What Lies in the Darkness (Shadow Cove Book 1) Read online

  TIME: 10:38 PM

  DATE: MONDAY, MARCH 22ND

  I half-expect my mom to be home when I arrive with some lame ass excuse about being sick and coming home early. Nope. The house is quiet, and her car is still in the garage.

  After I change into a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a clean tank top, I sit down on the sofa with my phone and do an image search on the photo of the card while waiting for Kennedy to show up. The search brings up a ton of results of the same image linked to various different websites, yet, so far, none sparkle any recognition of why the symbol carries familiarity to me.

  “Man, this is going to take hours to go through,” I mutter as the doorbell rings.

  After setting my phone down on the coffee table, I push to my feet and throw open the door with an overzealous smile.

  “Welcome to Mak’s Bed and Breakfast,” I greet Kennedy. “We’re the finest bed and breakfast in Shadow Cove.”

  Kennedy claps her hands. “Oh, goodie. Does that mean you’re making me breakfast?”

  I nod, motioning her to get her butt inside. “And you’re going to love tomorrow’s special. Pop-Tarts with a side of Pop-Tarts.”

  “That’s it?” she teases as she walks in and drops her bags on the floor. “It’s a good thing I’m not paying you.”

  I laugh, kick the door shut, and lock the deadbolt. Before I back away, though, I peek out the window to make sure the grey truck isn’t lurking in the shadows somewhere. The street is bare except for a few cars parked on the curb, but no trucks.

  I turn around, plastering on a grin. “All right, who wants popcorn …?” I trail off at the sight of Kennedy’s face. The porch light was off when she was standing outside, but the bright living room lights give me a clear view of the gnarly welt under her left eye. “What happened to your face?”

  “Wow, Mak, you really know how to make a girl feel pretty,” Kennedy jokes, shucking off her button-down jacket.

  I want to laugh, but the shape of the welt looks an awful lot like a handprint. “Who hit you?”

  She lightly places her palm to her face then winces. “No one hit me. I just—”

  “Let me guess, fell down,” I cut her off with an accusing tone. This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed a suspicious mark or bruise on her.

  “I really did, though.” She lowers her hand from her face. “Does it look that bad?”

  I nod and start drilling her with questions, hoping maybe she’ll cave this time and tell me the truth. “How’d you fall this time?”

  She chucks her jacket on the armrest of the sofa then smooths out invisible wrinkles in her tank top and yoga pants. “I was walking down the stairs, wearing heels, and you know how that goes.”

  “I may know how it goes since I suck walking in heels, but not you. You’re a pro. Have been ever since sixth grade when you bought those four-inch bright-ass red platforms.”

  “Oh, yeah, I total forgot about those! I wish those would come back into style. I so rocked the look.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” I cross my arms and stare her down. “Tell me the truth, because I know you didn’t fall down the stairs.”

  She sighs, sinks down onto the sofa, and slips her hands underneath her legs.

  “I’m pretty sure I know what the answer is, but I’m going to ask it, anyway.”

  She stares up at me, her eyes pleading. “Can you please just let this go?”

  “You know I can’t.” I sit down beside her. “If I did, I’d be the worst friend ever.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She releases an exhausted sigh. “It was my stepmom.”

  “What!”

  “It’s not a big deal. We were arguing, things got heated, and well …” She shrugs. “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. You want to know why?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’m going to tell you, anyway, because it’s important.” I twist on the sofa and bring my knee up on the cushion. “It’s never okay for a parent or a stepparent to hit their kid, even if you guys were arguing.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She traces her finger back and forth across her lips, staring off into space. “But what’s done is done, and now I just want a break from all the drama.”

  “Was this the first time something like this ever happened?”

  “A few times, but like I said, it’s not that big a deal.”

  I stare at her, stunned. This dismissive attitude isn’t like Kennedy at all. “Does your dad know about this?”

  “Of course he knows.” She lowers her tone, mimicking her father. “He knows everything that goes on under his roof.” She blows out a breath. “All he cares about is making sure that what goes on inside our house stays inside our house.”

  “Maybe we should report her. Your stepmom, I mean. I could drive you to the police station and help you fill out a report.”

  “It won’t matter. My dad would vouch for my stepmom, and I’d end up looking like a liar. And my dad would get even more pissed off that I aired our dirty laundry.” I open my mouth to try to convince her more, but she talks over me. “Look, I just need a few days away from my house until things cool off again.”

  “Then what happens when they heat up again?” I ask with a stern look.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She jumps to her feet. “I’m going to go make us some popcorn. When I get back, I want you to tell me why the hell you were out wandering around town at ten o’clock on a school night. I know this town, and there’s nothing to do on weekdays this late except to go to the turnoff and have sex.” She points a finger at me, smirking as she backs out of the room. “But the question is, who were you having sex with?”

  I roll my eyes at her, and she laughs wickedly before leaving the room. Then I sit back and stare at the dark street outside, questioning what the right thing to do is.

  I don’t agree with Kennedy at all. Letting this slide—letting her stepmom hit her—is wrong. But I can’t go to the police and report the incident without Kennedy being on board. Maybe if I give her the night to sleep on it, she’ll change her mind. Or maybe I should talk to my mom about it.

  I frown at the thought of my mom. I wonder if she’s even at work or if she’s spending the night in some sleazy hotel with fancy car man. God, the thought makes me ill.

  Deciding I need a distraction, I pick up my phone and return to searching through the sites the images are linked to. “Nope. Nope. Nope.” None are even remotely useful, so I mix my method up a bit and type the Greek letters into the engine. Tons of sites pop up, yet one in particular catches my eye. An escort site located in my sweet, innocent little hometown. “What does any of this have to do with computers and Lispy Larry?”

  “Who’s Lispy Larry?” Kennedy asks, appearing in the doorway with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn.

  I tap on the link to the site. “The guy who was in the ghost house.”

  Her forehead creases. “Wait? How did you find that out?”

  I pat the spot on the sofa beside me. When she takes a seat, I steal a handful of popcorn and give her a summary of what happened from the moment I dropped her off. I even tell her about my mom and her secret meet up with the mystery man.

  “Wait a second.” She holds her hands up in front of her. “You think your mom’s sleeping around with some rich guy?”

  “Not just any rich guy,” I tell her, kicking my feet up on the coffee table. “I think it might be Dixon’s dad.”

  She munches on a mouthful of popcorn. “Hey, she could do worse. Dixon’s dad is pretty hot for an old dude.”

  I shovel up some popcorn in my hand and toss it at her face. “Ew. Never say that again. Ever.”

  She laughs, flicking a piece of popcorn off her shoulder. “Don’t pretend you’ve never thought it.”

  “Not once.” I shake my head a thousand times, trying to clear her comment out of my mind, then finish telling her about the rest of my night.

  When I finish, she reclines against t
he armrest. “That image is in some of the stores around town. The fancier ones, anyway.”

  “Really?” I ask, and she nods. “Do you know why? And what it means?”

  She shakes her head. “I have no damn clue. I just know I’ve seen it in a few stores here and there.” She twists a strand of hair around her finger. “So, when you did a search on the image, it took you to an escort site?”

  I nod and show her the open page on my phone. “I don’t know what it has to do with any of this stuff with the stolen computers. Maybe Lispy Larry just can’t get a date and keeps the card on hand. What I think is really weird is that the card doesn’t have a link to the site or anything. I had to type in the Greek letters inside the symbol to get the site to pop up. Seems like a really shitty way to do advertising.”

  “They’re probably running an illegal one and don’t want anyone knowing about it.”

  “What’s the difference between an illegal escort service and a legal one?”

  “Legal ones offer”—she makes air quotes—“ ‘dating services.’ Illegal ones sell out women for sex.”

  I want to ask her how she knows this, but I’m kind of afraid of the answer.

  She must read my mind, though, because she says, “Back when my dad was a freelance lawyer, he worked a case for an escorting business.”

  “Was it a legal one?”

  “He proved it was, but that doesn’t mean it was true. I could ask him, but I doubt that’d go over very well.”

  I thrum my fingers on top of my knee, looking at the site. The only way to get on it is with an account login and password, yet there’s no place to sign up, so my bet is that, in order to get an account, you’d have to speak to the owner directly, which makes the site very hush-hush-like and super sketchy.

  “I don’t know why this is bugging me,” I say. “I should probably let it go … I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen this symbol before.”

  She sets the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table and sticks out her hand. “Can I see the photo of it?”

  “Sure.” I switch to the photo and hand her my phone. Then I scoop up the last of the popcorn.

  “I know where else we’ve seen this,” she announces, sitting up straight.

  I drop the handful of popcorn back into the bowl. “Where?”

  “At that creepy store today.” She taps the screen. “It was on the side of the box Liam was carrying.”

  “That’s why it looks familiar to me.” I have an ah-ha moment. “Although, I swear I’ve seen it somewhere else, too.”

  “Maybe at one of the stores?”

  I give her a really look. “You know I’m not cool enough to go in fancy stores.”

  “No way. You’re too cool to go into those stores.” She smiles but the move looks forced. Then she gives me my phone back. “What I want to know is why did Liam have a box with the logo of an escorting business …a box full of stolen computers.”

  “I’m not sure.” I study the photo, trying to make the connection. “But tomorrow, I’m going to find out.”

  And I mean that with all my heart. Whether this is right or wrong, I can’t let it go, not after Lispy Larry implied he knew something about my brother’s death.

  ***

  “Mak? Mak, can you hear me?”

  I blink my eyelids open and sit up in bed, squinting through the darkness. “Sawyer?”

  He materializes in the doorway of my bedroom, the moonlight from outside casting across his face. For a faltering instant, hope leaps inside my chest. Sawyer is here. He’s alive. He never died. But he did die, and this is a dream.

  I lean over, tug on the lamp cord, and soft lighting filters around the room. The last time I saw him, he was lying in his coffin, his skin pale, and he was wearing a suit, something he never would’ve worn while he was alive. Now, though, he resembles the Sawyer I knew with color in his cheeks, his shaggy brown hair hanging messily across his forehead, and his jeans and T-shirt wrinkled.

  “It’s been awhile since you’ve paid me a little visit in dreamland,” I say, throwing the blanket off me.

  “I know.” He scratches his forehead, peering around my bedroom: the posters on the walls, my skateboard in the corner, and my computer on the floor. “You’ve made some changes since the last time I was here.” He walks further into my room. “Where’s your computer desk?”

  “Mom sold it at a yard sale,” I explain, lowering my feet to the floor. “She did a lot of that right after Dad vanished. Lately, though, she’s toned it down.”

  He looks at me, strands of hair falling into his eyes. “Why’s that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” he encourages. “Come on, Mak; tell me. Let’s talk like we used to.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that I think Mom is getting money from Don, but the words die on my tongue because this isn’t real. None of this is real.

  “I wish we could talk like we used to,” I say instead. “But things aren’t like they used to be. Everything’s different now. You’re gone. Dad’s gone. And Mom … Well, I don’t even know who she is anymore.”

  “You’ve changed, too.” He carries my gaze, the darkness in his eyes conveying a warning. “The stuff you’re doing … The things you’re getting into … This isn’t going to end well, Mak.” He looks away from me, ashamed. “Trust me; I know. And I really think you should stop looking.”

  “I can’t do that, not until I find out the truth.”

  “You should, just like Dad should have.”

  “I know.”

  He sighs. “Just be careful, please.”

  “I’ll try.” I rise to my feet and cross the room toward him. “What happened to you?” When he says nothing, I beg, “Please, Sawyer, just tell me if someone did something to you … if your death … if you didn’t hurt yourself ... If someone else hurt you, you need to tell me so I can make them pay.”

  Sorrow fills his eyes as he looks at me. “You sound just like Dad.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.”

  He arches a brow. “If that’s true, then why isn’t he here?”

  “Wait. Do you know what happened to Dad?”

  He frowns then walks out of the room. “I need to show you something.”

  My heart slams against my chest as I jog into the hallway after him. Maybe I’m being delusional, but a small part of me hopes he’s about to show me an answer to what happened to our dad.

  He leads me down the hallway to the final door on the right. Opening the door, he walks into his old bedroom. A layer of dust covers the made bed, the boxes stacked on the floor, and the light fixtures.

  “You packed up my stuff?” he asks, peering around the room.

  The pain in his voice makes my heart squeeze inside my chest.

  “Not all of it. Mom thought … Well, she thought it’d help us all heal more quickly if your stuff was out of sight, out of mind.” I feel like an asshole for saying it aloud. He’s dead. He doesn’t need me reminding him of that. “I’m really sorry.”

  “For what?” he mutters, opening the closet door. “I’m the one who caused this mess.”

  Before I can ask him what he means by that, he steps inside the closet and vanishes into the darkness.

  I follow after him, fearing he’s going to leave me.

  “Sawyer?” I whisper, feeling above my head until I find the cord to the light. With a soft tug, the lightbulb clicks on, and I sigh in relief at the sight of Sawyer standing at my side. “I was worried you left.”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet. Not until I show you.” With a remorseful expression, he crouches down. “I’m really sorry about this, Mak.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “About what’s back here … I just want you to know that I never meant to get into things this deep. I just wanted some extra cash and to stop being picked on all the time. I thought this would help, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop.”

  I gulp. “What happened—�
��

  He slips through the floor, his voice echoing, “Just please forgive me when you find it …”

  ***

  My eyes pop open, and I gasp for air, bolting upright in bed. My forehead is damp with sweat, and my soaring pulse makes me question if I’m having a heart attack.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. In. Out.

  After a minute or two, I manage to steady my heartbeat and breathing. I glance at the clock and shake my head. 4:30 in the morning. Man, this is too early to be up.

  I lie down in bed and attempt to go back to sleep, but my dream replays in my mind, branded into my thoughts. Every step we took, every word we exchanged felt so real, like most of my dreams about Sawyer and my hallucinations. Then again, this dream felt different, too. He wasn’t there to talk to me. He was trying to show me something.

  Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe out of the room, being extra quiet to avoid waking up Kennedy who is passed out on the inflatable mattress on my floor. Once I get into the hallway, I hurry straight for my brother’s closet and flip on the light. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, especially since most of his belongings have been emptied out.

  “What were you trying to show me?” I crouch down and rest my palm on the closet floor, unsure what I’m even looking for or if I should be looking for anything. Maybe I’m just some crazy girl sitting in her dead brother’s closet, hoping to find an answer that doesn’t exist. “It’s just carpet, Mak. What do you think you’re going to find? It’s not like we didn’t clean out his room.”

  Still, I’m not ready to give up yet. Sawyer used to hide things in odd places: cigarettes under his mattress, beers beneath his bed, and my mom even once found a joint lying on his closet floor. Why he stupidly left the joint out in the open is a mystery other than maybe he was too stoned to realize.

  Or maybe he was trying to hide it somewhere and got caught.

  Hmmm … I glance around and notice a torn spot of carpet in the far back corner of the closet. Not untypical for our house, but I peel back the corner, anyway. By the time the carpet catches, I have half the damn floor flipped back.

  Scratching my head, I stare at what I’ve found. “A crawl space? Just how long has that been here? And why did it seem like Sawyer was trying to show it to me in my dream?”