Return to the Dark House (9 page)

“Sure I did. It’s Miko’s recipe, and I followed it to a tee.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I never lie about food.”

“Well, then, I guess there’s a first for everything.”

“Exactly.” She winks at me. “It’s never too late to learn, grow, become a better person.”

“No hidden messages there.” I chew. “So much for subtlety, right?”

“Well, I’ve never been one for subtlety.”

“Very true.” I take a few more bites. The egg is cooked to perfection; the texture is creamy and fluffy; the crust is moist and buttery.

She sets a mug of tea down on the table. Chamomile. My favorite. “So,” she begins, sitting down beside me, an invisible agenda hanging above her head. “I got a phone call from
Detective Thomas. He said you’d been to see him recently. Something about a video.”

“It was a video
link
,” I say, as if the distinction is even relevant.

“How come you didn’t tell me about it?” Her forehead furrows. The lines between her eyebrows deepen.

“If I told you about every weird thing that happened to me, neither of us would have time for work or sleep.”

“Do you want to come home?” She reaches out to touch my forearm.

“No. I’m fine. I just didn’t think to tell you.”

“Well, I want to know about this stuff, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I
mean
it, Ivy.”

“Okay,”
I repeat.

“I hadn’t even realized that you were still trying to assist in the case.”

“Because I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m a mom, it’s my job to worry, remember?” Her expression softens; the corners of her lips turn upward. “Anyway, Detective Thomas wanted me to tell you that he
had the video link analyzed, as well as the creator’s account.”

“And?”

“And it was another false lead.”

I clench my teeth, sensing a storm coming.

“You have to believe that the authorities are working very hard on this case,” she says, raining down on the quiche. “Detective Thomas attests to that.”

“And you’re telling me this, because…”

“Because he said that when you left the station you seemed really upset.”

I take another bite to avoid having to speak, unsurprised that this impromptu visit is about more than just quiche and kisses.

“He asked if you were still in therapy,” she continues, as if this conversation couldn’t get any worse. “And so I called the hospital to find out about your attendance at
outpatient therapy.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“You haven’t been to a meeting since discharge, have you?”

“I know. I suck. I’m almost surprised they told you.”

“They didn’t tell me. They’re no longer allowed to share your medical information. But
you
just did.”

“Oh.” I’m caught.

“Oh.” She fakes a grin.

“Thomas isn’t going to call Dr. Tully, is he?”

“You’re missing the point, Ivy.”

“No. I’m not.”

“The agreement was for you to go to outpatient and group therapy at least once a week each.”

“I’ve been busy working at the Depot.”

“If the Depot is keeping you from taking care of yourself, I’ll cut back on your hours.”

“Is Thomas going to call the hospital?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. What I
do
know is that he’s concerned about you. He doesn’t want anything you’re doing—research or otherwise—to
negatively affect this case.”

“Even if what I’m doing is more effective than their so-called leads.”

“Ivy.” She takes a deep breath.

I push my plate away, having lost my appetite. “I’ll start going to therapy again, okay?” As if the seven years’ worth I’ve already endured has done any good.

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear,” I say, winding my pinky with hers. “I’ll call them after I sleep.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She nabs a corner of my quiche crust.

“Now, I’m tired and I actually need to get that sleep.”

“Fair enough.” She gets up from the table, gives me a hug, and kisses the crown of my head. “I just love you, that’s all. And I worry. And I want you to be happy. If
anyone deserves a little happiness in this world, it’s you.”

“I love you too,” I tell her, knowing she means well, but also knowing she doesn’t have a clue how much this case means to me.

M
IKO AGREES TO FILL IN
for me at the Depot while I go see Taylor this weekend. It’s no wonder that Gretchen has a crush on him. Despite my
constant BS—storming off, screwing up—he couldn’t be sweeter.

I pull onto the Gringle campus and drive past a rolling green lawn sprinkled with ivy-covered brownstone buildings. When I texted Taylor last night, I was relieved that she still wanted to meet.
My parents think I’m at the Food Expo in Portsmouth. They didn’t even flinch when I told them that I wanted to stay at the nearby Sheridan to take full advantage of the
convention’s offerings. They simply handed me the company credit card, excited to finally see
me
excited about something.

It’s Friday night, just after nine. I park in the lot behind Taylor’s dorm and go inside. The lobby is mostly dead, except for a couple of students playing a game of pool.
“I’m here visiting Taylor Monroe,” I tell the girl working behind the front desk.

“Wait, don’t you go here?” She hands me a visitor form anyway. “Because you look so familiar…” She cocks her head and studies my face as if trying to place
me.

I quickly look downward and begin filling out the form, not wanting to be recognized.

But then, “Holy shit, are you…?” Her hand flies over her mouth. “You’re Ivy Jensen,” she says, checking the form. “The girl who escaped that screwed-up
amusement park. You’re, like, totally freaking amazing, by the way.”

“I’m not. Really.”

“What are you even doing here?” Her dark brown eyes widen.

“I’m here to see Taylor Monroe,” I tell her again.

“Okay, but don’t you totally hate her? Because I would. Someone who runs from a burning building without a call to the fire department to help the others who are still fast asleep
inside. Instead, she just let them all go down in flames.”

I can feel the confusion on my face. “Can you tell me where I can find her?”

“She’s in room 27, on the second floor. You can use that stairwell. But call down here if you need anything, okay? I wouldn’t let you go down in flames. I’m totally Team
Ivy.” She extends her fist for a bump.

“Thanks,” I say, leaving her hanging, already making my way upstairs.

My heart pounds with each step. Blood rushes from my face, leaving me a little woozy. I reach the second-floor platform and breathe through the racing sensation, remembering that I haven’t
taken my meds. I swallow down a couple of pills with a swig of my water bottle, and then swing the door open.

Taylor is already there, standing at the end of the hallway. She looks so much different than the way I remember from the pictures on her phone. Gone are the pretty dresses and the megawatt
smile, replaced by baggy sweats and a subtle grin.

“Ivy?” she calls out.

I quicken my pace, past several more rooms, until I finally get to her.

“Is that really you?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me.

My face gets buried in the strawberry-scented mass of her thick blond tendrils, but oddly it feels good—like hugging a long-lost friend.

The embrace breaks, and I take a deep breath, feeling a melting pot of emotion stir up inside me. “This just feels so surreal.”

“For me too.” She takes my hand and leads me inside her room.

My eyes zero in on her leopard print bedcovers. They match the luggage she brought to the Dark House, as well as the cell phone I found in her bed that first night.

“Everything okay?” she asks, following my gaze.

I nod and take yet another deep breath, willing my medicine to work.

“I’m stoked to finally meet you.” She squeezes my hand and motions for me to take a seat on her futon.

I drop my bag and sit down, wishing I could relax. There’s a sour smell in the air that makes me think of salad dressing. “How did you manage to score a single room?” I
venture, opting for small talk. “I thought perks like that were only reserved for resident staff and upperclassmen.”

“It’s sort of a long story,” she says, plopping down on the leopard print covers. “And not exactly my idea of a perk.”

I glance toward her shoe rack, where she’s got an elaborate stash of ballet slippers. “Are you studying dance?”

“Another long story—one that requires at least a few squares of chocolate to tell. Feeling munchy?” She gets up and grabs a supersize bar of chocolate from her shelf. She opens
it up and breaks off a piece. “Help yourself,” she says, passing me the bar. “God knows that I do.”

“What changed your mind about meeting?” I ask, steering the conversation.

“My life has been utter hell here, Ivy.” She lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling—at a poster that says DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY. “But who am I to
complain? I mean, I’m still breathing, right? Not all of us Dark House Dreamers can say the same. Nobody here lets me forget that.”

“Okay, so you changed your mind about meeting,
because
…”

“Now
that
answer requires something salty. Hungry?” she asks, taking me off guard.

I look down at the piece of chocolate melting in my hand.

“Because I have a serious hankering for pancakes and french fries right now.” She rolls over to face me. “Oh, but wait, you’re a real foodie, aren’t you? You
probably have a way more sophisticated pal—”

“French fries and pancakes actually sounds perfect right now,” I tell her, feeling somewhat hungry too, and more intrigued than ever by what she has to share.

I
VY IS INTENSE
—
LIKE A WALKING
ad for Valium or something. She barely says two words on the walk over to the student
center, but I can tell that her brain is going—I can see it in her eyes: wide, yet unengaged, as if she’s someplace else entirely. Plus, she keeps fumbling with something in her pocket.
Car keys? Spare change? A cell phone? A stress ball?

The student center is mostly dead at this hour—too late for dinner, too early for post-party pigging out. I point out the variety of foods—from Tex-Mex and pizza to a potato bar with
over twenty different toppings. “Normally the potato bar’s my
go-to
,” I tell her, “but at this hour the cheese sauce tends to be lukewarm at best, and the bacon bits
are fuzzy and chewy rather than crisp and crunchy.”

Ivy and I are on the same snacking page, so I order us buttermilk pancakes from Tessa’s Kitchen and a large fry from J.B.’s Grill—stuff a dancer would never normally eat.

“Here,” Ivy says, trying to slip me a ten-dollar bill.

“Put it away. The sugar and carbs are on me this time—literally.” I sigh. “Straight to my ass and thighs.” I grab a handful of ketchup packets and syrup containers,
and we take a seat by the windows.

Ivy is way prettier than the couple of snapshots I saw of her online: straight dark hair, big brown eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and full pouted lips—looks that any horror film director
would kill for. She takes a teabag out of her purse (?!) and dunks it into a cup of hot water.

“And some people just carry breath mints,” I joke.

“Want some?” she asks. “I have a whole tin.”

“No thanks,” I say, nodding to my Diet Coke.

We spend the next twenty minutes devouring our feast o’ fat and catching up on each other’s lives,
pre
–Dark House weekend.

“So, when did you become interested in Justin Blake?” she asks.

“Sometime around birth,” I joke. “I think my rattle was in the shape of the Nightmare Elf. But it wasn’t
just
JB’s work that I was so obsessed with. I used
to love
all
types of horror. It was my dream to be a scream queen.”

“A
what
queen?”

“Scream queens. You know…women who star pretty exclusively in horror flicks. It’s a whole niche market, and it seemed perfectly suited to me—with my background in
dancing, and all—because, let’s face it, I don’t exactly fit into the whole dancer-rexic mold.”