Keeper(8)

Swallowing the last of my cookie, I grabbed my dictionary off the desk, the blue one Gareth had given me, and thumbed through it. Just get back to studying, Styles. Everything else will keep for a bit.

“Ambiguous. Adjective,” I said out loud, letting the familiar words soothe me. “Meaning unclear or vague.” I flipped to a new page. “Irrevocable. Adjective. Meaning permanent or unchanging.”

When I turned the next page, a worn photograph fell into my lap. I knew what it was without even looking at it, but my heart still wrenched as I turned it over. It was the last picture ever taken of my parents and me. Gareth had given it to me several years back. My mother and father were standing underneath a tall tree with red and orange leaves. My father was grinning at the camera, holding me, only a bundled infant at the time. My mother wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking lovingly at my father, her eyes wide and bright.

It was comforting to see their faces, despite the familiar pang in my chest every time I thought about them not being here.

I was just about to shove the photograph back into the dictionary when a tiny detail caught my eye. I moved the photograph closer to my face, blinking to clear away any tears that might affect my vision.

I gasped, dropping the photo as if it were on fire.

“No,” I whispered. “There’s no way.” I stared at the photo lying facedown on the carpet.

I reached down and gingerly picked up the photograph. The faces were the same, radiant and smiling, but that wasn’t what had my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.

Around my mother’s neck was a silver necklace, and hanging from the necklace was an oval-shaped emerald pendant.

I recognized the necklace. I’d seen it only hours before.

It was the very same emerald amulet that had hung from the bloody woman’s throat.





CHAPTER FOUR


The electric guitar riffs coming from my alarm clock were loud enough to wake the dead. I fumbled for the snooze button, muttering curses under my breath.

When the room was silent, I collapsed back against my pillow, pulling the blanket over my head. I groaned, my stomach rolling with the nausea that comes from lack of sleep.

In the last forty-eight hours, I had spent every spare minute searching the Internet for anything that might explain my encounter with the blood-covered woman. I’d also been canvasing my house for clues as to why the necklace in the picture of my mom and the one the woman wore were the same. Yet, the only thing I’d found in my searches was way too many disturbing websites and a hella ton of dust mites.

I’d almost asked Gareth about the photograph, but every time I mentioned my parents, especially my mom, he always looked so sad. I hated seeing the grief—still fresh after all these years—in his eyes, so I usually didn’t bring them up. Besides, I was still convinced there was some kind of logical explanation for it all. I just had to find it.

But what about the handprint on your arm? What does it mean? How is it possible that the woman you saw was wearing the same necklace as your mother?

The voice in my head repeated the same three questions that’d kept me tossing and turning all night long. “I just want to sleep,” I grumbled. “I just want it all to go away.”

Thankfully, the alarm wailed again, pushing away everything except my annoyance. The opening strains of an AC/DC song blasted through the speakers, and I slapped at the clock like I’d been doing for the past half hour. Why the hell is my alarm on anyway? It’s Saturday. I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper under the covers—and immediately jolted upright.

“Shit!” I shouted when the realization dawned on me. There was a reason I had set my alarm for bright and early on a Saturday, why I had set it to the local classic rock station—something I couldn’t possibly sleep through. Today was the day of the SAT.

The clock beside me read 7:45. The test was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes! Throwing the covers back, I leapt out of bed, shucked off my pajamas, and grabbed the first pieces of clothing my fingers touched. After throwing my hair into a messy bun, I grabbed my backpack and flew out the front door, slamming it behind me.

I drove as fast as I dared, trying to ignore the roar of anxiety screaming inside my head. The clock on my dashboard read 7:51.

The high school was only few miles away, but there was no way I was going to make it in time. The red light in front of me seemed to be taking its sweet time, and I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “Turn green already!” The light changed colors, almost as if in response to my demand, and I let out a tiny smile of satisfaction before stomping on the gas pedal.

I managed to make it a few hundred yards before being stopped by another light. I groaned and gripped the steering wheel to keep from beating the crap out of it.

The clock now read 7:55.

“Green!” I yelled through the windshield. The light obligingly changed. I sped down the street, praying I wouldn’t catch any more lights or run into a cop.

I was less than two minutes away from the school when flashing red lights and lowering metal arms indicated an oncoming train. I came to a complete stop, exactly one intersection away from my turn, and burst into tears. The morning freighters were famous for being incredibly slow and miles long.

The clock read 7:58.

I dropped my head to the steering wheel and tried not to choke on my tears. All that studying, all the stress and worry, the months of preparation—all for nothing.