And Then There Were Four Read online

  Also by Nancy Werlin

  Suspense:

  The Killer’s Cousin

  Locked Inside

  Black Mirror

  Double Helix

  The Rules of Survival

  Contemporary:

  Are You Alone on Purpose?

  Fantasy:

  Impossible

  Extraordinary

  Unthinkable

  DIAL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Nancy Werlin

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101634608

  Design by Nancy R. Leo-Kelly

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Jacket design by Lindsey Andrews

  Jacket photographs courtesy of Shutterstock & Thinkstock

  Version_1

  For my sister, Miriam

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Nancy Werlin

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1. Caleb

  Chapter 2. Saralinda

  Chapter 3. Caleb

  Chapter 4. Saralinda

  Chapter 5. Caleb

  Chapter 6. Saralinda

  Chapter 7. Caleb

  Chapter 8. Saralinda

  Chapter 9. Caleb

  Chapter 10. Saralinda

  Chapter 11. Caleb

  Chapter 12. Saralinda

  Chapter 13. Caleb

  Chapter 14. Saralinda

  Chapter 15. Caleb

  Chapter 16. Saralinda

  Chapter 17. Caleb

  Chapter 18. Saralinda

  Chapter 19. Caleb

  Chapter 20. Saralinda

  Chapter 21. Caleb

  Chapter 22. Saralinda

  Chapter 23. Caleb

  Chapter 24. Saralinda

  Chapter 25. Caleb

  Chapter 26. Saralinda

  Chapter 27. Caleb

  Chapter 28. Saralinda

  Chapter 29. Caleb

  Chapter 30. Saralinda

  Chapter 31. Caleb

  Chapter 32. Saralinda

  Chapter 33. Caleb

  Chapter 34. Saralinda

  Chapter 35. Caleb

  Chapter 36. Saralinda

  Chapter 37. Caleb

  Chapter 38. Saralinda

  Chapter 39. Caleb

  Chapter 40. Saralinda

  Chapter 41. Caleb

  Chapter 42. Saralinda

  Chapter 43. Caleb

  Chapter 44. Saralinda

  Chapter 45. Caleb

  Chapter 46. Saralinda

  Chapter 47. Caleb

  Chapter 48. Saralinda

  Chapter 49. Caleb

  Chapter 50. Saralinda

  Chapter 51. Caleb

  Chapter 52. Saralinda

  Chapter 53. Caleb

  Chapter 54. Saralinda

  Chapter 55. Caleb

  Chapter 56. Saralinda

  Chapter 57. Caleb

  Chapter 58. Saralinda

  Chapter 59. Caleb

  Chapter 60. Saralinda

  Chapter 61. Caleb

  Chapter 62. Saralinda

  Chapter 63. Caleb

  Chapter 64. Saralinda

  Chapter 65. Caleb

  Chapter 66. Saralinda

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1. Caleb

  It is your new nightly ritual, as automatic as showering or brushing your teeth or thinking about her. You feed innocent paper into the teeth of the shredder. Then you put the scraps on the floor.

  You shape them into a circle or a square or—you did this once, whimsically—a hand holding a cane. The pattern can be anything, as long as you position it in front of your dorm room door. That way, if you leave the room that night, in the morning you will know you did it.

  Whatever it is.

  The paper shreds have never been disturbed yet, not once, which is surprising and interesting. You’re uncertain what to make of this.

  One thing is true. You are not a little boy anymore. You are seventeen, and you don’t believe in Mommy keeping you safe or in friends having your back or in anybody, including you, understanding the difference between good and evil.

  You do, however, believe in the indifference of humanity and the absolute inevitability of your own destruction.

  You never asked to be what you are. Why you? At this point, you rarely bother to ask that question. Why is a child’s question, and there’s never a good answer, not from him, not for you.

  Because. That’s the answer. His answer, and now also yours.

  Because you are a monster.

  Because you are too damn fucking tired.

  One day soon, maybe tomorrow, you will stop fighting. You will go down. You will be done.

  For tonight, though, you shape the hand and cane again, working the confetti to represent her small, determined fingers. You haven’t bothered to learn her name, and you don’t plan to. She’s nothing to do with you.

  But her world is a good place, you felt sure of that from the first time you saw her. You’re glad for her, that she lives there and not where you do.

  She’s alive in the world. It is enough for you.

  Chapter 2. Saralinda

  I took the long way through campus in the storm on purpose, so I am certainly not lost. The Rockland Academy carriage house is somewhere ahead in the woods according to the map that was attached to my invitation. I’ll get there but in the meantime I am dallying all I want. In the October rain, I lift Georgia and twirl in the middle of the path. I only revolve once but naturally I slosh puddle muck on myself. I do not fall, I stay balanced. So there.

  Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance.

  For your information I don’t lean on Georgia heavily when I walk anymore, I just press down gently. Some people assume she is an affectation. I like that in some ways, but in others it seems like an insult to Georgia, who despite her decorations is far from a fashion accessory.

  My twirl throws my hood back and rain beats on my head which I like the feel of, it is real and I am glad to be alive and glad to be Saralinda de la Flor and glad to be outside in the most persistent storm in the New York area in a dozen years. Sixteen is way too old to have never before been outside in a storm.

  I turn my face upward to the sky which is opalescent (great word—you can almost taste it when you say it). Speaking of taste, the raindrops on my lips are earthy, not in a bad way.

  I am late for the meeting so Georgia and I go faster (I don’t limp much anymore except when my foot hurts or I am tired) and according to the campus map (I peeked at it again) the old carriage house is—

  There.

  With its gray stone cover
ed by ivy, the carriage house merges with the woods like a fairy-tale cottage. It has arched eaves and gingerbread trim and it has a turret and it is adorable and I want it I want it I want it. Who would not want a home like that?

  Although yes even in the rain I see the stone is crumbling, the paint is peeling, half the shutters are missing, and also there’s a loose shutter banging with the wind against a window. I don’t care however. The school might have thrown this place away but I know what it could be if someone such as me loved it. Geranium flowerboxes and colorful rag rugs and up in the turret, an armchair and a footstool and a tea cozy (I am not entirely sure what a tea cozy is, I will look it up if I remember) and also of course my books.

  The turret could be my secret home which would be a big victory because once upon a time I couldn’t have climbed its stairs. I am totally in love with this idea until I wonder if I would be lonely. But I don’t know who I would invite to live with me and my books, except it would not be my mother.

  I open the main carriage house door and discover a large empty garage with a cracked concrete floor and cobwebby lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, it is not inspiring.

  “Le sigh,” I remark to Georgia. (I am taking first-year French.)

  Okay I have been using any excuse to delay is the truth, which is why I am late. Why delay, you ask—well, it is because I am uncertain about this meeting. However I was invited I remind myself, so Georgia and I mount the metal spiral stairs (I can go up spiral stairs! I am extra careful as they are tricky) to the second-floor landing, and there I find a door which is closed.

  Boldly I rap and speak. “Hello? Student Leaders Club?”

  “Yeah, we’re in here!”

  It’s him. I lean on Georgia then. He has rarely spoken to me but he smiles at me in the halls at school and he does it like he sees me. Antoine Dubois smiles at everyone, though. That’s who he is.

  As for me I am someone who when I reach for the doorknob and turn it and push, the door does not open.

  Sometimes I think I’ve got a fairy godmother who believes that accessibility challenges are educational and fun and so she puts random freaky obstructions—above and beyond ordinary things like no elevator or ramp—between me and wherever I want to go.

  I tuck Georgia into the crook of my elbow and try again to open the door, rattling the doorknob like mad until on the other side Antoine shouts with amusement, “Hey, whoever you are, are you pushing? The door opens out. Pull.”

  On the other hand maybe I should be less judge-y about my fairy godmother.

  I pull and the door opens easily.

  Before me is a big carpeted room furnished with chairs and a couple of old couches. There are four other kids inside: one girl standing, one girl pacing, a boy in my turret with his back to me, and another boy looking at me, who is Antoine Dubois.

  Antoine.

  He sits on the more hideous of the two couches with his long legs (he is tall and quite skinny) folded before him and his chin resting on one of his hands which are oversized. His skin matches his eyes which are deep brown, you could drown in them or I could. Okay I have the tiniest of crushes on Antoine and I even read the Wikipedia entry on Haiti which is where his parents emigrated from. In Haiti they speak French and Haitian Creole (which is a language based on French it turns out), it might possibly be that this is one reason why I picked French and not Spanish to study. I’d burst into song, but singing is not my best route to impressing anyone (besides it would be odd). I have not figured out my best route to impressing people yet so instead I simply am glad I didn’t stay out in the storm splashing in puddles and drinking rain and generally catching my death (to quote my mother, who thinks that Death is lurking 24/7 with a Saralinda-sized net).

  Maybe because he hasn’t fully grown into his legs and arms yet, there is something goofy about Antoine’s looks, which is part of why I like him despite not knowing him. The thing is that when Antoine smiles, he is all dimples and unmistakable sincerity and in short he is not intimidating even though so tall.

  He is the senior class president which is no wonder, I would have voted for him too if I were a senior.

  “Hey,” Antoine says to me. “You made it. Excellent. Welcome.”

  I am suddenly hyperaware of my saturated hair and face and hands and how stupid I was just now on the other side of the door. Still I manage to smile back at Antoine and I contribute to the conversation. I say:

  “Hi.”

  Chapter 3. Caleb

  You brace your hands on the rough-grained wood frame of the old turret window. Holding the frame allows your body to absorb the battering the window takes from the rain and the howling wind outside. The shaking feels good and clean and impersonal, as if you were one with the elements, and not a human being at all.

  You put your palms on the cold glass. The wavy old window glass is thin. You could smash through it. You’d dive headfirst out the window and join your bleeding and broken body to the storm. You’d break free from yourself. You’d become a howl on the air.

  Maybe the broken glass and the fall wouldn’t be enough to kill you. But maybe it would, if you did it right.

  Maybe it’s time.

  Chapter 4. Saralinda

  I take my attention away from Antoine because (1) I have too much self-respect to stare at him like he’s a new book that I am going to read under the covers when my mother thinks I’ve gone to sleep and (2) I do not want to be the kind of girl who totally ignores other girls in favor of a boy and (3) I am genuinely interested in who else is here. I realize listing (3) last makes it not so convincing but space-time requires that things be described in a chosen order even if your thoughts spurt out together. Also sometimes more important thoughts are buried deeper and arrive late. In short I believe sequencing is misleading at best and total crap at worst but I am stuck with it because like I said, space-time.

  It turns out that I know one of the two girls in the room: Evangeline Song. Evangeline is texting so she doesn’t immediately demand to know why I am there given that I am not exactly a school leader. She is one, but in a very weird way. I will explain.

  I only know Evangeline by sight. And by rumor: She is rich (her father was Kevin Song Real Estate). She’s also chic, she wears her hair in a chin-length bell that’s somehow both ragged and artful, and today she has on a simple blue cotton sweater and leggings, which is not so different from what I’m wearing but her sweater has an asymmetric neckline and naturally her boots are not orthopedic, and she wears lipstick (I don’t but I do use a touch of CoverGirl mascara which my mother does not know about). Oh but a girl shouldn’t judge other girls by their appearance because then she is shallow. Okay so redirect: The main thing about Evangeline is that she is tough, in a take-no-prisoners way where if somebody says something she disagrees with she corrects them usually in a cutting voice. It’s like she cannot let anything go, and she is usually right, and this is why though she is beautiful and smart and rich she is not popular, and yet she is powerful.

  Evangeline has one friend though and it is Antoine. Is she more than a friend to him? That is my question but now I am again being shallow plus I am dragging a boy into it, what is wrong with me? Okay, I know what’s wrong. I like boys, I notice them a lot. I even (briefly!) considered renaming Georgia to George, but I know better, that would be like dumping a faithful girlfriend (though a friend who is actually an oak cane with a crystal orb that I superglued on, the orb is beautiful although, I know, hobbit-juvenile) for a boy.

  Evangeline seems to notice my presence with a flick of her eye but she’s mostly focused on her phone (relief), and I look at the second girl, who I have never ever seen before. (Why is a new girl at Leaders Club?) She is a white girl, with very white skin unlike me, with blond hair cropped short on one side of her head, and dark eyeliner ringing her eyes so heavily that alongside her pallor it looks like she has trouble sleeping. She paces in small circles like
a caged cat, not pausing though she does flap a hand toward me in what might be a greeting.

  It then occurs to me that there are weirdly few of us at this Leaders Club meeting, only five. Are other kids still coming? Are they having trouble finding the carriage house?

  I say five because there is still that other person in the room who is the other boy, the one who’s standing in my turret (I recognize that being possessive of my turret is unfair, he might have a turret dream of his own to which he is absolutely entitled). He did not look toward me when I came in and he has not changed his mind so far. Without seeing his face, I am not sure if I know him. He is shorter than Antoine. (Most people are.) He has very straight very dark hair in a businesslike ponytail, tied with a green rubber band he might have swiped from a carry-out container at Whole Foods. Mentally, I refer him to Evangeline’s stylist. (I do not have a hair stylist. My mother trims the ends every six weeks like she has ever since I can remember. I would hack my hair off at the neck so she couldn’t anymore except that I love my hair as it is, medium brown and hanging to my waist and taking a curl if I try.)

  Antoine gestures to the sofa beside him as if I am to sit there.

  “You’re a sophomore, right? Belinda, isn’t it?”

  He knows my name!

  Sort of.

  “Yes,” I say. “Or wait. I mean, no. It’s Saralinda.” My hair feels matted and sticky. Was I entirely insane to get it wet? Yes, yes I was. It takes hours to dry. I long to be back on the other side of the door, where I could fish out my brush and groom. Shallow of me I know. Again.

  “De la Flor, though, I have that part right?”

  I beam a great big yes at him.

  Antoine.

  Antoine, whose jeans (speaking of style) are artfully split so as to expose his sports-playing knees. (Don’t ask me which sports he plays. Sports are not my thing.)

  Antoine is looking at me.

  Maybe I can learn to appreciate sports.

  Am I his type? (What type am I? I don’t know for sure, I only know what I look like which is not exactly the same thing. What is a type really? Is it ethnicity or body type or personality or all of these? Or are we each unique individuals so the very idea of type is inherently false? Only I think Antoine is my type.)