“Would you like some salad?” Mrs. Shum pushes a hand-painted glass salad bowl toward me.
“Thank you.” I put enough of the salad on my plate to be polite. In truth, the strong vinegar smell of the dressing turns my stomach.
“Is the steak all right?” Dr. Shum asks. “Not too rare?”
“It’s perfect.” Because he’s watching, I cut off a small portion of the meat—cooked medium-well, just as I asked—put it in my mouth and chew slowly.
Dr. and Mrs. Shum exchange the anxious looks of hosts who have no idea how to please their guest. I feel bad for them. It isn’t their fault that my mother’s flight is delayed yet again so they’re stuck with me another night. And it wasn’t their fault that the detention center closed right before we got there and I wasn’t able to see my father. And it isn’t their fault that my heart is broken because Jalen betrayed me.
I poke the salad—a colorful creation with bits of cactus in it—and wonder if it’ll stay down if I attempt to eat it.
“Your mother will be here first thing tomorrow,” Mrs. Shum says brightly. “Things always have a way of looking better in the morning.”
Dr. Shum winks at me. “She’s disgustingly chipper in the mornings. Me, I’m a night owl. I’m almost always up, so if you want some company, I’ll probably be raiding the refrigerator.” He pats his flat stomach. “Looking for some of that pie. Do you like lemon chess pie, Paige?”
I nod, wondering how much longer I have to sit here, enduring this conversation. They’re nice people, but they’re just making things worse with their forced cheerfulness.
“I’m sorry for your situation,” Mrs. Shum says, leaning forward, her green eyes sympathetic. “And I know you feel like you’re imposing on us, but I want you to know that we love having you here. It isn’t often that Dr. Shum and I get to have young people as our guests. For years, we tried to have children, but it didn’t work out.” She takes a swallow of wine and then wipes her mouth. “But we can’t complain; we’ve had each other.”
Dr. Shum raises his wine glass to his wife’s. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “Here’s to twenty years of happy marriage.”
“Twenty-three,” Mrs. Shum corrects.
Dr. Shum chuckles. “I know that, dear. I said twenty happy ones.”
Watching them makes me wonder how many years of my parents’ marriage were happy ones. Maybe none. I put my fork down and ask to be excused.
In the second-floor guest room, I walk around restlessly. It’s a pretty room but not to my taste. I trail my fingers over the polished surface of an antique mahogany dresser and then finger the creamy satin on the fringed lampshade. A self-portrait of a much younger Mrs. Shum smiles at me from over the bed. Her hair is different, redder, but her green eyes are exactly the same.
Pulling back a sheer curtain, I look into the back yard. The lights give the pool water an eerie fluorescent glow. Behind the pool, Mrs. Shum’s studio is dark. My gaze travels to the silver crescent of the moon.
It reminds me of the story my father told me about how Coyote and Eagle tried to steal the moon. Wanting better light to hunt in, they went to a spirit village where lightness and darkness were kept in two boxes. Coyote placed one box inside the other and then talked Eagle into letting him carry the box. When Eagle flew ahead, Coyote opened both boxes, and that created winter.
I realize now that my roots are in these stories, that this is the soil I have been raised in. That no matter what’s happened, Arizona is where I belong. Even with everything that’s happened, even if Jalen and I never get back together, something about this place calls me. I want to dig, explore, learn.
I’m not going back to New Jersey with my mom and Stuart.
Deciding that this feels right, I’m almost giddy with the need to tell someone, specifically Jalen. I want him to help me figure out the way to convince my parents. But then I remember the way we left things—my angry, hurtful words. Words that couldn’t be true because, if they were, why haven’t the police accused me of lying? Why haven’t they asked for a new statement?
But if Jalen didn’t tell them about my father, then who did?
I dial Jalen’s cell, but he doesn’t answer. I almost hang up, but then I tell him I’m sorry and ask him to call me.
Walking back to the window, I notice a light shining through the windows in the studio. Mrs. Shum was so right about looking at who I was in order to understand who I am. I want to thank her for helping me push aside everything that’s gotten in the way of me finally understanding that.
It’s cooler now, but still hot as I step through the kitchen door and walk barefoot along the warm flagstone patio. Above, the moon shines as brightly as the path lights that line the walkway to the studio. A lizard darts just inches from my toes and then disappears into the foliage.
The doorknob turns easily, and I step inside. Just as before, the easels are covered with white sheets and other covered canvases lean against the side walls. I smell the odor of wet paint, but I don’t see Mrs. Shum anywhere.
“Mrs. Shum?” There’s no answer. On the table where we sculpted sit the two heads, mine and Jalen’s, tightly sealed in plastic bags. She’s worked on them since I was here last, enhanced them. A small chill works up my spine at the sight of my face sealed inside plastic. The features are so uncannily real that I almost want to open the bag so I can breathe. When the air conditioner kicks on, I jump and then laugh at my nerves.
“Mrs. Shum?” I call again.
She must have just stepped away. I probably shouldn’t be in here without her, but the sight of a dried clay sculpture on a worktable in the front draws me closer. It’s the one Mrs. Shum showed me the last time I was here—the lovers caught in the moment before they kiss. She’s finished it now, and in the lights of the studio, the skin on their clay faces seems to glow with life.
Looking closely, I see more detail. The faces have features—the man’s eyes are slightly more sunken, his nose coarser, his hairline defined. My heart starts to pound. It’s my father, and of course the girl is Emily.
My gaze travels to the man’s strong, blunt fingers weaving themselves into the girl’s hair. The detail is amazing, right down to the wedding band on his fourth finger.
Wedding band?
My gaze flies back to the man’s face, noticing suddenly that it has a wider brow and the lips are fuller than my father’s.
It isn’t my father. The joy mixes with terror as I realize I am staring at likenesses of Dr. Shum and Emily.
Suddenly, everything seems to fall into place. I think of the portrait of the buck above the mantle in the Shums’ family room. Not just a buck, I realize, but a stag. I think of Emily’s blog and it all comes together.
“Oh, God,” I say.
From behind me, a man’s deep voice says softly, almost kindly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
A wave of terror shoots through me as I turn and face Dr. Shum. He’s standing in the doorway holding a bottle of wine in one hand and an empty glass in the other. His rugged features sag.
My heart races. Dr. Shum is King Stag. He killed Emily, and now I’m alone with him. What do I do? Is there another way out of the studio? I search my mind, even as I smile and try to sound pleased.
“Hello, Dr. Shum,” I say. “I was just admiring the sculpture of you and Mrs. Shum.”
Sighing, he moves forward, one slow nightmare step at a time. “We both know that the girl in the sculpture is Emily. I do think this is Julia’s best work yet. Don’t you agree?”
I don’t answer, but keeping my eyes on him, I back slowly away, putting the work table between us.
“I think its Julia’s way of punishing me. She knows I have to look at it, that I am compelled to look at it, and she knows how it hurts me when I do.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head sadly. “I loved her,” he says. “I loved her so much.”
I face him across the table. Somehow I have to keep him talking. “What happened to her, Dr. Shum? What happened to Emily?”
He sets down the wine, uncorks the bottle, and then pours himself a glass. “She was the yellow corn maiden. She had to die.”
“What do you mean?”
He sips the wine slowly. “A necessary sacrifice.” His blue eyes are red-rimmed. “What are we going to do now, Paige?”
A fresh wave of terror floods my brain because I know he’s thinking about how he’s going to kill me. I think about screaming, but something inside cautions me not to do anything that will set him off.
“Nothing,” I say. “You aren’t going to do anything with me because I think you’re relieved I found out about you. You left her shoes and that note because you want to be found. How did it happen, Dr. Shum? Was it an accident? I know you loved her.”
Dr. Shum drinks the contents of his glass and then pours himself another. His hands shake. “Yes. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but there was nothing I could do.” He extends the glass to me. “Would you like a sip?”
I shake my head, denying more than his offer of wine. For a crazy moment, I even think of trying to seduce him.
He shakes his head wearily. “You should have stayed in your room, Paige. None of this would be happening if you had.”
“If you do anything to me,” I say, keeping my gaze locked with his, “they’ll figure it all out. They’ll connect you to me and Emily.”
He takes another sip of wine. “People will believe whatever story you tell them if you give them a good reason. Your best friend is missing, probably dead, and now your father has been arrested. You’re a girl who isn’t thinking very well right now and who’s inclined to do impulsive things—like sneak out at night to see your boyfriend one last time. Sadly, hitchhiking has its risks.”
“Everyone knows I’m staying with you,” I say a little desperately. “You’ll be the first person they suspect.”
He smiles and takes another sip of wine. His blue eyes are almost kindly, the image of a professor who has to fail his favorite student. “I’m sorry, Paige.” He blocks me as I make a move to run around the easel.
“Dr. Shum,” I say, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. “It’s going to be obvious that you did something to me.”
“It’s going to look bad for me if I don’t do something. And here’s the sad truth about our legal system—it doesn’t work. The burden of proof has become such a legal nightmare for the prosecution. Over and over we see that, with a good lawyer, a person can get away with just about anything.”
He lunges for me, but I jump backward, out of his reach. I run around the side of the table, twisting as he grabs for me. I’m almost past him, but then his hands latch onto the cotton fabric of my tank top. It feels like he might rip it off my back as he yanks me backward.
Screaming, I strain against the harness of my shirt, but it’s useless. Twisting, I kick and struggle, but it doesn’t help. Even as I cry out, I realize he is much, much stronger than Jeremy Brown.
“Don’t fight me. You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
“Let me go!” I shriek.
He bunches his grip on my shirt more tightly until it cuts into my ribs. “I’m so sorry.” He pulls me against him. I smell his breath, hot and sour. “Close your eyes, little one,” he whispers. “Please close your eyes.”
He’s crazy. I search the room for a weapon. The sheet-covered easels stand like ghosts watching us. My frantic gaze sweeps around the room again and then locks on the clay sculpture of Emily and Dr. Shum.
Dr. Shum puts his huge hand around my neck. This isn’t happening, something inside me insists. I’m dreaming. Only I know I’m not.
“She talked about you,” I choke out, frantic to delay what seems inevitable. “Don’t you want to know what Emily said?”
His fingers tighten a fraction. “If she had talked about me, we wouldn’t be standing here, would we?”
He’s right, of course. I need to make up something and quickly. I try to summon up the part of myself that created the games for Emily and me all those years ago.
“She never used your name, but she’d tell me these intense dreams she had, erotic dreams about a man who loved her so much that all she had to do was think about him, and he’d call her.”
The grip on my neck lessens a tiny bit. “Yes,” he says. “It was like that for us. All I had to do was think her name and she called me. We had…what you call a certain synchronicity.” He pauses and then, almost as if he can’t help himself, adds, “What else did she say?”
I inch closer to the worktable, frantically trying to piece together a story in my mind. “That when he made love to her it was so powerful that she would weep because she didn’t want it to be over.”
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Shum murmurs. “What else? What else did she tell you?”
“And there was another dream she had, where she would meet him in the ruins and…”
“And what?” Dr. Shum asks eagerly.
I grab the clay sculpture with both hands. “And she sent you to hell,” I scream and swing the statue at him.
He ducks at the last minute, and the sculpture crashes to the ground, shattering into large chunks. Dr. Shum looks at me, his eyes wild, frantic. His fist comes up, but before he can hit me, I kick him hard between his legs. He drops to the floor with a cry of pain. I run for the door.
I hit it so hard it almost falls off the hinges. Charging into the warm night, I stub my toe on one of the stepping stones. The pain shoots up my leg, but I keep running.
I race past the rectangular pool and its neon blue water, then down the edge of the privacy fence to the gate. Coming to a panting, shaking stop, I reach for the latch. The lever lifts, but the gate remains shut. I yank it harder, more frantically, but it doesn’t budge. Through the black wrought-iron bars, I see the glow of street lights on what looks like an empty street.
I rattle the gate, even as I see the padlock on the top of the bars. My heart sinks. I’m trapped. How much time before Dr. Shum finds me?
I turn to backtrack, but Mrs. Shum suddenly appears in the gap between the house and the privacy fence. Her reddish hair hangs long and loose on her shoulders, and her face shines silver-colored in the moonlight. “Paige?” she says, “what’s wrong?”
I’m so relieved it’s her and not Dr. Shum that I could cry. “Dr. Shum has gone crazy,” I blurt out. “He killed Emily and now he’s trying to kill me. We have to get out of here.”
“Slow down, Paige.” Her voice is infuriatingly calm. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s no time to explain.” I glance over her shoulder, terrified I’ll see Dr. Shum. “Please. You need to trust me.”
Mrs. Shum blocks my path as I try to move past her. Her thin arm grabs me with surprising strength. “Are you on drugs? Dr. Shum would never kill anyone. He’s a great man. A brilliant researcher.”
And a murderer. “I’m not on drugs. The painting of the stag…” My voice trails off as I realize Mrs. Shum painted the stag. She crafted the sculpture of Dr. Shum and Emily. And the book, The Corn Maiden—she could have planted it the day she dropped me off after I had lunch with her. She’s known all along what Dr. Shum did and probably helped him cover it all up.
An eerie intensity comes into Mrs. Shum’s eyes, and she smiles. “You’d better tell me exactly what happened.”
“Please,” I say. “Just let me go. I know you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Emily. If we go to the police together, I know they’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That Dr. Shum killed Emily. That you were afraid of him and so you helped him cover it up.”
“Is that what you think happened?” Mrs. Shum smiles, and in the moonlight, her teeth look small, white, and very sharp. “God, you girls are so stupid. You think because you’re young and beautiful, you can have anything you want. You think your generation is smarter because you know all this technological crap. You even think you discovered sex.” She shakes her head. “You girls don’t know anything.” She glances over her shoulder and yells. “Ray! Over here!”
My heart beats so loud and fast I think it will drown out my voice, but I hear myself say, “It wasn’t Dr. Shum, was it? It was you, wasn’t it?”
“That bitch. She had him so bewitched he thought he was in love with her—that he’d leave me for her.” She shakes her head. “But I forgave him, Paige, because that’s what married people have to do if they want to stay together. They forgive and forgive and forgive. Sometimes it’s exhausting.”
I search her eyes, but in the darkness, they’re nothing more than black holes in her face. She’s crazy. And she’s going to kill me. The only chance I have is to get away from her. I jerk my arm from her grasp, fake right, and then go left. She snarls in rage and then something hard cracks against the side of my skull and everything goes black.