She had to move the mattress in order to check the flooring beneath it. Her movements were getting clumsier now with exhaustion. After this section she’d put the screw and the mattress back in place and try to sleep. Tomorrow night she’d start again. And the night after that.
The crack she found between the boards was the fourth slat inside the area where her mattress normally sat. Fumbling for the screw, she stuck its tip into the crack and pried upward. When the board came loose without friction, the screw slipped and sliced into her palm. She couldn’t prevent a sound of pain, which she quickly bit off.
A long breath shuddered from her. She’d lost track of time, but it had to be the middle of the night, and the freak wasn’t near. She didn’t know where he went after he visited her, but he had never returned before morning. The tension eased from her spine, and she wiped the blood she could feel welling on her hand on her tights. Then she lifted the board completely out of the floor. Examined it.
It was no more than two feet in length and a half inch thick. As a club, it wouldn’t do much damage, but there were wicked nails on the interior of either end that might. Whitney sat back on her heels and considered her unexpected success. Now that she had one slat loose, it should be easier to loosen another. And where one board might not be a lethal weapon, two together would be.
Setting the strip down, she slipped her fingers into the two-inch crack she’d discovered. And immediately touched something foreign.
She yanked her fingers back. That small sliver of light around the curtain didn’t spread this far. The hole she’d uncovered was shrouded in darkness, like most of the rest of the stage. Swallowing hard, she shoved her fingers back inside the fissure, ran them along the object inside. It felt like . . . paper.
Drawing it out, she scooted with it back over to the window, uncaring for the moment that the movement had the links of chain clanking. Once at the wall, she could see the paper was white and rolled up like a scroll. When she unrolled it, she realized it wasn’t one sheet. It was several. And they were covered with writing.
She could read only the part lit by the tiny slice of light, so she had to painstakingly move the sheet from left to right along the concrete bricks to make out the words.
My name is Kelsey Willard.
If someone’s reading this, I’m probably dead.
Janie Willard
November 9
3:33 p.m.
A distant sound in the house had Janie’s gaze jerking up from the laptop, her body stilling as she strained to make it out. It had come from downstairs. The sudden tension seeped from her shoulders. Her mom’s note had said she had gone to one of her do-gooder church activities. It was probably just Marta leaving.
She took a moment to straighten the pile of pillows she’d been propped against. Stretched out on the bed, Janie had her old computer before her, a notebook at her side. The desk would have been more comfortable, but sitting at it would have given a person coming in her room a clear view of the screen. And she didn’t want anyone to see the site she was on.
She didn’t want to be seeing the site she was on.
Setting her jaw, she returned to her chore. Clicking on each thumbnail, studying the face of the girl—they were all girls—closely before moving on. Since Friday, she hadn’t been able to forget the picture Cole Bogart had shown her from this site. The image had replayed over and over in her brain, intertwining with the conversation she’d had with her mom. Something had compelled her to set aside the homework she’d planned and take a closer look at the site. And she’d made a discovery then that kept her returning to the task over and over throughout the weekend.
Heather Miller wasn’t the only girl she recognized on the web page.
Compared with the tiny sound she’d heard moments ago, the next was a sonic boom. And instantly recognizable. The peal of the doorbell, followed by voices and footsteps thundering up the stairs to her room. Alyvia barreled inside like a cotton-candy-haired Tasmanian devil, laptop clutched to her chest.
“Oh, my God, you have a devious mind. I think I’m rubbing off on you. Except this never would have occurred . . . move over.”
Obligingly, Janie made space on the bed, and her friend sat beside her, her legs stretched out next to Janie’s. “Whose computer did you borrow?”
“Tank’s.” At Janie’s expression, Alyvia’s face went angelic. “What? I knew he had his own and that he’d loan it to me, no questions asked.”
Tank Morgan was a loser, a fifth-year senior, who spent far too much time hanging around Alyvia. Janie knew he was the one her friend had gotten drunk with last week. He appealed to the other girl’s worst instincts and was the single biggest impediment to her getting the diploma she claimed she wanted. As if life didn’t throw enough obstacles in her path, Alyvia had a habit of hauling in more to trip over.
“He doesn’t do anything without expecting something in return.”
“Story of my life, girl. Look here . . .” She shifted to dig into the pocket of her oversize army surplus jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I spent four hours online last night after you called. I came up with eight numbers.”
“Eight?” Her stomach clenching, Janie picked up the notebook at her side and compared the names and numbers she’d jotted down with the ones her friend had noted. “I recognized these six.” She stabbed a finger at each of Alyvia’s entries in turn. Each model in the pics on the site was assigned a number. Subsequent pictures of the same girl had a letter affixed after them. “From what I can figure out, the owner of this site must charge by the download. You can even buy credits to use on it at a slightly cheaper rate.”
“Sure.” Alyvia bobbed her head. “For the pervert bargain hunters. Makes sense. Okay, let’s see.” She studied the two pages aligned together. “How did you guess that Heather’s bosomy buddies would be on here, too?”
“I didn’t.” Because her voice was husky, Janie cleared it. “I really thought Ferin probably uploaded some personal pics. But I thought it was worth checking to see if I knew anyone else on there. I mean, the list of girls he’s hooked up with would fill volumes.” From what she’d heard, the guy was a walking STD. “If he’d done it to Miller, it figured that he would have to others, too.”
“Good thought, but it doesn’t appear likely. Unless you think he’s also banging Molly Stabe and Erin Forwith.” The two girls were usually inseparable from Miller. “Which I’m sure he’d be into, but I doubt the bitchacrite would approve. I about shit myself when I saw them on there. Do you know Stabe is still in Girl Scouts? At her age? But that definitely wasn’t a Scout sash covering her hoo-ha.”