Vanishing

26.

Lindsey

Present Day

Today has been the quietest day. Day three into this stupid vacation. I try to force myself to focus on the words in front of me, but it seems impossible given the last twenty-four hours. Eventually I close the book and head to the dining hall for dinner. It is well past five now.

Slowly the others follow my lead, all except for Brody. Though I suspect he is not reading much either. Every clue gets him closer to what happened that night, but it is getting us closer to danger as well.

Charlie was murdered in cold blood right under our noses. For what? Because she was not playing this game? If playing the game means living, I will do it.

We all spend more time pushing food around on our plates than eating. Eventually we all part ways to stop for the day. No closer to figuring out whatever it was we were meant to. Something tells me this was the last game though. If the object is to find Cynthia, we need to read the journal.

I sit on the bed after double checking the window and door locks. I am not daft, if someone wants inside badly enough, they will find a way. However, I must remain optimistic to keep my sanity.

Dear Journal,

Today I had my first kiss. It was with a boy down the street at a pool party. I was in a red sparkly bikini because I once read that men are attracted to the color red. I do not think it is scientifically proven, but it worked in my favor.

It was not like I was dying to kiss him, but we all must do things we do not want to do, and I need practice for when the time comes with my special someone.

Anyway, it was nothing to write home about. Sloppy. But I just pictured him instead and bam it was over before I knew it. The girls will be so jealous but oh well.

I tried to make friends like mom suggested. Two of them to be exact. Also, nothing to write home about. They are both shadows. Do anything to make me happy or stay in good graces. I have known them our entire lives and still I cannot stand them!

Mom keeps telling me there is something wrong with my brain, some chemical imbalance. Dr. Phelps says the same thing. There is nothing wrong with me. I like who I like, and I cannot help it.

Nobody understands, Journal. Nobody sees the real me. But they will. Pay attention. They all will.

Sighing, I turn the page. Whoever's journal this was was so consumed with themselves. It is horrific. Still, I force myself to read on.