Deadly Little Lies by Laurie Faria Stolarz.pdf

Deadly Little Lies by

Laurie Faria Stolarz

I'VE BEEN HAVING TROUBLE SLEEPING. Most

nights, I find myself lying awake in bed, unable to nod off. And unable to

take my mind off him. The strength of his hands.

The way he smelled—a mix of sugar and sweat. And the branchlike scar

that snaked up his arm. Ever since Ben left four months ago, I've been

getting fixated on these little things, trying to remember if his had three

branches or four, if it was his left or his right thumb knuckle that always

looked a l i t t l e swollen, a n d if sugary smell was more like powdered

doughnuts or on candy.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. And I'm not just saying that to be

dramatic. I really question my sanity, just haven't been r i g h t lately. I

haven't been right. And I guess that's what scares me the most.

Like last night. Once again unable to sleep, I crept into the hallway and

down to the basement. My dad, who firmly believes that we all should have

our own personal work space, has designated the area behind his tool bench

as my pottery studio. And so I have a wheel, bins full of carving tools, and

boxes of clay just waiting to be sculpted.

Wearing a nightshirt and slippers, I decided to work in the dark, inspired by

the moon as it poured in through the window, slicing a long strip of light

across my table. I cut myself a thick hunk of clay and began to knead it out.

With my eyes closed I could feel the moonlight tugging at the ends of my

hair, shining over my skin, and swallowing my hands whole.

Keeping focused on the clammy texture of the clay and not what I was

actually forming, I tried to relax—to stop the whirring inside my mind.

But then it hit me. The image of Ben's scar popped into my head. And so I

started sculpting it—feeding this weird, insatiable need inside me to form

his arm, from his fingertips to just past his elbow. My fingers worked fast, as

if independent of my mind—as if they knew exactly the way things should

be, while my brain just couldn't keep up.

At least thirty minutes later, long after my fingers had turned waterlogged, I

took a step back to take it all in— what I had sculpted and what it could

possibly mean. Sitting on my worktable was my sculpture of Ben's arm— his

scar, the muscles in his wrist, and the bones in his hands.

It was exactly the way it should be—exactly the way I remembered it.

His scar had three branches, not four.

It was his left thumb that looked a little bit swollen, not the right.

The answers to my obsessive little thoughts were right there. I'd sculpted

them all out, which absolutely baffled me.

And that's when I heard him: "Camelia," he whispered. His voice sounded

just like I'd remembered—soft, smooth, deep, able to steal my breath and

make my heart pound.

I turned to look. But, aside from the lingering glow of the moonlight, there

was just darkness behind me. A cold, dank basement with cement floors,

boxes piled high, and old bicycles parked against the wall. Still, I strained

my eyes, wondering if he was there somehow. Maybe he'd snuck in through

the garage. Could my mom have forgotten to lock it again?

"Ben?" I whispered into the darkness. I wiped my hands and took a

couple steps, but I didn't see anything. An anxious sensation formed in the

pit of my stomach.

I reluctantly turned back to my work.

And then I heard it again: "Camelia," he whispered, only louder this

time.

My hands shaking, I grabbed a carving knife, just i n case, and then

switched on t h e overhead light. Two of the three bulbs blew. A bright b o l t

of light flashed and then everything w e n t dark.

I moved back, toward the cement wall, hoping for stability, noticing a

sudden scraping sound. It was coming from just behind me. I turned to

look, realizing I'd bumped a can of paint. It toppled to the floor. Paint

spilled out in a creamy dark fluid that reminded me of blood.

I let out a breath and headed toward the back of the basement, past

our collection of ski equipment and gardening shovels, knowing that he

must be here somewhere.

Watching me.

"Ben?" I called, focused on the stack of boxes in the corner. My insides

stirring, I moved closer, accidentally tripping over an old bicycle pump. A

yelp sputtered from my throat. The furnace kicked on with a roar, sending a

chill straight up my spine.

I peered over my shoulder, wondering if my parents had heard me, if they

might come downstairs.

"Is that you?" I whispered, feeling my pulse race.

When no one moved and nothing happened, I pushed the stack of boxes so

that they toppled to the ground. Old clothes spilled onto the floor.

"Camelia," he whispered.

It was coming from the top of the stairs now.

I gripped the knife and moved in that direction, following his voice as

it led me through the dark kitchen, down an even darker hallway, and then

into my bedroom.

I clicked on the light—it stung my eyes—and peered around the room. I

checked inside my closet and underneath my bed. But there was no sign of

him.

"Ben?" I whispered, wondering if he'd snuck out the window.

I dropped the knife, unlocked the pane, and opened the window wide.

The cold January air bit at my skin.

Finally I saw him. He was standing across the street, shrouded by a clump

of barren trees in front of my neighbor's house, staring back in my

direction.

My head still spinning, I managed to wave. With my other hand I

pinched myself, wondering if in only a few moments I would wake up.

But it wasn't a dream. It was real. He was there. The clock oil my bedside

table read 2:49 a.m.

I waved again, but he didn't wave back. So I grabbed my phone and dialed

his cell. It barely even rang before I heard him pick up.

"Ben?" I asked, when he didn't say hello. I looked again out the window,

hoping to see him with his phone.

But the figure was no longer there. A second later, the phone clicked off.

And when I called back, it went straight to his voice mail.

“Wait,WHAT?”Kimmieblurts.Shesetsherlattedownonthetablewitha

smack. Her pale blue eyes, framed by a pair of vintage tortoiseshell glasses,

widen in disbelief.

It's Sunday—the last night of winter vacation-and she, Wes, and I are sitting

at the Press & Grind, the coffee shop downtown, indulging in an array of

over-the-counter stimulants in the form of caffeine and chocolate.

"It's true," I say. "I don't know how it happened."

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Wes begins. "It was two a.m., you

couldn't sleep, your mind was racing with all kinds of crazy . . . Might you

have been smoking something funky? Surely that would make me want to

sculpt something kinky."

"Like an arm is even kinky?" Kimmie says. "Leave it to Camelia to sculpt

something G-rated. Now if it were me-"

"You'd be sculpting my ass?" Wes asks.

Only if I needed a good laugh, Kimmie says.

"Funky smoking might also help explain the mysterious voices of which you

speak," Wes suggests.

"Was your bedroom window locked?" Kimmie asks. I nod, remembering

how I'd had to unlock it to open the pane.

"So, it must have been your imagination," she continues. "Otherwise, the

window would have been open, right? I mean, how do you sneak out a

window and then lock it back up from the outside?"

"I know." I sigh. "It doesn't make sense." "Wait, didn't your dad get an alarm

system?" Wes asks. "He was going to, but instead he just got the window

stickers and yard signs to make it look like our house is armed."

"A crafty one, isn't he?" Wes smirks.

"Super crafty." I roll my eyes. "He also added a hyperactive motion detector

in the driveway, a security camera that points toward the stairs but doesn't

work, and he trimmed the bushes—I

"The biggest deterrent," Kimmie mocks.

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