Page 133 of Wicked Little Secret

…until our engaging conversation, heated passion, and achingly real moments began to feel like I wasn’t acting anymore. It made me want to be wrong.

Maybe I was mistaken.

Valentine was someone else.

Then I discovered the police file and crumpled break up letter that were hidden inside his closet. I read the date on the file and thought back to what Theron had told me about his time as a student at Castlebury. Though he was the son of highly regarded Thurman Adler, he was largely an outcast.

Heresentedmany in his social circle.

Valentine’s revenge matched his sentiments about the very same people.

But what would drive him to kill my father? How could a student like Edward Oliver incur his wrath like the others? Why would he choose to take his life when Mom said my father was a good man?

He was a law student just getting his start. He wasn’t a crook or rapist like some of the others. He wasn’t some vile child abuser.

He took Edward Oliver’s life out of bloodlust. The same thirst for violence that drove him to kill Samson last night.

I should’ve known he was Valentine after how easily he killed Jackson Wicker. But I had rationalized that he was acting out of self-defense. He was protecting me. That didn’t make him Valentine. The same man who left behind heart-shaped cards and went on a mass killing spree so many years ago, eventually turning his wrath on my father.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh. I set down the cracked mug of hot cocoa. “My head’s pounding. I think I need to go to bed early.”

Mom’s face dims, but she nods in understanding. “Hope you feel better, Nys. I put fresh linens and towels up in your room.”

I head toward the staircase, feeling Mom’s gaze on me every step of the way. At the bottom stair, I pause and glance over to find she’s still watching. She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Unlike earlier, I find I can’t fake one in return.

I pad the rest of the way up the stairs until I’m locked inside the bedroom that used to be mine. Not much has changed about it in the few years I’ve been gone. Standing among the old mood boards hung up on the wall and the sequined lavender bedspread almost eases the bottomless feeling inside me.

So many memories in one place.

I wander over to my old desk to pick up one of the first sculpture’s I’d ever made—a tiny kitten paw that was supposed to be Peaches.

Except it’s what’s lying underneath the kitty paw that holds my attention.

A photo album that I had used years ago during a class project that required us to put together a collage of ourfamily. I slide it out from under the clay molding of Peaches’s paw and prop it open, hoping the trip down memory lane will finally get me into the festive spirit.

It works at first. I flip through old photos of Mom when she was younger, laughing at the ’90s hairstyles and clothes. In many of the photos, she’s with other family. Her parents who have passed away. My uncle who lives on the other side of the country and who I’ve only met twice. Another girl that looks vaguely like her, only a few years younger.

I pull a photo out from a graduation. Mom’s in a tank top and jeans, a huge smile on her face as she wraps an arm around the shoulders of the other girl, who’s swallowed up in burgundy and gold Castlebury U graduation robes. Her cap sits askew atop her head of long braids.

In one hand she clutches her undergrad diploma. In the other, she’s holding up a tiny girl against her chest who can’t be older than two. The small girl’s smile is bright, curly little afro puffs at either side of her head.

She’s me.

Goosebumps spread across my skin as I flip the photo over. The penmanship I’ve seen before. It’s the same handwriting from the crumpled letter in Theron’s closet. Handwriting that’s not far off from my own…

Brooklyn and Josalyn w/ baby girl, May 2004

“What…” I trail off. My pulse soars so fast, a drumbeat starting up in my ears, the room feels like it’s about to spin. I rush toward the door with the photo as I rack my brain for possible explanations.

The letter Theron had in his closet was addressed to Josalyn.

The same Josalyn Webber who died in 2005. Another victim of Valentine.

I leap down the stairs until I’m on the ground floor breathing erratically, seeking Mom out. She’s gone from her place in the living room where I’d last seen her.

The townhome I once called home suddenly feels like some kind of distorted maze as I rush through the dark halls with only the twinkling red-and-green Christmas bulbs to guide me.

Mom’s in the kitchen when I finally find her, seated at the dinner table as she nurses a now cold mug of hot cocoa. From my first stumble into the room, I can tell she’s aware what’s on my mind. Her expression is flat and dull, her stare borderline vacant.

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