I had walked up the stairs to Colton's front door a million times. But before I could curl my fingers around the old-fashioned brass knocker, I swayed and found myself leaning against one of the towering pillars on the porch. A mixture of fast food and nerves was the perfect combination for uneasiness. My forehead rested against the cool exterior of the pillar and, between blotchy patches of black ink that splashed my vision, I could see areas where the white paint was chipping. I took a few deep breaths. The letter had given me a distraction from what was really happening. It was almost like an escape from the real world.
Almost.
The confession had allowed me to view Colton's death from a completely different perspective—as if I were an outsider looking in. Standing in front of his house was too much of a reality punch. It took me a good couple of minutes to gather myself. The brass handle felt cold and hard as I knocked.
Mrs. Crest was wearing an apron with her shirt sleeves rolled up to her elbows. At first, she frowned at me, struggling to identify who I was. She looked tired as she examined me, her faded blue eyes squinting to remember my features. Eventually, she looked almost relieved as it came to her.
"Elliot," she said. "It's so good to see you."
"He-e-y," I choked out.
Mrs. Crest motioned for me to enter. With tentative steps, I shuffled into the spacious foyer of the house. I followed her to the kitchen, where she picked her knife back up and sliced through a carrot with impeccable ease.
"Mrs. Crest, I came here to apologize for last week. It was a selfish move, just walking out during the service. I wasn't in the right headspace, but I know that isn't an excuse."
Mrs. Crest put the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron before coming around and wrapping her arms around me.
"Sorry." She sniffled as she pulled away, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She gave me a shaky smile and returned to the chopping board, but she didn't pick up the knife. She just stared at the vegetables scattered across its surface.
"Do you know what happened to him?" she whispered. At first, I thought she was talking to herself, repeating a rhetorical question. But when she looked up at me with watery, pleading eyes, I knew it was directed at me.
"No," I answered. "But I'm trying to figure it out."
Mrs. Crest laughed half-heartedly. "Colton always loved solving mysteries. He'd watch those black-and-white crime series and always piece together the story before the main character did."
I forced a small smile, worried that if I contributed to the conversation, it would grow into something ugly. Talking about Colton too much ignited a spark of anger, a raging flame of frustration toward everyone. Directed at Colton for not telling me anything. At his parents for not taking better care of him. At myself for not realizing, for not looking out for him. I counted to ten in my head.
Then out of the blue, Mrs. Crest said, "How would you like to stay for dinner?"
She looked like such a mess I was afraid that something bad might happen if I left her, so I said, "Sure."
She smiled, seeming pleased, and wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll just get some meat from the freezer downstairs. I won't be a moment. Make yourself at home, Elliot."
"Not a problem, Mrs. Crest."
Her departure created the perfect opportunity to sleuth. My mind ran back to the time theory. I had been thinking the next letter could be in his pocket watch. . . . But what about other options? There were only two significant clocks in the Crest residence: one in the dining room and the other in the upstairs corridor. I would have to be quick.
On the far side of the kitchen wall was the cuckoo clock. It had once been painted vibrantly, but the colors had faded, and a layer of dust coated the roof. It was almost as if the little bird hadn't come out of its house in years.
Maybe it hadn't.
I lifted a chair from the breakfast bench, moved it over toward the wall, and climbed up. My fingers shook as I started winding the minute hand, heart hammering in my ears. I was desperate to piece the puzzle together, but I wasn't sure what to expect. Would I find another letter accompanied by something? Like a photograph, or a piece of Colton's clothing, or a tissue with a smear of his blood?
I didn't have time to worry about how long to keep winding because once the hand was pointing at the twelve, the small wooden bird sprang out. The mechanics were a little rough and, luckily, the cuckoo didn't sing its song, but the bird was out now, and I had to work fast. I had only a few seconds to discover whether it held a secret. The first place my eyes were drawn to was its beak. Empty.
Soon the bird made its swift departure and it disappeared inside its little house. I then searched the entire front of the clock, from its worn exterior to the design details. But nothing could be found. Trying to swallow my discouragement, I searched the body of the clock. I ran my fingers down its smooth sides, feeling the even texture of the shaped wood as if the physical contact would give me some sort of clue.
And it did.
My hands ran up against something rough underneath the clock, and sharp edges pierced my skin. There was something engraved into the side near the bottom, so I quickly crouched to see if it was a clue. With my face pressed against the wall, and my eyesight adjusting to the lighting, I saw small scratchy letters, making up a short sentence.
This clock has The wrong Time.
The little cuckoo clock had stopped working years ago. So technically, the time was always wrong. This made no sense as a message to let people know the clock was broken—why not just take it down? It must be from Colton's killer. It must be a clue.
That meant that Colton's killer was someone who had been invited into his house, but that didn't really rule anyone out. Colton had people over all the time. He had hosted club meetings, social events, and school projects at his house over the years. Practically half of our school had been there.
Or maybe someone else had found a letter in their jacket pocket. Maybe I wasn't the only one who had it. Did other people know about the letters, the confessions? Were they trying to lead me to the next clue or pull me further away from it?
A million questions ran through my mind, but before I could comprehend any of them, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I jumped from the chair and rushed it back into place. I didn't know what to do with my hands, where to stand, where to keep my gaze. I shoved my hands into my pockets and prayed my face didn't betray my guilt, because my body sure screamed awkward.
Mrs. Crest appeared, carrying a tray of meat in her hands. She looked at me with a slight frown. Her eyes scanned around the room like she was looking for something. Maybe even looking to see if something was missing. A wave of panic washed over me as I wondered if I had left anything out of place, anything that gave away that I had been searching her house.
But just like that, the frown was replaced by a warm smile. "How does roast sound for dinner?"
"Sounds great," I managed to choke out.
Mrs. Crest set the meat down on the kitchen counter. "Would you mind giving me a hand?"
"Sure," I said, feeling my heart rate slowly decrease back to normal.
In actuality, I wanted to escape—to go back into solitude and ana- lyze the information I had found. But I couldn't just leave. Mrs. Crest looked like she was starting to suspect something. Walking out now would only make it worse.
"What would you like me to do?" I asked.
"Could you please start off by grabbing a few ingredients for me?" she asked as she washed her hands. "There's some rosemary and rock salt in the spice rack. I need to season the roast."
I did as I was told and walked over to the spice jars, which were lined up alphabetically. Skimming my fingers over the labels on their lids, I picked up the two required containers. But before I turned back around, something caught my eye.
Thyme.
‡
Dinner was torture—almost as awkward as dinner with my own mother. However, the fact that I wasn't blood-related to the Crest family was at least an excuse for the uncomfortable atmosphere.
I cut a slice of roast and lifted it to my mouth. The room was so quiet that I could hear my own jaw moving, each chew clearly defined. Mrs. Crest looked across the table at the empty chair where Colton used to sit. Mr. Crest looked grimly at his meal, staring at the vegetables as if they were enemies.
"This is some great cooking, Mrs. Crest," I said, in an attempt to break the ice.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she answered.
The oppressive silence made me shift nervously in my seat. I tried not to draw my attention back to the small bottle of thyme. There was something in there. I was sure of it.
This clock has the wrong time.
Because the letter wasn't talking about a clock or time. It was talking about thyme.
Although I had gotten one step closer, it also seemed like I had taken three steps back. Did anyone else have a letter? Who wrote the clue on the side of the clock? Was it Colton's killer? What kind of clue would fit in a bottle of herbs?
"Elliot, are you finished?" Mrs. Crest was standing, her untouched dinner in her hand.
I looked down at my half-eaten meal and handed it over. "Thank you."
She took it from my hands and walked to the kitchen, her movements robotic and stiff, her body functioning without the help of her conscious mind. Then she stared out the window above the sink, gloved hands diving into the water, soap suds forming in clusters around her arms. She seemed so lost in her own thoughts that I was worried she might not be aware of what she was washing.
As Mr. Crest stared at his newspaper, I went into the kitchen to help. Not only would I probably save Mrs. Crest from cutting herself on a steak knife while she was washing it, but I would also get an opportunity to grab the thyme and test my theory. When I reached her, I gently placed my hand on her shoulder.
"I'll wash," I said.
She smiled and stepped to the side, grabbing a towel to dry the wet dishes. Sinking my hands into the warm water, I removed a plate and scrubbed it off with a sponge. From the window, I could see the old tire swing in the Crests' backyard with its worn rope, dotted with black-and-white bird droppings. As kids, it had been our pirate ship, our space shuttle, our time machine.
As I thought, my hand dipped back into the water, fingers brushing against something sharp. My natural instincts kicked back in, and I withdrew from the blade of the knife. It was merely a scratch, and it didn't bleed, but it was enough to make me remember my purpose there. One, to make sure no one got injured and two, to get that bottle of thyme.
"Mrs. Crest?" I began.
She looked at me, slightly dazed. She seemed so distracted that I felt like I could have manipulated her into saying anything I wanted. It was the perfect time to ask.
"Would you happen to have any thyme?" I asked.
Mrs. Crest leaned back and looked toward the cuckoo clock. She frowned and said, "That old clock hasn't worked in a long time. I should really just put it away. But I'm guessing it's just past seven, dear. Do you need to leave?"
I took the last few things from the water, being careful that I didn't get nicked, and said, "No, thyme. The herb."
"Oh," she said, smiling as I carefully handed her the wet utensils. "Yes, there should be some in the rack over there. Is Cass planning to cook something?"
She seemed to be alert now, and slightly suspicious. I guess I couldn't blame her. When you lived with your single father who didn't know how to cook anything that wasn't already half-prepared, and your only sibling was away at university most of the time, perhaps asking for ingredients was pretty uncharacteristic. But thankfully Mrs. Crest mentioned Cass, which was the perfect lie.
"Yeah, she wants to make dinner one night this week," I said.
"That's lovely."
"My mother's coming to town," I added, to make it sound more believable.
"Oh, that's nice," she cooed, completely eating up the lie. I hoped she wouldn't invite herself over. "When she comes, tell her I said hi and that we should catch up for coffee sometime."
"Will do, Mrs. Crest."
Once I'd pulled the plug and watched the water swirl down the drain, I wiped my hands on my jeans and crossed the kitchen. I pulled the jar out, checked twice that it was the right one, and curled my fingers around it.
"Elliot?"
I turned and swallowed. Was there a hole in my story? A fault in my lie? Mrs. Crest just smiled and pointed behind me.
"Whatever Cass is cooking, tell her it will taste better with a hint of rosemary," she said, motioning for me to take the other herb too.
I let out a silent sigh of relief.
‡
Back home, the house was quiet. Cass had disappeared into her old room and Dad was still by his typewriter. Even though he was a writer by profession, and a teacher at one point by extension, he'd never moved to a computer—preferred to clack away at the keys, typewriter ribbon increasingly hard to find these days. The steady sounds of his fingers hitting the keys filled the silent space. With the thyme in my pocket, I was on my way upstairs when I heard him call.
"Elliot, is that you?"
"Yeah," I said, backtracking to his office and peering in.
"Do you want something to eat? Cass made—"
"I already ate," I said, cutting him off.
He nodded and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There were minimal things that made him feel awkward: discussions about physical development . . . and my mom. So as I entered the cramped, messy space and sat down in the chair opposite him, I knew what to expect before he opened his mouth.
"Your mother's coming to town," he said.
"I know. Cass told me."
"Did she tell you about the holiday she wants to take you on?"
"Yeah."
"How do you feel about that?"
"The father-slash-therapist approach? Really, Dad? Is the head tip really necessary?" I asked.
He stopped looking at me like I was an injured puppy. "Really, Elliot."
"She's stubborn," I said.
"I know." He laughed half-heartedly. "Just like your sister."
We sat there in silence for a while. Then I said, "I can deal with it."
He smiled weakly. "I know, kiddo. I'm just saying you don't have to."
That was what I liked about my dad. He didn't bombard me with comfort or try to suffocate me with affection. But he wasn't completely careless about the situation either. I could rely on him to have my back no matter what.
"Thanks, Dad," I answered. He nodded briefly.
After taking the stairs two at a time, I expected to see my sister in her room, but she wasn't there. Thankful to be alone and not interrogated for leaving so quickly earlier, I went to my room, closed the door, and took out the bottle of thyme. It was smaller than my palm and two fingers wide. I wasn't sure what could be in there, if there was anything at all. A small scroll of paper? A rolled-up piece of a photograph?
Only one way to find out.
Unscrewing the cap, I sat the bottle on my desk, took a deep breath, and gently tapped my finger against the exterior, watching as it tumbled to its side. Fragments of thyme scattered everywhere, showering my desk with dots of green. I dusted my fingers through the thyme, hopelessly searching for something—anything—that would push me forward.
Nothing.
Defeat came flooding in in waves, and my shoulders sagged. I rolled the empty glass bottle around the table, flicking it from side to side, trying to figure out my next game plan. As I racked my brain for ideas, I picked up the bottle and looked at it up close.
The brand was generic, nothing special, but it did have a recommendation on how to season a roast. I skimmed over the rest of the writing: the company's name, a "keep out of reach of children" warning, weirdly long directions . . .
Directions of use: Through the cluster of gum trees to the south of Hampton High, in the cemetery, is a tree marked with X where further secrets lie.
This was it—this was the next clue! As I gently twirled the bottle between my fingers, my mind tried to process the next part of the scavenger hunt. I skimmed over the rest of the words and my heart sped up as I read the instructions.
Take a shovel and a mask and prepare to dig deep, but alas, be very careful because beneath the dead do sleep. You'll find a box of treasure, marked with teenaged blood. Inside is not nostalgia, but a clue caked in mud.
‡
The local cemetery happened to be placed on the plot of land directly next to Hampton High. There was enough distance between them to ensure that anyone visiting a gravesite would have privacy and not be disturbed by the hundreds of obnoxiously loud high school kids next door, but they were still close enough that you could see the dotting of headstones from the school's soccer field.
When Colton and I had started high school, we were just scabby twelve-year-old boys who had a fascination with anything dangerous and spooky. The cluster of gum trees between the far side of the south field and the graveyard were just beyond school grounds and sometimes we'd head over there at lunch. In a way, it was mischievous and fueled our rebellious pre-teen phase, sneaking away from the supervision of the teachers on duty.
One time while we were out there, we found a tree marked with an X. We decided then and there that the place would be like our secret hideout. Well, secret was a stretch. A bunch of other students snuck out there too. But at the time, we convinced ourselves that we were the real discoverers, that the spot was ours alone.
We hid a bunch of "treasures" near the tree, things like a bullet we had found hidden among the dry sticks and leaves and a double-sided coin we'd won from a bet with our classmates. Everything was collected in a little cloth bag smeared with both of our blood. After watching so many dumb movies about blood oaths, we'd thought we were the coolest, picking the scabs on our knees and using our thumbs to mark our blood on the bag. The thrill of the place lasted only a year. The summer after grade seven, we had already forgotten all about it.
I had forgotten all about it. Until now.
In my haste to stand up, I knocked my knee against my desk. The pain was sharp and made me grit my teeth, but it didn't stop me from moving. I limped my way over to my door and hobbled down the stairs. I knew exactly where the place was. I knew exactly what I'd be digging for.
"Going for a drive," I called out to my dad as I swung the front door open.
"Again?" He sounded startled. "Don't stay out too long!"
I ducked around back to grab a shovel from our shed, just in case, and threw it in the trunk. As I got in the car and turned the engine on, I checked the dashboard clock. It was after eight. The sun was starting to disappear beyond the horizon, the town veiled in a warm summer's glow. During any other circumstance, it would have been a great opportunity for a scenic drive. However, sneaking back to the school I had just graduated from to retrieve something buried in the cemetery nearby didn't exactly give off the vibes of a cinematic coming-of-age experience.
For all I knew, I could be digging my own grave. Regardless, there was no way in hell I was going to hand over the letter to the cops now. I was way too deep into the mystery, and it was only the beginning.
There had to be a reason I was being contacted, and I was going to figure out why.
Colton's killer was mine.
If it was anything like the horror movies, I'd find one of Colton's bones or his bloody heart under the tree marked X. I reached over and flicked the radio on, turning to a random station and letting the sound of an old guitar melody fill the small space. When I reached a stoplight, I rolled the window down, thankful for the crisp air that filled my lungs. I rubbed my forehead, feeling the slick sweat that had formed against my hairline, and closed my eyes. For a brief, delicious second, everything was quiet. Everything was tranquil.
I would have fallen asleep if it weren't for the furious beeping of the angry driver behind me. I quickly stepped on the pedal, catching the light before it turned yellow.
Focus. One hundred percent concentration was needed if I was going to follow the clues to Colton's killer. This was a guy who had made a personalized label for some damn herbs. A killer with that much creativity was dangerous territory. I had to be prepared for the unexpected.
The Hampton High grounds were fenced in and protected by security cameras, but there was one sliver of gate that anyone could get through. If you timed it right, you could slip past the camera as it rotated to another area. Students would occasionally sneak through there to skip a class or two.
Parking a good distance away, I went the rest of the way on foot. Although I had only graduated a few weeks ago, my high school felt both familiar and foreign. I had been a student, but with a diploma under my belt, I was suddenly a stranger trespassing on the grounds. I made my way toward the back of the field.
I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. I knew what I would be digging for, but what if I found something else?
I had not been to that marked tree since early on in high school, but it was still there, seemingly untouched. Standing in front of it, I took a deep breath.
Three steps to the left. Five steps forward. One more to the left.
I dropped to my knees and ran my hands over the dirt, dried leaves and sticks scratching my palms. The area looked untouched, like no one else had been here. Once the space was cleared, I started digging. The clue had said to use a shovel, but Colton and I never buried things very deep—something the killer must have known. It didn't take long for me to find the top of the bag. With just a few more handfuls of dirt, I managed to pull it out of the ground.
With shaking, dirty fingers, I loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the ground.
The things Colton and I had collected were still in there: the old bullet, the double-sided coin, a few Pokémon cards . . . but there was something new. A silver key.
Attached to it was a yellow plastic key ring stamped with the number 183. When I flipped it over, there was a simple logo advertising a business named Scott's Storage Solutions. I had never heard of it before. I wiped my hands across my jeans and pulled my phone from my back pocket to do a search.
The place was located slightly out of town and provided secure storage units of all different sizes. There were big garage-style rooms for extra clutter and more locker-sized compartments for things like seasonal gear or backpackers looking to stash any extra belongings. Rentals were charged monthly.
I wanted to check it out, but it was starting to get late. Having a sleep-deprived, on-edge teenager covered in dirt arrive at a storage facility to frantically search a locker might raise some red flags. Besides, the administration office wouldn't be open until nine the next morning, and I needed answers as to whose name the locker was under.
I clutched the key in my hand. By this point, it was dark and I was relying purely on the flashlight on my phone to navigate my way around. Now that I had located another clue, I was filled with pent-up energy. Staying still wasn't an appealing option. My hands needed something to do; my legs needed somewhere to go. So I decided to stop by the gym.
There was a bottle of water in the back of my car, so when I returned, I used it to wash as much dirt off my hands and pants as I could. I couldn't get everything off my jeans, but it was a start. Besides, I had some spare clothes in my gym locker.
I hopped into my car and headed out. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel and I kept swiveling in my seat, unable to find a comfortable position.
The gym lights glowed up ahead, its glass exterior showcasing late workout classes, with people doing their cool-down stretches and the last rounds of their weights sessions. I pulled into a parking space and headed inside. The familiar stench of dry sweat mingling with deodorant greeted me in the empty locker room. As I passed the rows of lockers, reserved for gym members only, I stopped in front of Colton's.
"Hey," a deep, booming voice called.
A bulky man with a shaved head stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. A tattooed flock of intricately designed ravens soared out from his shirt collar and disappeared behind his left ear. His stance was strong, as if he was daring me to step forward.
Rick.
He was the owner of the gym, and he was always there; it was his second home. In fact, sometimes people joked that it had become his only home after his divorce.
When he scanned my face, his expression softened. "You're," he said, then coughed. "You were a friend of Colton's, right?"
"I was," I said. "How did you know?"
"I've seen you both here together. Haven't seen you in a while, though."
"Exams have slowed me down a bit," I explained.
"Didn't seem to be the case for Colton."
I opened my mouth to say something, but I faltered. When Colton had come back, he'd seemed busy. Busier than usual. He would ditch plans last minute, always seemed to be going somewhere after school, was already out in the mornings when I dropped by. He would have plans for the weekends and couldn't jump online to play video games. Was he here during many of those times?
"The bloke was a tank," Rick said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "He was definitely focused on fitness or . . ." He trailed off.
"Or?"
There was a scar on Rick's left eyebrow. When he frowned, it dipped like a lightning bolt about to strike. He looked at me with piercing eyes and pursed his lips before saying, "Or surviving."
I hoped Rick didn't hear my breath catch in my throat.
"Not a bad idea if you ask me. Everyone thinks danger lurks in the city. There are crimes happening every hour. But it's smaller towns people should be terrified about. We all know each other's business, are all somehow a part of each other's lives. We become a tightly knit community, which is why it's so horrific when we realize that one of us has the capability to kill."
It was extremely unsettling. Not going to lie, it scared me shitless. Home wasn't safe. "Thought sure makes you want to sleep with one eye open," I said.
"Tell me about it," Rick said, rubbing his hand across his shaved head. "I haven't been able to rest easy in weeks. I can't imagine what it's been like for you."
"Shit, honestly." I didn't try to force a smile or a laugh. I wasn't going to sugarcoat it. This whole thing was a bloody mess.
Rick's gaze dropped to my jeans, and he stared at the smudged dirt stains on my knees. I swallowed, and my hands reached down in a poor attempt to conceal the mud.
"A word of advice—don't go digging for answers."
"Excuse me?" My voice came out clear and loud, definitive, stronger than I felt. I straightened, trying to appear far more confident than I actually was. An icy shiver ran down my spine and I gritted my teeth to avoid shaking.
"I just think this is a case for the police. Sticking your nose into places it doesn't belong only means trouble. I'm guessing that's one of the reasons your friend encountered such an unlucky fate."
"That's a bit of a bold assumption, suggesting I'm doing any of that," I said. Rick was a big man; he could beat me in a fight without even trying. Was it incredibly courageous or outright foolish of me to be so ballsy?
He stepped forward, keeping his eyes on mine. My gaze was locked on his like a magnet. There was no escape. "Perhaps. Or maybe it's just a really lucky guess." He took a step back. "Be careful."
"Is that a threat?" I dared to ask. It was getting harder to sound sure of myself. My voice came out small, not reaching its potential volume as the words wavered dangerously.
"No. It's a recommendation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Rick turned to walk away. But not before he called over his shoulder, "There's still a killer out there, and I don't think Colton was the first or the last person to be murdered."