Oh, god. I wanted to help her. I didn’t know much about Dr. Jekel’s murder, but I’d heard that he’d been involved in shady dealings at Carson Pharmaceuticals. Poor Jill lived under a cloud of sadness and shame, and she seemed like such a sweet girl that I honestly wished I could help her escape both. But I couldn’t fall more deeply into the plot of that terrible old novel, and at that moment, when I was close to shuddering—not just because cold sweat was still pouring down my spine—I didn’t think Jill should meddle in the past, either.
“Jill,” I said, rising, “I’m sorry, truly sorry, but I honestly think that your parents are right. You should leave that old box alone and find another way to pay for your education.”
Before Jill could reply, I strode down the bleachers, heading for the showers. When I reached the bottom, I wanted to look back, to offer Jill the farewell I’d forgotten to give her, but I was worried that if I saw her face again—saw that devastated, betrayed, vulnerable expression—I might wrongly change my mind. At the time I really thought I was doing right by Jill to just walk away, even ifit hurt her.
That very night, though, I was convinced—compelled—to rethink my decision.
Chapter 11
Tristen
THE NIGHT IS DARK and the river flows sluggishly, putridly at my side. Before me she waits, peering down the path. “Tristen . . . Tristen?” I step behind her, the hilt of the knife hard against my palm. “I’m here, love . . . right here . . .”
Not turning, she leans against my chest, pleased, trusting me. “Oh, Tristen . . .”
I raise the knife . . . She sees it . . . is confused . . .
“Tristen? Tristen? TRISTEN?”
“TRISTEN!”
“What?” I cried, sitting bolt upright, twisting against my damp sheets, which had wound around my legs, binding me. Someone was clutching my shoulder—hard.
“Tristen!” Dad shook me roughly. “Calm down. You’re dreaming.”
“Stop it!” I yelled, pushing against him. He was grasping me too hard. Hurting me. “Stop it!”
“Easy, son!” He stepped back from my bed, giving me space. “Just relax.”
“Oh, god . . .” My shoulders heaved as I struggled to control my breathing. I raked my fingers through soaked hair. “Oh, god . . .”
Dad rested his hand more gently on my shoulder. “It’s just a nightmare,” he reassured me again. “It’s okay, son.”
I didn’t answer. I was fighting too hard: battling not just for breath but to subdue the trace of the thrill, the desire that I still felt, lingering inside of me. The tingling arousal, the need, that continued to rise unbidden from my subconscious, not just for sex with the faceless girl in my dream but for her blood. “Oh, god . . .”
Dad kept his hand on my shoulder. “Tristen—don’t make too much of this.”
“It’s getting more vivid,” I said, head in my hands. “I can smell the river—”
“That’s impossible,” he interrupted, stepping back again. “There is no olfactory component to dreams, Tristen. You’re in your room now. Safe. Fine.”
I looked up at him, and although the room was dark, I realized that my father was still dressed in a shirt and tie. “Dad?” I checked the clock. Nearly two a.m. “What are you—?”
“I want you to sleep now, son,” he urged, moving toward the door. “Sleep and don’t make too much of this. Promise me that.”
“I won’t,” I said. But I was confused. Why wasn’t he in bed? He never worked that late. “I’ll try not to . . .”
I lay back on my sweat-soaked sheets, trying unsuccessfully to calm my unsettled mind and listening as my father went to his room. Down the hall I heard Dad opening and closing drawers, and when the sound of his running shower finally reached my ears, I got up and went to my bookshelves, fumbling behind a copy of Carl Jung’s Dreams, which Dad had loaned me when I’d first begun having nightmares.
“This will reassure you,” he’d promised. “Dreams are telling, but they are not the final word.”
As Dad had assured me, I had found Jung’s ideas comforting at times. That night, however, I shoved Dreams aside and dug deeper for a book that I kept hidden. A first edition copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which my grandfather had given me on the eve—the actual eve—of his death.
My fingers met the familiar deep gash in the leather cover—as though someone had done violence to the violent work itself—and I pulled down the book. Turning on my lamp, I opened to the first yellowed page, which would have been empty had not Grandfather inscribed it. To Tristen, with gratitude for being strong when I was weak.
There was a smudge there, too. A fingerprint. Sometimes I would place my own fingertip against the dark spot, testing the fit, wondering if that finger pointed to Grandfather—or to me. And if my soul did lie at the heart of that swirling, twisted maze, what did that mean for me—and for the girl in my nightmare?
That night by the river with her. That evening with Grandfather. Flick’s broken arm. The nightmare, which was growing more complete, more tangible, more intense. The documents that Jill Jekel had spoken of . . .
I stared at the dark whorl on the page, recalling Jill’s offer—and Jill herself, sitting on the bleachers, so small and timid. And smart. And in possession of what her father swore was a very special artifact.
All at once the fog—the mist from that river—seemed to clear, and I flipped deeper into the novel, fingers mauling the pages as I searched for a passage that suddenly flashed through my mind almost verbatim. Finding it, I read aloud, too excited to keep silent.
“Hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and drank the cup . . . and came to myself once more . . .”
I shut the book, mind racing.
Jekyll’s formula didn’t just create Hyde . . .
Jill had wanted me to help her, but was there
