Hidden Pictures(35)

We arrive at the Flower Castle but Adrian says he’ll walk me home and I don’t object. He asks where I’m from and he’s surprised to learn that I grew up in South Philly, that I could see Citizens Bank Park from my bedroom window. “You don’t sound like you’re from the city.”

I give him my best Rocky Balboa: “Yo, Adrian! You tink we all tawk like dis?”

“It’s not your voice. It’s the way you present yourself. You’re so positive. You’re not jaded like everyone else.”

Oh, Adrian, I think to myself. You really have no idea.

He asks, “Are your parents still in South Philly?”

“Just my mom. They split up when I was young, and my dad moved to Houston. I hardly know him.”

This is all true, so I think my answer sounds fairly convincing, but then Adrian asks if I have any siblings.

“Just one sister. Beth.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. She’s thirteen.”

“Does she go to your meets?”

“All the time. It’s three hours in the car, one way, but if it’s a home race my mother and sister always come.” And my voice catches—I don’t know why I’m saying all this stuff. I want to be honest with him, to have a real relationship, and instead I’m just piling on more lies.

But as I walk these moonlit sidewalks with this very sweet and handsome lawn boy, it’s so easy to surrender to fantasy. My real past feels a million miles away.

When we finally reach the Maxwells’ house, it’s dark. It’s after ten thirty and everyone must be in bed. We follow the tiny flagstone path around the side of the house and it’s even darker out back, with just the shimmering blue light of the pool to guide the way.

Adrian squints across the yard, scanning the trees for the outline of my cottage. “Where’s your house?”

I can’t see it, either. “Somewhere back in those trees. I left the porch light on, but I guess the bulb burned out.”

“Hmmph. That’s weird.”

“Is it?”

“After all the stories you just told me? I don’t know.”

We walk across the lawn to the cottage, and Adrian waits on the grass while I climb the steps to my porch. I try the door and it’s still locked, so I reach for my keys. Suddenly I’m grateful to Caroline for insisting I put the Viper on my key chain. “Maybe I’ll just look inside for a minute. Would you mind waiting?”

“No problem.”

I unlock the door, reach inside, and toggle the switch for the porch light—definitely dead. But the interior light works fine, and the cottage looks just as I left it. Nothing in my kitchen, nothing in the bathroom. I even get down on my knees and take a quick peek under the bed.

“Everything okay?” Adrian calls.

I walk back outside. “It’s fine. I just need a new bulb.”

Adrian promises to call when he has more information about Annie Barrett. I watch and wait as he crosses the yard and rounds the side of the house, disappearing from view.

And as I turn to enter the cottage, my foot brushes an ugly gray rock about the size of a tennis ball. I look down and realize I’m standing on paper, three sheets of paper with ragged edges, and the rock is holding them in place. Keeping my back to the door of the cottage, I reach down and pick them up.

Then I go inside, lock the door, and sit at the edge of my bed, turning the pages one at a time. They’re like the three drawings that Ted Maxwell ripped into pieces—the three drawings he swore I’d never see again. Only they’ve been drawn by a different hand. These drawings are darker and more detailed. They use so much pencil and charcoal, the paper has warped and buckled. A man is digging a grave. A woman is being dragged through a forest. And someone is looking up from the bottom of a very deep hole.





12


The next morning I walk over to the main house and Teddy is waiting for me at the sliding glass patio doors, holding a small notepad and pencil. “Good morning and welcome to my restaurant,” he says. “How many are in your party?”

“Just one, Monsieur.”

“Right this way.”

All his stuffed animals are seated in chairs around the kitchen table. Teddy leads me to an empty seat between Godzilla and Blue Elephant. He pulls out a chair and hands me a paper napkin. I can hear Caroline upstairs, frantically crisscrossing her bedroom. It sounds like she’ll be late leaving the house again.

Teddy stands patiently at my side, pencil and notepad in hand, ready to take my order. “We don’t really have a menu,” he says. “We can make anything you want.”

“In that case I’ll have scrambled eggs. With bacon and pancakes and spaghetti and ice cream.” This makes him laugh, so I milk the joke for all it’s worth. “And carrots, hamburgers, tacos, and watermelon.”

He doubles over with giggles. The kid has a way of making me feel like Kate McKinnon on SNL, like everything I do is comedy gold. “If you say so!” he says, and then he wobbles over to his play chest to fill my plate with plastic food.

The landline starts ringing and Caroline calls downstairs to me. “Let that go to voice mail, please, I don’t have time!”

After three rings, the machine picks up, and I can hear the message being recorded: “Good morning! This is Diana Farrell at Spring Brook Elementary…”