The Dark Places by R. Whitfield (novel24 TXT) 📕

from inside her car left, couple of noodle packets, some sketchbooks and a heap of material swatches.” He looked up at Surin.

“Nothing else?” she asked, flipping pages of the sketchbook.

“Not really,” he said, digging back through to make sure. “A pair of knockoff Gucci sunglasses and a chain.” The sound of the sketchbook hitting the floor startled Parker, but when he looked up, Surin’s ashen face shocked him more.

“Surin?” he said, carefully moving over to her side of the table.

“A necklace?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yeh, just a cheap necklace,” he repeated, confused.

“Describe it to me,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Surin, what’s going on?” Parker asked.

“For fuck’s sake, Parker, please, just do what I ask!” she yelled, her voice filled with desperation.

He walked back around the table to the box and picked it up. “It’s a silver ball chain, about twelve inches in length,” he said steadily, his head reeling from her outburst.

“And?” she said, choking back tears.

“And it has a pendant on it, engraved with the letter E.”

Surin’s hand flew up to her mouth, stifling a loud sob. She grasped the chair with her hand as she sank down onto the floor. Parker was beside her in a second. He grabbed her hand and held it as it shook uncontrollably.

“Surin, please,” he said, choking back his own emotions, “tell me what the hell is going on.”

After a few minutes, her crying abated. She wiped her nose on her hand. “I’m sorry, Parker,” she said finally, “I have no idea.”

Part 2

21

1997, Town of North East, Cecil County, Maryland

 

The early morning mist hung over the calm waters of the Chesapeake Bay like a warm blanket.

The birds sang in tune with the waking forest as the rising sun sent a kaleidoscope of colour filtering through the dense brush.

The boy stirred and lazily stretched out his legs, startling a nearby deer that quickly jumped back into the thicket.

He knew he was going to be in trouble, staying out all night again, but when he finally opened his eyes, he didn’t care. This place was home to him. The tall Table Mountain pines felt like the safe walls of his room — the gentle whispering breeze was more comforting to him than any words ever spoken by his parents and the ever-present sound of water made him feel calm. Yes, this was where he belonged. He stood, his gangly knees releasing tension with a loud crack, and picked up his long coat, which had served as his blanket the night before. School started soon, and as much as he would rather stay and trap some more squirrels, he knew his mother would not let another day off school slide by without questions along the lines of the Spanish Inquisition. In truth, school didn’t bother him. It was merely an inconvenience, an interruption to his day. The teachers thought he was a lost cause and looked through him like he was transparent, made of thin, weak glass. The other kids weren’t mean, he wasn’t bullied or tormented, he was simply avoided. He existed like a shadow, walking along walls, hugging the tight corners of the buildings, sitting in the very back recesses of the classrooms, eating under the stadium stairs, listening to the constant banter of the cheerleaders who didn’t even know he was alive. School was OK, a formality to keep his mother off his back.

The sudden thought of her incessant whiney voice thrust him back into reality. He wondered how long he had been standing there like that, staring at the patch of grass he had slept on. Time to go, he sighed, and began trudging back towards his house. After twenty minutes, he emerged from the scrub and re-joined the well-worn path that led from the main street of town through to North East High. Parents warned their kids not to take the shortcut, spouting stories akin to Little Red Riding Hood, but the seniors, of course, knowing better, ignored the urban legends and used it as their personal thoroughfare. He was always very careful not to be seen; he didn’t need or want any attention, so when he heard the unmistakable snap of twigs breaking underfoot, he immediately froze. Shutting down his eyes, he felt all of his senses stir. The sweetly fragrant blooms of the pink-white mountain laurel teased his nostrils, and the constant humming of insects created the familiar soundtrack that was his forest. No voices, no laughter, it must have been another deer. He quickened his pace anyway, and gradually the tree line receded, the path became cobblestone, and he could feel the pulse of the small town. The electrical cables buzzed in the early morning light and life began to stir. People were starting to wake and begin their day, collect the paper, switch on the kettle and gently nudge sleeping children. He hurried past the twenty-four-hour gas station, head down with his jacket pulled tightly around him, always aware of the security cameras and nosy neighbours. He slipped through a dilapidated wood paling fence which led through some overgrown grass into his backyard. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and looked up just in time to see his sister sneak back in through her bedroom window, one leg still dangling over the side. Slut, he thought and sneered. Margot, his older sister, was the golden child. Sixteen and oh so pretty for sure. Smart? Not so much, but what she lacked in brains she made up for in sheer venom. One of the most feared yet revered girls in her year, purely due to her ability to create and spread gossip. Margot never underestimated the power of peer pressure and the drama of innuendo. How’s this for a rumour, he thought as he spied Mr Westford, their history teacher, covertly pull away from the kerb. Margot, Margot,