I smiled and tried to ignore the curious little chill that crawled up my spine.
Mom gave me a gentle pat on the cheek. “We’re ordering dinner in. Is Thai okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“But not for a couple of hours. So unpack or read or … or maybe rest? Or whatever.”
I closed my door again and sat on the bed, then leaned over to blow out the candle. I took the ring out from under my pillow and tucked it back into the little suede bag. Then I opened the nightstand drawer and put the ring inside, careful to tap three times on the wood to drain any pent-up energy from the realm beyond.
Okay, yeah. I realize it all sounds a little over the top. Maybe even ridiculous. But ridiculous or not, I couldn’t stop myself. No matter how many times I vowed to quit, every night I found myself with the candle lit, the ring on my finger, trying to get through to my dad.
Because I needed to find him.
I needed to tell him I was sorry I killed him.
Are you kidding?” Mom’s fork hit the side of her plate with a clatter. “A serial killer?”
“It’s not an imminent threat,” Jonathan said. “I mean, it’s not a threat at all.”
He’d come to the dinner table tense, the Los Angeles Times website pulled up on his iPad, and told us about a recent spate of murders that had been occurring in LA. The killer’s latest victim — a young woman — had been discovered earlier in the day. Pinpricks of fear and curiosity shot through me.
Mom was taking the news a little harder than I was. “But it seems like you’re warning Willa,” she protested, glancing at me with an expression approaching crazy-paranoid googly-eyes.
Jonathan shook his head, reaching for his water glass. “I wanted to tell you both,” he explained, “because it’s important to be aware. Not because there’s a chance that anything might happen.”
“Maybe not to us,” I said, shrugging. “But for some people there’s a chance.”
“A specific category of people. Actresses.” Jonathan looked over at me, a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes. “You’re not an actress, are you?”
I was about to say no, but Mom interrupted. “She has done some acting.”
“Mom,” I said. “Seriously.”
I could have sworn I saw a wary flash come over Jonathan’s features. Like he was momentarily questioning whether my mother had schemed and married him to advance my acting career.
“She played a juror in Twelve Angry Men.”
“Two years ago,” I said, taking a bite of pad Thai. “Freshman year, before I knew better. And the general consensus was that I made a very poor angry man. Mom, it’s not about people who happen to have been in a school play.”
“How could you know that? Who knows what goes on inside the mind of a killer?”
Jonathan sighed. “I’m sure Willa will take care to avoid any circumstance where she could be mistaken for an actress.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Don’t tease,” Mom said.
Jonathan patted my mother’s hand reassuringly. “The last murder was five months ago. Well, until today. There have only been four, total. Even if Willa were an actress, the odds are astronomically small that anything would happen to her.”
“But it’s cool,” I said. “Because I’m not an actress. And I never will be one.”
“Promise?” she said, smiling a little.
I held up my right hand, like I was swearing an oath. “I hereby promise that I will never be an actress.”
“Very wise,” Jonathan said, nodding. “Acting is a hard life, even when you’re successful. Maybe especially when you’re successful.”
“Willa might be a writer,” Mom said.
Oh, come on. I stuffed another bite of noodles into my mouth and looked away.
“Really?” Jonathan said. “What do you write?”
“Nothing, actually,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
“She used to write a lot.”
“That’s in the past,” I said. “Writing is for people who have something to say.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, looking hurt. “You have so much to say. What’s inside you is so …”
Um, no. I turned to Jonathan, eager to change the subject to something less depressing than my mother’s useless hopes for my future. “Hey, let’s talk more about the murders.”
“Oh, honestly, Willa,” Mom said, seeing right through my plan.
Jonathan sat up straighter. “Well, they’re pretty interesting, actually. Macabre, but interesting. The killer recreates iconic scenes from classic movies. He posed his first victim to mimic the final attack scene from The Birds. Then there was the wheelchair falling down the stairs from Kiss of Death….”
I shivered, trying to picture it. I hadn’t seen either of those movies, but I felt a twinge of morbid curiosity. Maybe that was what made the murderer do such awful things — knowing that people would be so intrigued.
“What do they call the killer?” I asked. “They all have nicknames, right?”
Jonathan looked down at his iPad. “The media’s been using the name ‘the Hollywood Killer.’ ”
I stared down at my glass of water. “How about ‘the Screamwriter’?”
“That’s actually pretty good,” Jonathan said.
“A little over-the-top,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s catchy,” he said.
“Catchy?” I said. “Or gimmicky?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two,” Mom said. “This is not proper dinnertime conversation.”
No, I suppose it wasn’t. But for the first time in a long time, I’d felt normal for a couple of minutes. Of course, what did it say about me that joking about murders made me feel normal?
After we carried our dinner dishes into the kitchen, Jonathan cleared his throat. “So, Willa. I got you something. A welcome-to-California present.”
He set a large, flat box on the kitchen counter. It was wrapped in pearl-white paper with a hot-pink bow.
“You shouldn’t have,” Mom said.
“Really,” I said.
“No, I wanted to.” He rested his hands on the granite countertop. “I know this isn’t an easy transition for you. And I know that I could never replace your father — and I’m not going to try. But I do hope we can be … friends.”
I was speechless, in a horrified sort of way. I’d assumed that everything that needed to be said between us would eventually make its way to the surface. But this grand declaration of friendship? Mentioning my dad? Giving me a present? It seemed like such a cheap, obvious move to buy my goodwill.
Anger flared up inside me, and it took all the self-control I had to stamp it out.
“Yes … friends,” I managed to say. I carefully unwrapped the box, aware that both my mother and Jonathan were watching my reaction with eagle eyes.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Wow.”
“What is it?” Mom asked.
It was … a monstrosity.
It was a backpack, but instead of being made out of regular backpack material — I don’t know, canvas? — it was tan leather, printed with small interlocking G’s. It had a huge green-and-red-striped patch down the pocket, and a giant gold G logo.
“It’s Gucci,” Jonathan said, in the same self-satisfied tone of voice he’d used to brag about the door.
“Gucci,” I said. “Fancy.”
“It’s beautiful.” My mother reached out and touched it with the tips of her fingers, like it was a prize racehorse.
“There’s more.” Jonathan grinned at me and wrapped his arm around Mom’s waist. “Look inside.”
As I drew the zipper pull smoothly along its path (okay, the zipper was excellent quality, I’ll give him that), I was already cringing inwardly at the prospect of what I’d find inside. I pictured a hideous blinged-out watch or a designer fedora or something.