Whisper

CHAPTER 1

OLIVIA

My dad used to tell me there are people inside of marbles. They were always talking to him. Whenever I wanted to play a game, he would pick the one with marbles. Only we wouldn’t actually move the marbles. My dad would just stare at them. Finally I stopped asking to play games. But that didn’t matter. My dad would still get out the game with the marbles, and he’d put the marbles in their little resting spots and watch them. And listen.

At Samantha’s house, her three-year-old sister, Cara, is playing a marble game with one of her friends. They’re off in a corner by themselves, probably wondering why all these people are stuffed inside the house, wearing dark clothes, crying randomly, and talking in hushed voices. Cara wasn’t at Samantha’s funeral. Does she understand that her sister is never coming home?

I move away from Cara and fill a plate with cubes of cheese, triangles of salami, and round crackers. I chew, swallow, and make small talk. But mostly I just stare out the window at the pool and remember the last time I was here. Sixth grade. A pool party for Samantha’s birthday. She and I were friends then. We stopped being friends sometime in seventh grade. I think it had something to do with green slime, a ham sandwich, and a guy we both liked, though I’m not really sure anymore. It all seems pretty stupid now, which gives me a lumpy ache in my throat, and makes me feel like a fraud for being here. But the whole junior class was at the funeral, all ninety-eight of us.

Make that ninety-seven.

Plus a good part of the rest of the high school. And although not everyone made their way here after the funeral, the house is still packed, with people spilled out onto the lawn, hovering by the pool, and clutching their paper plates as if they’re life preservers.

My best friend, Julia, slides up next to me. Her chestnut brown hair is arranged in its usual French braid, except a lot of strands that she missed are poking out today. She takes a loose bit and wraps it around her finger.

Brings back memories, huh? she says, following my gaze to the pool. Remember that sleepover in sixth grade?

Yeah, that was fun. Except now my brain jumps right from sleepover to sweet dreams. The Sweet Dreams Strangler.

I shake my head, trying to blot out the images seared into my mind by the news media. Images of Samantha, lying in a field wearing a beautiful dress, her head on a pillow, hair neatly arranged, hands folded.

Beautiful. But dead. Strangled. I don’t know what to say, even to Julia. I look back out the window. A cardinal is perched on the feeder, picking through seeds, scattering debris on the ground.

It sure is stuffy in here, Julia says.

I’m about to agree when a wall of cold air hits me. Mrs. Young must have read your mind. Wow. That feels good.

Julia scrunches up her face. What are you talking about?

The air. She turned on the air. Don’t you feel it?

No. Are you under a vent or something? Julia peers up at the ceiling.

Here, switch places with me.

It’s just as hot here—

It’s just as cold—

We say it at the same time. I guess it’s just your wishful thinking. Julia pats my shoulder. Enjoy. I’m going to get some more to drink.

I nod and head across the room, by the TV, where hopefully it’s warmer.

Goose bumps pop up on my arms. I rub them, but it doesn’t help.

Next to me Josh Wallace tosses a cube of cheese into his mouth. Is that sweat dripping off his forehead? Why am I the only one shivering?

I spot a decorative blanket on the couch. Should I? I tap Marcus on the shoulder. Sorry, could you lean forward? I just need to get something behind you. I tug at the blanket and drape it over my shoulders.

Julia is back with a drink in her hand. Why do you have a blanket wrapped around you? Are you feeling okay?

Not really, I answer. What’s that noise?

What noise?

That buzzing sound. Is that the TV? Maybe someone turned it on without switching on the cable box. I fumble with the buttons on the TV. An image flashes across the screen, and a voice blares.

Funeral services were held today for Samantha Young, the fourth victim of the Sweet Dreams Strangler.

Mrs. Young hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. All the color drains from her face.

I can’t seem to move. Julia turns off the TV. The buzzing grows louder, and then I realize that it’s voices I’m hearing, lots of them, all blending together into one big buzzing sound.

And then the buzzing fades away until I hear only one voice.

Olivia.

It’s not real. I know it’s not real.

Olivia.

It’s not real because the voice is Samantha’s, and Samantha is dead.

Olivia!

It’s not real because the voice is not coming from a person. It’s coming from a fricking figurine on the mantel. From a yellow bird with black wings and a black head. I pick up the figurine, and I hold it in my hands. This is what my dad meant when he said there were people living in marbles. And then it speaks again.

Olivia! Stop him!

Even though I’m kind of expecting it, Samantha’s voice scares me all the same. It makes me jump and my hands open up and that figurine smashes on the floor and breaks. And I’m a little glad because maybe now the voice will stop. But suddenly I’m burning up, the salami and cheese rumbles around in my stomach, and before I can sit, the room spins all around me and darkness sets in.

CHAPTER 2

JACOB

W hy did you bring all these broken drumsticks? my mom asks, pulling a coffee can full of them out of the moving box. She picks one up and squints, reading the writing on the side. Hysteria?

If she hadn’t ditched my dad and me four years ago, she’d know that I always write the name of the song I was playing and the date when a stick breaks. I’m just about to explain it to her when she says, It took a week, but you’re finally all unpacked. Not bad. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to get back to the case.

Big fucking surprise. It’s always about the case. Once upon a time my brother was the case. Now it’s someone else’s kid. Or spouse. Or whatever. Anything so my mom doesn’t have to face the people still in her own life. My dad gave up trying to matter to her a long time ago. That’s when he and I moved to northern Michigan. My dad’s a day trader. He buys and sells stocks on his laptop. You can pretty much do that from anywhere. Except from where you’re not wanted. We were doing fine. Then my dad got himself a new wife. And I got into a car with my drunken best friend.

Okay, yeah, I was drunk too. We hit a tree in Ricky’s piece-of-shit car that’s too old to have airbags. And yeah, I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. So I cracked my head against the dashboard. And I guess I passed out. From the conk in the head or the booze, I’m not sure which. I’m pretty much okay now except for the occasional pounding headache and some freaky-ass dreams. And the fact that my parents actually spoke to each other and decided I should move in with my mom. Get a change of scenery. Get away from my jackass friends.

I shuffle after my mom. I don’t know why we bothered unpacking that last box. My mom will realize soon enough that she doesn’t want to deal with me and my crap, and I’ll be on a plane out of here.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of ginger ale, missing the beer that my dad used to have piled in the fridge, free for the taking. Then I score some chips and M&M’s from the counter. In clearing off a space on the table for my snack, I knock a file folder on the floor, and papers spill out everywhere.

Seriously, Jacob? my mom says, pissed. Hey, maybe if I dump my drink all over the papers, I can get myself shipped back home in time for dinner. Well, at least I could be in Pittsburgh in time to get on a plane before dinner. I tilt the glass, and then my conscience kicks in. Fuck it. I take a drink instead and reach down to scoop up a photo. That’s when I choke on my ginger ale. I swear I’ve seen that girl somewhere before.

Who’s this? I ask between coughs, holding up the picture.

Damn it, Jacob. You’re not supposed to touch that. Of course. I bite my lip. Here we go again.

I stare at the girl’s face and feel another headache coming on. Why does she look familiar? She been missing a long time?

My mom rolls her eyes. Jacob, that’s the girl that we found on Monday.

Oh. You mean the dead one?

Yes. Samantha Young. She went to the high school you’ll be attending. Remember? I told you this already. It’s been all over the news.

I suppose that’s why her face seems familiar. Sounds like I shouldn’t be going to school here. Kind of a dangerous place to live.

My mom rubs her face like she’s trying to rub this case from her mind. Or more likely, having to deal with me. If I thought it was dangerous, I’d be the first one to send you on a plane back to your dad’s.

She didn’t take the bait. Okay, then. Good to know. What’s for dinner?

CHAPTER 3

OLIVIA

Ihate waiting tables . My mom says that’s great because it will give me an incentive to go to college. Really, Mom? Couldn’t you just let me complain? At least this is the last day I’ll have to do it for a while. My mom’s all about summer jobs, but during the school year all she lets me do is babysit. It’s slow today, which makes things worse, because hearing what seemed like Samantha’s voice at her parents’ house is the only thing I have to focus on. The words replay over and over in my mind. Stop him.

I’m not going to lie. The voice I heard yesterday freaked me out in a horrible, ugly, twisted way. Just thinking about it makes my heart pound. And pound. And pound. Because here’s the thing. My dad heard voices too. And he had a diagnosis: schizophrenia.

One time when I was seven, I heard a voice that wasn’t there. But that was one time. I read on the Internet that otherwise healthy children sometimes start hearing voices after a traumatic experience. And that day, ten years ago, was one hell of a traumatic experience.

But that should have been it. One voice, one day. Over. Done.

You could say that the death of my friend last week was another traumatic experience.

That hearing her voice, if not exactly normal, was explainable.

But what if that’s not the end of it? What if, instead of one voice on one day, I start to hear an explosion of voices? Voices that never stop. Voices that take over my life and rob me of everything normal.

What if I become my dad?

That thought makes me stop dead in the center of the aisle, a Mountain Dew in one hand, a hamburger platter in the other.

Whoa, Olivia! Not funny! James nearly crashes into me, a tray balanced on one palm above his head. He dodges, swooping around me. What the hell? he says.

Sorry, I say. I don’t try to explain.

I drop off the Mountain Dew and platter where they belong and go back to the kitchen for a glass of water and to clear my head.

The water hits the spot. I gulp it down. Save some for the customers, teases Andrew, one of the cooks. He tosses the ingredients in his skillet into the air and they all fall neatly back into place.

Nice, I say.

He smiles. Then a huge flame erupts from the pan, jumping into the air.

Fire.

The world moves in slow motion.

I lift my hands to cover my face, dropping my glass, which shatters on the ground.

I have to get out of here! We all have to get out of here! Why can’t I move? Why can’t I open my eyes?

Hey there! Olivia! It’s okay, says Andrew. I got it under control. Happens a dozen times a day. You know that. It’s all good. See? Look here.

I force myself to open my eyes. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Way to overreact.

I try to smile and stop my hands from shaking. Yeah, I’m sorry. I feel like such an idiot. Let me get the broom.

Oh, don’t you worry about it. Dealing with all those customers is enough to make anyone a little jumpy. I’ll get the broom. You go outside and get a little fresh air.

Thanks, Andrew. You’re an angel.

Tell my wife that the next time you see her, will you?

Your wife adores you and you know it.

Yeah, I know. Now go on outside. I’ll cover for you.

Andrew holds the door open for me, squeezing my shoulder as I pass. I plop down on the bench outside and take in some deep breaths. Get it together.

Even though the view is somewhat obscured by the dumpster, the mountains in the distance do me good, and a few minutes later, while I’m not exactly Zen, I’m at least ready to go back to work.

Andrew pokes his head out the door. Doing better?

I nod.

Good. Because James keeps jabbering about you needing to take an order for table five. You got it, or should I tell him to—

I got it. Thanks, Andrew.

Andrew holds the door open again and I weave my way through the kitchen, staying as far away from the burners as I can without being too obvious about it.

I head to table five with a glass of water in one hand and my order pad and pen in the other. I don’t even try to do that memorization thing. People who can do that freak me out.

From a distance, the guy in the booth looks about my age, but I don’t recognize him. Sandy hair. I can’t tell the color of his eyes because he’s bent over his phone, texting.

When I get to his table I set down the water and say, Hi, my name’s Olivia. I’ll be your server.

He flips his phone over, picks up the silverware set, and pulls the paper wrapper off the napkin.

Then he looks up at me.

His eyes are green. And gorgeous.

Somehow his eyes go right from my face to my left arm. He sucks in his breath. Not too loud, but loud enough. And drops the silverware.

Typical. I roll my eyes and push my sleeve back down so it covers my scar.

We both bend down at the same time to pick up the silverware and bump heads. Great. I’ve just gone from embarrassed to mortified.

I grab the napkin. He hands me the spoon. The knife and fork are too far under the booth for me to reach. I’ll get them later.

I’m really sorry about that, he says. I know he’s not talking about the silverware. It’s not what you—I mean, it’s not—I wasn’t—

Don’t worry about it, I say. I’ve heard it all before. Let me get you some clean ones. I take the dirty spoon to the bussing station and pick up another set of silverware.

Then I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together.

I know what my mom would say. Any guy who only sees you for your scar isn’t worth your time.

Fine, Mom. But why does this one have to be so hot?

CHAPTER 4

JACOB

Even though it’s Sunday , my mom’s working her case, so I cruise over to a diner in town for lunch. Half of the booths are red, the other half are yellow. And there’s some weird geometric shapes in frames instead of actual pictures. Man, this place needs a makeover. I’m texting Ricky when a glass of ice water shows up next to my hand and the waitress starts introducing herself. I take the wrapper off the silverware set and look up.

Holy hell. That’s not a waitress. That’s got to be a model. But here she is with one of those order pads and a pen. I flip my phone over so she can’t see the obscenities in Ricky’s message.

Then I blow it.

There’s this scar on her arm, and I get this frickin’ sense of déjà vu. As if I’ve seen that scar before. I make some sort of sound and drop my silverware on the ground like a moron. Who does that shit?

She’s pissed.

I’ll be right back, she says, taking off with the dirty spoon.

I lean under the table and grab the knife and fork and do some quiet drumming against the table. The napkin dispenser doubles as a decent cymbal in a pinch.

When the hot-as-fire waitress makes her way back with the new set of silverware, I quickly stash my contraband drumsticks next to me on the bench. So what’s there to do in this town? I ask. Olivia, that’s her name.

Her hair is dark and long and sort of wavy. It’s pulled back, but a few ringlets have escaped and bounce in front of her ears. I want to bury my face in them. If you hadn’t blown this, maybe you could have.

She taps her pen against the order pad. Can I take your order?

Wow. Complete shutdown. I guess I deserve it. You have ginger ale?

Nope.

Coke?

We have Pepsi. She sounds almost triumphant. Hey, if this makes up for the scar thing, I can drink Pepsi.

Sold. How’s the Reuben?

The pulled pork is better.

Pulled pork it is, then. She reaches for the menu at the same time I start to hand it to her. Her fingers brush mine for just a second, and adrenaline zings through my veins. And then she’s gone.

I do some more drumming to pass the time, then go wash my hands. On my way back to my table, I notice a flyer for a bike race on the bulletin board.

When Olivia returns with my order, I notice how long her legs are. And slender. And...

Rock climbing, kayaking, and caving, she