Chapter 1
HELEN
Go home, you stupid girl.
…nope. Not me. Not tonight.
Gabriella’s voice haunts me as dusk bleeds over the jagged skyline of Helsinki. Anyone smarter would drive back home, but tagging walls no one cares about in the wrong part of town is the only way I know how to release pressure in an emergency situation—like your best friend going missing.
The city hums with falling and rising street traffic in the distance, the last rays of dying light painting an industrial warehouse red and orange.
Only a faceless and nameless street artist, such as yours truly, would revel in the spaces no one else wants after an economic riptide tore through them. Death and decay gnaws at the forgotten buildings, boarded up and abandoned, with signs put up begging for someone to save them: I’m for rent, I’m for sale.
Keep hoping, but no one’s coming. You’re perfect for doodling on walls with spray paint and chalk. For the pure enjoyment and fuck of it.
I check the time: fifteen minutes till nine glows on my phone’s screen. My little sister Rebecka—who insisted on going with me tonight—should be here any second.
A lone train whistles in the distance, steel grinding against steel, screeching when it slows to a halt. I lean against the hood of my car, thumb hovering over Gabriella’s name on my phone. Last message read six days ago, the rest left on delivered. And nothing on WhatsApp, Discord, or IG.
Where are you?
Her absence blows a chill through my heart. Something bad has happened. She wouldn’t disappear like this on her own. I grab a cassette player and a backpack from the passenger seat of my beater then lock the door before I really start spiraling.
Click, clack, click, clack.
Rhythmic raps echo in the night, and sure enough, Rebecka appears from behind the corner in her dancer’s uniform and sky-high heels, wearing black tights, black shirt, black duffel bag slung over her shoulder, black everything. Her hair is in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and her face bare, ready to put on a shit ton of stage makeup.
“How are your feet not dead?” I gesture at her heels.
“They are. I’m breaking them in.” She lifts her foot and shows off the stiletto, then nods at the warehouse beside us. “Is this it?”
“No, over there.” I point at an abandoned building, its silhouette a black hole against the sky ablaze. I start walking toward it, and Rebecka falls in beside me.
“What’s our in?” She adjusts the bag sliding off her shoulder and gives me a nervous smile.
“You just wait and see.” I return the smile. We blow raspberries at each other at the same time. Being seven years her senior, I taught her the trick when she was a baby, and even twenty years later, it kind of stuck. Stupid, I know, but something we do whenever the situation calls for it, and I guess this is one of those times. The air’s saturated with electricity and anticipation, and we’re both nervous. I’d rather not be breaking and entering while taking my little sister along for the ride, but Rebecka made a fair point: safety in numbers.
I pick up the pace until we reach a lone door tucked away in a side alley, where streetlamps flicker like little pot-bellied moons suspended in the air by an invisible string. I grip the cassette player tighter, the plastic handle digging into my sweaty palm. The rotten May heat that has been lingering over Helsinki for days clings to my body, and the joggers I’m wearing aren’t helping either.
“I forgot my water bottle.” Rebecka fans her face. “I’m getting a heatstroke over here and a headache.”
I drop my backpack on the ground and rummage through it. “Here and—” I hand her mine and wiggle a tiny plastic bag of pills from a side pocket. “Ibuprofen.” I wave it at her and shake out two.
“Ahh, thank you.” She grabs the pills, pops them in her mouth, takes the bottle and downs half of it.
“Wouldn’t want you to drop dead right before your big debut, headliner and all,” I say.
But Rebecka doesn’t smile. She swirls the water in her mouth. “Have you heard anything from her? I really don’t wanna take over Gabby’s part this summer.”
Not only is Gabriella my best friend, but she’s also the star of The Dollies—a horror cabaret on a century-old riverboat—and my little sister, the rising starlet.
“No.” I dig my phone from my bag and search for an IG post I drafted with Gabriella’s picture, name, and last known location: Missing person. Last seen on The Dollies Riverboat. DMs are open.
I give the phone to Rebecka.
Her eyes widen and a line creases her forehead as she skims the post. “Are you serious right now? She’s just pulling a Gabby.”
“She’s missing performances. That has never happened.” I try the door handle and give it a nudge, but it’s stuck or locked. I brush my fingers over the keyhole. The warehouse was built in the 90s. Older mortise locks tend to jam, but it’s worth a shot. “And who’s gonna look out for her if I’m not? She doesn’t have that many people out here.” I grab a tension wrench and a pick with a hook from my bag.
“Yeah, wonder why,” Rebecka scoffs.
“That’s not fair. She’s under a lot of pressure.” I ignore the face Rebecka makes and direct my attention to the lock. I insert the wrench and start applying pressure clockwise. “If you see or hear anyone… leave. You’re not getting caught with me.”
“Okay.”
Sweat gathers on my hairline, my back’s drenched, and my knees ache as I work the decades-old mechanism. A big smile spreads on my face when the bolt retracts and the lock opens.
I bow to a rain of imagined applause. “You did not see me do this, got it? Especially if Jade asks.”
“Why would he ask? That’s so random.”
“Because he knows and sees all.” My voice drops to a dramatic tone. “No, but honestly, just so we’re clear, he doesn’t find out. Ever.”
“Yeah, yeah. You think Gabriella and Jade—” Rebecka thinks for a minute, then points my phone at my face, unlocking it. “Although she gone and fucked that up too.”
“Her and Jade what? Dating?”
Knowing our brother, they were definitely not dating. Even if something went on between them, I doubt Gabriella was under that illusion. They’ve known each other for too long.
“No, hooking up.”
“Oo-kay,” I say, overenunciating the word. “And I’m done with this conversation.” I ram my weight against the door and it gives in with a loud creak. Just enough to fit through.
“I go first. Wait until I say it’s okay.” I place my hand on Rebecka’s arm and stop her from following me.
I slip in.
Rubble and debris shift under my shoes as pieces of stained glass crack under pressure, slowing my trek while I navigate the dim hall. The warehouse exhales a hot breath of musk, mold, and piss at my face—a hungover lover’s sloppy morning kiss that makes my stomach twist and turn. Enormous windows line the walls near the ceiling, and teal pillars, like the legs of a giant, rise from the concrete floor, bearing the weight of the building on their shoulders. Black and white tags and neon graffiti are everywhere. Trash, ripped convenience store bags, and pieces of torn furniture. Just all kinds of debris.
This is an easy place to come if you have nowhere else to go. A harder place to leave.
“Anyone home?” Rebecka sticks her head in, her voice echoing through the space.
I spin around and my arm hits a pillar. “Oh, motherf—” I pinch my lips together before the rest comes out. “I said wait. Rules.”
Rebecka throws our bags inside and squeezes in. “Says the career criminal. I’ll read the rulebook for next time.”
“I’m not sure there’s gonna be a next time.” I grab my bag and start scouting for a surface to leave my mark on—that I, too, was here once. The smell of something rotten wafts nearby, like decaying plants or flowers. I search for the source, but find nothing. If I stick my shoe in a pile of mystery goo, I guess I’ll just stick my shoe in it and cry later.
“Why not?” Rebecka makes her way to a garden chair and plops down in front of it.
“Because.” I place my palm on an eroding wall facing north. “This city isn’t what it used to be. You shouldn’t even be here. This makes me the shittiest big sister ever.” My fingertips trace the gritty surface: the cracks, the dents, the dirt, and the dust.
Once upon a time, this place was vibrant with life.
“You sound like Jade. Please don’t turn into him.” Rebecka takes out a mirror and places it on the plastic chair, then sets her makeup kit and journal next to it.
I go over to her and rub her shoulder. “He just wants the best for you, and so do I, hence my ‘this is a one-off’ speech.”
Rebecka looks up at me and smiles. The light filters through the dirty windows, highlighting her soft features.
“I guess. So, anyway, like I was saying, Jade’s been coming over to the riverboat a lot after practice, as if checking up on me.”
And we’re back to Rebecka being the gossip goose.
“Yeah?” I listen to her with half an ear and drop spray cans onto the ground. I grab a face mask and hang it around my neck, then fish a pair of plastic gloves out of my sweats’ pocket, ready to do my thing. No plan this time, no tentative sketches. Tonight, I’m freehanding it all the way.
“But guess who else is always there? Gabby. Obviously.” Rebecka waves my phone at me and comes over. “Well, I should say Jade visited a lot until this got posted on IG. Did you know about this?” She shows me an artist profile, scrolls down to a charcoal sketch of Gabriella, then hands the phone to me.
I zoom in and study the details of the sketch. It’s well drawn: confident and dynamic lines that thicken and thin in the right places, with hatching to suggest shadows. She’s portrayed as a siren climbing out of a pond, a mask of water lilies covering her face, and Gabriella hiding underneath somewhere. I could describe the real girl in minute detail: what Netflix shows she watches to reset, the burger joint she defaults to after a night of clubbing, the color of lipstick she wears to catch someone’s attention—Ruby Woo, and lately, it’s been my brother’s. Rebecka isn’t wrong about that.
“Yeah, I knew she was posing for someone,” I say. But I didn’t know who. I check the profile name: Zack Regis. It sounds somewhat familiar.
Rebecka snaps her fingers. “I bet Jade didn’t either.”
“She’s met a bunch of artists through the Drink & Draw events she’s been doing,” I continue. “Not like there’s something weird about that.” I browse the IG page. The last post is a graphite drawing of a girl who bears Gabriella’s likeness.
“Maybe they had a falling out and Gabby decided to say, ‘Screw it, I’m leaving,’ because that’s what she does when things get tough. Bails out. I mean, she’s practically naked in that,” Rebecka says, tapping the graphite drawing on the screen.
“I don’t know. Not sure this would be on Jade’s radar,” I say. The composer-conductor for the Helsinki Philharmonics has been too busy for drama ever since he landed the gig. Too focused on his career. And even more so, he’s not the type to get jealous over stuff like this.
“Well, just saying.” Rebecka goes to the player, inserts a cassette, then presses play. There’s static air. Crackles. That recorded analogue sound: physical, real. If I know my little sister at all, 1980s Janet and Madonna are about to hit the airwaves.
She walks to the middle of the hall and hums a lullaby, soothing the building into whispering its stories to her. When she finds one, she will paint her face with stage makeup, transforming herself into a walking horror portrait.
“Is that a song from the show?” I say.
“Sort of.” Her voice drops to a whisper. She cocks her head, takes a step back, and fixates on the windows high above our heads.
“Do you hear something?” I go to her as silently as I can.
A shiver runs through Rebecka, goosebumps dotting her arms. She places her hand on the wall beside her, following a trickle of water, and trembles again.
“You getting sick or something? Did the headache go away yet?” I feel her forehead.
She steps away. “Nah, it’s nothing. Just gave myself the creeps.” Rebecka swipes her wet fingers on her tights. “Don’t get weirded out if my routine gets eccentric. I’m gonna run through some parts of it.” She stands still, staring off into distance, readying herself.
“Got it.” I go to my chosen wall and grab a spray can from the ground.
The demanding cries of the first song, “Rhythm Nation,” hit Rebecka’s body. Her chin shoots up, her right arm jerks forward as she turns to the side in a twitchy move, explosive energy rushing through her. The strength and vitality of youth collide in her body through sharp moves and on-point delivery, as if years of experience and a life well lived were guiding her artistry. Whoever she is tonight—herself, a character, a walking and dancing horror portrait—the unsettling intimacy she creates demands attention. An audience. Applause.
Rebecka’s going to be a star.
My focus splinters and I hesitate as I stand in front of the lone wall. The song changes. Somewhere in the background, Madonna is singing about how someone must be an angel.
I can be somebody too.
Years of dirt have settled into the grooves of the rough concrete. I place the mask over my nose and mouth, shake the can, and do broad strokes of dark gray paint until a thick layer covers the grime underneath. I throw the can on the ground, take a chalk crayon out of my pocket, and press it against the wall, altering the pressure and angle as I go. The bumps and inconsistencies of the surface make my lines as imperfect as they come. Vague shapes reminiscent of a head, maybe a skull, form on the wall. I rub the chalk, spreading it thin.
I stop. Oh, shit. I take a step back. Huge problem and out of my skill set. I have to play with negative space to draw whatever this is becoming. A name pops into my head and paralyzes me.
Zack Regis.
He’d probably know where to go from here. How to fix this.
Stop. Figure it out. You’re capable enough. Skilled enough.
I take a minute. Collect my thoughts. Cool my tits.
…fuck it. Let’s go.
I go at the drawing again and build the forms by reverse-shadowing, doing lines and blending them until the side of my palm is raw and the latex on my gloves is broken. A chill runs through me; it brushes its frozen fingertips along my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. Maybe I’m the one getting sick.
I glance at Rebecka. Her routine has morphed into something one might have witnessed around midsummer bonfires a millennium ago. A ritualistic dance. She murmurs words I don’t quite catch, following the melody of the humming she did earlier. The Dollies are going with a Kalevala theme this summer. That much I know. I guess the show will lean on the darker side of the national epic hard.
My breath rises in white swirls in front of my face.
“What the hell? Is the temperature dropping here? Rebecka?” I call out to my little sister.
My toes getting wet directs my attention to the ground. A puddle forms around my shoes. Where’s all this water coming from? My gaze darts around the hall, but I’m too close to see it at first—water trickles down the wall with my chalk drawing, washing it away.
A pipe probably burst on the second floor. I clench my jaw. Awesome. Just awesome.
Rebecka stops her dancing. Her face glistens with sweat as she heaves. She frowns, gets closer, then looks past me. I turn around, but it’s too dim to see anything but shadows.
“I wanna go.” Her voice breaks.
“It’s probably just a burst pipe and the night getting colder. I’m not really done yet.” I motion at the wall.
My little sister starts hauling ass. Rebecka crams her belongings into her bag, then marches to me. “I really wanna go. Now.” Her eyes are watery, her breathing erratic. Panic. Fear. She grabs my wrist.
This has happened before. She was nine, and I was sixteen. Just me and her for the weekend at our grandparents’ house—the place where we grew up. She wouldn’t stay in bed. In the middle of the night, I heard footsteps, stairs creaking, and found Rebecka in the kitchen, staring out the window at the lake. “There’s something in the lake,” she said.
The cassette player stops playing.
“Now, please,” she whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Okay. Then we go.” I grab my bag and lace my hand with Rebecka’s.
The next night, she made it out of the house before I heard her. I found her at the pier by the lake, and when she finally snapped out of it, she started screaming and wouldn’t stop. I called an ambulance. They sedated her. A nine-year-old. At the hospital, she was diagnosed with an extreme emotional stress reaction.
Rebecka runs and I run with her until we reach the door. She forces her body through the gap, and I hand her our bags. A breeze rushes at us. The night at our grandparents’, it was cold, too.
Before I wiggle through the gap in the door, I scan the hall for anything at all, listening. Really listening.
Nothing. The air’s warm, the sound of water a gentle drip.
“Let’s go,” Rebecka hisses at me from the other side.
I push through.
We walk the dark streets in silence to my car, the night having settled over the city.
“Sorry, I don’t know what just happened. The training’s getting to me. Messing with my head.” Rebecka smiles a little.
“Are you okay? Is the dance company pushing you too hard?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “I just need to walk it off.”
“Are you sure? I’d feel much better if you came with me. I’ll give you a ride to the boat.”
“Yeah, don’t worry. You have my location.” She clutches her phone.
Location share. A miracle of man. Especially for siblings who worry too much.
“Okay.” I pull Rebecka into a tight hug. “Go home, you stupid girl,” I whisper into her hair, not wanting to let go.
“We’re doing this again, though. I promise I’ll keep my shit together.”
“Well, if you don’t, I’m right here.”
We share a smile. Hers sad, mine apprehensive.
I get in my car and watch Rebecka go until she disappears into the darkness. I pull up the live view of her location and leave it running in the background. Once she’s in the harbor, I’ll close it.
A dread fills me. After the lake incident, she withdrew. Therapy helped some, but she never mentioned that night again. Dancing helped a lot. I’m sorry, Rebecka, but Jade needs to know about this.
I’m about to start the car, but then I lift my foot off the clutch and brake pedal. I bite my lip. Instead of hurrying back home, I look up Zack Regis on IG again. I scroll until I find a picture of him posing in front of a painting. A good-looking guy who takes care of himself. No denying that. Nice cheekbones and a jawline. Kind eyes.
Some people hit the cosmic jackpot with their facial structure. And of course, his DMs are closed. With the number of followers he has, I can’t blame him, though. I do a Google search. An article announcing his art residency in Finland pops up. I follow the link to the residency program located in Suomenlinna, the sea fortress on the coast of Helsinki. I know exactly where the artist studios are on the island.
I think about it. It’s desperate. Kind of crazy. Just showing up with a bunch of uncomfortable questions. Like, Hi, when was the last time you saw Gabriella? Talked to her? Did you have something to do with the disappearance of my friend?
Gabriella would do it for me. One hundred percent. I check Rebecka’s location—steady movement, on course to the harbor. I set the phone on the passenger seat and tap my fingers on the wheel.
The ferries start running to Suomenlinna after six in the morning. If I don’t go tomorrow, I’m gonna chicken out. I let the thought settle into my backbone. Tomorrow, it is then.
Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?
