One of Us: The City of Secrets Read online

  ONE

  OF US

  M. L. ROBERTS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2021 M. L. Roberts

  All rights reserved

  DEDICATION

  For my family always

  “But the faeries are the best neighbours. If you do good to them, they will do good to you, but they don’t like you to be on their path.”

  W. B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight

  Chapter 1. Troubled

  The others are gone. Of the three who are left, two either cannot or will not speak of what happened, leaving one of us to explain.

  But what will I say? What will I tell them?

  The truth? How she really hated us while pretending not to? Or how she got what she deserved?

  True or not, it will not change anything, and no one would believe me anyway.

  I tried to stop it before it went too far, I really did, but by then we were too involved. One thing led to another and events spun out of control before I realized the danger. If I go back to the beginning, I could say it was my mother’s fault—that I only got involved because I wanted my driver’s license and needed her approval—but that is not something you can tell the police. Then again, timing is everything, and if I had done what she asked when she asked and not ignored it, the whole thing might have been avoided. Or maybe not.

  Maybe it was inevitable and nothing I could have said or done could have prevented them coming after her and getting even. We were all pawns in the game she played, and she had been warned more than once. So had we.

  Chapter 2. Favored

  It started at breakfast on a day like any other. I had a spoon of peach yogurt in one hand, scrolling through my social apps with the other. Celtic harp music played in the background while I memorized a poem for English. I pulled my legs into the Lotus position so I would be more flexible for my next yoga class, and that’s when I got the shock of my life. Our city isn’t mentioned much in social media, aside from beach pictures, volleyball tournaments, bike races—that sort of thing—so when I saw a post from The Surf Reporter, I wondered what it could be.

  As I read it, my heart pounded, my veins turned to ice, and I forgot about everything else.

  “Manhattan Beach, Accidental Drowning

  “Authorities identified the body found last Monday as that of nineteen-year-old Logan Smith a former student of Manhattan High.

  “It is believed that Smith was body surfing under the pier when a large wave caused him to lose control and hit a cement piling, subsequently losing consciousness.

  “No foul play is suspected. The official cause of death will be released pending the coroner’s examination.

  “Smith, known for his athletic prowess, was last employed as a tattoo artist in Hermosa Beach.

  “As for the dangers of swimming or surfing near the pier, warnings are posted . . .”

  Logan? It couldn’t be. I had seen him alive two days after it said he died. They must have the gotten the dates mixed up; maybe it was a hoax or mistaken identity.

  But what if it were true? What if Logan died and I had not really seen him?

  I took a deep breath, held it, and slowly exhaled. I refused to look back at the screen immediately. I did not want to see his smiling face and know he was gone. I also did not want to think I was losing my mind.

  Take a deep breath, don’t be afraid, look at the phone.

  Logan’s senior album picture was still there. He had the same smile as always, sort of lopsided and shy, like he was happy to see you but didn’t know how to say it.

  Stunned and confused, I sat there staring at it, and as I did, another memory came back—one I had been trying to forget.

  It happened a month ago when my brother Justin let me drive his car. I had my learner’s permit and Justin had his driver’s license. I had driven with him several times before on the same street, Valley Boulevard, one lane in each direction, and never had a problem, so even though I didn’t have an actual license, we thought it was okay.

  Without warning, a blinding green light seared across the windshield. I slammed on the brakes, heard a thump, and turned the steering wheel.

  The car swerved, went across the oncoming lane, over the curb, and up an embankment. We were heading straight for Veterans Parkway, a tree-lined running path that winds through the beach cities. The car lurched over thick shrubs, clumps of ice plant, and knocked over a sapling, before it finally stopped in a shallow ditch.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Justin had said, his voice shaky. “Don’t worry, you didn’t hit anything. It was just a log. It fell.”

  A log?

  Was he joking so I wouldn’t get scared?

  I stared at him in disbelief. Since I’m a botany major, he must have thought I was being picky about what he said.

  “All right,” he said, “it was a branch—not a log—it had leaves on it; is that better?”

  It wasn’t, but I didn’t say anything.

  Justin turned and squinted up at the tall eucalyptus trees, their long branches swaying in the wind.

  Would another one fall?

  We both knew they shed from time to time. A couple streets over from where we live a huge branch had fallen from a sixty-foot-tall eucalyptus tree and smashed a pergola. The neighbors repaired their pergola. The other neighbor, whose tree it was, cut it down.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Thanks. Sorry.”

  What else could I say? Justin’s face was pale, his lips bloodless; he meant what he said. What’s more, his explanation made sense. I looked over my shoulder expecting to see a branch in the road—and gasped.

  A man lay in the street. He had a beautiful face—what I could see of it—and long silver hair. The asphalt around him sparkled and glowed. At first, I thought it was caused by something that had spilled in the road, but it wasn’t. He had gossamer wings and they were draped over him in a shimmering, crumpled veil.

  Justin had then turned to see what I was staring at, but the man vanished.

  “What is it?” Justin had said.

  “Nothing.”

  He looked at the road again and then at me. “Everything is okay. Just calm down.”

  I lowered my head, blinked my eyes, and stared at the steering wheel.

  A hallucination? It had to be. I had been studying hard, pulling all-nighters, sleep deprived, not eating enough. I probably needed contacts but had not told anyone.

  “I’ll drive.” Justin got out of the car and went around the front. I slid over to the passenger seat and peered over my shoulder. No one was there.

  What exactly had I seen? Or was it my imagination? And why did Justin see something different?

  You cannot talk to anyone about things like that, so I never said a word. Justin drove the rest of the way home.

  The memory of that incident faded and once again I was at the breakfast table.

  Take another breath, think calmly, you are not going crazy. The police must be wrong.

  Logan had been a Junior Lifeguard, an Olympic hopeful. He never would have bodysurfed under the pier. If that was where they found him, then it was not an accident; someone killed him and dumped his body in the ocean. If that were true, it had to be the same people who hired him to do his last tattooing job. He never told me who they were, but he told me what he had to do, and he was scared.

  The picture on my phone dimmed, but instead of the screen turning black, a green light flashed. In that moment, when memory and action merged, I remembe
red hearing about phones that had blown up and burned the users. I flinched, shut my eyes and pulled away. When I opened them again, I blinked several times to clear the afterimage.

  Before I could see properly, the deadbolt rattled, the front door shook, the hinges creaked.

  Was the same person who killed Logan coming after me?

  The door flew open and crashed into the umbrella stand. Metal clattered; heavy footsteps thudded; light footsteps padded through the house.

  Had a bunch of children burst in?

  Books fell from shelves, pots and pans rattled in the kitchen.

  The music sped up and became a high squealing whine. A deep garbled voice spoke but I could not understand what it said. Wind swirled through the room. From behind my closed eyes, a bright light shone and then went out. I could not see anything and gripped the edge of the table. The door slammed shut and everything seemed to reverse itself.

  As I rubbed my eyes, the door flew open again. Once more, the umbrella stand clanked, but this time it was as if someone picked it up and set it back in place.

  My breath came in short gasps. I squinted at the blurred image standing in the doorway.

  “Olivia. . .? Are you all right?”

  Oh my god. My mom.

  I exhaled and shook my head.

  I did not answer right away. I was still panicked over who or what had been in the house. Not only that, the shock from seeing Logan’s picture had not worn off.

  To make matters worse, another layer of confusion settled over me . . . Why did my mom, who had just left for work, rush back like the house was on fire?

  I took a deep breath, the spots faded—and I saw Mom staring at me.

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Did you see someone run out the door?”

  “No.” She paused. “Was someone here?”

  “No!”

  “Olivia, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!”

  I tried to smile but it probably looked more like a wince.

  What else could I do? Say that things I had not even seen had run out the door? Or that a former student had been found dead, but the police might be lying? Or that I saw the same student after he died, but not to worry?

  Mom is a lawyer; she never gives up. She would ask all sorts of questions and I had no answers to give her. I also did not want a lecture about eating healthy and getting more sleep.

  Not only that, maybe it was stress and I only imagined a herd of children had run through the house. For all I knew, Logan could still be alive, and saying I saw him after he died would mean a trip to a psyche ward over nothing.

  “It’s okay, Mom, really.”

  “Are you sure?” She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Yeah, for sure. I’m—I’m all right. I just swallowed something wrong. My yogurt. Ugh! That’s all!”

  She studied me a moment, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. The color must have returned to my face because she tilted her head, took a short breath, and her expression relaxed into a smile. “If you’re sure then?”

  I assumed she wanted an answer, so I nodded yes.

  “All right.” She paused as if reconsidering what she was going to say. “I came back to ask for a favor.”

  Chapter 3. Trapped

  A what? Even in my dazed condition, I wondered what she was up to.

  It was the last thing I expected, but it was so unexpected it distracted me from everything else. I mean my mom left her car running in the driveway so she could ask for a favor.

  Mom does not do things that way. She is a Neighborhood Watch co-captain. Every email they send says, “Do not leave your car unlocked with the keys in it.”

  She was also smiling oddly, and I knew what it meant. The so-called “favor” would be something logical to a forty-five-year-old mom, but the Black Plague to a fifteen-year-old girl like me.

  What had I done to deserve this?

  “Sure, Mom. What is it?”

  “There’s a woman I met recently,” she said, not making eye contact. “I may have told you about her. She has a daughter your age at Manhattan High. She’s new, hasn’t made any friends yet.”

  Mom smiled and blinked several times. “I think she may be a little awkward; you know, a new school and everything.”

  Awkward . . .?

  Oh, no. Not now, not in my sophomore year. Please.

  “Her name is . . . oh darn, the car’s running, and I can’t think of her name.”

  Abigail.

  “It’s a name you don’t hear every day”—Mom’s eyes rolled up as if she had to look at the ceiling, because remembering the name took so much effort— “Abigail! That’s it. And her last name is”—she looked at the ceiling again, her new source of forgotten information— “Oh, what’s her last name? It slipped my mind.” She shrugged. “I’ll think of it later. Her mother is a new client of ours.”

  Weems! I wanted to say. Her name is Abigail Weems. There is only one in the whole universe, the whole galaxy, the whole—I couldn’t take anymore.

  I stared at my phone like it was a tiny escape door. No help there, the screen was still dark. The doorway? Mom stood in the middle. The windows? Closed and locked.

  I was trapped.

  “Abigail . . ..” Mom tapped her foot.

  “Her last name is Weems,” I said, smiling weakly at the unavoidableness of it all.

  “Oh, you’ve met her?” Mom looked happy; only she would.

  “Yeah, sort of.” My stomach twisted and gurgled. I should have had a toasted bagel for breakfast and not yogurt.

  “This is just, you know, a small favor”—Mom was talking fast— “but her mom said Adrienne—I mean Abigail—is slow at making friends, and you have so many—”

  “Mom! I do not have ‘so many.’ ” I hate it when she says stuff like that. I steeled myself so I would not say something rude and edged my phone to the side. This needed my full attention.

  “Oh, you do, too.” Mom waved her hand, the way she does at a bothersome gnat. “I thought you could say hello, and, you know, try to make her feel welcome.”

  She paused and looked at me. I knew she wanted to add one of her old sayings, like “pay it forward” or “do unto others” or some strange thing, so I interrupted—fast.

  “Sure, Mom, I will. You know I always want to be helpful.”

  Mom frowned; her smile faded.

  Don’t overdo it. She’s getting suspicious.

  “But,” I said, pretending not to notice her expression, “if I talk to Abigail, I won’t have any friends. Not one.”

  Bad move. Mom didn’t look so perky.

  I felt guilty letting her down so I thought maybe I should say yes. After all, I was only a few months away from getting my driver’s license and I wanted to show how responsible I am.

  “Ha-ha, just kidding, Mom. Sure, I’ll reach out to her.”

  “Oh, thank you”—Mom brightened and heaved a sigh— “I knew I could count on you.”

  Hmmm, was I over doing it? If Mom got too excited, she would end up disappointed. I cannot work miracles, and that is what it would take to be friends with Abigail.

  Maybe I should manage Mom’s expectations. That’s what Dad says: manage your supervisor’s expectations. He works at a consulting firm and he knows all about managing what people think they want.

  “All right, I’ll say hi to her—if I see her. Remember, it’s a big campus. I might go all day without seeing her, all week, maybe all month, even—”

  “Olivia, don’t be silly. You’re exaggerating. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to run into her. I’m sure you’ll see her way before then.”

  Not if I can help it.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said.

  What I did not say was that I would run to the other side of the South Bay if I saw Abigail coming my way.

  “Thank you, honey. I know you two will be good friends.”

  Good friends?

  Now it’s good friends.
She had to be joking. I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff.

  “I understand she has a nice personality,” Mom added.

  Why did she have to say that? She was torturing me. The worst thing a parent can say is “nice personality.” How can they be so clueless? Besides, if there is one thing Abigail does not have, it’s a nice personality. The five-day-old French fries in Justin’s backpack have more personality.

  “Oh, by the way,” Mom said, “I hired a new dog walker and gave her a key. With school and sports, games and everything, I want to be sure Baxter gets a walk every day. If you hear someone drop by unexpectedly, it’s her.”

  Dog walker? Was that who burst in? Impossible. She would have run over Mom when she ran out the door. Besides, dog walkers do not mess up the house and—

  “I’ve got to go!”—Mom was all smiles— “See you later.”

  Halfway down the hall she stopped and called out, “I almost forgot! Homecoming isn’t far off. If everything goes well, maybe you and Abigail can double date.”

  Is she serious?

  Her footsteps quickened as she went down the hall and out the front door. Clunk. She locked the deadbolt. Seconds later I heard the car accelerate and drive off.

  I sat there in shock.

  My spirits sank. I wanted to let my face fall on the table. I started feeling sorry for myself and that upset my concentration—what was left of it.

  Wait a minute. Why did she lock me in? Was she afraid I would run away after what she did?

  My next thought was more disturbing.

  She locked the door because we are not totally safe here in Manhattan Beach like we used to be. We need to bolt the doors and windows.

  There has been more crime: a fire in the post office, eerie lights in Polliwog Park, and now the strange news about Logan. The real estate section of The Surf Reporter never mentions crime and how it is getting worse. And then I remembered the burglaries, stolen cars, and smashed car windows.

  The reason we know is because Mom’s Neighborhood Watch co-captain Mr. Hattori sends emails every week.