The police had responded to her tip, but by the time they arrived, Clayton's black Range Rover was long gone. Haven stared at the glowing screen of her phone. The automated text message from the Maplewood Police Department confirmed her report had been logged, but a second message indicated no unit had been able to locate the vehicle. A bitter, hollow smile stretched across her lips. She tossed the phone back onto the sofa.
The morning sun sliced through the blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the messy living room. Haven dragged her exhausted body toward the corner. Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly against the wall.
She needed to move out. The lease was up, and without her job, she couldn't afford the rent.
She grabbed a roll of packing tape. She started sweeping old paperback books into a box with robotic, numb movements.
She grabbed the handles of a heavy, plastic storage bin. As she lifted it, the brittle bottom cracked open. A pile of old junk crashed onto the hardwood floor.
Haven dropped to her knees. She started sifting through the mess. Old CDs, faded baseball cards, and tangled charging cables littered the floor.
Her fingers brushed against something smooth hidden beneath a folded sweatshirt. It was a black leather diary, its edges frayed and worn. She had never seen it before.
She picked it up. Her thumb traced the gold-foil initials stamped on the cover: C. S.
It was Clayton's. A relic from his high school days.
Curiosity pricked at her. She had never been allowed in his old room. What secrets did he keep?
Haven wiped the dust off the cover and flipped it open.
The pages were yellowed. They were filled with the arrogant, self-important ramblings of a seventeen-year-old boy complaining about his boring suburban life.
Haven read the pretentious sentences. The image of Clayton's cruel, mocking face from last night flashed in her mind. She let out a harsh, cynical laugh.
She flipped to a page dated November 2014. Clayton had written a cocky manifesto about an upcoming mock trial debate, guaranteeing his absolute victory.
The anger from last night flared up in her chest again. Haven grabbed a blue ballpoint pen from the coffee table.
She clicked the pen open. Right beneath his arrogant declaration, she pressed the tip hard into the paper and wrote: You grow up to be a selfish, heartless bastard.
Haven exhaled a long breath. It was a childish, pathetic way to vent. She moved her hand to close the cover.
Right before the pages touched, the edges of her blue ink started to blur.
Haven's eyes widened. She watched in horror as the words she had just written dissolved. The ink sank deep into the fibers of the paper, like a drop of water being sucked into a dry sponge.
In less than three seconds, the blue ink was completely gone. The page was blank again.
Haven gasped. Her lungs seized. Her fingers went slack, and the diary dropped to the floor with a loud smack.
She scrambled backward. Her spine hit the edge of the sofa. Her brain raced, trying to find a logical explanation. Disappearing ink? A prank?
Then, right before her eyes, black ink began to bleed out of the blank page on the floor.
Haven stopped breathing. She crawled forward on her hands and knees. The black ink twisted and formed sharp, aggressive shapes.
A line of angry handwriting materialized on the paper: Who are you? How are you writing in my book?
Haven's heart hammered against her ribs so hard it hurt. She snatched the diary off the floor. She flipped through the front and back covers, tearing at the binding. There were no wires. No screens. No hidden electronics.
Her hands shook violently. She picked up the blue pen again. She wrote beneath the black text: Is this some kind of sick joke?
The blue ink vanished. A few seconds later, the black ink bled back through, the strokes pressing so hard they almost tore the paper: I should be asking you that! Get the hell out of my room!
Haven stared at the handwriting. The sharp angles, the aggressive slant. It was Clayton's handwriting. Exactly how he wrote.
A psychotic, impossible thought exploded in her head.
She looked at the date printed at the top of the page. November 12, 2014. Exactly ten years ago today.
Haven collapsed onto the rug. She clamped both hands over her mouth to muffle a scream. The diary was a direct line to the past.
Her phone buzzed loudly on the sofa, shattering the silence. It was Elias Cole, her labor attorney.
Haven snatched the phone and answered.
Elias's voice was grim. "Haven, I'm sorry. Warren Adler isn't budging. Without hard proof of his retaliation, he's denying your severance entirely. We have no case."
Haven hung up the phone. She didn't say a word.
She looked down at the black diary resting on her lap. The absolute despair in her eyes slowly morphed into a wild, manic spark of hope.
