Hidden Pictures(20)

“Better, right?”

“Much better. Any other tips?”

“No, I just gave you my best advice. Swimming is the only sport where coaches yell at you for breathing. But if you practice, you’ll get better.”

“Thanks.”

I grab the pool ladder and climb out, ready to call it a night. My swimsuit is riding up and I reach down to tug it back into place, but apparently I’m not fast enough.

“Hey, go Flyers,” he says.

He’s referring to the small tattoo at the base of my hip. It’s the wild-eyed face of Gritty, the furry orange mascot of Philadelphia’s NHL team. I’ve been careful to keep it concealed from the Maxwells, and I’m angry at myself for slipping up.

“It’s a mistake,” I tell him. “As soon as I save the money, I’m getting it lasered off.”

“But you like hockey?”

I shake my head. I’ve never played. I’ve never even watched a game. But two years ago I became friendly with an older man who had an abiding love of the sport and ready access to prescription pharmaceuticals. Isaac was thirty-eight years old, and his father played for the Flyers back in the 1970s. He’d earned a lot of money and died young and Isaac was slowly squandering his fortune. There were a couple of us living in Isaac’s condo and crashing on his floor and occasionally sharing his bed and basically I got the tattoo to impress him, with the hope that he’d think I was cool and he’d let me keep hanging around. But the plan was a bust. I had to wait five days to remove the bandage, and in that time Isaac was arrested for possession, and his landlord chased all of us back into the streets.

Ted’s still waiting for me to explain.

“It was stupid,” I tell him. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Well, you’re not alone. Caroline has a tattoo she wants to get rid of. She went through an artsy phase in college.”

This is a nice thing to say, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m sure Caroline’s tattoo is extremely tasteful. It’s probably a rose, or a crescent moon, or a meaningful Chinese character—not some freakish googly-eyed monster. I ask Ted where she’s hiding it but I’m interrupted by another loud crack.

We both turn toward the forest.

“Someone’s out there,” I tell him. “I heard them walking around earlier.”

“Probably a rabbit,” he says.

There’s another crack and then a quick panicked thrashing, the sound of a small animal darting across a forest.

“That was a rabbit. But earlier, before you came out, the noise was louder. It sounded like a person.”

“Maybe it was teenagers. I’m sure these woods are popular with high school kids.”

“It’s worse at night. Sometimes I’m lying in my bed and it sounds like they’re right outside my window.”

“Probably doesn’t help for Mitzi to fill your head with strange stories.” He winks. “Caroline told me about your encounter.”

“She’s an interesting person.”

“I’d steer clear of her, Mallory. All this business about so-called energy readings? Strangers parking in her driveway, knocking on her back door? Paying in cash? It feels shady to me. I don’t trust her.”

I sense that Ted hasn’t spent much time in the company of psychics. Growing up, I had a neighbor, Mrs. Guber, who read tarot cards in the back of the local pizzeria. She was legendary for predicting that one of the waitresses would win $100,000 on a scratch-off ticket. She also consulted on marriage proposals, adulterous boyfriends, and other affairs of the heart. My friends and I called her The Oracle, and we trusted her more than the front page of the Inquirer.

But I don’t expect Ted to understand any of this. The guy won’t even acknowledge the existence of the tooth fairy. A few nights ago, Teddy spat up a loose molar, and Ted just reached into his billfold and pulled out a dollar—no mystery, no fanfare, no late-night tiptoeing into the bedroom to avoid detection.

“She’s harmless.”

“I think she’s dealing,” Ted says. “I can’t prove it, but I’m watching her. You need to be careful around her, okay?”

I raise my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“I’m serious, Mallory.”

“I know. And I appreciate it. I’ll be careful.”

I’m opening the gate to the pool, ready to leave, when I realize Caroline is walking across the yard, still dressed in her work clothes, carrying her notebook and a pencil. “Mallory, wait. Did you get a phone call yesterday? From Teddy’s school?”

Immediately, I realize I’ve messed up. I remember the call, and I remember writing the principal’s number on a slip of paper. But then Teddy walked into the kitchen with his weird drawing, and I must have been distracted.

“Yes—the principal,” I tell her. “I have the message in my cottage. It’s probably still in my shorts. I’ll go get it—”

Caroline shakes her head. “It’s fine. She just emailed me. But I could have used the message yesterday.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If we miss a single deadline, Teddy will lose his spot. The kindergarten class has a waitlist with thirty names on it.”

“I know, I know—”