31NICOLA
THE SHACK FEELSeven smaller than it looked from outside. I pace back and forth, back and forth, four steps to one wall, four back to the other. Connor snapped a new padlock on when he left with a muffled promise that he’d be back first thing in the morning.
“And then what?” I shouted, slamming my palms against the door. “What are you going to do with me?”
The only answer: the leaves rustling under his feet as he walked away.
I imagine the most likely scenario. They’ll turn me over to the police, who will be quick to believe whatever allegations are made against me. For months, reports of my culpability have been plastered across televisions, cell phone screens, social media feeds. With nothing in my bank account, I’ll be relying on a public defender to disprove the case made by a multibillion-dollar entertainment network. I’ll end up locked in a jail cell, just like my father.
Which is probably what I deserve.
I slump into a corner, pulling my knees to my chest, and my thoughts turn to Claire’s disappearance. I’ve replayed the events of that night countless times, trying to sharpen each detail to its truest version. After the photos were stolen, Claire had been evenangrier than me—yelling at the guys to fuck off every time they catcalled in the hallways and offering to come home with me for vacation. “We don’t need them,” she sniffed. “We’ll spend the summer together, just you and me.” While I hated the way everyone stared at me in the studio, snickering behind their sketchbooks, the prospect of spending three months with Claire almost made the abuse worthwhile.
However, when we arrived in Oliante, she seemed strangely withdrawn. No matter how hard my dad and I tried to make her feel like part of the family, she remained buried in her artwork. That night, she was editing photographs on her laptop; I was curled at the opposite end of the couch, half watching the news.
“—last seen outside Striker’s.”
The screen rotated through pictures of the Ellicott Creek Ripper’s victims. It seemed like that was all anyone could talk about that summer. Oliante had gone from a town where everyone left their doors unlocked to one with signs in every front yard:SECURED BY ADT. Maybe that was the reason for Claire’s sudden change in mood; maybe she was worried that our town was dangerous.
“Hey,” I said, pressing my foot against hers. She flinched and shifted farther away. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You know you don’t have to be afraid of anything on the news, right? He only goes after high school girls, locals.”
She looked up from her work and blinked once, slowly, at the television. The first victim filled the screen: Heather Dickerson. She wore a burgundy Oliante High sweatshirt. A silver horseshoe charm dangled over the collar.
Claire hummed, returning to her laptop. Not the news, then. I watched her work, prayed that she’d say something, anything, but she seemed to have forgotten I was even in the room. “I’ll be back,” Imuttered, easing myself off the couch, not wanting to disturb her. She didn’t so much as glance up.
Upstairs, I pulled the bathroom door closed behind me and checked my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Why had Claire come all this way only to ignore me? This was supposed to be a chance to deepen our relationship; instead, it felt like we were on the brink of breaking up. I turned on the faucet, splashed water on my face, but as I reached for the washcloth, a buzzing erupted from across the room.
Claire’s cell phone lay, forgotten, on a stack of towels.
I stared at its reflection as it buzzed again. I knew I should take it downstairs and return it to her, but something was wrong with Claire, and I wanted to know what it was.Neededto know, if knowing might help save our relationship. I flipped the phone open and clicked the first text message.
I wish you were here.
I frowned. Who was this from? Her parents? I scrolled to the next one.
I’m sorry about the photos. You trusted me with them. I never should’ve showed them to the guys.
The photos. This couldn’t be about the photos she’d taken of me, right? Claire had convinced me they’d been stolen, but this message made it sound like she’d… I checked the contact information. Justin Billings. Why did she even have his number? She hated Justin, mercilessly mocked him after every studio class—the way he smelled like vinegary developer mixed with cologne, how he wore T-shirts pitted with holes when everyone knew he came from old money, his pathetic attempts at picking her up when she clearly wasn’t interested. She never would’ve given him those photos.
Next text message:
Do you think she might still consider? You know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.
Who was “she”? Consider what?
The phone buzzed in my hands with another incoming text:
Love you. Talk soon.
Love you. The words grew larger and larger the more I stared at them. With a growing sense of dread, I clicked through their previous messages. The early ones were innocent enough—questions about assignment due dates, complaints about a professor’s harsh feedback. As the months passed, though, the thread shifted: casual banter gave way to flirtations, then plans to meet up outside of class—for coffee, a gallery show, drinks at his apartment, all during the times she usually disappeared to take photos around the city.
Then, a request:
Someone told me that you and Nicolaare an item?
