On the front of the envelope, her name was written in an elaborate curlicue script. Still no closer to determining who’d sent it, she flipped it over, ran her finger under the flap, and removed the small rectangular card placed inside, which bore a picture of a grinning cartoon cat with a noose tied snugly around its neck.
Layla stared at the card—it was hideous, creepy, and the sight of it gave her the chills. While she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, one thing was sure—it definitely hadn’t been plucked from the Hallmark shelf.
With trembling fingers, she popped the card open to find a message written in the same fancy curlicue script.
Hey, Valentine!
In your effort to help your friend get out of jail
Your blog has become a total fail
And while I consider that a real shame
I think we both know, you alone are to blame
If it’s clues that you want
Then trust me, this is no taunt
Inside the box awaits a surprise
I truly believe it will open your eyes
All I ask from you
Is to post it for public view
I hope you take the bait
And don’t make me wait
If this all gives you pause
Then remember this clause:
Curiosity killed the cat—but satisfaction brought her right back!
Xoxo
Your Secret Admirer
Layla set the card aside and pried open the box, only to groan in dismay as a pile of pink confetti and glitter spilled out all around her. Her heart racing, she slipped a nail under the flap of the slim manila envelope hidden beneath and retrieved a single piece of paper folded neatly in thirds.
The paper was yellowing and worn, its edges curled, the writing dramatic and loopy, with small chubby hearts dotting the i’s and carefully drawn stars and twisting vines of flowers trailing the length of the margins.
Layla began to read, and by the time she reached the end she went right back to the beginning and started again. By the third reading, she was left with more questions than answers, mainly: Who on earth did it belong to and why had someone seen fit to send it to her?
She was just refolding the pages, about to slip them back into the envelope, when a picture she hadn’t noticed tumbled out and landed faceup on her desk.
The girl in the photo was young, probably somewhere around seven or eight, but definitely no older than ten. Her hair was long, tangled, and dark. She had skinny legs and dirty bare feet. The dress she wore was wrinkled, stained, and at least one size too small, while the doll she dangled by her side was missing an eye and a limb and wore a strange, somewhat malevolent, lopsided grin.
But it was the girl’s eyes that held Layla transfixed. They were so intense, so arresting, so startlingly familiar it was nearly impossible to look away.
Hurriedly, she shoved the package into her bag, pushed away from her desk, and darted toward the exit. Aware of Emerson’s gaze burning into the back of her head, she anchored her cell between her shoulder and ear and in a lowered voice said, “We need to meet. I think I’ve just found our first clue.”
THREE
THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHERF****R