from the window to make sure they drove away” gone—she makes a limping run for the attic to confirm my news.

“Like I’d miss a book in there,” I call up as she bangs around boxes upstairs. “Mom, be careful—your arm.”

She doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

I fully expected her to be enraged, but when she comes downstairs, her face is streaked with tears, and her eyes, which are normally a bright, vibrant gray, now look like two big voids.

“Oh, Mom.” I pull her to my chest, and she lets out a sob that rattles her body. Warning bells go off in my head. Mom went off the deep end the last time the Bible went missing, and it wasn’t even gone that long before she found it right where she left it, in a shoe box in her closet. I don’t want to think about what might happen if we never get it back. I imagine padded rooms. Needle jabs by mean nurses. There might even be drooling involved.

I brush hair that clings to her wet cheeks away from her face.

“I think I know where it is,” I say.

“Y-you do?” Mom asks, hope filling her cloudy eyes.

Okay, so that’s a lie. But one thing is clear as I take in the fragile state of my mother: I have to find this book. And I do at least have
one
clue to go on: Leather Jacket Guy. He knows something, if he didn’t actually take the book himself. All I have to do is find him.

“I’m going to get the Bible back, Mom. I promise.”

S
o, slight problem with that plan: I have absolutely no clue where to start.

There are over three million people in Los Angeles. The Staples Center seats twenty thousand; Dodger Stadium holds fifty-six thousand. Finding someone in L.A., especially if they don’t want to be found, is like finding a needle in a haystack. Or, as Mom would say, like bailing out a battleship with a bucket.

But I’ve promised Mom, and I’m almost certain that, if I weren’t planning to sneak out just as soon as she falls asleep, she’d be in support of my plan. In support of anything that means finding the Bible.

I set Mom up with a live stream of
Fringe,
Season Four—so confusing it’s sure to lull her to sleep.

“You have everything you need? A refill on the tea, maybe?” I hike my thumb toward the kitchen.

“I’m not an invalid, Indie.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest.” I take her half-empty cup to the kitchen.

“Just, maybe one more thing?” she calls to my back. And the way she says it—guiltily—lets me know she wants her cigarettes.

“Seriously?” I answer. But I’m already going to the freezer.

“Thanks, doll! I’ll quit just as soon as I’m feeling better.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A blast of cold air hits my face as I open the freezer. I grab a pack of cigarettes from the carton and pad back to the living room. “Virginia Slims? What happened to the Marlboros?”

Mom’s brows draw together. “Marlboros? What are you talking about?”

I remember the Marlboro butts in the shop’s attic, and my spine tingles.

“What, honey?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Two cups of tea and three cigarettes later, and Mom’s sawing logs.

So now I’m sitting in the front seat of the Sunfire, the engine vibrating beneath me, gripping the steering wheel as I stare at our house in the headlights.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes.

I
could
trawl the area around the shop and look for Leather Jacket Guy, talk to some people, maybe see if anyone saw him or which direction he went. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s a pretty solid plan, the only real plan I can see. So why can’t I move?

It
definitely
isn’t because I’m scared. Nope. Not possible. I’m not afraid of the dark, and it isn’t like hundreds of hoboes will jump on the hood of my car if I dare slip below fifty on Melrose at night—probably. I can handle this by myself.

But just for fun, I run through the options of friends I can enlist for help.

Bianca?

I bark a laugh. That’s a good joke. “Hey, Bianca, can you please leave this fun party to help me find my mom’s witchcraft Bible?” Yeah. Not likely.

There’s Devon. …

I remember his helpfulness tonight and groan, sinking my fingers deep into my hair. Nope, Devon is out too. None of my friends can help me. Not unless the emergency is of the fashion or hair variety.

For some weird reason, Paige flashes into my head.

Paige is a nice girl, if annoying, and she comes with the bonus that she’s not the gossiping type. Plus I bet she’s the only person in L.A. without plans on a Friday night. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a fantastic idea. Sure, some people might say I’m “using” her, but those people just don’t have the complex understanding of human behavior that I do.

I exit the car, and with a handful of pebbles collected from the edge of the driveway, scamper through the narrow space between our houses until I stare up at Paige’s bedroom window. It’s higher than I expected, and my first throw misses by a wide margin. But on my second attempt, I hear the rock
tink
against the glass. I throw a second pebble, and then a third, for good measure.

Then I wait, wringing my hands as I pace in the tall grass. What could be taking her so long? Is she trying to prove a point or something? Or maybe she fell asleep with her iPod headphones on. Yeah, I bet that’s it.

I cup my hands around my mouth and whisper-yell, “Paige! Paige, it’s me. Open the window.”

I lose patience when she doesn’t answer immediately, and resort to actual yelling. A light flicks on in her room, and relief floods my body. A moment later the window slides up and a familiar face peers down at me. Only it’s not Paige’s.

“Indigo, is that you? It’s after midnight. What are you doing?” Mrs. Abernathy squints down at me, her usually perfect bob pulled up in curlers on the top of her head.

I think about diving behind a bush, but it’s too late. She’s seen me. So I wave up at the confused woman leaning over the window ledge. “I’m sorry I woke you, Mrs. Abernathy. I was just trying to wake Paige up. I’m having a … a boy emergency.”

My cheeks flood with heat, and I’m glad of the dark so she can’t see the telltale signs of the lie on my face.

“Oh. Well, I’m very sorry, but Paige isn’t home.”

I blink up at her, the words not registering. “What do you mean she’s not home?”

“Paige is spending the night at a friend’s house.” The way she says it is almost like an apology, and suddenly I couldn’t feel more pathetic, standing under Paige’s window in the dark while she’s off having a good time somewhere else.

“Jessie Colburn’s?” I guess.

“Yes, that’s the one. Very sweet girl.”

“I’m sure.” Tears prick my eyes. Of course she has a friend now. Of course she has plans. What did I think, that I could push and push her away and she’d always be there, waiting for me in case I ever got bored of Bianca?

“I’m sorry, Indie,” Mrs. Abernathy says. “If you need to talk to someone you’re welcome to come inside.”

I take a deep breath so my voice doesn’t shake when I speak. “Thanks, but that’s okay.”

I trudge back to the car, idling in the driveway, and sink into the front seat. For a moment I’m resigned to doing this thing on my own, but then I give myself a hard shake. This is not the Indigo that I know and love. I won’t give up that easily. So Paige made a friend? Jessie’s got nothing on me.

I throw the car into reverse and peel down the street. In minutes I’m parked up on the curb across from the Colburn residence, a huge Spanish-style home on North Vista. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s her house. Only so much confidence can be placed in gossip from the hallways at school.

I text Paige:

Come outside

A minute later:

I’m not home. Is something wrong? It’s late.

I know. I’m outside Jessie’s. Hurry.

I watch the quiet house for signs of life. No light flicks on inside, but a moment later the front door edges open, and Paige cautiously pokes her head outside.

I wave her over in big, impatient gestures.

She pulls her sweater up on her shoulders and crosses the street.

“Indie? What’s going on?” She probably thinks someone died. Which is just about the only good reason for doing what I’m doing.

I take a deep breath. “It’s my mom’s Bible. Someone stole it and she’s freaking out.”

Paige blinks at me. “Her Bible? And this couldn’t wait until the morning?”

I exhale. “No, it can’t wait. It’s really important to her. Like, vital.”

Paige shakes her head. “Where’s Bianca? Why isn’t
she
helping you?”

Oh. It’s like that now? You’d think the girl would recognize a bone when one was being thrown.

“Because I didn’t ask her,” I retort. “I asked
you.
”

She shifts from foot to foot. “Well, can’t you call the cops or something?”

I don’t believe this is happening. “I did. They can’t help.” I realize how small my voice has become. Paige must too, because her shoulders soften and she glances behind her at the house.

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not? You’re always trying to get us to hang out, and I’m sure Jessie would understand.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I sound jealous. Which I’m
so
not.

“It’s just a shitty thing to do,” Paige says.

Yeah, it’s shitty, I want to say. So what? But of course Paige doesn’t treat her friends this way. She probably bakes Jessie cupcakes when she’s had a bad day or something. I nod and shift the car into drive.

Paige sighs. “Stop. Just give me a minute to talk to Jessie.”

A stupid grin spreads across my face. Paige rolls her eyes before sprinting off across the street.

Minutes later she’s shuffling back to the car, this time with a giant duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She dumps the bag on the backseat before climbing into the passenger side.

“I hope you’re happy. I had to make up a lie so she’d let me off the hook. I hate lying.”

“Thanks, Paige. I mean it.” I smile across at her.

“Yeah, whatever.” Her reflection gazes out the window.

Somehow I thought she’d be happier about this.

A few minutes pass in silence, and I don’t know what to say to cut through the awkward tension.

Luckily, Paige finally speaks. “So what happened, anyway? It sounds pretty crazy.”

I heave a relieved sigh. And suddenly words are spilling out of my mouth faster than I can organize my thoughts. “The Bible, it went missing and Mom’s going crazy. I said I’d find it, but I have no clue where to start. See, Mom had this accident and she blacked out. And there was this guy, and he lifted the shelf off her, but he was at the game too, and he knew about my mom being hurt, which is, like, really, really weird, right? And now—”

“Stop,” Paige interrupts. “What. On earth. Are you talking about?”

I deflate.

“Tell me what happened,” Paige says, clapping her hand on my shoulder. “And start from the beginning.”

I fill her in on the history of the Bible and the events of the night. And it feels good—really good, actually—to get it all off my chest.

When I’m finished, Paige lapses into a deep silence. I can practically see the gears shifting in her head. “Okay, so we have to search the area around the shop,” she finally says. “When you lose something, you’re supposed to retrace your steps. Same thing for people, right?”

I smile. “That’s just what I had in mind.”

Silence once again takes over the car. But it’s a comfortable silence now.

“You got a text.” Paige picks up my cell from the dash, but I yank it from her before she can see anything.

Devon’s sent me no fewer than a dozen texts since the concert. They started out nice:
where u at? cant believe you left.
Then:
is everything ok?
As the night progressed there was:
thinking of you :)
And my favorite:
this party sucks without you.
That one made me smile, even if I currently hated him for not leaving the concert with me. A few beers later came:
wht r u wearng? :P
And how can I forget:
i’m hrny.

Nice.

“Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?” Paige asks.

“Illegal to text and drive,” I say.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

We slog through the insane bar-hour traffic. The sidewalks pulse with people, and lines several blocks wide of girls dressed in six-inch heels and miniskirts snake outside clubs wedged between nail salons and all-night check-cashing joints. Car horns, thumping basses, and sirens fill the thick night air, and neon lights brighten the inky sky.

We circle the area of Melrose Avenue where the shop is located, then every main and side street from La Cienega to North Highland, craning our necks to scan every man, woman, and child we pass. Nothing. Not one person remotely resembling Leather Jacket Guy. It’s not like I had much hope to begin with, but now it’s becoming increasingly clear we aren’t going to find him.

My phone buzzes for the zillionth time in ten minutes.

“I guess we must be the only people not at Jarrod’s party tonight, huh?”

Paige’s arms are loosely hugging her drawn-up knees as she stares at the whirring L.A. landscape outside the window. A realization strikes: I’ve always thought Paige secretly wanted to go to our parties, that she was just pretending she’d rather curl up on the couch with
Atlas Shrugged
on a Friday night because she wasn’t invited. It didn’t make sense to me that she didn’t want to be popular. But she never cared.

My phone stops buzzing, only to restart a millisecond later. Unease flutters in my stomach.

When I left the concert, I was sure I’d never talk to Devon again and not lose a wink of sleep over it. But now? I’m not so sure. Devon could have brought anyone in the world to that concert and he chose me, only to have me ditch him halfway through. And sure, his prioritizing leaves a bit to be desired, but could I really blame the guy for not wanting to run out of the place based on the word of some freaky stranger in leather? I probably would have done the same thing in his shoes.

I’m suddenly desperate to see him.

“Would you mind if we made a quick stop at the party?”I ask.

Paige rolls her eyes. “God, tell me you’re not serious.”

“You don’t have to come in,” I say.

Actually, it would be perfect if she didn’t. Hanging out with Paige at a party? Social suicide. Not to mention the fact that Bianca would kill me. Like, actual death would happen.

“So what you’re asking,” Paige says carefully, “is would I mind waiting in the car while you check up on your boyfriend?”