plate. “I have to go,” I tell him, sliding out from the booth and making a beeline for the door.
I CLICK THE LINK AGAIN and it brings me to YouTube.
The video is grainy, and it takes a second to see that there’s a dark room and a metal folding chair. A pop of light highlights someone seated on the chair.
It’s Natalie. She sits, angled sideways, shrouded in shadows. But still I can tell that it’s her—dark clothes, clunky boots, black sunglasses, long, coarse hair. And the dark
gray scarf. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she let me borrow—the one I used to blanket over Parker, after his nightmare ride.
“You can’t see a face,” Detective Thomas says.
I’m at the police station again, sitting in the same smelly interrogation room, only this time Detective Dearborn and Officer Squires are here too, looking on.
“Let’s get this up on a bigger screen,” Thomas says.
Dearborn leaves the room, returning just a few seconds later with a laptop. She sets it down, powers it up, and then takes my phone to copy the YouTube address.
The video begins on the larger screen, proving that size really does matter. There’s so much more detail now. I’m able to see the contrasting squares of a tile floor. There’s
also a boarded-up window in the background.
Officer Dearborn adjusts the lighting and cranks up the volume.
“Hi, Ivy,” Natalie says. Her voice has been distorted; it’s deep, like a man’s, and there’s an electric current running through it. “As you can see, I’m
still alive.” Her legs are crossed. The toe of her Doc Martens boot bops back and forth in a strip of light; it’s the clearest image on the screen. “I’m not the only one.
But we can’t get out of here without you.”
I wish I could see her face—to see if her lips are all cut up from picking at them, like they’d been that weekend. Or if her eyes are as blue as I remember.
“Who is it even supposed to be?” Squires asks.
“It’s Natalie,” I say, as if it isn’t completely obvious.
“Natalie Sorrento?” Squires asks, moving closer to the screen.
“It’s her—same boots, same dark clothes, even the tone of her voice is distinct.”
“What tone?” His face crinkles in confusion.
“The intonation of her voice, I mean, the way she pauses between words.”
“Shh.”
Dearborn places her finger up to her lips.
Natalie continues to speak: “Parker’s here and he wanted me to remind you of something. Remember the story he told you? The one about his worst-ever nightmare? You told him that
you’d never leave him, but still you did. Don’t leave him alone again. Come find him, Ivy. Come be part of the sequel.” Natalie leans forward, shifting slightly in her seat. In
doing so, her hand dangles into the strip of light and we’re able to see her bracelet.
Detective Dearborn hits pause, tracks back, and then hits replay, freezing the moment. The image is blurry, but it’s also unmistakable.
“I can’t really tell what it is,” Thomas says.
“It kind of looks like a flower of some sort,” Dearborn says, lightening the screen even more.
“It’s a star,” I blurt, able to see it clearly. “Just like the pendant necklace I received years ago.”
“Could be a star,” Dearborn nods. “Could be a lot of things.”
“Was Natalie wearing a star bracelet during the Dark House weekend?” Thomas asks.
“Not that I can remember,” I tell him. “But it’s obviously a sign—the killer’s way of communicating with me.”
“It could also be a coincidence,” Dearborn says. “Stars aren’t exactly unique or unusual, at least as far as charms and patterns go.”
“Maybe I’m getting old”—Thomas scoots closer to the computer screen—“but it looks like a pretzel twist to me.”
“We’ll have a videographer take a look.” Dearborn pushes play again, but there’s not much else to see. Natalie has fallen silent. There’s just one more foot shuffle
before the lights go
I CLICK THE LINK AGAIN and it brings me to YouTube.
The video is grainy, and it takes a second to see that there’s a dark room and a metal folding chair. A pop of light highlights someone seated on the chair.
It’s Natalie. She sits, angled sideways, shrouded in shadows. But still I can tell that it’s her—dark clothes, clunky boots, black sunglasses, long, coarse hair. And the dark
gray scarf. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she let me borrow—the one I used to blanket over Parker, after his nightmare ride.
“You can’t see a face,” Detective Thomas says.
I’m at the police station again, sitting in the same smelly interrogation room, only this time Detective Dearborn and Officer Squires are here too, looking on.
“Let’s get this up on a bigger screen,” Thomas says.
Dearborn leaves the room, returning just a few seconds later with a laptop. She sets it down, powers it up, and then takes my phone to copy the YouTube address.
The video begins on the larger screen, proving that size really does matter. There’s so much more detail now. I’m able to see the contrasting squares of a tile floor. There’s
also a boarded-up window in the background.
Officer Dearborn adjusts the lighting and cranks up the volume.
“Hi, Ivy,” Natalie says. Her voice has been distorted; it’s deep, like a man’s, and there’s an electric current running through it. “As you can see, I’m
still alive.” Her legs are crossed. The toe of her Doc Martens boot bops back and forth in a strip of light; it’s the clearest image on the screen. “I’m not the only one.
But we can’t get out of here without you.”
I wish I could see her face—to see if her lips are all cut up from picking at them, like they’d been that weekend. Or if her eyes are as blue as I remember.
“Who is it even supposed to be?” Squires asks.
“It’s Natalie,” I say, as if it isn’t completely obvious.
“Natalie Sorrento?” Squires asks, moving closer to the screen.
“It’s her—same boots, same dark clothes, even the tone of her voice is distinct.”
“What tone?” His face crinkles in confusion.
“The intonation of her voice, I mean, the way she pauses between words.”
“Shh.”
Dearborn places her finger up to her lips.
Natalie continues to speak: “Parker’s here and he wanted me to remind you of something. Remember the story he told you? The one about his worst-ever nightmare? You told him that
you’d never leave him, but still you did. Don’t leave him alone again. Come find him, Ivy. Come be part of the sequel.” Natalie leans forward, shifting slightly in her seat. In
doing so, her hand dangles into the strip of light and we’re able to see her bracelet.
Detective Dearborn hits pause, tracks back, and then hits replay, freezing the moment. The image is blurry, but it’s also unmistakable.
“I can’t really tell what it is,” Thomas says.
“It kind of looks like a flower of some sort,” Dearborn says, lightening the screen even more.
“It’s a star,” I blurt, able to see it clearly. “Just like the pendant necklace I received years ago.”
“Could be a star,” Dearborn nods. “Could be a lot of things.”
“Was Natalie wearing a star bracelet during the Dark House weekend?” Thomas asks.
“Not that I can remember,” I tell him. “But it’s obviously a sign—the killer’s way of communicating with me.”
“It could also be a coincidence,” Dearborn says. “Stars aren’t exactly unique or unusual, at least as far as charms and patterns go.”
“Maybe I’m getting old”—Thomas scoots closer to the computer screen—“but it looks like a pretzel twist to me.”
“We’ll have a videographer take a look.” Dearborn pushes play again, but there’s not much else to see. Natalie has fallen silent. There’s just one more foot shuffle
before the lights go
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