Pretty Girls Dancing(38)

“He could be lying. He’s a liar,” she whispered. It did little to push aside her fog of grief, but the sound of her voice comforted her. “I’d know if they were gone. I’d feel it.” The screw tightly clasped in one fist, she exited the shower stall and got down on her hands and knees beneath the window. Painstakingly, she counted each seam over to the sixth strip, where she’d left off last night. With her fingernails, she felt along each edge of wood, searching for the slightest opening. When she found one, she’d stop, wedge the point of the screw in it, and try to leverage the board upward.

Mindless activity. Like the dancing today, the task kept her brain occupied with something other than the awful thoughts that wanted to intrude. She already knew she’d be unable to sleep. So instead, she spent the night hours in a blind, tactile dance. Each time she was unsuccessful, she moved on.

“You just never give up, Whit—do you?” It was her mother’s voice in her head this time. “You get your mind made up, and nothing and no one can change it.” Whitney didn’t remember what had brought on her mother’s exasperation that time, but it was true. Once she’d settled on something, she didn’t give in. Like when she was convincing her parents to let her quit dance. Or fighting for a later curfew. That had been a battle she hadn’t won. The memories had her pausing for a moment to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her leotard.

She had to move the mattress in order to check the flooring beneath it. Her movements were getting clumsier now with exhaustion. After this section she’d put the screw and the mattress back in place and try to sleep. Tomorrow night she’d start again. And the night after that.

The crack she found between the boards was the fourth slat inside the area where her mattress normally sat. Fumbling for the screw, she stuck its tip into the crack and pried upward. When the board came loose without friction, the screw slipped and sliced into her palm. She couldn’t prevent a sound of pain, which she quickly bit off.

A long breath shuddered from her. She’d lost track of time, but it had to be the middle of the night, and the freak wasn’t near. She didn’t know where he went after he visited her, but he had never returned before morning. The tension eased from her spine, and she wiped the blood she could feel welling on her hand on her tights. Then she lifted the board completely out of the floor. Examined it.

It was no more than two feet in length and a half inch thick. As a club, it wouldn’t do much damage, but there were wicked nails on the interior of either end that might. Whitney sat back on her heels and considered her unexpected success. Now that she had one slat loose, it should be easier to loosen another. And where one board might not be a lethal weapon, two together would be.

Setting the strip down, she slipped her fingers into the two-inch crack she’d discovered. And immediately touched something foreign.

She yanked her fingers back. That small sliver of light around the curtain didn’t spread this far. The hole she’d uncovered was shrouded in darkness, like most of the rest of the stage. Swallowing hard, she shoved her fingers back inside the fissure, ran them along the object inside. It felt like . . . paper.

Drawing it out, she scooted with it back over to the window, uncaring for the moment that the movement had the links of chain clanking. Once at the wall, she could see the paper was white and rolled up like a scroll. When she unrolled it, she realized it wasn’t one sheet. It was several. And they were covered with writing.

She could read only the part lit by the tiny slice of light, so she had to painstakingly move the sheet from left to right along the concrete bricks to make out the words.

My name is Kelsey Willard.

If someone’s reading this, I’m probably dead.





Janie Willard

November 9

3:33 p.m.

A distant sound in the house had Janie’s gaze jerking up from the laptop, her body stilling as she strained to make it out. It had come from downstairs. The sudden tension seeped from her shoulders. Her mom’s note had said she had gone to one of her do-gooder church activities. It was probably just Marta leaving.

She took a moment to straighten the pile of pillows she’d been propped against. Stretched out on the bed, Janie had her old computer before her, a notebook at her side. The desk would have been more comfortable, but sitting at it would have given a person coming in her room a clear view of the screen. And she didn’t want anyone to see the site she was on.

She didn’t want to be seeing the site she was on.

Setting her jaw, she returned to her chore. Clicking on each thumbnail, studying the face of the girl—they were all girls—closely before moving on. Since Friday, she hadn’t been able to forget the picture Cole Bogart had shown her from this site. The image had replayed over and over in her brain, intertwining with the conversation she’d had with her mom. Something had compelled her to set aside the homework she’d planned and take a closer look at the site. And she’d made a discovery then that kept her returning to the task over and over throughout the weekend.

Heather Miller wasn’t the only girl she recognized on the web page.

Compared with the tiny sound she’d heard moments ago, the next was a sonic boom. And instantly recognizable. The peal of the doorbell, followed by voices and footsteps thundering up the stairs to her room. Alyvia barreled inside like a cotton-candy-haired Tasmanian devil, laptop clutched to her chest.