Chapter 12

Chester's keys got me into the park through the staff entrance, and the sound of my footsteps echoed up the path ahead of me. It was late; I'd waited until night for this particular round of sleuthing, and Shipwreck Shores was dark and empty. Clouds had moved in again, swallowing the stars and the moon. Occasionally, security lights broke up the night, but most of the attractions were swallowed in shadows. Doors were shut. Roll-down security grates protected windows. The smell of cotton candy and bacon-wrapped turkey legs and funnel cakes had faded, and what was left was the heavy smell of the day's oil, emptied from the deep fryers.

The portrait studio was located inside the Treasure Chest, which was Shipwreck Shores' theater. In the summer, I'd been told, you could see all sorts of programs. Regional student choirs traveled here to perform. College kids majoring in acting and musical theater put on shows. From what I gathered, the productions tended to be nostalgic revues meant to appeal to older guests who might not be interested in traipsing from ride to ride (and who, like yours truly, preferred the idea of a dark room, a tub of popcorn, and a gallon of soda). But there were shows for kids, too, and even the occasional one-act play, often written specifically for Shipwreck Shores. Needless to say, I got the impression there was a lot of stuff about pirates.

I found the Treasure Chest first. It was a rambling, two-story building that looked less like a theater and more like a wharf-front warehouse—which, considering the park's theme, was probably the point. It had a plank veneer painted a fading blue. Thick ropes (I wanted to call them hawsers) provided part of the décor. Ship's wheels were another common element. On one decorative balcony, an old cannon was aimed at an imaginary enemy. Sun-faded posters announced such enticing performances as Skull Island: The Curse of Shipwreck Shores and Ship Shape and Bristol: Remembering the British Invasion (hopefully, I thought, the musical one), and even Parakeet Pete and X Marks the Spot (for kids eight and under). I decided that I was going to take Keme to that over the summer. I'd make it a surprise. Because friends did that kind of thing for their friends.

Around the side of the building, I found the portrait studio. Signage with such snappy advertising as GET YOUR PORTRAIT HERE was one clue. Another was PIRATE PHOTOS THIS WAY. Equally informative signs told me to DRESS LIKE A PIRATE and REMEMBER YOUR TRIP TO SHIPWRECK SHORES WITH A CUSTOM PIRATE PORTRAIT and DON'T FORGET SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR MOM AND DAD. My mom and dad would probably love it if I started dressing like a pirate. For them, it would probably be a sign of my long-dormant genius finally manifesting. But hey, I had something better to think about. Because guess where else I was going to take Keme?

Once again, Chester's keys opened the lock without any problem. The hinges squeaked, and I froze. But nobody came running, and nobody shouted, and nobody from a guard tower shone a spotlight on me. (Maybe because I wasn't escaping from a World War II-era prison camp.) I eased the door open a little farther and slipped inside.

It was darker here. The windows left me exposed to the street, and a passerby would be able to see my flashlight. But I couldn't think of any other option. So far, the park had been deserted. All I could do was hope that my good luck would hold. (I know what you're thinking: what good luck?)

When I flicked on my flashlight, a man was staring back at me.

I swallowed a scream.

Mostly.

For about half a second, my body tried to decide whether or not to go into cardiac arrest. And then I realized I was staring at a mascot costume on some sort of stand. It was a pirate, of course. And it was staring right at me with its big, blank eyes.

I panned the light past it and found the sales counter, complete with a register and a glass display case full of pirate-themed photo albums, frames, etc. Overhead, a large display was dark—presumably, where you could see pictures of other guests who were having a fantastic time dressing up like pirates.

An opening led off from the room, and I followed it deeper into the building. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum. The next room was clearly the studio itself and—thank God—it didn't have any windows. It was easier to sweep the beam back and forth without having to worry about being spotted by an errant security guard. Someone had made a token nod toward continuing the pirate-themed décor—I saw a ship's wheel, more rope, and some seashells—but this was clearly a utilitarian space. The majority of the studio had been given over to the shooting space, complete with backdrops (currently, what appeared to be the captain's quarters on an old ship). To one side, little curtained cubicles provided changing areas. The curtains were tied back, otherwise I might have been worried about what was hiding in there. On the other side of the space, racks of costumes—regular ones, as well as the full-sized mascot costumes—were interspersed with prop boxes. I saw some wooden legs, several brass compasses, and a lot (I'm talking a boatload, PUN!) of plastic parrots. Two doors on the far side of the room were closed.

The first one led into a small restroom. The second was locked, but Chester's keys let me into what must have been the office-slash-editing room. The space was cramped with filing cabinets, a desk, and a clunky old computer. Framed photos covered the walls. The smell of toner hung in the air, mixed with the mustiness of a closed-up, and slightly damp, space.

I caught a better look at the photos on the wall. They showed people in costume, but they weren't inside the photo studio. They were all over the park. They were working cash registers. They were running rides. They were dressed as pirates and lobsters and anatomically incorrect merfolk. They were young. They were old. In some photos, the colors were saturated, and the kids had their hair done like the Partridges. In others, they wore lots of neon and had hair like they'd stuck a fork in an outlet. Staff photos, I realized. It was kind of cute, actually. They'd started the tradition when the park opened, it looked like, and it was still going. A few empty nails showed where they were already planning to hang future pictures. In last year's photos, I recognized Dagan and Lyndsey and Tyler, not to mention a handful of local kids I'd seen around town.

Staring at the pictures wasn't going to help me figure out why someone might have broken into the portrait studio. Or how they'd framed Chester. So, it was time to do some sleuthing. I started in the office. Just for kicks, I checked the desk drawers and found the usual mixture of office supplies (hey, somebody still used Wite-Out!) and junk (hey, somebody loved Cup Noodles!). (Okay, I also love Cup Noodles, so there's zero judgment.) Next, I tried the filing cabinets. I found a lot of paperwork. I didn't know a portrait studio located in a small regional amusement park could generate so much paperwork. But apparently it could. And did. And some of it, I quickly noticed, went all the way back to the '80s, when the portrait studio had opened.

Then I moved into the studio. I spent a long time looking at the racks of costumes. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but I was hoping I'd find something that might give me a clue about who had framed Chester. A bloody fingerprint, maybe. Or a shoe print. Those felt like long shots. Honestly, everything felt like a long shot at this point. This was so different from anything I'd ever tried to investigate. How did you solve a murder when you couldn't even find the bodies?

But I tried anyway. Because Chester seemed like a good guy. And Tony clearly loved his son. And, if I'm being fully honest, I did it because I had been, to use Keme's favorite word, a donkey about the dating stuff. I knew Tony was a nice guy who also happened to be a little overbearing when it came to his son. I also understood why Tony acted that way; he was worried about Chester. I knew my friends had been teasing me. And I liked that they teased me. And I liked teasing them. I particularly liked it when Keme did something like try to sit down in a chair that wasn't there because he was so busy staring at Millie. (It had been like an early birthday present, if you want to know.) I was embarrassed that I'd lost my temper with the people I loved most in the world. And I was embarrassed, if I dug down and faced the truth, that it hurt so much because I was so insecure about dating in general. And, more specifically, about certain recent developments.

I tried not to think about that stuff as I conducted my inspection of the studio, but it was hard. The thoughts came again and again, battering down my best defenses. I knew my friends would accept my apologies; I knew they'd forgive me. But that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was that I still didn't know what to do about Bobby, and it felt like every passing minute brought another turn of the screw, the pressure growing and growing until my panic was at a constant simmer. Maybe, I thought, this would be the ideal time for a vacation. Maybe I could go to the Bahamas and be the world's worst pool boy. Maybe I could drive a moped.

In the midst of these productive thoughts, a crash interrupted me. The sound had come from somewhere else in the building, and if I weren't mistaken, it had come from glass breaking. I held my breath and listened, but nothing came.

Go home, a voice in my brain said. Get out of here.

And a different voice said, Call Bobby. Call the sheriff. Call park security. Call anybody.

And a third voice—wearier than the others—said simply, Not again.

I tried to think rationally. One perfectly logical explanation was that a custodian or security guard had broken something—a mirror, a light, a window. And that was it. End of story. But, I thought, what if they'd fallen? What if they'd had a heart attack or a stroke or a seizure, and they were unconscious, and they needed help? What if—and this was the one I couldn't shake—it's like the fun house? It seemed impossible for the killer to be here again, at the same time I was. But was it? I mean, the whole reason I was here was because someone was determined to frame Chester. Maybe the killer had come back to finish the job. I was frozen, trying to decide what to do. If I called someone for help, they might arrive too late. But if I went out there, I was giving the killer another chance to put a permanent stop to my snooping.

I was still arguing with myself when I realized I was already moving toward the noise. I found a door in the office that led out into a carpeted hall. The only light came from emergency fixtures spaced far apart. This part of the building was clearly meant for guests—there was more of the pirate décor, including spyglasses and starfish and, I know what you're thinking, yes, more ropes. I turned off my flashlight and moved in the direction I thought the sound had come from, my sneakers whispering against the carpet.

When the hall turned, I found myself in what had to be the lobby of the theater itself. There were more of the emergency lights here, pushing back the gloom. The ambience had been ramped up to a ten. In decorative areas fenced off from the public by imitation piles and fishing nets, treasure chests held glittering (imitation) gold coins, along with barrels marked XXX and more cannons. Sails hung overhead, and as I moved under them, the air displaced by my passage made them ripple. Old maps hung on the walls, along with more of those posters I'd seen outside. These ones advertised what must have been vintage offerings. Salty Sue and the Swinging Swashbucklers appeared to have been a particularly popular choice from—guessing by the hair—the time of the first Bush presidency. (In case you need to know, Salty Sue wore a costume that could best be described as billowy. Also, there was a whip.) The smell of popcorn saturated the space, stale, hinting at rancid. A wide flight of red-carpeted stairs led up, and a sign indicated BALCONY.

There was no sign of what might have made the noise I'd heard. The doors were still shut, their glass intact. The concessions counters were undamaged. I stood and tried to listen, but all I could hear was white noise—the hiss of blood in my ears.

Even though I hated the idea, I knew what I had to do next. And it was going to be stupid. But I couldn't think of any other option.

This, a voice informed me, is why it's probably best that you never have children.

I didn't particularly appreciate the input, but the voice wasn't wrong.

Under my sneakers, the thick carpeting on the stairs barely made a sound. Above me, another emergency light shone on the wooden figurehead from a ship. As I continued up, I could make what appeared to be a second lobby, complete with a smaller concession counter. I had the brief thought that maybe I needed a snack. Something small, just to keep my blood sugar up. I'd pay for it, of course. But the risk with movie concessions was that some places still stocked all those horrible ones like Sno-Caps or Jujyfruits or (vomit) Raisinets. If I want a moldy old grape covered in chocolate, I can make my own moldy old grape covered in chocolate, thank you very much. Now, if they had Sour Patch Kids—

I reached the top of the stairs and saw the body.

In the dark, it was nothing more than a crumpled shape, but I knew what it was. I turned on my flashlight. It was a man in a dark coat. The back of his head was to me, and I could see where he'd been hit. On the floor next to him lay a bloody hammer. I stayed where I was for a moment, but the man didn't appear to be moving. I circled around the body to get a better look.

It was Dagan.

For a moment, that didn't make any sense. Dagan was the killer—I was sure of it.

But there was no mistaking the man on the floor in front of me. I knelt to check his pulse, but I couldn't find one.

As I started to rise, I noticed the photos. Framed photos covered the walls here too, like in Chester's studio. These pictures, though, showed the cast and crew of the Treasure Chest's various theatrical productions over the years. I spotted one of the framed photos beneath Dagan. He'd fallen on top of it, cracking the glass, but the photo itself had survived. It had to have been thirty years old, and it showed the cast of yet another pirate-themed production I didn't recognize. I had already dismissed the photograph when something caught my eye. A familiar face—much, much younger, with that unfinished look of adolescence. But the overbite was unmistakable. A young Lyndsey beamed at the camera. The girl who had hated the park but, apparently, had loved theater enough to take part in the productions at the Treasure Chest.

Then something else caught my eye. A torn scrap of paper lay beneath Dagan's hand, as though he had dropped it when he fell. It looked like the top of a letter, with a business address printed in the corner, and it had been dated from almost ten years before. The business was SKYLINE ADVENTURES, and the letter began:

To Whom It May Concern:

I cannot in good conscience recommend Jessica Figueroa for any position in your company. My lawyers would skin me if they knew I was putting this to paper, but if someone got hurt, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. These are the same lawyers who tell me that we wouldn't be able to prove her liability for the deaths that resulted from her mishandling of and inattention to—

It broke off there.

The deaths that resulted from her mishandling of and inattention to —

The deaths .

It wasn't thought; it was memory: I flashed back to my first and only real conversation with Jessica, when I'd asked her about people who might have a grudge against the park, about any past injuries or deaths. She'd gotten angry and defensive. And I thought about the conversation I'd overheard between her and Dagan, the strange sense I'd had of a conversation between the two of them that I wasn't part of. I thought of the night before, when I'd seen Jessica searching Lyndsey's office. Looking for something. Looking, I suspected, for this. This letter, or what was left of it, explained some of what was going on, but not all of it.

I reached for my phone. I was going to call Bobby, and then I was going to stay right here until the sheriff showed up. There was no way I was going to let a third body—

Somewhere off in the dark, a door opened. The squeak of the hinges wasn't all that loud, actually, but in the silence, it carried. And so, too, did the scuffing step that followed it. And the next. Moving toward me.

A braver man might have stayed to catch a glimpse of the killer. But a braver man might have gotten himself killed. I gave the upper lobby a panicked glance. For a heartbeat, I thought I might be able to hide behind the concessions counter and get a look at him. But the steps were moving directly toward me, and to get to the counter, I'd have to walk right in front of the killer.

Behind me, though, was a restroom. I scurried backward, slipped into the men's room, and caught the door before it shut. A tiny gap remained, barely enough for me to squint through. I watched as a dark shape moved closer. They stopped at the edge of a pool of shadow. I couldn't tell how big they were. I couldn't make out their clothes. I couldn't tell anything except that, with an animal sense, I knew they were there. Standing only a few feet away. I thought, maybe, I could hear them breathing.

And then they looked at me.

In the dark, it was just the barest suggestion of movement when they turned their head. But there was no mistaking it. Some primal sense inside me blared a warning, and I knew they were looking at me. That they had seen me.

I let the door fall shut. It was designed to open in, toward me, with a brass pull that glinted in the faint ambient light. I had a half-formed thought about an impromptu barricade, but anything I did would take too long. So instead, I planted my feet and set my shoulder to the door.

A moment later the door shifted as the killer tried to open it. The pressure vanished as quickly as it had come, but I knew what I'd felt. Then there was nothing. Silence from the other side of the door. No sound of movement, no sound of breathing. It was too much to hope that the killer had left—

The door slammed into me. Even though I'd been braced and ready for it, the force of the impact almost knocked me off my feet. The killer crashed into the door again. And then again, throwing their full weight against it. I staggered. My sneakers tried to grip the tile underfoot, but I felt myself being forced back, and each time, the men's room door opened a little farther.

And then the assault stopped. Shoulder aching, I shut the door all the way again. My body buzzed with adrenaline, and the blackness crawled in front of my eyes. I forced myself to take a breath. And then another. They sounded loud and gaspy in the stillness, but I made myself keep sucking in air until the spots in my vision faded.

How much time had passed? A minute? Two? It was hard to tell, with my pulse pounding in my head. Long enough, though, that even through the fog of my thoughts, I was starting to wonder what was happening. Had the killer gone to get a gun? Or was there a separate entrance for custodial staff? I had a momentary vision of the killer riding the ziplines and crashing through the window and had to fight off panicked giggles.

Still nothing.

And then I heard the sound. It came from the other side of the door, but farther off. It was low and whispering, and it made me think of fabric brushing fabric. Then a grunt punctuated the noises. It took several long seconds before I thought I recognized what I was hearing: the killer was dragging Dagan's body away.

No. Way.

Not again.

It probably wasn't my smartest moment. Okay, it definitely wasn't my smartest moment. But all I could think in that moment was that I wasn't going to cower in this stupid bathroom while the killer made yet another victim disappear.

I eased back from the door with the idea of opening it an inch—not too far, in case this was a ruse, but enough to get a glimpse of the lobby. But when I grabbed the pull, the door wouldn't move.

That was probably because I was starting to shake. I wiggled my fingers, got a better grip, took a few deep breaths, and pulled.

The door shifted. But it wouldn't open.

I tried again, pulling as hard as I could this time. And still nothing. Somehow, the killer had secured the door, and I couldn't get it open.

Straining to hear over the sound of my own ragged breaths, I thought I could make out the sound of Dagan's body being dragged away. But the sound was growing more distant, and it wasn't long before I couldn't hear anything at all. My pulse spiked again; if the killer was going to come back, they'd do it now. But one long minute bled into the next, and that one into the next, and eventually, I decided the killer wasn't coming back. I gave the door one last try, but it refused to move.

I was trapped.