In the Hope of Memories by Olivia Rivers

Author:Olivia Rivers [Rivers, Olivia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Sparrow Press
Published: 2016-03-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

If I had to choose one word to sum up how I feel, it’d be “sick.” Sick that Hope is dead. Sick that even though we left Cody’s Burgers an hour ago, my claustrophobia keeps choking me. Sick that my head is still aching and my body is still vibrating with the instinct to run, run, run. Sick that I’ve bumped into at least a dozen people today, and I can still feel my skin crawling from the contact. Sick that my heart is pounding too fast for me to count the beats. Sick that Kali, Erik, and Sam are all in the same car as me, discussing the same clue as me, but they don’t seem to be drowning in anxiety like I am.

Because they’re not sick.

Because they’re normal.

Or at least more normal than me.

“This clue is ridiculous,” Kali grumbles from the driver’s seat. She has her legs tucked up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. “Can’t Hope just tell us what the hell she wants from us?”

In front of us is a brick wall that borders the parking lot we’re sitting in. It was only a couple of minutes away from Cody’s Burgers, and probably the closest place Hope could find to paint the next clue. The last card was blank except for a short message saying the next task was for me, and a scribbled address where we could find the clue that would lead to my task. It still took us over an hour to get here, because we had to go back to the other lot, retrieve Erik’s car, and then make our way through traffic to this parking lot. And now that we’re here, I don’t get how this painting is supposed to lead us anywhere else.

Hope’s graffiti is of some sort of bird made up of interlocking bones, its delicate talons gripping a jumble of random letters. The English letters all intertwine to form the Chinese character for “pressure.”

“What I want to know is why she used letters,” Erik says from the passenger seat. “I mean, she hasn’t used words in any of her other paintings.”

None of us have an answer for him, and we lapse back into silence. Erik’s SUV is spacious, but it still feels way too small with all of us in here, and I itch with the urge to jump out and escape to someplace where I can grieve alone.

Kali cusses loudly. “This is ridiculous. We’ve been staring at this wall for like an hour now. Doesn’t anyone know what the hell it means?”

“Would have said so if I did,” Sam says with a tired shrug. They sit beside me in the backseat and absently wiggle their fingers in front of Schrodinger’s whiskers. The cat bats playfully at Sam’s hand, and I try not to focus on the cat’s paws, but I can’t stop myself.

Sixteen. That’s how many bloody paw prints I found in the hallway on the day Aunt Sara committed suicide. A perfectly even number for a perfectly terrible scene.

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