AFTER CHRIS AND I parted ways at the police station, I drove straight home, turning the two words over in my head as I went. Celeste Day. Celeste Day. It rang no bells. Was it a fair? A celebration of the moon and stars? One of those unofficial “holidays” that nobody but the person who created it celebrates, like National Hot Dog Day? Not one I’d ever heard of. Was it a person?
I was going to have to figure out who or what Celeste Day was.
Dad was downstairs in the basement when I got home. I could hear the metal clink of free weights hitting each other. He hardly ever worked out. Only when he was completely stressed or had something weighing on his mind.
Like guilt, maybe, Dad?
Like, maybe, the feeling that your daughter is figuring out that you had some sort of link to the family who has been trying to kill her? That maybe you suspect she might be this close to finding out you were somehow involved in your own wife’s death?
The thought turned me icy.
I sat in the kitchen, turning up the TV to drown out Dad’s grunts, and ate a sandwich, Hue sitting patiently at my feet waiting for me to drop something. I was staring at whatever dumb show was on, but my mind was everywhere else. Dad, Luna, Chris’s memory loss, Celeste Day.
I was rinsing my plate when Dad appeared at the top of the basement stairs. He had a towel draped over his neck, and his hair was wet with sweat. He was cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt.
“You’re home.”
“Yep. Going upstairs, though. Got some work to do.”
He scrunched up his face. “What kind of work?”
“Research,” I said. “Job research.”
His eyebrows went up, and his lips curved into the meekest smile, wavering at the edges, as if he was afraid to let it completely loose, for fear of scaring me off. “Any particular job?”
I shook my head. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
He closed the basement door behind him and put the glasses on, then pulled the towel off his neck and used it to wipe his forehead. “Have you thought about photography?” he said into the towel. He was acting nonchalant, but I knew the question was incredibly loaded. He would love nothing more than for me to follow in his—and in some ways, Mom’s—footsteps.
“Not really.” Truth, I had thought about it, and had immediately dismissed it. Mom’s death, the way her life intertwined with the Hollises’, Dad’s deception, had all soured photography and film for me. I wasn’t really sure what I would do if not policing, but I knew I didn’t want to be involved in the tawdry shit my parents had been involved in.
“I was thinking maybe you could go on a shoot with me sometime,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
Like, a really long while. I had been in middle school last time I joined Dad on a shoot. It was boring and hot and I got sick of being told to stop distracting the models and hold the light reflector steadier and, no, I couldn’t swim, even though I was sweating and we were on the beach, because this wasn’t a play day, it was business.
“What do you think?” he prompted when I didn’t respond.
I shrugged. “I guess. Not, like, out of town, though, okay?”
He tossed the towel over the back of a kitchen chair. “Why not?”
Because I have answers to find. “Because I . . . have jobs to apply for.”
He gave me a skeptical look—who would blame him?—but played along anyway. “Okay. I have one coming up. One of my models wants to do an updated urban shoot for her portfolio. I’ll let you know.” He walked to the kitchen sink and poured himself a glass of water. “So. Research for the rest of your day?”
Day. Celeste Day.
God, even if I figured out what Celeste Day was, who was to say it had anything to do with Jones, Luna, or the white-blond-haired man who helped her get away?
Well. It was all that I had. I had to go with it, because it was the only thing I could go with at all.
“Yep,” I said.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t hole yourself up in your room all day again.” He set the glass down. “Look. I know you’re scared. And I’m scared, too. And I would love nothing more than to wrap you up in bubble wrap and tuck you away somewhere safe forever. But I would be a horrible father if I let you waste your life away sitting in that window of yours smoking and ruminating about bad things.” I must have made a face, because he raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I know about the smoking. I wish you wouldn’t drop your butts in the flower garden, but that’s a conversation for another day.”
“I’m not ruminating,” I said, feeling my face flush, because of course we both knew rumination was something I specialized in. Nikki Kill, Professional Brooder: Guaranteed depression in six sessions, or your money back! If there was a market for that, I would be a rich woman. “Besides, I’m quitting smoking. And I’m not going to hole myself up. I’m going to the library.” I could actually see him struggle to keep his surprise in check. I hated libraries. So many colors, so much silence, and the atmosphere of every damn one of them the same boring pencil-lead gray. When I was in elementary school, I would fake stomachaches on library day—not that the nurse’s office was much better, but at least it was really only one color. “What? I can go to the library,” I said.
“I know you can. I’m just surprised that you are.” He came across the room and poked my ribs. I jumped, pushing his hands away a little too roughly, looking at my own hands with surprise, even as I did it. I didn’t trust the man—I already knew that—but since when did I not let him touch me?
“Everything okay?” he asked, looking concerned, his finger still in the air pointing at my side.
I folded a dish towel in half and draped it over the oven door, doing everything I could to keep from meeting his gaze. If there was ever a time for me to bring up what was going on—Mom, the locked box, his lies about Bill Hollis—this was it. But I wasn’t ready to confront him yet. I needed proof on my side. I needed to get into that damned box. If I told him I was onto him, he could empty the box before I could ever get inside.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just . . . ruminating, I guess.” I gave him a thin grin.
He grinned back. “You see? You can do it without filling your lungs with poison.” Good God, if Martinez and Dad ever got together, they would hassle me about smoking until I quit, just to shut them up. He put his hand on my shoulder. I had to force myself not to flinch. “Listen, Nik. Everything will be fine. I know I keep bugging you about having future plans, but I understand why it’s taking you a while. You’ll get there. I believe in you.”
I wish I could believe in you, was what I thought, while “That makes one of us” was what actually came out of my mouth.
I didn’t give him a chance to argue with me again. I turned and hoofed it upstairs. I didn’t want to go to the library when I had a perfectly good—and new, thanks to Jones killing my old one—laptop right in my bedroom. But I was locked in now. I grabbed my keys off the desk and headed out.
TAKING DEEP BREATHS to steady the colors in the library never did any good. It always just filled my nose with the smell of graphite that I knew wasn’t really there, but was such a strong connection with the color of the atmosphere my senses fooled me into thinking it was there. Instead, I made a beeline for the computer bank and did my best to push away any color distractions.
Celeste Day. That was all I cared about. Figuring out who or what Celeste Day was. And if it was a what, then I needed to find out if it had already happened, or if it was something coming up that I could go to. The thought of going to some sort of carnival where Luna might be hiding made my hands shake, but that was why I was doing this, right? To find Luna and put an end to this once and for all. If my hands shook, so be it.
I sat at a computer and typed in my library card number to pull up the internet. An incredibly sweaty guy in a camouflage shirt sat at the computer next to me, and I inched my rolling chair away, turning the monitor so he couldn’t see it. Another reason to hate the library—no fucking privacy. Letting out a breath, I typed in Celeste Day.
Nothing.
No calendar. No fair. No festival or carnival or even explanation. Just a few Whitepages entries, a couple of social media pages, and an IMDb page.
Wait. Not nothing.
I opened the IMDb page. Celeste Day, a teen actress. Born in Albany, New York. The word Albany lit up in eggplant, tickling the back of my mind with a memory. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it, though. And I couldn’t waste time trying to figure out why that eggplant color looked so familiar to me. I pushed it away and went back to Celeste’s bio. She’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue her acting career when she was thirteen. She’d managed to land a few theater roles, a commercial voice-over, and one independent movie, currently being filmed at Pear Magic Studio. Mottled yellow-green Pear, velvety burgundy Magic. Those had been written on the pad by her name. I had thought they were nonsense, but apparently not. Whoever had written Celeste Day on that pad was talking about this Celeste Day.
There was only one photo attached to her profile; she wasn’t a big enough star yet to have a gallery. But to read her bio, it seemed she was poised to take Hollywood by storm, and soon.
I leaned back, idly playing with a chunk of my hair. Celeste Day, actress. How was she connected to Luna? Was she one of Bill Hollis’s protégées? More likely she was part of Hollywood Dreams. Young, aspiring actress. Beautiful in the same creamy, delicate way Peyton and Luna were beautiful, only with darker hair, softer cheekbones, and poutier lips. Definitely motivated.
Maybe motivated enough to help Luna get away.
God, it seemed like Luna knew everyone. Like the list continued to get longer and longer every time I thought I had a handle on everyone who could possibly be involved.
Luna was getting help. That much was for sure. A sixteen-year-old orphan didn’t just disappear from the face of the earth—breaking probation in the process—without somebody knowing where she was. Maybe that was why Celeste’s name had been written in the notepad. Maybe Celeste Day was the one hiding her.
The only way to find out was to find Celeste Day myself.