Undercurrent (18 page)

On the third trophy, the glass cracked. A gold medal finished the job, sending shards flying on both sides of the door.

“Stop!” I yelled, lunging across the broken glass. I threw one arm through the opening and fumbled for the knob. “Get away from him!”

My hand shook, making my fingers slip off the knob. I was still trying to get a good grip when another hand—larger, wider—gently squeezed my arm.

“Vanessa?” Parker asked.

My head snapped up. Through a haze of fear and pain, I registered his green eyes, narrow with concern, and then her… brown eyes, wide with shock.

“Georgia?” I said.

The girl Parker had just been making out with stood a few feet behind him, soaking wet, shivering, clutching her sarong to her chest. I saw her face for the first time and was stunned when her eyes weren’t silvery blue, when she didn’t look anything like I’d imagined.

Even now my head pounded, but this girl wasn’t Zara. She was Georgia Vincent, a smart, pretty junior who was in my study hall… and who apparently had a thing for Parker.

“Yes?” She shot him a confused look.

“I’m so sorry.” I tried to pull away. “I thought you were… I thought he was…”

“It’s okay,” Parker said gently. “Everyone’s okay.”

My arm, suspended above the broken wedges of glass still in the door, was tired, heavy. I wanted to yank it back and use whatever energy I had left to run down the hall and out of the building, but Parker’s fingers tightened around my flesh, refusing to let go.

“Actually,” Georgia said, “I’m not. What was that, Vanessa? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I said, not believing it myself. “I just… thought you were someone else.”

“An ax murderer?” She held out both arms, exposing her practically naked body. “Look at me. Where would I hide it?”

I lowered my eyes and stared at the floor.

“Whatever. I’m going to dry off and get my clothes.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, flirty. “Come with me?”

“I don’t think so,” Parker said.

Her bare feet slapped the tile floor as she stormed away. I waited until I heard the changing room door open and close

before daring to look at Parker.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“You mentioned that. And don’t be. You saved me from doing something I would’ve regretted the second I’d done it.”

“I yelled and knocked first.” As if that made it better.

“The pool’s right next to the English wing. The glass is soundproof.”

His eyes held mine. I wanted to look away as much as I wanted to stand exactly like that. For better or worse, my aching arm made the decision for me.

“Sorry… do you mind?”

He glanced at his hand, then immediately released his fingers, like he was surprised to find them still touching me.

I stepped back, the soles of my shoes crunching against the broken glass. “I should go. Find someone to help clean this up, I mean.”

“Don’t.”

I stopped.

“It’s still going on, isn’t it?” Parker asked. “The networking thing?”

I nodded.

“Why don’t we just hang here for a while? I mean, we might not be able to keep out all the recruiters who are probably scouring the halls for us right now”—he nodded to the hole in the door—“but I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

I was. Partially because he wanted me to, partially because it might give me a chance to explain my strange behavior without revealing too much, but mostly because I was completely drained. I doubted I could even make it back to the gymnasium without napping first.

When I didn’t make a move to leave, he unlocked the door, opened it, and offered his hand to help me walk across the shards of glass on the other side.

I followed him to the edge of the pool, where his clothes still sat. He put on his T-shirt and gave me his jacket. When I thanked him but declined, he left the jacket on the floor and continued walking toward the deep end of the pool.

“He’s all yours!” Georgia shouted, fully clothed and hurrying toward the natatorium entrance. “And by the way—he doesn’t live up to the hype!”

He stopped at the bottom of a diving board ladder. Coming up behind him, I raised my eyebrows.

“Your first dissatisfied customer?” I asked.

“Don’t know.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I’m still waiting on the report from another one.”

I was grateful when he started up the ladder so he couldn’t see my face burn. Strangely, despite the embarrassing reference, I felt a tiny rush of energy. It started at my toes and seemed to swim up, through my veins. It was enough to make me take a metal step in both hands and climb after him.

I’d made it as far as the second step when I pictured Simon waiting for me on the other side of the iron fence surrounding Winter Harbor’s Camp Heroine. For a second, I clung to the cool metal and considered climbing back down.

“There is a girl,” Parker called down.

And there was another rush. It made my skin tingle—and me keep moving.

“Remember that day in the water polo lounge? When you asked me if I was seeing anyone?”

“Yes?” I focused on my movements. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot.

“Well, I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. Not technically, anyway. You know Amelia Hathaway?”

“Sure,” I said, grateful when he didn’t mention my spying on them in the library a few weeks ago.

“We hooked up at a party over the summer and I thought I wasn’t interested in anything else—until I was. We hung out a few times, and while I liked her more and more, the feelings weren’t exactly reciprocated.”

“That’s too bad.” Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot.

“It was. Especially because when she insisted she didn’t feel the same way, I just stopped caring about what I did and who I did it with.” He grabbed the railings at the top of the ladder and hoisted himself onto the board. “Until now.”

Right hand, left hand, right foot, left—

I stopped, my hands on the railings, Parker’s hands on mine. I peeked down, saw how far away the floor was, and didn’t resist when he helped me up onto the board. We faced each other, our bodies separated by inches, our fingers overlapping on the railings. The combination of his nearness, a lifelong fear of heights, and standing twenty feet above the pool should’ve made me too terrified to breathe, but I felt surprisingly steady. Strong.

The feeling only intensified when Parker spoke again.

“I don’t know what you thought was going on in here,” he said quietly. “But I know you were worried about me. Whatever it was, you thought I was in some kind of trouble and wanted to help. Just like that night in the harbor… right?”

I swallowed, nodded, looked past his shoulder to the water below.

“Vanessa, no one’s ever cared about me that much before. And I’m not sure why you do, but I’d love—”

“Parker.” My voice was a whisper.

“No, please. Let me get this out before I lose my nerve. We don’t know each other that well, but I’d love to—”

“Parker.”

He stopped. His fingers pressed against mine as he turned and followed my gaze.

He leaned over the railing. “Is that—Doesn’t he look like—”

“Yes,” I said, tears filling my eyes.

It was Matt Harrison. The Bates recruiter. Floating on his back, and drifting toward the center of the pool.

As Parker waved and called out, trying for a response, I sank to my knees, knowing he wouldn’t get one.

Because Matt Harrison was dead.

And smiling like he’d never been happier.

A
FTER ALERTING SCHOOL
security, Parker and I spent an hour talking to the police. He tried to get me to go before they arrived, to save me from having to deal with the messy aftermath, but I refused. He did most of the explaining anyway, but I wanted to confirm that we’d been together when we found the body. If he’d said he’d been alone, the police might’ve suspected him of being involved, and I couldn’t allow that.

I stayed for another reason, too. While Parker filled in his dad and President O’Hare, both of whom looked more concerned about how they were going to handle this potential bad publicity than the fact that a college recruiter had just died on the premises, I excused myself to call my parents—and then went outside instead.

Hawthorne and the Boston Police Department must have had some sort of pre-arrangement, because by the school’s main and rear entrances, life continued undisturbed. The networking event had ended, and seniors and recruiters mingled in separate groups on the steps and sidewalk, the recruiters talking about where to grab an early dinner, the students eavesdropping in hopes of “accidentally” joining them. They appeared to have no idea about what was transpiring on the other side of the building. And besides a few straggling underclassmen, there was no activity by the rear entrance.

I was about to go back inside and try tailing a police officer until he was alone when a white truck got my attention. It was parked half in, half out of the narrow delivery entrance drive-way several yards down the block from the building’s rear doors.
COLONY BAKERY
was written on its sides in blue script, and a darkened strobe light sat on the dashboard. As I approached, I could hear the static of walkie-talkies, men speaking in hushed voices. The truck took up most of the driveway, blocking my view of what was going on behind it, but I caught quick glimpses of red medical bags, a stretcher.

“You lost?”

I jumped at the woman’s voice. She stood just behind me, wearing dark pants and a long white baker coat, and carrying three water bottles she’d apparently just bought at the deli next door. A Commonwealth Emergency Medical Team badge peeked out near the collar of her jacket. Seeing my eyes linger there, she quickly fastened her button with one hand.

“Nope,” I said too brightly, nodding to the truck. “Just hungry. Do you have any scones?”

“There’s a bakery across the street.”

“Yes, but the scones in there are hours old by now. The ones in your truck are probably right out of the oven.”

She gave me a slow once-over. Then, deciding I was simply annoying and not a threat, she brushed past me. “This is a private entrance. You’ll want to move along.”

I’d been two feet down the driveway and now moved to the sidewalk. I took a book from my backpack, leaned against the wall, and hoped I appeared to be reading while waiting for someone. Each time I heard footsteps heading down the delivery driveway or a truck door open, I casually peered around the corner. The next EMT I saw was another woman, and the two after her were older married men.

But the fourth was promising. He was young, probably in his early twenties, and his left ring finger was bare.

“Excuse me?” I asked, swapping the book for a notebook and pen.

“What’s up?” The upper half of his body was behind the open passenger’s-side door as he leaned inside the truck.

I waited to make sure no one else was coming before venturing down the driveway. He finished whatever he was doing inside the truck, pulled out, and closed the door.

“Hi.” I offered him a friendly yet suggestive smile.

It seemed to work at first—he returned the expression and even took a step toward me—but then his mouth set in a straight line as he remembered where he was. “You shouldn’t be back here,” he said.

“But I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’d started to turn away but stopped. “You have?”

“I’m researching a story. For the Globe.” That was a stretch, but at least I wasn’t wearing my school uniform.

He still seemed unsure, but he was listening. “What about?”

“Creepy local deaths for a Halloween special feature. I figured as one of Boston’s best emergency medical responders, you’ve probably seen some pretty strange things.”

This was an even bigger stretch. He was wearing the bakery disguise, too, and unlike the first woman I’d spoken with, his badge was hidden. So how would I know he was an EMT at all, let alone one of the best? I braced for another reprimand.

But it didn’t come.

“Actually, I have,” he said, sounding pleased as he leaned against the truck and crossed his arms over his chest. “But are you sure you’re a reporter?”

My breath hitched.

“You’re too cute to be stuck behind a computer all day.”

I laughed lightly. This seemed to make him even happier, and he immediately launched into various cases of murder, suicide, and a combination of both. I pretended to take notes, pausing every now and then to smile or move closer, but when none of his stories were about the city’s recent victims, I helped him focus.

“What about the guy who jumped off the bridge a few weeks ago?” I asked. “The one who left the note and the balloon?”

“That was pretty standard. His girlfriend broke up with him, and he couldn’t go on without her.” He winked. “Understandable, depending on the girl.”

My stomach turned. “And there was nothing… unusual… about him when he was found? No weird marks or expressions?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“What about the accident with the bus of BU athletes? Nothing strange?”

He shook his head. “They found the last four missing students, and the others are recovering well in the hospital. Unfortunate, but also pretty standard.”

I took another step toward him, rested one hand on his arm. “I’ve heard that in certain circumstances, people can die with their mouths frozen open and their lips turned up. Almost like they’re happy. Have any of the recent victims looked like that?”

“Now that you mention it, that bridge jumper didn’t look entirely devastated when they found him.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me. “And off the record? Some guy just drowned in this fancy school’s pool. When they brought him out, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.”

He jumped back as a door slammed somewhere behind him. I looked over his shoulder to see the original female EMT coming toward us.

“Thanks so much,” I said, backing up. “You’ve been really helpful.”

“Wait.” He started after me. “What’s your name? How can I—”

The female EMT grabbed his arm. As she demanded to know what he’d told me, I spun around and ran.

I sprinted past the school, across the street, and through the park. As I dodged pedestrians and baby strollers, I tried to make sense of everything I’d just learned. I reached our brownstone barely winded and took the steps leading to the front door two at a time.

“Oh, good,” Mom said as I burst into the foyer. She was in the living room, sorting through more cardboard boxes. When I glanced her way, she held up two black capes. “What do you think? For costumes? For you and—”

“Sorry.” I swung by and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Can’t talk now. Is Dad still in his office?”

“He’s at work. He felt well enough to make his afternoon lecture.”

This sounded like another lie told for Mom’s sake, but there was nothing I could do about that now. I flew through the room, up the stairs, and down the hallway.

“Paige,” I said, knocking on her bedroom door. “I know you said you wanted to be alone, and I’m sorry to interrupt, but—”

I stopped as the door swung open under the weight of my fist, releasing a blast of hot air.

“Paige?” I stepped into the room. It was dark except for the soft glow of my old night-light plugged into the wall by the desk. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. Thinking she’d fallen asleep—and still wanting to talk—I tiptoed over to the bed. I felt through the darkness, aiming for the pillow, hoping to gently wake her by stroking her hair. My palm grazed the pillow… but her head wasn’t there. I felt my way along the bed’s length. In addition to Paige, the blankets and sheets were missing.

I went back to the head of the bed and turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. In the dim light I saw that the bed was completely stripped. The blinds were down, the curtains pulled tight across them. That was strange, but even stranger was what was in the middle of the room.

Eight portable heaters were arranged in a wide circle, their cords connected to three separate power strips. The heaters surrounded blankets and sheets from the bed as well as what appeared to be the entire contents of the upstairs linen closet: old comforters, wool throws, and even guest towels. The bedding was also arranged in a circle and resembled some sort of nest. In the middle of the nest were pillows—from the bed and extras from the closet—and a plastic jug of water. The pillows were fluffed, like they hadn’t been touched since being placed on the floor, and the water jug was full. The rest of the room looked like it always did, with one exception.

Paige wasn’t in it.

I used my sleeve to wipe the sweat forming on my face, then ran back down the hallway. I stopped in my room, thinking she might be waiting for me there, but it, too, was empty.

There was only one other room on the second floor: the bathroom. I approached it slowly; my energy was finally waning, and I was wary of what I might find. The door was closed, and no light shone out of the thin space between it and the floor, but I could hear water running, like someone was taking a bath.

I’d found Paige in a bathtub once before. She’d been pregnant then, and sick. Untransformed, her body had been unable to give the life growing inside her what it needed. Raina and Zara, rather than taking her to a doctor, had cared for her at home, making her drink gallons of ocean water and take hot baths. They’d been in the bathroom with her the day I’d watched through the cracked door, holding her pale, shaking hand, guarding without speaking.

As I walked toward the bathroom now, I pictured her body writhing and twitching. I imagined the noise she’d made, which had been something between a moan and a shriek and had sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. I remembered her eyes, her beautiful silver-blue eyes, shining toward the ceiling, seeming to stare at nothing and everything at once. And I prayed that that wasn’t what waited behind this closed door.

I knocked once. Twice. Three times.

“Paige? It’s Vanessa. Can I come in?” I held one ear to the door and listened. There was nothing except for the steady rush of water. “Please,” I whispered, taking the knob in one hand. “Please let her be okay…”

Like the bedroom, the bathroom was lit only by a night-light. But it didn’t need to be any brighter for me to see that she wasn’t okay, that I was too late.

Her motionless body was held underwater by heavy iron doorstops resting on her stomach, arms, and legs. Her skin was white, her lips blue. Water streamed into the overflowing tub from the showerhead, making her hair float around her bloated face. Containers of table salt lined the porcelain shelf on the wall next to the tub. A small white book drifted across the flooded tile floor, its gold letters glittering in the dim light.

My body went numb as my eyes locked on the small French script.

La vie en rose
.

Zara’s diary.

The hospital waiting room smelled like rubbing alcohol and potato chips. The nauseating combination didn’t help my stomach, which had been churning since I’d opened the bathroom door forty-five minutes earlier.

“You should eat something.” Mom put one hand on my knee.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You’re sweating and shaking. Food will help.”

I didn’t answer. Across the waiting room, a little girl watched me curiously. I tried to smile, but the failed attempt made her bury her face in her mother’s sweater.

“Salad,” Mom announced, standing. “I’m going to get you a salad, and I’m going to call your father.”

“You’ve called him a million times in the past five minutes,” I protested weakly.

“And I’ll keep calling until he picks up.”

I had to admire her determination… and her unflappable calm. I didn’t remember much of what happened after I’d found Paige. I knew I screamed and lifted her out of the tub, and at one point I was vaguely aware of Mom there with us, but that was all. Yet somehow, we were in the hospital waiting room. Paige was with doctors. It was like the second I screamed, Mom had woken up from her strange daydream and reentered reality the way she’d left it.

It was a small miracle as far as miracles went, but it wasn’t lost on me.

As Mom disappeared into an elevator, I stood and shuffled over to the receptionist area.

“Excuse me,” I said, leaning on the counter for support. “Have you heard anything else yet? About Paige—”

“Marchand.” Barbara the receptionist, an older woman with big blonde hair, eyed me over the tops of her rhinestone-rimmed glasses. “I remember from the first twelve times you asked.”

Apparently, Mom wasn’t the only determined one.

“She’s hanging in there,” Barbara said. “Still critical, but hanging in.”