Deadly Little Voices (29 page)

“But she doesn’t have the resources to handle it.”

I swallow hard, feeling a giant pit in my throat. “Can you help her?” I ask.

Dr. Tylyn gives me a subtle smile. “I’m going to try. But first, I need to help you.”

I spend a good half hour telling her about what happened at Knead, how I told both the officer and my dad everything, and how my mom is on the brink of a nervous breakdown because of me.

“Probably not a smart idea to add the weight of your mother’s breakdown to your already overloaded shoulders, okay? Right now, I’d like you to have a look at this.” She hands me a napkin. On it, someone’s drawn a brick building, covered with ivy. A baby grand piano sits below it, as a separate doodle, and there’s a picture of a grandfather clock in the corner. The face of the clock doesn’t have any hands, but the pendulum itself—the way it’s drawn—gives the illusion of motion.

As if time is definitely ticking.

“Aunt Alexia gave this to you, didn’t she?”

Dr. Tylyn nods. “Do you know what it means?”

I shake my head, wishing I did, explaining that the brick building has been on my mind, too.

“Well, maybe it’ll come to you,” she says.

“Meaning, you don’t think I should try to forget about everything? You don’t think it might be just a random premonition?” I ask, referring to our last therapy session, when she was trying so hard to play devil’s advocate.

“You have a gift,” she reminds me. “Better start thinking of it that way.”

“Or else?”

“I have to get back to your aunt,” she says, leaving me to read between the lines. “I’ll be back in an hour or so; sound good?”

I hold the napkin-note tightly in my grip, about to ask if she wants it back. But then I reconsider, wondering if Aunt Alexia asked her to give it to me—if maybe my aunt is trying to tell me something, and if maybe she knows that I’m here.

AFTER DR. TYLYN LEAVES, I concentrate hard on the image of the brick building, trying to remember where I’ve seen a building like this before, or if I know anyone with a baby grand piano. After only a few minutes, my head is spinning with questions. And so I count to ten, imagining the stress inside me like a ball of clay that gets smaller with each breath.

Just as I start to unwind, I hear music: the sound of someone playing the piano. The napkin still clenched in my grip, I assume the music’s coming from the lobby. I try to identify the tune, but someone’s screaming now—a high-pitched wail that sends shivers all over my skin.

A moment later, Adam comes into the room. “You’re awake,” he says, a wide smile crossing his face. He starts to say something else, but I can barely hear him over the screaming.

“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up in bed, figuring there’s been some horrible accident.

But Adam appears confused. He furrows his brow and asks me something. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear the words.

“That screaming,” I say, covering over my ears. “The music.”

Adam’s confused expression morphs into a look of concern.

“You don’t hear anything?” I ask him.

Still shaking his head, he gazes at my hands, noticing the napkin. “What’s this?” he asks, taking it from me and holding it up to the light.

Suddenly, the noises stop—perhaps because I’m no longer holding the napkin.

“I need to check on Danica,” I tell him, sitting up more in bed. “What if those are her screams? What if she needs me right now?”

“Camelia, you really should rest.”

“She’s in an ivy-covered brick building somewhere,” I say.

“No, she’s at home,” Adam says, setting the napkin on the pillow beside me. “The police checked on her, remember?”

I bite my lip and glance down at the napkin again, sure that there must be something I’m not seeing. I move my head from side to side, trying to look at the drawings from different angles. I even try humming along with the piano tune. “
Moonlight Sonata
,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Excuse me?” Adam asks.

I close my eyes. The image of the baby grand is alive inside my mind.

And that’s when it finally hits me.

The baby grand piano and the ivy-covered brick building—and where I’ve seen both of them before.

“Nothing,” I say, knowing I’m not getting anywhere with him. “I’m probably just overreacting. Where’s my dad?”

“Out in the lobby. Why?”

“Can you have him get me something to eat?”

“Sure thing.”

“And then would
you
mind going to the gift shop to get me something unhealthy to read?”

“
Unhealthy
?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Tabloid magazines,” I tell him. “Anything that looks trashy and lacking in any real substance.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” He gives me a kiss on the forehead before exiting.

My cue to get the hell out of here.

Dear Jill,

Please know that it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but when you refused to do as you were told, refused to see all the sacrifices I’d made for you, you left me no other choice.

…

Dear Jack:

I told you I’d try on the uniform, but instead of going to the bathroom to change, I grabbed your camera by the canvas strap and tried to thwack you over the head with the lens.

As if by reflex, you snagged the camera, tossed it to the sofa, and wrapped your hand around my neck. “What are you going to do now?” you hissed.

“Please,” I begged, promising to try the uniform on for real.

You brought me to a hallway closet, where you kept your supplies. How often had you actually done this? You seemed so well prepared.

The gag came first. You stuffed a rag inside my mouth—all the way in, until I choked.

And then you locked a chain around my wrists.

“You should’ve done what you were told,” you said. “You should’ve listened, but you’re just so ungrateful.” Your face was red, including your ears, as you wrapped duct tape around my ankles and made me listen to more of your singing, again to the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandy”“Jack and Jill ran up the hill ‘cause they were meant to be-eeee. Jack said forever, but Jill said never, and now she can’t be free-eeee. La-da-da, let’s lock her up. La-da-da, we have to.

La-da-da, she won’t obey. And now she has to pay…”

I tried to speak—to tell you no—but the rag tasted like gasoline, burning my throat.

You dragged me to the bathroom, pushed me inside, and I fell to the floor. Then you threw the skating uniform at my face.

…

MY HEART IS ABSOLUTELY RACING. I hike my hair up into a high ponytail and pinch my cheeks for color. A voice on the hospital intercom makes me jump. I reach for the door, but then pause to search for my coat, almost positive that my cell phone is inside it.

I check the bathroom, the bedcovers, beneath the sparse furnishings, and even under Adam’s bouquet. But I can’t find it anywhere. Unable to waste another moment, I open the door and slip out into the hallway, trying to psych myself up—to tell myself that I’m just here visiting, and that now it’s time to for me to go.

Being Saturday night, things are bustling in the ER. A man is whisked in on a stretcher, and a hoard of medics swarm. A woman, hunched over in pain, is busy talking to the admitting nurse. And two officers (neither of whom is Thompkins) question a fifty-year-old guy who looks like he’s had too much to drink as he wavers back and forth, stumbling over his feet.

I accidentally make eye contact with one of the medics, fearing that he might recognize me from my episode at Knead—that he might be one of the guys who brought me in. A stabbing sensation pierces my chest. But the medic just looks away, not giving me a second thought.

And so I scoot right out the door.

Once outside, I’m startled by the darkness. My pace quickens, until I break into a full sprint. I pass the closest bus stop, afraid it’d be the first place that Adam or my dad might look. I search my pockets for some change to use a pay phone, hoping that either Wes or Kimmie will come get me. But my pockets are absolutely empty.

I hurry into the supermarket on the corner, remembering that they have a free phone service for calling cabs. I tell the dispatcher where the cabdriver should pick me up, neglecting to mention the fact that I won’t be able to pay. The driver arrives about five minutes later, and I tell him to take me to the piano studio in the next town over, remembering having seen an ivy-covered brick building with a piano sign outside. Wes passed it while we were following the Taurus.

“Piano studio?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, proceeding to describe the place, including the sign in the shape of a baby grand.

“You mean Acorn?” he says.

I nod, feeling a chill run down my spine, still able to picture the acorn-shaped door knocker that I sculpted at Knead just minutes before I started to hallucinate.

The driver takes me down a bunch of streets, finally crossing over into the town of Hayden and driving through the less-populated part of town. Sitting in the backseat, I pretend to search my pockets for money, knowing that I’m probably not fooling anyone. The driver, most likely in his late sixties, glares at me through his rearview mirror.

“That’s my house,” I lie, pointing into the darkness, recognizing the area. The piano place is about two blocks up.

“I thought you wanted to go to Acorn,” he says, pulling over to the curb.

“Yes, but I need to pay you first. Maybe you could keep the meter running while I go inside for money?”

A moment later, his cell phone rings, and he shoos me away, clearly frustrated, which I decide to interpret as a yes. I exit the cab and head toward a large apartment building, pretending to go inside, but instead I sneak around to the back and hurry across a parking lot. I run the length of several houses and buildings, some of which have been boarded up, trying to figure out which one had the piano sign out front.

I stop a moment, crouching down behind a Dumpster, trying to catch my breath and gain my bearings. Most of the buildings look dark on the first floors—businesses, maybe. But the upper floors appear livelier, with lights on and curtains in the windows.

I get up and continue at a brisk pace, suddenly tripping over a plank of wood. I flop down with full force. The undersides of my forearms break my fall, and I feel the gravel dig into my skin. I hurry to pick myself up, searching for an ivy-covered brick building, realizing that I’ll probably only be able to recognize it if I move back around to the front.

I sneak down an alleyway, keeping an eye on the street, wondering if the taxi driver may still be waiting.

With the light from the streetlamps guiding my way, I pass by several three-family houses. My breath is visible in the chilly night air. I cross my arms, trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m shivering, the fact that the house I just passed has several broken windows, and the fact that I don’t have my cell phone.

I blow on my palms in an effort to warm them, wondering if I should turn back around.

But then I finally see it.

The tarnished piano sign is unmistakable in the moonlight. The word
acorn
is etched in small gold letters, and yet there’s nothing indicating what this place really is. A piano showroom? A place where someone gives lessons? The home of a concert pianist?

A low-watt light casts a warm glow over the door. I start up the cement walkway, noting the ivy leaves crawling up both sides of the building. My fingers just shy of reaching the acorn knocker, I tell myself how crazy this is—even crazier than zoning out and hearing voices.

Because I’m totally on my own.

I consider turning away, wondering if I’d be better off going to Danica’s house. But then I find myself knocking anyway, because I simply can’t shake this feeling—this sensation that something horrible is going to happen if I don’t go in to stop it.

I knock again when no one answers, and then finally try the door handle. It opens with a click. I take a step inside, hearing the floorboards creak beneath my feet. The place is well lit: a wide-open showroom with at least twenty pianos displayed on a red velvet carpet.

“Hello?” I call. My heart is pumping so hard that it hurts.

A baby grand piano sits in the center of the room, with a vase of red flowers on top of it.