The Queen of Diamonds Read online

  “Sure,” Danny says through clenched teeth.

  On our way to drop off Jimmy I look through my phone for missed messages. There are two. The first one’s from Jimmy, asking where we are. Danny must’ve picked up the second time he called. I delete it, skip to the second message which is apparently a day old.

  “8:25 p.m.,” the electric voice introduces. It was when I was driving back to the theatre yesterday. My phone beeps and the message begins.

  “Les, it’s Molly.”

  “WHAT?!” I scream so loud my brother swerves and the phone flies out of my hand. I dive over Jimmy, trying to catch the phone.

  Danny pulls off to the side of the road looking terrified, Jimmy’s leaning back in his seat looking confused and uncomfortable, and I must look insane, scrambling to get a grip on the phone, which has decided to seize this opportunity to escape. I’m stretched across Jimmy’s lap by the time I finally get a hold of it. I franticly fiddle with the buttons, restart the message, and yell at Danny (who’s yelling at me) to be quiet.

  “Les, it’s Molly,” my sister’s shaky voice repeats. “I was really hoping you’d pick up, but…uh…listen, don’t worry about me. I’m fine, I’m okay, but you have to go back to New York City, all right? Just leave, take Mark and Danny with you, too, okay? This is important, Les. You have to—BEEP. End of messages.”

  “Wh-What?” I stutter. Beep? Why beep? Did she get cut off or did someone cut her off, or maybe her cell went dead or—Oh no.… I check the settings on my phone. Did my answering machine cut her off early?

  “Les, what the hell?!”

  No, no, no, what was she going to say?

  “Les? Les?!”

  “Molly!”

  “What?”

  “Molly called me! She called last night and left a message…I…it.… The damn phone cut her off!”

  “Give me that.” Danny snatches the phone out of my hands. I watch his reaction as he listens to the message.

  “Uh, hey, Les?” Jimmy asks quietly. “I, I know this is a big deal and all, but could you get off of me?”

  I prop myself up and scramble into the front seat next to my brother. He’s listening to the message a second time.

  “So?” I ask when he’s finished. He looks at the phone, then his expression turns bewildered. He looks at me, as if expecting me to say something comforting.… I hate being the oldest.

  “Molly’s okay,” I say, faking confidence. I’m not sure how to respond to what Danny says next.

  “What about us?”

  * * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Molly!” I shouted into the phone. I was back outside in the rain, trying to hide from the crying sky under a hunched over little tree.

  “I walked all the way to the theatre in the pouring rain, waited there for you until rehearsal ended and they kicked me out, and then I’ve been calling you for, like, ever—”

  “Calm down.”

  “Molly, don’t tell me—”

  “You’re upset. That’s bad. Les, I thought you’ve been exercising.”

  “Don’t change the subject! Molly, you have no idea the kind of shit you put me through by asking me to go grocery shopping for you last night. I’d go into it now, but honestly, I don’t think you’d even believe me. You know the only reason I’m still in Jersey is because you begged me to stay, but then this whole time you haven’t been around—okay, yes, I’m a bit worked up right now, but that’s just because I’ve been standing in the goddamn rain all day, and hey, what the hell was so important that you couldn’t even tell me over the phone last night?!”

  Silence.

  “Molly?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say…are you at the apartment?”

  “No, I’m in the rain.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.… Maybe you should just go home.”

  Great, now she’s upset. I sighed.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you. You know, it’s just a really crappy day and I’m kinda hung over.… Also, I guess it’s been a week since I—are you crying?”

  “I love you, Les,” Molly sobbed. That was a terrifying thing to hear.

  “What the hell is going on, Molly? Are you okay? Where are you?” I started interrogating, but she cut me off with “I’m fine, I’m just…confused. Nothing’s wrong, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the theatre.”

  “Molly—”

  She hung up. I closed my phone and studied it, confused.

  She’s probably just PMS-ing, I’d thought. Then I never saw her again.

  * * * *

  Night falls quick and eventually I find myself staring up at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep again. I refused medication tonight, and while Danny seemed unhappy with my decision, he kept his mouth shut and kept the bottle out on the kitchen table. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said.

  I watch the ceiling fan spin in circles and wonder what Molly meant when she told me it was important for me to leave Jersey.

  If only I could. Molly obviously hadn’t heard about my little incident with the police. If it wasn’t for this stupid tracking bracelet, I’d probably be taking Molly’s advice right now.

  My eyes are closed and little images, the beginnings of dreams, are flashing before me. I’m fighting them off, trying to concentrate on what Molly had said, but sleep is catching up to me quick and before long I’m down the rabbit hole.

  * * * *

  I land on a coach in Dr. Patricia’s mansion. Dust bursts out of the cushions, and when it finally settles I find I’m 10 all over again. Pre-teen Scott is flickering next to me, as if he’s no more than a movie projection. The mansion is HUGE, like a child would imagine.… Vine-covered pillars stretch up from the shiny checkerboard floor, holding up a ceiling so high up, clouds block me from seeing where the walls end. The fireplace in the room looks like it’s miles away, and yet the fire flickering within its stone cove is the only thing lighting the grand room.

  I hop down from the couch and my footsteps echo as I come closer to the fireplace, leaving Scott behind. As I approach, a looming, harmonious little tune grows louder and more distinct and I wonder if I’ve heard this tune before. At last I reach the fireplace. Above it hangs a portrait of the late Dr. Patricia with the dates of her birth and death written in gold ink across the bottom. I turn to leave, ready to explore the rest of the mansion when a voice echoes loud and powerful through the empty palace, “You know who killed me.” I turn around and find the portrait looking down at me, waiting expectantly.

  “Wh-What?”

  “You know who killed me.”

  I stare at the painting, my mouth agape. I’m not sure how to answer her, but before I could even ask her to clarify, Dr. Patricia’s oil-painted hands reach out of the portrait. I watch, shocked, as she starts pulling herself out of her golden frame. I back up and fall into the coach, which has joined the two of us by the fireplace, and sit in silent awe as Dr. Patricia finishes prying herself from her canvas. She hops off the fireplace shelf onto the tiled floor, causing droplets of paint to splash all over.

  I try to be polite and look her in the eyes, but can’t help noticing she has no lower body. She seems just as surprised with this discovery as I am, but she doesn’t let it bother her and looks up at me smiling.

  “Hello, Les! How are you, sweetie?”

  “Um.… You have no legs!” 10-year-old me points out.

  “And how does that make you feel, dear?”

  Silence. I decide to ignore the question.

  “You said I know who killed you?”

  “Yes! Yes, and dear, they robbed me of everything! Those poor lost souls—”

  “They? More then one?”

  “Well, how should I know, Darling, you have the diary!”

  “That diary’s Molly’s.”

  “All right.”

  “Molly didn’t kill you.”

  “Oh, heavens no, of co
urse not! I never said that.”

  “Then why did you bring up the diary?”

  “Well, Molly is missing, I’m sure the diary will shed some light as to why.”

  “But what does that have to do with.…”

  Wait.… I rephrase my question.

  “The people or person or whoever killed you.… Do they have something to do with Molly’s disappearance?”

  “Dear, do you like magic tricks?”

  “Yes. I mean, what does that—”

  “Pick a card!” She spreads out a deck of cards which she seems to have pulled out of thin air. Since I’m 10 years old and easily distracted, I drop the topic of Molly’s disappearance and gingerly pick a card. Queen of Diamonds; I should’ve known.

  “My diamonds!” Dr. Patricia suddenly squeals. I look up at her, then back down at my hand and find that instead of holding a playing card, I’m holding a sparkling diamond necklace. The necklace…I remember this necklace. Dr. Patricia wore it during our sessions. But.… No, that must be a coincidence.…

  “The Queen is close, the Queen that killed me!” Dr. Patricia squeaks before jumping into the fire. I watch stunned as the fire eats her up and turns purple, then goes out. I’m in blackness. The musical tune starts up again, and a chill runs down my spine. I’m all alone, I’m 10, and I’m finding the eerie tune very unpleasant. Suddenly Scott jumps in front of me, screaming “SOME TWO QUEENS FLIPPED! MY GOD, DON’T YOU GET IT YET?!”

  * * * *

  I wake up with a jolt, trying to catch my breath. I’m twenty-five again. I’m in Danny’s guest bedroom. Everything’s quiet. I lie back down on the bed and think of the dream.… What the hell kind of trippy dream was that? Some two Queens flipped? What the hell is that supposed to mean? It was some sort of riddle, obviously. For some stupid reason, my subconscious was making up riddles, even though I sucked at riddles—both figuring them out and, apparently, making them up.

  I sit up and squeeze my head as if I can force the answers out of it that way. Why couldn’t it be something simple, like a picture? Maybe I should go back to sleep.

  I fall back down on the bed again, get into a comfortable position, and wait to fall asleep. Of course, I’ve scared it off, and the stupid, incomprehensible little riddle keeps playing in my mind.

  I have to clear my thoughts, relax, and drift, softly, gently, back to sleep…sleep, god damn it, sleep! I open my eyes and see the clock next to the bed. Half an hour has already passed. Is that possible? I couldn’t have been lying here awake for that long.

  Sleep, sleep, sleep.… Please sleep? Lack of sleep will drive a person crazy before his body shuts down completely. I’m already in a fragile state of mind, and for me sanity is getting harder and harder to come by these days.… Please, even if I don’t dream, I just want to sleep. What time is it? It’s been an hour? How is that possible? That’s not fair.

  I sit up again. Maybe the clock is broken? I wish that were true, but I doubt it. I look around the room, considering whether or not this is one of those nightmares about having insomnia. Then I remember the journal. I reach over the side of the bed and pick it up.

  I open it and flip through the pages, waiting for something to pop out at me. Nothing specific does, so I just start to read a random page:

  She deserved it. There was no way of helping it anyway, no way around it. It’s okay—a terrible waste, maybe. She was a good doctor.…

  But, then, no she wasn’t. She failed me. She failed, it’s her fault, she caused this it was all her fault she should have worked harder all her fault. All her fault. She didn’t care.… She didn’t care about me she didn’t listen to me—she listened, she didn’t hear, she didn’t understand, she didn’t care, she deserved it, she had it coming all her fault all her fault all her fault.

  She didn’t do anything for me, she didn’t help me. She’s evil. I was doing the world a favor; she was no good, a complete waste! A waste of schooling, a waste of money—she didn’t earn all that shit, she was loaded, freakin’ blissful in her wealth which she stole, she stole from me, from me and Trish.…

  Trish? I read that again:

  …She stole from me and Trish and everyone like us, we were just taking back what was rightfully ours. It was her fault we turned out this way, she did this to us, and all the people like her. Her fault, her bullshit questions and suggestions—‘Find a hobby to focus your attention on,’ stupid bullshit.

  This wasn’t Molly’s journal.… This person was talking about Dr. Patricia. From the looks of it, it seemed like I found the diary of Dr. Patricia’s murderer. “Creepy,” I say out loud. I flip ahead a few pages and read some more. It becomes quite clear the journal wasn’t written by any sane person. This belonged to a patient of Dr. Patricia, and whoever this person was, he or she knew Trish.

  …Unless Molly was secretly psychotic and had gone to therapy and my parents never told me about it, but that seemed unlikely. I was the only one to ever attend therapy in our family, at least as far as I knew. Maybe I should ask Mom and Dad.…

  I yawn and look at the time: 4:00 a.m. Shit.

  The diary says “Adams.” But that doesn’t mean anything, Adams is a common last name.

  My eyes are bugging out trying to read in the dark, so I put the journal away and look back up at the ceiling. I watch a blade of the ceiling fan spin in slow, hypnotic circles. My thoughts start to fade away.

  Then one clear, creepy thought comes into my head. It’s a wildly unrealistic idea, invented by a tired mind. But in this silent, dark room, it’s gained power and pulled focus, and suddenly I can’t think of anything else. I try to erase it from my mind, but like an itch it’s impossible to ignore.…

  Could that diary be mine?

  * * * *

  “Calm down, Les! My god, did you run all the way here?”

  “Aren’t you listening to me? Molly’s missing; she never came home, her cell phone’s been disconnected—”

  “I know, you told me over the phone. You didn’t have to run here—”

  “Danny, I’m serious.”

  “Shut up!” someone shouted from onstage. I looked up and realized the other actors had stopped rehearsing their scene and were staring at me. I grabbed Danny’s arm and pulled him to the back of the theatre where we could talk without disturbing the actors.

  “If you’re hearing me, than why aren’t you concerned?”

  “I’m sure Molly’s fine.… You seem emotional. You haven’t danced in a while, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. Yes, I know that’s bad, Molly told me the same thing. But seriously, I haven’t heard from her since yesterday and the things she was saying…I think there’s something’s wrong.”

  Danny smiled at me. Not the reaction I was expecting.

  “Aw,” he said. “Are you being an overprotective big brother?”

  “Don’t make me strangle you.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen her, sorry.”

  “Thanks, you’re being very helpful. Where’s Derek, maybe he’s seen her.”

  “They aren’t rehearsing his scene today; he’s not here.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s your boyfriend—”

  “Yeah, I’m his boyfriend, not his mother. I’ll ask him when I see him.… Which reminds me, did I tell you? You know that fancy new Japanese place on Sheelly Avenue? Derek’s taking me there! Isn’t that nice? It looks expensive, but Derek says—”

  “Sounds nice, have you seen the woman in black?”

  “What woman?”

  “She’s been here a few times. Has black wavy hair, kinda goth, a smoker, very pale white face, black eyes?”

  “Black eyes?”

  “Well, really, really dark brown, I guess, but they look black.”

  Danny became quiet. He looked around the theatre, than back at me.

  “You saw her here?” he asked me.

  “Three times, yeah. She was here yesterd
ay, actually.”

  Danny looked worried. “How long has it been?”

  “How long since I’ve seen her?”

  “No, how long since you last danced?”

  “What does that have to do with anything—”

  “She doesn’t exist.”

  “What?”

  Danny grabbed me and pulled me closer to him and whispered “I know almost all the actors and crew members involved in this production, and none of them have black eyes—”

  “Fine, not black! Just really, really dark brown. It’s not that unusual—”

  “You didn’t think Scott’s purple eyes were unusual either, remember?”

  “Hey, wow, I was, like, seven, and this is different. I mean, why is that the first thing you jump to, that I’m seeing things?”

  “Fine, has anyone else seen this woman?”

  I stopped and tried to recall.

  “Brendan did, I guess—”

  “Was he with you when you saw her?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone with you any of the times you talked to her?”

  Shit. “No.”

  “Did you see her wave to anyone or talk to anyone else—”

  “No, all right? I guess…I mean, there’s a possibility.…” I looked up at Danny and stopped short. Danny avoided my gaze.

  “Well,” he said slowly, and then as if trying to compromise, “I can’t be sure; you might be right, she may be real, in which case I just haven’t met her. Just…I think you should get some exercise, okay?”

  “What about Molly?”

  “Hey, which suitcase am I supposed to be carrying right now?” an actor called to Danny from onstage. Danny started to walk away, being beckoned by the director.

  “Listen,” he called behind him. “Stick around tonight. Hang out in her apartment, keep calling. If she doesn’t show up or pick up her phone, call me—or better yet, call Mark; I’ll be on a date tonight!”