Thrills and Chills Chapter Sampler

Copyright © 2022 by Bryce Moore

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7

PROLOGUE

In all cases both husband and wife were assaulted while they slept.

When you have the same nightmare two or three times a week for six years, you might think you’d get used to it.

Even after all this time, as soon as it started to play out in my sleep, my stomach sank, and I wanted to throw up. It doesn’t matter how many times you see your parents get chopped into by an axe. It never stops horrifying you.

I was back in my bed, ten years old, listening to my parents sleep while strange sounds came from somewhere else in the house. A steady scraping, like a woodworker planing a board. I hadn’t woken

my parents up back then, and I couldn’t do it during the nightmare, either. I was forced to relive it, right down to the last drop of blood.

So instead of running to Papa and screaming for him to get our own axe or call for help, I rolled onto my stomach and tried to go back to sleep. Five minutes later, the scraping stopped.

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And the footsteps began.

Nothing loud or steady enough for me to recognize, of course. Only enough to echo in my memory ever since. Enough to keep me up at night, wondering what would have happened if I’d only called out in fright. Mama and Papa would have been awake when the door burst open. Papa could have gotten an arm up to stop the first blow. My entire life might have been different.

But, that night, I only wanted to go back to sleep, and the Axeman flung open the door without any warning. I didn’t see any of it, of course. My parents had the curtain up across our room to give them privacy. But I heard it all. My mother’s shriek of terror, the wet thunk that sounded like someone chopping into a ripe melon, the crash of the lamp as it fell to the floor, scattering glass everywhere.

I stayed in my bed, a frightened little mouse, wishing for the sounds to stop and praying this was just a dream. Three more blows came in quick succession, and Mama howled in pain before her voice cut off after a final hit.

More footsteps as the Axeman ran out of the room, and only then was I brave enough to get out of bed. I inched the curtain aside. “Mama? Papa?” No answer came, only ragged breaths and a low moan. I padded over the floor to the light switch, stepping through something warm and wet and dreading what came next.

Why had I turned on the light instead of running after the monster? A single glance at that room had burrowed into my

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memory, haunting me ever since. Each of my parents lay in a pool of scarlet. Papa in the middle of the floor, blood pumping out of a wound in his neck that had laid bare the bone. Mama slumped on the bed, red flowing from a gash on her chin, trickling down her cheek and into her hair before it dripped to the floor. Blood splat tered across their dresser and the wall, a spray of drops to match each blow.

The sight ripped the breath from my throat like I’d been punched in the gut. My ten-year-old mind couldn’t grasp it, but I’d had plenty of time to relive it after each nightmare. It would fade to black now, and I’d—

The blood on the wall began to move, trickling left and right, up and down, defying gravity. I stared at it, confused. The night mare never deviated. Not since the Axeman’s string of attacks stopped seven years ago. I’d had variations back then, right after it happened. Enzo and I had thought I’d made some sort of psychic link with the villain that night. We’d tried to use those nightmares to guess where the Axeman might strike next.

Ten-year-olds can’t help thinking of themselves as the hero of any story around them.

But, after those first few months, the nightmares had settled into a single routine. A song that never changed. Until now.

The blood began to trace out words on the wall, coming together letter by letter to spell out a single message: I’m coming.

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The nightmare swirled, and, when it stopped, I was the one standing before a door, holding an axe. I was the one who kicked it in and started chopping into people left and right. And, instead of horror at my actions, I felt…excited.

I woke breathless, my pulse racing and my heart pounding in my ears. After having relived the same nightmare for so long, this change made me sick to my stomach. I’m coming, the message had read. I tried to tell myself it was just another dream. That it made sense that the same nightmare couldn’t continue unchanged, year after year. It had to vary eventually. But I couldn’t forget the feel of that axe in my hand, or the words written in blood on my bedroom wall. I’m coming.

CHAPTER ONE

In the Crutti case, as well as in the Rissetto case, both of which occurred within the present year, all the victims were Italians.

Enzo was mad at me when I showed up to meet him. It was never hard to tell. His shoulders got stiffer, and he shoved his hands in his pockets like a thundercloud. He might as well have been carrying a sign that said, “Gianna, you’re late. Again.” I held up my hands in surrender.

“I know. I know. I’m a terrible person. I made you wait a whole ten minutes, and now we’re only going to be fifty minutes early instead of an hour.”

Some of the edge left his face as he fought back a smile, which was a relief. I leaned up to him and brushed my lips against each of his cheeks. Just because I’d told him I didn’t want our relationship to get any more serious didn’t mean we had to treat each other like strangers. This was the boy I’d practically grown up with, even if

it did look like he should have shaved again before coming out tonight.

“It’s not the concert I’m worried about missing,” Enzo said. His voice had gotten lower in the last year, and the rest of him had filled out even more. All that exercise, wishing he could be in the army, and now he was practically twice my size. “We haven’t talked in two weeks, and you come by out of the blue asking me to meet you for this. I thought it would be good to talk first.”

“Of course,” I said, hoping my voice sounded as light as I wanted it to be. After the last nightmare, I’d needed someone to talk to about it. Enzo had been my rock years before. I’d thought and thought about bringing it up then. In the end, I’d just asked him to meet me tonight. But it was one thing to know you should do something, and something totally different to actually do it.

Talking about the nightmare would make it real.

I looked around the street, unable to meet his eyes for too long at a stretch. We stood on the corner of Canal and St. Charles, 6:10 on a Saturday afternoon. New Orleans was gearing up for another wild weekend. Neon lights shone against the purple sunset, and people people people, filling the area with the noise of chatter mixing into the whir of the electric trolley and the clatter of automobiles and horses. The air was just cold enough to make you happy you’d worn long sleeves. Perfect. “Lighten up, Vincenzo Rissetto. We live in a wonderful city, and we’re going to see Sidney Bechet, un clarinet tista who could play for the gods.”

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He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. Enzo didn’t view music the same way I did, and he wasn’t too keen on taking God lightly, either. Was it any wonder we didn’t always get along perfectly? Still, he hooked his arm into mine just like he used to, and I found myself blinking back tears. This was all going to be better with Enzo on my side, I told myself. I just had to somehow force myself to go through with it.

Better to get my mind off that as fast as I could. I hung my head and slouched my shoulders and said, “You’re right. I’m late, and I shouldn’t have been. There was this sassofonista I’d never heard on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse, though. He was good, and I stopped to talk to him. He’s straight from Chicago, and he wants to play with some of the groups here. I gave him a few tips, and I lost track of time.”

“You haven’t eaten yet either, have you?” he said.

“I’ll eat on the way,” I replied, then pulled him north along Canal. My ankle flared up with pain for a moment, and I stumbled, leaning on Enzo before I caught my balance.

“Are you okay?”

I waved off his concern. “You know me. I’m always tripping or bumping into something or other. I must have twisted my ankle earlier today—it’s been bothering me all evening. Have you read the news? How are things in Europe?”

“They’re starting another push after Saint Mihiel,” Enzo said, glancing at my ankle once before diving into a discussion about

the Great War, military tactics, and a whole bunch of other things I didn’t really understand. I let him talk, though. That had always been our understanding. I did my best to follow his obsession with the war, and he tried to develop a love for jazz. Never mind that one of those was a much bigger favor than the other.

“I should never have let you talk me out of enlisting last year,” Enzo said.

“Thousands of Americans died just two weeks ago, and you’re sad you missed out on it?”

“They need more troops. I could make a difference.”

“There are over a million American soldiers there. And, besides, you were sixteen when you wanted to enlist, and you looked like you were fourteen. If you’d have shown up, they’d have laughed you out of the room. And what about your parents? What sort of son lets his disabled parents run a store by themselves while he’s off trying to get killed in Europe? If the war is still going next year when you’re eighteen, you can go and do your duty then. Let’s stop here. I’ll have a…how do you say it in English? Ananas?” “Pineapple.”

“Pine apple. I always forget that silly word for it. It isn’t made of pine, and it tastes nothing like an apple.” I dragged him along to a nearby grocer. “I would like a pine apple for dinner. Would you buy it for me, though? I’ll give you the money, but Signora Caravaggio said I need to be especially careful about strangers and disease for the next month.”

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“You make fun of me for being worried about time, but you’re much worse about your superstitions.”

The smile left my face. “Fate will kill you, Enzo. Being late won’t. And who can put a price on knowing what the future holds? The influenza is everywhere. It will be here in New Orleans soon enough, and I’ll be ready.”

He closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, his way of saying “I think you’re silly but I’m going to humor you,” which he did because he knew, if he said it out loud, I’d have more to say about it. I let it slide. I had been ten minutes late, after all.

But, when he bought the pineapple and the grocer sliced into it, my mind flashed back on the nightmare. The axe arcing down, plunging into his head with a moist thunk, blood welling up around the edges as I watched, enraptured.

I blinked my eyes and shook my head slightly. Think happy thoughts, Gianna. Sidney Bechet. Crisp, cool air. Time well-spent with your best friend. The grocer gave him the pineapple, now neatly cut into seven long pieces, like a yellow watermelon. He had the knife tucked into his off hand, the glint sending me for a moment back to that room. To the screams…

“You want the whole thing?” Enzo asked as we resumed walking. He stared at me for a moment, and I wondered if my expression had given me away.

“Do I want to eat an entire pine apple by myself? Do I look like I’m two people hiding in one coat? The other half is for you. You

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probably have to eat twenty times a day to keep all those muscles happy.”

“You’ve been speaking less English the last few months. Your accent is getting stronger.”

“Non mi va,” I said. “I speak it well enough when I need to, and I only need to when I’m out and about with you doing all of this. There are enough Italians in this city to let us ignore all the rest the same way they ignore us, no? Signora Caravaggio says I will marry a good Italian man.”

Enzo blanched.

“No,” I told him. “Not tonight. We’re not going over that again.

Tonight is for Sidney Bechet and pineapple.” I tried to say the word with as strong of an American accent as I could manage to show him I was getting it down right. I could think the language just fine, but, when it came out of my mouth, it tended to get a little muddled.

“Business is good?” he asked me in what I’m sure he thought was a casual tone.

“What?” I looked up at him over the slice, juice running down the corner of my mouth. “Why are you doing this? We are out for a walk and jazz and the night air, not to talk about why I spend too much money and how my family and your family are so different even though they are the same. Have some pine apple. You’ll talk less.”

I chided myself. He’d made a stray comment, and I’d overreacted.

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I’d told myself I wouldn’t do that when I sent him the letter asking him to come with me to this performance. Papa had told me I’d have to keep my tongue in check. “You’re wonderful with strangers, Gia,” he’d said. “Now you need to work on treating your friends and family the same way.” Mama had only rolled her eyes.

Enzo and I continued down Canal Street, heading for the Orpheum Theater. It was still being built, but it was finished enough to have some events. Since they closed Storyville, all the excitement had to move somewhere. While that somewhere was being figured out, they used places like the Orpheum to keep things going. Tonight’s concert was just for those in the know, but I made it my business to stay on top of anything connected to music in New Orleans.

We paused when we got to the theater, only nine blocks or so from where we’d met. Enzo wanted to go in, but I insisted we finish the pineapple first. “That’s all I need. For us to get kicked out because we couldn’t eat the fruit ahead of time.”

“Do you think you’ll play in there one day?” he asked, looking up at the stone theater. It was made from granite blocks. A smooth gray front broken up in sections by carved panels of vines and urns, with a straight overhang protecting the main entrance from rain. I finished the last bite of my slice and shook my head. “An Italian girl, playing on a big stage? I’d have to practice more to get there, and when am I going to have time to practice? I already have the pastor mad enough as it is. He doesn’t like anything but

Bach being played on his piano. Bach was a good guy, but these hands were not made for Bach.” I held up my juice-covered fingers, shrugged, and licked them clean.

When I finished, Enzo was staring at me. For once, I couldn’t read the gaze. I thought I’d been masking the feeling in the pit of my stomach well enough, but it might have been peeking out the edges.

“Enzo!” I said, snapping him out of his reverie. “What is it?

Pine apple on my cheek?” I rubbed at my face.

“It’s gone now,” he said.

I turned and looked at the rest of the street. “Ah!” I cried out, seeing my friend and waving to the jovial-looking Black man standing just around the corner. “Harry!”

He paused and squinted in our direction. I laughed and pulled Enzo along. “What’s the matter, Harry? Do your glasses make you ugly?”

As we got closer, the man broke out into a smile. “Gianna!

What are you doing waiting out here? You think they’re just going to open the doors and let you in?”

“People open doors for me wherever I go,” I said. “But I was not done with my snack just yet. Unless the Orpheum would like to taste some pine apple as well? I could have dropped it all over the seats and the carpet.”

Harry grimaced. “The Orpheum owners don’t exactly know about Bechet playing here for an audience. It’s more of a…rehearsal.

Some of the fellows working on the place have keys, and they knew

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it was going to be empty tonight. Shame to let a stage sit lonely when it could be put to good use. So, yeah, maybe your pineapple was better left outside.”

We followed him down an alley to an innocent back door that led to a tangle of corridors and rooms lined with covered boxes, ropes, tools, and sawdust. I chatted with Harry about the concert and who else might be there, and Enzo followed in our wake. Then

Harry opened a door, and we moved from a construction zone into the middle of a palace.

The main auditorium was cavernous. Blood-red velvet seats for well over a thousand lined the main floor and the three balconies. A crystal chandelier five times as big as me hung from the ceiling, and the walls were covered in ornate blue and gold decorations. The stage was to my right, framed by a drawn red curtain with gold trim. A group of men stood there already, chatting and tuning their instru ments, playing licks of songs, riffs, and arpeggios. The sound echoed more than it did in a club. Less crisp, but much larger. It wasn’t quite right for jazz, but it was different, and you never knew how a change would make you see parts of the music you didn’t catch before.

Harry waved goodbye to us and went to join some of his other friends: the main floor already had around a hundred people there, though that still left the vast majority of the seats empty. I let him go, turning to Enzo. “È incredibile, vero? Come on. I want to see what it’s like from the balconies.”

A man sat next to a table with an upturned hat in the middle

of it, filled with coins. He cocked an eyebrow at us, and I laughed, digging into my purse as Enzo reached into his pocket. “I can pay for both of us,” he said, but I shook my head.

“I’ve been saving up.” If he paid for me, then he’d think of this as a date. If he thought of it as a date, things might get messed up between us again. Better to have firm boundaries, and anyway, what was another dollar? It wouldn’t be enough to keep my parent’s store open longer. I dropped the four quarters into the hat and put the worries behind me.

The man nodded his thanks, and Enzo and I padded off down the aisle, only getting lost once as we looked for the way upstairs. The railings were smooth brass, the carpet soft and new. “Are you sure we should even be here?” Enzo asked, unable to keep from looking over his shoulder. “This is trespassing.”

I shook my head. “Sometimes you’re a mouse, Enzo. A tiny little mouse. It’s Saturday night. Take a break from your worrying and have a good time. The police aren’t going to barge in here and arrest you. You worry about rules too much.”

We came to the balcony, and I went straight for the front center seats, sitting down and putting my feet up on the railing, throwing my arms wide and smiling again. “This is the place for me. Like a queen, right in the middle of the theater. Best seat in the house.”

“Don’t you want to be closer to the music?”

“We can move around when we want, but it won’t start for a while. We can enjoy the view here for now.”

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Enzo stared down at the stage, not meeting my eyes. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

I froze, hoping the grin on my face hadn’t dropped at all. “What do you mean?”

“Gianna. You used to talk about how easy it was for you to read me like your fortune-teller reads a pack of cards, but sometimes you’re just as easy. You’ve gone quiet three times this evening, your eyes going distant. You jump at loud noises. What happened? Is it the store again? Your parents? Two weeks ago you told me you thought we should be apart for a month, and then you change your mind halfway through and ask to go out again? Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad you did, and I hope we can iron things out. But something is wrong, and don’t tell me it isn’t.”

The axe plunged into his skull. I had to jerk on it to get it unstuck, and when it came free, blood arced into the air, warm and wet.

I nodded. “The store. Papa’s health is off and on, and times are tough. The neighborhood isn’t like it was seven years ago, with the rent going up and the kinds of people changing. Not as many Italians now.”

Enzo stared at me, his lips turned down in slight disappoint ment. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you? It’s the nightmare again. I can’t think of anything else you’d be trying to avoid this hard.”

I leaned back in the seat. “When you have un incubo, it’s better not to think about it. Thinking about it makes it more real. Talking about it to someone else makes you remember it even more. This one, I don’t want to remember.”

“But you’ve had it for years. What’s changed?” He stared at me a moment longer before his eyes widened. “You had another one like the ones back then.”

For Enzo and me, there was only one thing that “back then” ever meant. Seven years ago, when we first met. Some people had lovely stories about how they met their friends. New in school. Or at the playground. My parents were attacked in the middle of the night by a man who broke into our house with an axe. Two months later, the same man broke into Enzo’s house to do the same thing. It was a miracle no one had died. Was it any wonder I’d started having bad dreams about it? Though, because we were ten, we somehow thought the nightmares were connected to the Axeman. That I was seeing into his head.

“Who can remember how bad they were?” I said, still trying to keep a light tone to my voice. “But they’re more often now than they have been since then, and this last one was more…specific.”

“Specific how?”

“I don’t know,” I snapped, folding my arms and taking my feet down from the railing. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about them or remember them or talk about them. I want to sit here with my friend and listen to jazz music and forget.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking it through. If he knew what I knew, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

If it were just a bloody nightmare, I could have dismissed it. I’d had a traumatic experience when I was ten. It made sense I would

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have nightmares about it years later. Memories of the attack itself, or the blood in the room after he’d left. My mother gasping for air as blood poured from the wound in her neck, my father still as a corpse, his head wound pulsing.

When I’d asked Enzo out this morning, I’d intended on spill ing everything to him, but, now that he was here, I couldn’t force myself to go through with it. We’d made that promise all those years ago. But it was easy to promise something when you didn’t really believe it could ever be possible, and the world looked differ ent at seventeen than it had at ten.

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse?” he asked at last.

“Of course I will,” I said. “I’ll tell you before I tell anyone else, cross my heart.”

Whether it was my expression or my words, Enzo let the matter drop. It was better that way, I told myself, even if part of me hated myself for being such a fraidy-cat. All I wanted was to listen to jazz. When a band was playing, I stopped being in the past or the future. I could just live in the music. The pastor might like Bach, but there was no life in Bach. It was all rules and order, as if someone had planned everything out in advance. Classical music had all the excitement of a bowl of oatmeal.

Jazz? Jazz was different each time you heard it. Even the same song could be totally new with a different set of players or instruments. The drums and piano would lay down the field, and then you’d have the bass tie those together, letting the clarinet roll

around wherever it wanted, while the trombone slid in between. It was a conversation through music. There could be funny parts or sad parts. When someone played jazz, you could connect with their soul in a way like nothing else.

And it was new. New composers. New techniques. New rhythms. Sometimes I would look around at other people in New Orleans and wonder if they had any idea how lucky we were to be here. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else—anywhen else.

So for that evening, I let the jazz music carry me away. Enzo and I listened to the first few numbers up in the balcony, and then I dragged him down to be closer to the stage. We joined the rest of the audience, crowding up to the front, standing and dancing in the aisles and in our seats. Applauding the solos. Calling for more.

Sidney Bechet was a dream. Twenty years old. Strong and handsome in a dark suit and white hat. His fingers flew across the keys of his clarinet, diving and soaring with the melody like a bird. The group hadn’t played together too often: you could tell by the way the musicians took turns more than normal. It was just like a party. Any time you got a few new people together, it took a while before they really became themselves. Until that happened, people would be more respectful and restrained, letting someone else finish completely before they dared add something to the conversation.

When a jazz group knew each other well enough, their music became something bigger than a series of individual solos. Each line twisted and surrounded the others. But I was willing to forgive

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the players falling short of that peak. Bechet’s performance alone was worth ten times what I’d paid, and the trombonist was almost as good as Frankie Dusen. I’d want to watch him as well if only Armstrong could have made it.

By the time the concert was over, I felt light as a cloud. My ankle was hurting more than it had been, but there were some songs you just had to dance to, injured or not. Enzo and I talked to a few more of the audience members, and then we followed Harry back out through the twists and turns of the backstage to get into the open air again.

“That was incredible. Assolutamente incredibile!”

Enzo smiled back, but it was the same sort of smile I gave him when he told me about an American victory in Europe. It took a bit of the edge off my feeling, but I didn’t hold it against him. He’d come around eventually.

The air had turned colder while we were in the Orpheum. Thin clouds peppered the sky, hiding the moon behind a silver veil. I rubbed my arms and wished I’d brought a jacket. It had to be in the low sixties, at least.

“We should get back,” Enzo said, noticing my movement.

I forced my arms down. “Nonsense. It’s only 10:30. We should go for a walk. Get the blood moving. Harry was saying there might be another concert across town at midnight. Do you want to come?”

“Church is still going to be at nine tomorrow,” he said, glancing up at the sky.

I laughed. “You can sleep through church better than I can. Your

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mother will drag you there half awake, and then you won’t have to worry about anything until she prods you when it’s over.”

“Fine. We’ll walk some and see if you can put up with the cold.”

“How about we stop by my house and pick up a jacket? It’ll be on the way.”

We headed back into the Vieux Carré. Bourbon Street was in full swing still, of course, but all of it was just normal to me. The sights and sounds. People calling out to each other. The noise from bars spilling out into the streets. I’d grown up with it. Maybe that was why I noticed the small differences. The way people stood a bit stiffer. The laughter felt more forced. Was it nerves about the Great War, or about the stories of influenza heading this way?

The more we walked, the more things seemed off to me. There was more liquor, for one thing. People seemed set on getting drunk to forget themselves. More anger. We passed two fights before we even made it to Conti Street. Not just yelling: punches and kicks. We crossed the street and kept walking. A grown man—an Italian—stood in the middle of Toulouse, sobbing. The crowds parted around him, no one wanting to approach him.

Twenty yards farther down the street, a man stood in a sandwich board that read Death Comes for Us All. He wore some sort of mask over his mouth, almost as if he were in a hospital. The fabric was frayed and stained. When he made eye contact with me, I broke the gaze as quickly as I could. When I glanced back—after we were well past him—he was still staring at me.

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My stomach churned like I was going to be sick. For a moment, I stopped and leaned against one of the pillars holding up the balco nies that ran the length of the streets.

“Are you okay?” Enzo asked.

I nodded, focusing on keeping my mouth closed and my food down. If I’d eaten recently, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to hold it back. “It feels wrong,” I said once I had myself under control.

Enzo looked around, confused. “What does?”

“Everything. The city. Like it’s…sick.”

“We need to get you home.”

I closed my eyes, taking some deep breaths. When I opened my eyes, a newsstand across the street caught my attention. As soon as I noticed its papers behind the counter, I knew what I had to do. I straightened and crossed over to the stand. It was late, but they were still open, selling cigarettes to the people out on the town.

“I need a paper,” I told the man running the place.

“Sunday’s isn’t out yet.”

“The Times-Picayune,” I said, fishing into my purse for a few pennies to cover the cost. “Today’s.”

He plucked one off a pile and handed it to me. “Free,” he said. “Viva l’Italia. ”

I thanked him, forcing a smile. There were advantages, being Italian in a city where so many people disliked Italians. I took the paper and went to stand underneath a gas light, wishing it were turned up brighter.

“What are you doing?” Enzo asked me. “There’s something in here I need to read.”

“Did you hear about something that happened?”

I ignored the question, flipping through paper and scanning the headlines. Someone had actually died of the influenza yester day. I hadn’t realized it had gotten that far along. Last I’d heard, there were just a couple of ships in the harbor that were under quarantine, coming over to New Orleans from Panama. The news was bad, but it wasn’t what I was looking for.

There was another battle gearing up in France, this time around a place called the St. Quentin Canal. That was serious, but why would that have sparked with me? I kept flipping, sifting through the news about upcoming dances and new construction projects. Nothing clicked, but something drove me to keep search ing, though I didn’t know why.

I reached the end, and I went back a second time. Maybe it was a fever, and I wasn’t thinking straight, or I might— Brother’s razor involves him in double killing.

It was right on the front page, but I’d dismissed it the first time through. When I came across it now, a passage immediately leapt out at me: “Early investigation indicated the victims had been hacked to death by an axe. Careful examination of the bodies several hours later, however, showed the murderer had cut the throats of Maggio and his wife with a keen instrument, then had beaten their heads with the axe to cover traces of the real death weapon.”

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I read the whole article. An Italian couple—the Maggios—had been attacked in the middle of the night while they were sleeping in their home, just off their attached grocery store. The assailant had run off into the night, leaving the couple bleeding from multi ple axe wounds.

“Santo cielo!” I stared up at Enzo, pushing the paper to him and jabbing my finger down on the article.

He snatched it out of my hands and read it quickly. “It’s close to what happened before, but—”

“Not c lose,” I said. “No. It is. I can feel it, Enzo. Feel it in my soul.”

“This says it was Maggio’s brother. The Axeman went away,” he said, shaking his head. But he said it like a parent would tell their child there were no monsters under the bed. “We’re safe. There’s nothing to worry about.” Seeing Enzo—big, muscled Enzo— with that expression made me feel a little less guilty about the fear gnawing at my gut.

And, when I realized that—when I put a name to the feeling that was overwhelming me—old habits kicked in. Ever since the attack, I’d forced myself to be outgoing. Outspoken. I didn’t want anyone to think I might be the same frightened girl I’d been that night, no matter how I might feel inside.

“Worry?” I forced my eyebrows up, and I stepped forward to place my hands on his shoulders, staring at him. “Who’s worried?” I asked, swallowing the pit in my stomach and putting on a brave

face. I’d made a promise to myself years ago, and those are the promises you keep. No matter what.

He drew back a few inches, examining my face. “You’re not making any sense.”

I dropped my voice down low enough so that only he would be able to hear me. “When my parents were attacked when I was ten, it ruined my world. My mother still checks the doors and windows three times each night, making sure they’re all locked. My father doesn’t laugh the way he used to, and his foot drags when he walks.

Never mind that scar over half his face. I thought my life was over when I saw them there, screaming and covered in blood. But I met you, and you helped me through it. You’d had the same thing happen. You didn’t treat me like some sort of doll that should be put on a shelf because it might get broken.

“The Axeman stole our childhood. Our innocence. And he got away. The police didn’t catch him. The police didn’t care enough.

You and I tried, thinking my nightmares were clues, but we were ten. How were we going to do anything real? He got away, and I’ve had to live with that for seven years. I accepted it. But we promised ourselves back then, Enzo. Promised. He got away, but, if we caught his trail again, we’d put an end to him.”

“You’re saying we should go to the police?” he burst in.

I wanted to throw up. Run and find a bed to hide under. But wasn’t that why I’d reached out to Enzo again? With no one else around, I didn’t have to do anything, but with him there, I knew it

DON’T GO TO SLEEP

would force my hand. “The police? Damn the police. They were worthless then, and they’ll be worthless now. No, God gave me these nightmares for a reason. You think I’ll be able to go to a police station and tell them I’m having visions of the Axeman’s attacks?

What did your parents say when we tried to tell them seven years ago? They thought we were insane. The police will think so, too, or else they’ll think I’m the Axeman myself. We won’t go to the police.”

I pressed my forehead against his, forcing excitement I didn’t feel into my eyes and my voice. “You and me, we’re going to catch that demon ourselves.”

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VP 10 9 8 7

DAY ONE October 25

16:33 p.m.

THE BLOOD-ORANGE SUN BAL ANCED FOR ONE dazzling moment, trapped on the mountain ledge. It slipped behind the ridge, leaving us in the hushed shadows of twilight. I wished I could do the same: slip away.

Lit by the car’s high beams, the winding road stretched like a ribbon ahead. The glaring brightness made the surrounding landscape seem even darker.

“Are you sure we’re not lost?” I asked Mum, glancing at the nothingness around us. “Only it’s been an hour since you said we were almost at the cabin.”

“It’s a Tesla. Teslas don’t get lost.” Mum flicked back her long blond hair. “I know you’re not a big fan of the great outdoors, Lottie, but Oliver’s cabin is so lovely. And as he’s your stepfather now, it’s your place too. There’s nothing for you to worry about. It will be fun.”

“Yep,” I said, thankful that it was too dark to see how close to plummeting off the edge we were.

Vague outlines of tall, dark pines appeared at the sides of the road. We sped by a smaller turnoff, leading deeper into the forest, a sign to a campsite, a lone store— Soto’s Shakes & Supplies—a cross by the side of the road, and then nothing but Mum’s off-key singing and the squeal of tires as she spun around the corners.

I stared at the first evening stars through the sunroof. They were so bright. Of course, because there was no light pollution. We were driving through endless wilderness. I should have known it would be a rustic cabin, in the middle of nowhere. I’d be trapped there with no escape. My chest felt hollow. I swallowed.

“It will all be better in the daylight, Lottie. Then you’ll see how beautifully stunning Tahoe is. Now here we are!” She turned down a narrow road and glided the Tesla smoothly onto a long driveway, stopping abruptly in front of a cabin.

My Frappuccino fell from the cupholder, spilling its dregs onto the white leather divider. I wiped the sticky blob with a crushed napkin.

“Is keeping my wedding gift clean for one day too much to ask?” Mum glared at me.

“Sorry.” I licked the chocolate residue that freckled the back of my pale white hand. We’d barely arrived, and I’d already disap pointed her.

She sighed.

I waited. I knew what was coming. The talk.

“Lottie, I’m trusting you.” She stretched her fingers on the

steering wheel to better admire her brand-new wedding ring, glinting in the dark. “It’s not like I’m asking a lot. It’s only one night.”

I hoped my mother’s new marriage would last longer than that. I stared at the cabin. It was nestled into the side of a hill, surrounded by silhouetted pine trees, dark shapes against darker shapes. Anything could be out there. “It’s just so isolated.”

“That’s what makes it so safe.” Mum smoothed out the creases in her ivory shift dress. “Jade’s sweet and extremely smart, like her dad. It will be good for you to spend this weekend together. She’s really looking forward to having more time with you.”

I seriously doubted that. During the three times we’d met, we’d spoken twice, and both of those were a monosyllabic hi. And one sorry (not sorry) when she “accidentally” slammed the car door on my foot. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” I asked.

“Lottie, it is our honeymoon. We’ll be back tomorrow, for God’s sake. Oliver’s planned this lovely time for you and Jade in the cabin. Aren’t you excited? I thought you were happy for us.”

“I am.” It was hard to sound genuine about something that didn’t seem real. That morning’s city hall wedding was over in less time than it had taken for us to find parking in downtown San Francisco.

“The cabin’s fabulous—you’ ll love it. Anyway, it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do.” She tilted the rearview mirror, checking that her scarlet lipstick hadn’t bled into her white skin.

“No, and who’s fault is that? Moving every six months doesn’t exactly help,” I pointed out. Every time I’d start to fit in and actually have friends, we’d move and suddenly I’d be a stranger with a weird accent all over again. If I ever forgot about it, I’d be reminded. The

novelty of my English accent never wore off for people here. Yes, I’m from England; no, I don’t want to say “water” for you, again. “Five schools in two years, and now another, in my senior year?”

“Don’t blame me for your introverted personality, blame your dad. You’re so like him—always seeing the negative instead of the opportunity. Things will be better now, you’ll see.” She smiled, all fake cheer and white teeth. I seriously wondered if she was my mum at all. “We’re all going to be one big happy family.”

I wanted her to be right, but I knew this would be one more in a long line of broken promises. Only this time there was another kid’s heart to break as well. “I hope so. I really do. But right now, my special role in this arrangement is being a companion to a fifteen year old. So, sorry if this situation doesn’t look that rosy to me.”

“Almost sixteen. You only just turned seventeen. There’s barely a year between you, and she’s way more mature than you’re being right now!”

A gust of wind rattled through the car. I shivered. The cold, the mountains, and that sound—for a moment I was back there, holding Dad’s calloused hand, trekking up stony trails, wind whipping in my ears, eyes streaming. He called them Father-Daughter Days. I called them Goodbye Days. The next morning he’d be gone, off on another mountaineering expedition, away for months. I’d pretend to be sick to stop him from leaving—he’d always go anyway. So much for happy families.

I swung out of the car and slammed the door.

“Lottie!” Mum hissed after me. “Don’t you dare screw this up!”

As usual, so trusting in my abilities. I pretended not to hear, held my head high, and marched up to the cabin’s front door.

“You’ve arrived!” Oliver, my new stepdad, gathered me in a bear hug. “I was worried your mom had got lost.” His cashmere sweater smelled of cinnamon and earth.

For a moment I allowed myself to feel wanted, safe, protected. But there was no use pretending. I pulled myself away. “She couldn’t resist one last Starbucks stop.”

“Well, it’s good to finally have you here.” He grinned, brown eyes crinkling at the edges, like they were used to smiling. All of his features were smooth and warm—brow n skin, round cheeks, smooth, bald head, and his deep voice, which made it sound like he meant every word he said.

I stood there, clutching my battered backpack.

“At least we had time to open up the cabin and check every thing worked before you arrived. Lights, power, fire.” He clapped his hands. “It always takes a little while for the hot water to heat up when no one’s been here for a while, but it should be fine in half an hour or so. Jade’s been waiting for you.” Oliver moved aside to reveal her, sitting cross-legged on the cream suede sofa in the middle of the enormous living room.

“Hello.” I gave a little wave, like that was a normal thing for a stepsister to do.

She gave me a nod and returned to her Switch game. A black curl had escaped her high bun and bounced gently against her brown neck, as her fingers tapped the console. She’d changed out of this morning’s sapphire dress into ripped blue jeans and a soft

gray cardigan over a teal Extinction Is Forever T-shirt. I bet her sweater was cashmere like her dad’s. I suddenly felt the weight of my consignment store fleece. It was North Face, probably a nineties original. I fiddled with my oversized watch, stopping as soon as I realized I was acting nervous.

“Don’t mind her. She’s a little shy, but get her talking about anything nature and she’s your friend for life.” Oliver grinned at me, as if I was in on the joke and would actually smile back.

Jade gave an aren’t-parents-embarrassing eye roll. I gave a small smile, like I agreed. But I’d take embarrassment over disappoint ment any day.

“Hello, darling!” Mum made her entrance, all flying scarf and crimson peacoat. Oliver swept her up in his arms and twirled her. She flung her head back, squealing in delight.

“Does it drive well? I was getting worried about you.”

Mum tilted her head. “I know I said I’d follow you, but it’s not like you can get lost when there’s only one road. You don’t mind, do you, darling?”

“No, of course not. But I think we’d better rush if you want to make our dinner reservations.” He looked at his watch. “We’re cutting it close.”

“Whatever you decide, darling. Popping to the loo, then I’m all yours.” Mum dashed by me. “Oh, and the Tesla drives like a dream, but it’s almost out of charge.”

“Okay, then.” Oliver grabbed his jacket. “Guess I’m the valet,” he said and went to park the Tesla in the garage.

My throat was dry. I was sinking. I wish I hadn’t agreed to this.

It was going to be long and painfully awkward being alone with my new stepsister, but at least it was just for one night. I took a deep breath. Maybe Mum was right, maybe this time would be different. It was a marriage, after all. But it was still her.

Between them, my parents did not have a great track record for relationships. Dad vanished, leaving no trace on my eighth birth day, and Mum was a one-woman tornado of broken promises. Never trust anyone was her motto. Prepare to be let down was mine.

I dropped my backpack by the closet and made my way to the fireplace, bumping into the oak coffee table on my way. Nice entrance. The iron chandelier lights flickered high above me for a second, before returning to normal. I stared at the flickering glow of the flames in the fireplace, rubbing my hands as if I were cold. Pretending to be at ease.

“What are you playing?” I could at least act like I was interested.

“Animal Crossing,” said Jade without lifting her head from the screen.

“Oh.” I glanced up at the cathedral ceiling, feeling smaller by the second.

“You’re in the guestroom downstairs.” She pointed to the stairwell.

“Right. Thanks.” I wondered if I could leave out some back door and disappear. Jade would be fine playing her game, and Mum wouldn’t even notice I was missing. Not that there was anywhere to go.

Oliver hugged Jade goodbye. “Bye sweetie.”

“Bye, Dad. Love ya.” Jade smiled.

“Love you too.” He kissed her cheek. Like the perfect dad in a television commercial.

I stood there feeling like a total intruder.

“Sorry, Lottie,” said Oliver. “I was going to leave you the Land Rover, but I guess we’re taking that now. I’m charging the Tesla for you. It will be ready in a few hours. You’ll be fine until then. And don’t let Jade trick you into letting her drive. She only just got her permit.” He smiled.

I didn’t dare tell him I hadn’t got my license yet. “Just don’t disappear on us.” It came out sounding more desperate than I’d meant it to.

He shook his head. “Never. I promise.”

They were ready in seconds, a flurry of coats and hugs, and off they went—the black Land Rover’s headlights slicing through the night.

Oliver called out of the car window: “Don’t worry about the snowstorm. We’ll be back long before then. And Jade knows where everything is!”

“What snowstorm?” I shouted, but they couldn’t hear me above their music. “What things?” Oliver was already singing along to Coldplay. Mum’s choice, for sure.

I lingered at the front door until the taillights disappeared. A breeze ruffled the branches, sending gentle waves through the surrounding woods. I shivered. The air was too thin, too cold, and too lung-stabbingly sharp. A crow cawed from the top of an

overhanging pine. The bird stared at me with black marble eyes. My neck tingled; I had the sensation that I was being watched. I turned and stared at the trees, as if I could make out anything hiding in there. It was so dark, so quiet. Waiting-for-something-tohappen quiet.

A gust of wind shook the trees. I shivered and checked my weather app. My phone was down to one bar. “Jade?” I came back inside, taking care to double-bolt the huge door. “Did you know about a snowstorm coming?”

“It’s Tahoe. Sometimes it snows. Dad said not until Sunday.” She looked out the window. “It won’t be much. Not in October. It will probably just be freezing rain.”

“Oliver would have said, right, if it was going to snow badly, like left special instructions, or warned us?”

“He wouldn’t leave us here if he thought we’d be in any danger.

Stop worrying. It’s a ski cabin, built for snow. Anyway, he’ll be back in the morning.” Jade checked her watch, like it would tell her the exact time he’d be back. “Like twelve hours.”

“You make it sound like he’s coming back alone.”

“No. I didn’t mean…” Jade looked startled by my suggestion.

“I know.” She was probably counting down the minutes until it was over too. I picked up my backpack and took it downstairs.

The cabin was built into the side of a hill. From the front it looked like a cozy one-stor y place. But beneath the entrance floor, with the open-plan living area—dining , lounge and kitchen, and observation deck—was the dow nstairs floor, and it was enormous.

Huge windows looked out onto the surrounding wilderness.

There was a den with a deep blue sectional and an enormous TV. To the left of the door was a corridor leading to the bedrooms.

I wandered along, looking into each bedroom.

I threw my backpack onto the bed in the last room at the end of the hallway. I figured since it didn’t have a king-sized bed strewn with abandoned outfits, or a neat pile of Tahoe nature guides and AP textbooks on the bedside table, this room devoid of any personality had to be mine—the guest room. Perfect for temporary visitors.

Our whole apartment building could fit into the space of that one cabin, and this was just their vacation house. It wasn’t even where I’d be living. According to Mum, that would be in a gorgeous Craftsman home in Menlo Park. It all seemed so unreal. I felt dizzy for a second. Pinpricks of light glittered before my eyes.

So much space for only two people, but originally it would have been for three. Her sparkling eyes gazed out from the family photos dotting the walls—at the beach, in the forest, at the top of the Empire State Building—Jade’s mum, looking like Beyoncé’s long-lost sister, beautiful and confident. Oliver had a smooth, bald head even then, and there was bright-eyed, dimple-cheeked mini Jade. They leaned into each other, faces shining with happiness.

Jade had lost someone too. Her mom died when she was young, but not too young to remember. Our only commonality—a weight of sadness clinging to us like shadows.

2 9:35 p.m.

“SO, HERE WE ARE THEN.” I STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF the open-plan living area, dwarfed by the enormity of everything— the wall of bookshelves, the eighty-inch flat-screen TV, the huge stone fireplace, and the gleaming steel kitchen. With Mum and Oliver gone, it echoed with emptiness.

“Yup.” Jade stretched her legs out on the sofa like she was taking ownership. Staking her claim. My new sister. We were a family just like that.

“Just you and me. In this whole big place.” I glanced out the windows. It was too dark to see anything but the bright reflections of two strangers playing house. Anyone outside would be able to see everything we were doing, without us having a clue they were there.

“I’m not shy.” Jade sat upright, daring me to contradict her. “I just don’t like talking, unless I have something to say.”

“I get it.” Wise. “Me neither.” I flicked my watch. “So…” I could feel myself struggling to connect with her on any level, like I was trying to swim in the sky.

“Dad says you’ve never been to Tahoe before?”

“Nope.” Not really in our budget. “Mum was always too busy to travel, I guess.”

“Tahoe’s our special place.” She paused and looked out the window into the night.

“Don’t you find it…” I hesitated.

“Boring?” said Jade. Obviously expecting the worst of me.

“No, not that. Just lonely. I mean, it’s so quiet, out in the middle of nowhere. Don’t you ever get worried, being so far from anyone else?”

Jade smiled. “I love it out here. It’s a good place to experience nature, without being interrupted or interrogated.”

My face flushed. I hadn’t thought what it might be like for her. “It will be cool to explore Tahoe with you.” It will be cool? Ugh, she must hate me already.

“There’s a lot of wildlife. Hope you like bears and mountain lions.” Her amber eyes glinted. Now she was teasing me.

“As long as they’re not too close.” It was seriously dangerous out there.

“Honestly, Tahoe is beautiful, especially when it snows. And the skiing’s amazing.”

I’d never skied in my life, and I didn’t expect to be around long enough to learn. “Sounds great.” I gave a small, tight smile.

She fake-smiled back, then went out onto the deck. The French doors shut with a click behind her. I’d failed at her first attempt to

connect. This was going to be hard. But it was only for the night. I could survive this. I sighed, resigned to giving it another shot. It was that or circle around each other for the next ten hours, which almost sounded better.

I followed her outside. The wind whispered through the surrounding trees. I leaned over the railings and inhaled a deep breath of musky pine. Oliver was right. There was nothing like Tahoe mountain air for rinsing out grimy, city lungs. The thick darkness took more getting used to. Things moved in the under growth. Invisible things, scurrying.

“It’s so dark out here.” I was thankful for the light of the moon.

“Sometimes at night, when it’s really clear, you can see migrating birds flying over,” said Jade, staring up at the sky.

“And I thought you were looking at the Milky Way and watching for shooting stars.” I looked up just in time to see one fall. “Wow, there’s one.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of space action out there.” She tapped her fingers on the wooden rails. “That’s what Dad always looks at.”

“Of course, being an astrologist and all.”

“Astrophysicist. He studies stars, not signs.”

“That’s what I meant.” I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or actually thought I was stupid. Both, probably.

I focused on the bright stars freckling the indigo sky. There were millions of them all clustered together, staring down at Earth. All those planets exploded, galaxies unraveled, and stars were born light-years away. You could never look up and see the present, only images of the past.

“Hear that?” Jade tilted her head as an owl called from nearby. “Great gray owl. Shoot, I should have grabbed my binoculars.”

“Why don’t you use that?” I pointed at a telescope. The brass casing winked at me through the window.

“Er, no.” Jade crossed her arms.

“Er, why?” It was a glare-off.

She arched her brows. “One, you don’t use a telescope to birdwatch. Two, Dad will kill you if you touch it because, three, it was Einstein’s and it’s priceless.”

“Yeah, right.” She seriously couldn’t think I’d fall for that.

“Okay, I’ll prove it.” She pushed the door open wide.

I followed her inside. The telescope was locked in a glass case, balanced on the sideboard behind the sofa. I ran my finger over the brass inscription, Albert Einstein. “For real? And Oliver uses it?”

Jade hesitated, then gave a half nod. “He had it brought it up here so we could see how Einstein saw the stars with his old telescope, compared to how they look through Dad’s modern ones. He thought it would be fun.”

“Sounds like Oliver.” I doubted “we” included me. “If he was planning to use it anyway, would he really be mad if we set it up tonight?”

Jade pursed her lips. “I can find one of Dad’s better telescopes, if that’s what you want. You can use that old thing when he’s back tomorrow, okay?”

I nodded and stared at it wistfully.

“Look, it’s on loan. It’s not even supposed to be up here. Dad

made me promise not to touch it. So we’re not going to.” She stared into my eyes, daring me to flinch.

“Got it.” I smiled reassuringly. “So, do you want to star gaze with your binoculars and listen for owls? Or maybe watch a movie?” I bet they had all the streaming services.

“You can watch a movie. I’m tracking birds.” Jade ran downstairs, reappearing seconds later with a pair of binoculars. She draped the throw from the sofa over her shoulders.

“I’ll join you,” I blurted without thinking. Still, those stars were pretty amazing.

“It gets chilly out here.” Jade paused at the door like she thought I couldn’t handle a little cold.

I grabbed the fuzzy fleece blanket from the armchair and turned off the lights so we could see the sky in all its glory. Starlight scattered across the velvet night, sparkling the dark with silver brilliance. Even the clouds that gathered at the edges couldn’t spoil the effect.

“Wow”—I pointed—“shooting star!”

“That’s a satellite,” said Jade. “You can tell by its steady motion.” We followed its path across the sky. “Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll see another actual shooting star soon.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I lay down on a lounge chair and focused on the night sky.

“And that’s…not supposed to happen.” Jade’s forehead creased with concentration.

I squinted to where she was pointing.

A crack of emerald opened above us. Fragments of torn rays

rippled along the crack’s edge—a hem of phosphorescence. Ribbons of light silhouetted the pine trees and flickered like flames, running up and down the length of a giant undulating curtain, swaying in the magnetic wind. Nothing like a meteor shower.

I jumped up, staring.

“The northern lights.” Jade murmured it like a spell.

“It can’t be.” I stood on my tiptoes, like that would help me see better. “I thought they only happened up north, like Scotland or Alaska.”

“Yeah”—Jade paused, forehead scrunched, like she was trying to remember something—“but planetary events can push them farther south.”

“Planetary events? Like what?” I was totally relying on her to have accessed Oliver’s encyclopedic knowledge of astrophysics through osmosis, or birth, or anything.

“Sun storms can cause auroras like this, that knock out satel lites and power grids. It happened in Canada.” She sucked the air between her teeth.

“And you know that, how?”

“Dad.”

I nodded. I was right. Oliver probably had an episode about unusual auroras on his Astro Professor podcast series, and Jade probably knew all of them, word for word. It was weird suddenly being related to a geek celebrity. Like winning a prize in a drawing you didn’t enter.

A ripple of fuchsia entwined with the luminous ripples of green and pulsed across the sky. We stood motionless, scared to move for

fear of it disappearing like a dream. I’m pretty sure I forgot to close my mouth.

“It’s amazing,” said Jade.

I nodded. My heart was singing. That moment—I clicked an invisible camera in front of my eye—a frozen image to be captured forever, locked in my memory.

We didn’t want to leave the back deck, not while the kaleido scope of auroras was still dancing, but it was freezing, so we bundled up, and lay side by side swaddled in blankets.

The wind whooshed like waves through the trees. Dark clouds rushed over the mountains, snuffing out the stars, cluster by cluster. The auroras faded, then vanished completely. An owl hooted in the distance. A great gray owl according to Jade.

“We should go in, before we freeze to death.” I sat up, shivering in the chilled air.

“That was incredible,” said Jade. “I’m gonna call Dad. See if he saw it, too.” She rushed inside.

“It is their honeymoon!” I shouted after her.

The air chilled. Something rustled in the undergrowth. I hurried inside, locking the night behind me.

“Jade?” I flicked on the wall switch. The light bulb was out. I made my way to the floor lamp, by the dim light of the fire. That one was out too. In the kitchen, the fridge no longer hummed. The dishwasher was mute. I smacked into the corner of the side table, knocking a stack of magazines to the ground. The fake bear- skin rug felt a little too real. The whole cabin was thick with silence.

“Jade, where are you?” Branches swept against the window. “Jade?” I whispered.

The bookshelves loomed. The telescope glinted from its glass cage. I beamed my mobile phone’s light along the wall. A masked frogman, with huge eyes and an angled spear, stared at me from a distressed gold frame.

Jade popped up from the stairwell. “I’m right here. I ran down for my charger.”

“I can’t get the lights to work.” I flicked the hall light switch on and off to demonstrate the lack of power.

“Let me see.” Little clicks came from all around the kitchen as Jade turned on multiple switches. She went through the living area, double-checking everything I’d already tried. Then ran along to the bathroom and tried there. “Nope. It’s all dead,” she said. “Nothing works.” Her voice echoed in the dark.

10:25 p.m.

THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. “OKAY,” I murmured to myself. It was so quiet and dark. I’d gnawed on my lip and licked the blood away.

“It happened, just like I said. The auroras tripped the power grid.” She paused, deep in thought.

“What exactly happened in Canada?”

“A nine-hour power failure. Don’t worry. We’re fine here.”

“Yeah, of course.” Nine hours. Just get through the night. “Should we check the circuit breakers?” Please let it just be a blown fuse.

“I’ll get the flashlights,” said Jade.

Such an obvious thing to do, that I hadn’t thought of. “Let’s get the torches together,” I suggested.

“Torches, like flames?”

“Torches, flashlights, whatever. Same difference.” England and America, forever divided by a common language.

“Not exactly,” Jade said, but she led the way.

I followed her vague outline to the closet by the front door, tripping over a metal bowl and sending it clattering across the floor. My heart went into a frenzy.

“What was that?” Apparently, Jade’s did too.

“A dog bowl?” I picked it up. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“We don’t.” She sighed. “Mom was allergic. And now Dad just can’t.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. I placed the bowl back against the wall.

Jade opened the closet door. “It was probably from Uncle Marvin’s dog. He stays here sometimes. He brought up the Einstein telescope for Dad last week. He’s ex-marine, Dad’s best friend.”

“I bet he’d know what to do in an emergency.” I never imagined Jade and Oliver having an extended family. People I didn’t even know were suddenly clinging to the branches of my family tree. Unlike Dad, who deliberately broke free.

I took a sharp breath.

“Are you okay?” asked Jade.

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t about to explain the memories that snuck up and pulled me under like a riptide.

Jade nodded and turned back to the closet. “Here are the flash lights we use for owling.” Four Maglites were neatly lined up in a row on the top shelf. She passed me a satisfyingly hefty one and took another for herself. “Look, it’s not an emergency. Even if the power’s really out, we have food, fire, and water.” She paused, feeling further along the shelf. “That’s weird. I thought the emergency

radio was here too.” A packet rustled in her hand. “Dog treats? They must be for Uncle Marvin’s dog too.” She tossed them back.

“I’m just not used to this pitch-black dark,” I said, grinning like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Yeah, it’s a different level of darkness out here. Perfect for owling and stargazing. That’s why Dad and I love it.” I could hear the happy memories in her voice.

I followed her across the big room. “This kind of thing must happen all the time—blackouts, I mean, not auroras.”

“Not often.” She opened the door that led to the garage and a blast of cold air greeted us. “But it happens. People who live here full-time have generators. But we don’t come here often enough to need backup power or a landline.”

“How often do you come up? Once a month? Twice a year?” The cold crept up my spine.

“Once every few months. It’s where Dad feels closest to Mom.” Jade bit her lip and opened up the breaker box.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard, isn’t it?” Oh, so crass. Like she’d want to confide in me. “If ever you want to, like, talk.” I was so bad at this. I hated it when people did it to me.

“It was a long time ago. I was six.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. I changed the topic. “Are the fuses tripped?”

Jade flicked them off and on again. “Nope, they’re fine. It’s just a good old-fashioned solar flare power cut.”

“Do you want to call Oliver?” I so didn’t want to call Mum.

“My cell phone’s out of charge.”

Of course. That’s why she’d gone for the charger. I pulled out mine. “No signal.”

Back in the main room, the first flecks of snow attached themselves to the windowpanes, and the fire made little popping noises, filling the emptiness. We sat in front of it, staring at the flames. I waited for her to speak, but I guess she didn’t have anything to say.

The silence thickened between us. A reminder that nothing was out there but smothering clouds and rummaging creatures. And far off in the distance was the faint rumble of a car engine.

“It’s coming closer!” I rushed to the kitchen window, as if I would see anything that far away.

“It must be Dad. I knew he’d come back if he thought there was the slightest chance of danger.” Jade shook her head but she smiled. She was actually relieved.

Who could blame her? No more pretending to get along. We could go back to being polite strangers.

A flurry of snow flew into my face as I cracked the front door open. The engine rumble filled the night. It had to be end-of-theroad close.

Jade pushed past me, flashlight in hand, throw wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She stood practically on her tiptoes watching for the Land Rover to appear.

The lights were blinding. At first, I thought it was going to zoom right by, but it swerved at the last minute, screeching the brakes as it slid into the driveway. It was a pickup truck. Red. Not our parents.

The driver beeped the horn four times, like they were picking someone up.

“Shit.” Jade rushed back inside, pulling me with her.

I shook her hand from my arm. “We can’t just hide,” I hissed. “They must have seen us.”

Jade crouched by the door.

The truck door creaked open.

I peered through the window. Stupid mistake. The headlights lit up my pale face like a lantern. I opened the door and stood half in half out. “Hello?” Oh so English. “Can I help you?”

A young white guy, with seriously sharp cheekbones, frowned at me through the windshield. Obviously, I was not who he was expecting. He jumped down from the truck.

“Oh no. I think we’ve come to the wrong place.” He grinned. “Sorry to disturb you. We took a wrong turn.”

“Hurry it up, AJ!” a guy called from the truck. I got a flash of his green beanie and shiny black jacket.

AJ stamped his black Timberland boots. “I thought this was our friend’s cabin, and it obviously isn’t. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, we’re not scared.” I smiled brightly to prove it.

“We?” He tilted his head and looked past me.

Jade appeared at the door and gave a worried smile.

“Yeah, me and my…sister. Stepsister.” It sounded so odd.

“Ahh, so you okay with the blackout, and that crazy sky stuff?” He pulled the black beanie off his head and shook out his dirty- blond hair.

I nodded. “Yeah, crazy. But we’re fine. It’s kinda cold so…” I started to close the door, ready to get back inside.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” said Jade, with a touch of ice.

AJ stepped closer. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, since we’re here. Do you need help with anything? You here alone?”

“Our parents are due back any second with takeout.” Right, because there are so many places to get food in the middle of nowhere, during a blackout.

“Great.” He zipped up his jacket. “We’ll get going then. Have a good night.”

“Thanks. Stay safe.” I waved as they peeled out the driveway and beeped their goodbye. And sighed with relief as they disappeared back into the night.

“Stay safe?” Jade arched her brows. “Takeout?”

“I know, I know.” I played with the flashlight button. “At least we know we’re not the only ones out here.” It did make me feel weirdly better.

“Yeah, and they know we’re here alone.” Jade rubbed her arms to keep warm.

“Look, they just took a wrong turn and wanted to be sure we were okay. That’s a nice thing to do,” I said.

“I hope you’re right.” Jade looked out into the dark. “At least they’ve gone. You should never have opened the door like that.”

Yeah, like you weren’t so excited thinking Oliver had come back for his precious daughter, I thought.

“At least we’re fine as long as we have enough wood to keep this fire going.” I laughed.

“I hope so,” said Jade. “I guess Dad didn’t expect it to be our only source of heat when he made it.” She looked at the two small logs at the side of the fireplace.

“What about those?” I pointed to the basket of giant pine cones.

Jade shook her head. “They’re old and dusty and burn too fast. You know, sometimes Dad stacks firewood downstairs by the back door. I’ll go and check.”

“I’ll come too.” I still felt like I was being watched. I knew it was ridiculous. But the big windows in the house made it seem like we were in a goldfish bowl. Our flashlights would be easily visible in the dark night. Not that anyone would be wandering by, out here in the middle of nowhere.

We made our way down the stairs to the back door without saying a word. The cabin creaked around us.

“That’s weird.” Jade pointed to the empty hook next to the door. “Key’s missing.” She tried the door handle. The door swung open. “Shit, Uncle Marvin must have forgotten to lock it and gone off with the key. Dad will be furious.”

We huddled outside around a small stack of wood. From the look on Jade’s face, I guessed Uncle Marvin had depleted that supply too. We carried the three remaining logs back inside. Jade bolted the back door behind us.

“It’s getting pretty chilly out there.” I shook the snow from my hair.

“Yeah,” Jade said, taking the stairs two at a time. “We should stay in the main room by the fire until the power comes back.”

“Good idea.” I hugged myself warm. It was amazing how fast the cabin cooled down once the central heating stopped working.

Back upstairs our flashlight beams made the world outside seem darker, a world of whispers, branches scraping against cabin walls, and snow dancing on glass.

“How far do you think this blackout goes?” I tapped my fingers on the wooden floor then stopped so Jade wouldn’t think I was anxious, or restless, or worried, or anything like that at all.

“It’s off-season. Most of the cabins out here are still empty so their lights won’t be on anyway. Could be one mile or twenty.”

Jade’s voice ricocheted across the cathedral ceiling.

“Great.” Cold curled in under the windowsills. The fire gave a small amount of heat but highlighted the dark around us. Black, on black, on black—near shadows with darker shadows hiding behind them. “Should we add another log?”

Snow pattered against the window.

“Yeah, but we’ll need them to last all night if the power…” Jade pursed her lips.

I got it. Saying it out loud made the possibility too real. I opened the glass doors to the fireplace and placed two giant Tahoe pine cones from the nearby basket onto the dying embers instead. They caught fast, blazing to almost nothing in seconds.

“Those aren’t meant for fires,” said Jade. “Use…”

I balanced a log on top of the flames as she spoke. “This?” I asked. The log fizzed and smoked. “Sorry, not that.”

“No, not the damp logs.” Jade coughed and fanned the smoke away. She coughed again. “Dry, never damp,” she said between wheezes.

“You okay? Is it asthma?” I poked the damp log away from the flames. “I’m really sorry.”

Jade nodded as she caught her breath. “I only get it around… smoke and cold air.” She took a deep breath, slow in and out. “I’ll

be right back.” She disappeared down the stairwell and came back two minutes later, clutching an inhaler. “See. I’ll be fine.” She took two puffs.

“You sure?”

“The miracle of modern science.” She smiled to let me know she was fine, everything was okay, and having a stepsister who didn’t even know how to make a safe fire was totally normal.

“Alright then. I’ll fix this.” I cracked the fireplace doors back open, and placed a dry log on top of the smoldering pine cones. The flames flickered, reluctantly at first, before running along the top of the log and bursting brightly as they fell onto the pine cones. We had fire again. I slammed the glass doors shut and grinned at Jade. “Crisis averted!”

“Yay,” said Jade unenthusiastically. “I wonder if they have power in Reno.”

“They’d call, right?” I checked my phone again. No signal. “Which would go to voice mail.”

Jade frowned. “Yeah, and if I don’t answer his calls or text him, Dad will freak out and drive back.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. It would be danger ous to drive back in the pitch black, with no streetlights, and, anyway, they know we’re together, two competent teens, right? We have fire, torches, food—why would they spoil their honeymoon to check on us when they know we’re fine?” There was no way Mum would ruin her night worrying about me.

Jade continued like I hadn’t spoken. “I just don’t want him to be worried.”

“He trusts you. Whatever happens, right? Smart scientific daughter and all that.”

“True.” Her shoulders relaxed.

“Hey, you’re not wheezing anymore.” My foot tapped restlessly against the floorboards.

Jade glanced down the stairs. “We should get more blankets to stay warm, so that we don’t need to make a big fire and use all the logs too fast.” Her shadow chased her flashlight beam down the stairwell.

The flames flickered and dwindled in the fireplace. A nagging seed of doubt sprouted in my gut. I avoided looking at the black expanse outside for fear of how big and empty it was, and how awful it would be if a face appeared at the window. I tried to shake the thought from my head, but it stayed in there, banging around the sides of my skull.

I could hear every movement Jade made, bounding down the stairs, creaking open the door, running across her room. Then nothing. What was she doing? I waited for her to come back up. There was nothing down there, just the wind making unfamiliar noises, rattling against the windows, blowing down the chimney. We’d go to sleep and wake up and that would be it, night done, and we could go home, and I could get on with the rest of my life. Except I couldn’t. I swallowed hard. I didn’t have a home. We’d left San Francisco. This was my new life. Forced time with Jade, playing besties in the weekend cabin, while Mum went off with Oliver. My head throbbed.

Jade emerged, carrying a pillow and a huge puffy quilt. She’d put

on an extra sweater. This was probably the worst night she’d ever had, stuck in the dark and cold with me.

“Alright, Jade?” I asked my fellow prisoner.

“Yep.” She laid her bedding down near the fire. “You should get more layers on in case the fire goes out while we’re sleeping.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. I didn’t have that many clothes with me.

“There’s spare fleeces and Dad’s old Morehouse College sweatshirts in the coat closet if you don’t want to go downstairs again.”

I nodded and walked to the coat closet. I threw on the first fleece I touched. It was a bit too big, but it was soft and warm. I gathered up all the artfully folded throws from the sofa to make a blanket fort. “Want to make s’mores or tell ghost stories or anything?”

“Let’s not pretend this is a fun sleepover.” Jade buried herself under her quilt.

“Alright then.” That was one way to make the night go quicker. I huddled by the fire. The cabin grew extra rooms around us in the dark. The walls were higher, the corridors longer, the creaks louder. Swaddled in night, sounds became sharper: the crackle of fire, the dust of snow on the windowpanes, and the faint crunching of very careful, very quiet, footsteps.

11:15 p.m.

I FROZE, WAITING TO HEAR THAT SOUND AGAIN. IT wasn’t the wind or the snow: it was a slow, deliberate crunch, like a boot trying to tread silently. I could hear Jade’s even breathing. At least she was asleep.

It could be my mother and Oliver, coming back early. Jade said they might return. But Mum wouldn’t worry about waking us. She’d be fists pounding on the door, or car horn blaring to wake me. And even if Oliver preferred a calmer entrance, he had a key, so there would be no reason to creep around the back. I wondered if it could be the guys from earlier, but the sound of their truck engine would be pretty unmissable. Anyway, they’d just knock at the door. No need to sneak around.

I shivered and checked my phone in case Mum had texted. Still no signal. The wind dropped. My breathing, my heartbeat, the fire

popping, filled the hollow room with sharp, quick sounds. So much space, so much dark, so much nothing surrounding us.

We were so alone—no people walking, no familiar sounds of sirens, tires screeching, or late-night cheers. Here in the mountains, every sound was amplified and alien. Were bears nocturnal animals? Even if they were, I doubted they’d be trying to walk softy.

A chill crept across the back of my neck. I’d felt this dread before, years ago, curled up in the car, watching snow cover the windows, listening intently for Dad’s footsteps, and waking alone in the frozen dawn. I dug my nails into my palms, willing myself back to the present. I was in the cabin. I was safe. No one was abandoning anyone.

I pulled out my journal and doodled a hedgehog next to my last poem. Push me, push me, push me off. I’m sinking anyway. My tortured-soul journal, according to my mother. Not that I’d ever let her read it.

The swing in the front yard grated, metal against metal, as the wind pushed it. Out the window trees swayed and the sky hung low, a hammock of dark clouds. Nothing to worry about.

Jade was probably right; if they had a power outage, Oliver would want to come back and Mum would convince him we could handle it. But if Oliver thought for one second Jade was in any danger, he’d be back straight away. So either Oliver didn’t think there was any danger at all, or else it was so small he trusted we could handle it. Or at least that Jade could.

She obviously loved the mountains, being alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nature, squirrels, deer, and bears with

long, evil claws. I held myself as I listened for a footstep, as if I could hear anything above my heart thudding in the hollow space.

If someone was out there, they’d been standing still a long time. They could be frozen. Or it could have been nothing at all. I overthought things, turning everything dark into something deadly. Too many horror movies, Mum would say. Born from experience, I’d snap back.

I took a deep breath and focused on the wind gathering strength outside and waited for the sound of shingles flying off the roof, or trees crashing into the cabin. Calm yourself. I focused on the crackle of fire, Jade’s steady breathing, and the tiny, soft tick of my watch.

A rattle came from the back door downstairs. A key in a lock.

My heart lurched. I seized the flashlight, swinging the beam to flood the stairs with light. The rattle stopped.

“What the actual?” Jade sat bolt upright. Not asleep then. We crept in silent agreement, down the stairs, one step at a time, backs against the wall. I led the way, mouth dry, flashlight in hand, ready. Not ready. A chill raced down my spine. A branch scrapped against the window. That couldn’t be all it was. Branches don’t sound like rattling keys. We froze.

I could feel eyes on me, tracking my every move. I turned off my flashlight and faded into the darkness. If anyone was there, they’d have a hard time seeing me. I tightened my jaw. I’d got this.

“Do you think it’s the guys from earlier?” Jade asked, eyes wide. I shook my head. “Why would they come back?”

To my left, the long corridor stretched into infinite black; to my

right, Jade’s bedroom door swayed slightly where she’d left it ajar. I shut it. In the daylight, the ground floor would be flooded with sunshine, but at night, the only things down there were loneliness and nightmares.

A low whine came from outside—an animal right by the back door. I edged closer, peering out the window into dense black, heart thumping in my throat. A scrabble, then silence. I held my breath, waiting for the next sound. Shit, shit, shit. I so did not want to be down there with whatever it was. God, make it be nothing. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. Nothing. It was nothing.

Jade crouched at the back door beside me. “Could be a porcu pine,” she whispered.

“Then why are you whispering?” I whispered back.

The cabin was solid wood, steel, and thick glass. It wasn’t like anything was going to crash through the door. I placed my hands on the cold windowpane, as if I could feel the shape of the nothing that was out there.

Silence washed over us, stretching into the corners.

“Hear that?” Jade frowned.

I scrunched up my face. “No, I don’t.”

“There, I heard it again.” Jade leaned her ear against the door. “Like a…”

“Snuffle, a definite snuffle.” Only animals snuffled. “You were right, probably a porcupine.” I was relieved.

A dog barked. Followed by a voice. Shushhh! Someone was out there.

Can’t wait to read the rest of Don’t Let in the Cold? Get your copy here!

Copyright © 2014, 2022 by Rin Chupeco

Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Liz Dresner/Sourcebooks

Art © Reiko Murakami

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900 sourcebooks.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows: Chupeco, Rin.

The girl from the well / Rin Chupeco. pages cm

Summary: Okiku has wandered the world for centuries, freeing the innocent ghosts of the murdered-dead and taking the lives of killers with the vengeance they are due, but when she meets Tark she knows the moody teen with the series of intricate tattoos is not a monster and needs to be freed from the demonic malevolence that clings to him. (hc : alk. paper) [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. 4. Horror stories.] I. Title. PZ7.C4594Gi 2014 [Fic]—dc23

2014017328

Printed and bound in the United States of America. KP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ONE

FireFLies

I am where dead children go.

With other kinds of dead, it is different. Often their souls drift quietly away, like a leaf caught in the throes of a hidden whirlpool, slipping down without sound, away from sight. They roll and ebb gently with the tides until they sink beneath the waves and I no longer see where they go—like sputtering candlelight, like little embers that burn briefly and brightly for several drawn moments before their light goes out.

But they are not my territory. They are not my hunt.

And then there are the murdered dead. And they are peculiar, stranger things.

You may think me biased, being murdered myself. But my state of being has nothing to do with curiosity toward my own species, if we can be called such. We do not go gentle, as your poet encourages, into that good night.

We are the fates that people fear to become. We are what happens to good persons and to bad persons and to everyone in between. Murdered deads live in storms without season, in time without flux. We do not go because people do not let us go.

The man refuses to let her go, though he does not know this yet. He is inside an apartment that smells of dirty cigarettes and stale beer. He sits on a couch and watches television, where a man tells jokes. But this man who wears a stained white shirt, with his pudgy arms and foul vapors, this man does not laugh. He has too much hair on his head and on his face and on his chest, and he is drinking from a bottle and not listening to anything but the alcohol in his thoughts. His mind tastes like sour wine, a dram of sake left out in the dark for too long.

There are other things inside this apartment that he owns. There are filthy jackets of shiny fabric (three). Empty bottles (twentyone) dribble dregs of brown liquid onto the floor. Thin tobacco stalks (five) are grounded on a tiny tray, smoke curling over their stunted remains.

There are other things inside the apartment that he does not own. Small, pale pink scratches of cloth snagged against nails in the floorboards (three). A golden strand of hair, smothered within the confines of wood (one).

Something gurgles,

from somewhere nearby. It is a loud and sudden noise, and it penetrates through the haze of his inebriation, startling him.

The Stained Shirt Man turns his head to a nearby wall and

shouts, “You better fix that fuckin’ toilet tomorrow, Shamrock!” mistaking one problem for another. If he is expecting a reply, he does not receive it, but he does not seem to care.

He does not look my way because he does not see me. Not yet. But she does.

I can tell she has not been dead long. Her long, yellow hair hangs limply around her waist, her skin gray and brittle and bloated. The man drowned her quickly, so quickly that she does not realize it. This is why her mouth opens and closes, why she gulps at intervals like a starving fish, why she is puzzled at the way she does not breathe.

Her blue eyes look into mine from where I lie hidden, shrouded in shadow. An understanding passes between us for I, too, remem ber that terrible weight of water. Her prison had been of ceramic, mine wrought from cobbled stones. In the end, it made little difference to either of us.

The Stained Shirt Man does not see her either. He does not notice the thin, bony arms clasped about his neck, or the manner in which her little rag dress is hiked up above her hips, her legs balanced against the small of his back. He does not notice the beginnings of decay that are ravaging a face that should have been delicate and pretty.

Many people are like him; they do not feel burdened by the weight of those they kill. A rope braid around her thin wrist is attached to another folded over the man’s arm. I wear a similar loop around my wrist, though unlike her, I endure this affliction with no one else. The rope trails several feet behind me, the edges shorn.

The man talking from inside the television disappears, and the thrum of static buzzes at the Stained Shirt Man’s consciousness,

nagging at him like an angry bee. Cursing again, he tosses his empty bottle away and strides to the box, fiddling with the dials. After a minute, he pounds a fist down on top of it once, twice, three times. The television continues to hum, unimpressed.

He is still angry when the lights in the room wink out one by one, leaving him nothing for company but the still-fizzling box.

“Son of a bitch!” he says, kicking it for good measure. As punish ment, the noises stop and the television flickers back on, but the man telling jokes is nowhere to be seen. Instead, for a few seconds, something else flashes across the screen.

It is a wide, staring eye

and it is looking back at him.

It disappears, though the buzzing continues. The man gapes. He is afraid at first—that delicious fear steals across his face—but when the image does not repeat itself soon, he begins to think and then to argue and then to dismiss, the way people do when they are seeking explanations for things that cannot be explained.

“Must have imagined it,” he mutters to himself, rubbing at his temple and belching. The girl on his back says nothing.

The Stained Shirt Man moves to the bathroom and frowns when he turns on a switch but sees only darkness. Nonetheless, he moves toward the sink and begins to wash his face.

When he lifts his head, I am standing directly behind him, but only the top of my head and my eyes are visible over his own. The face rising over the back of his skull is one I have worn for many centuries, an oddity for one who has only seen sixteen years of life.

But I have little cause to see myself in reflections, and sometimes I forget the face is mine.

Our gazes meet in the mirror, and the Stained Shirt Man shouts in alarm, stepping away. But when he turns back, all he sees is his own sweating face, drenched in water and fear.

Something gurgles again.

This time, it is closer.

The Stained Shirt Man’s eyes swing toward the bathtub. It is covered in dirt and grime and thin traces of bile. A large pool of blood is forming underneath it, spiraling outward until it touches the tips of his leather boots.

Tag, the blood is saying.

You are it.

And from inside this bathtub a decomposing hand reaches out, grabbing the side with enough strength that the porcelain cracks from the urgency of its grip. The Stained Shirt Man slides to the floor in shock and fright, legs suddenly useless, as I

heave myself up and over the side of the bathtub to land in a heap of flesh before him. I am writhing. My body stiffens and contracts, tangled hair obscuring enough features that you would not know what I am, only what I am not.

I gurgle a third time.

The Stained Shirt Man crawls back into the living room swearing and screaming. In his fright, he stains his pants with his own excrement. He grabs at a phone, but the line is dead. Stumbling back onto his feet, he tries to feel his way through the dark, the sputtering light of the television set his only guide. He finds the door and tugs at it frantically, but it will not open.

“Help me! Oh God oh God… Help me!”

He begins to drive his shoulder against the wood, his efforts redoubling once he realizes I

have followed him out of the bathroom, slithering, slithering, bone joints cracking and noisy from disuse.

“Shamrock!” His voice totters on panic. “Shamrock, can you hear me! Anybody out there! I…Jesus! Jesus Christ, help me!”

There is terrible contorting in the way the figure he sees moves. It does not crawl. It does not speak. There is only a dreadful, singu lar purpose in the way its fingers and feet scuttle closer, spread from its body like a human spider, though I am neither human nor spider.

The Stained Shirt Man soon realizes the futility and sinks back to the ground. “Was it the girl?” he asks then, and in his piggish eyes, dreadful realization seeps through. “Was it the girl? I didn’t mean to…I never—I swear I won’t do it again, I swear! I won’t do it again!”

He is right. He will never do this again.

“Please,” he croaks, lifting his hands as if they could shield him, and whether he is asking for mercy or wishes to be killed quicker, I do not know. “Please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

Something gurgles one last time, and it is above him. He looks up.

This is how the Stained Shirt Man now sees me. He sees a woman on the ceiling. Her gray feet are bare, settled against the beams. She hangs down.

Her chin is jutted out, her head twisted to the side in a way that the only thing certain is her broken neck.

She wears a loose, white kimono spattered in mud and blood.

Her hair floats down, drifting past her face like a thinly veiled curtain, but this does not protect him from the sight

of her eyes.

There are no whites in her eyes; they are an impenetrable, dilated black.

Her skin is a mottled patchwork of abuse and bone, some of it stripped from the edges of her mouth. And yet her mouth is hollow, curved into a perpetual scream, jaws too wide to be alive.

For a long moment we stare at each other—he, another girl’s murderer, and I, another man’s victim. Then my mouth widens further, and I de tach myself from the ceiling to lunge, my unblinking eyes boring into his panicked, screaming face.

Some time later, the other girl comes to stand by my side. Silently, she holds out her arms, knowing what comes next. The braid

around her wrist dissolves. At the same time, the rope on the dead man’s arm shatters like it was made of glass.

She is free. She is smiling at me with her gap-toothed grin. When the dead are young and have once known love, they bring no malice. Something glows inside her, something that flares brighter and brighter until her features and form are swallowed up, obscured by that blessed warmth.

Yearly festivals of chochin were celebrated in my youth, paper lanterns lit to honor the dead during older, younger times. In dimmer recollections I remember grabbing at those delicate, fire-lit paper lanterns and the excitement that coursed through me as I held them aloft. I remember running along the riverbanks, watch ing dozens of chochin afloat on the water, bobbing and waving at me as I struggled to keep pace, until they drifted off into larger rivers, into places where I could not follow.

I remember straining to see the lanterns floating away, growing smaller until darkness enveloped the last. I imagine them in my memory like tiny fireflies hovering over the river’s surface, ready to find their way into the world. Even then I found the word fitting, soothing.

Fireflies.

Fire flies.

Fire, fly.

I remember my mother’s voice, warm and vibrant before the sickness crept inside her. I remember her telling me how chochin bear the souls of those who have passed away. It is why we light

these representations of their essences, she said, and float them in rivers—to allow the waters to return them to the world of the dead, where they belong.

The dead girl, like many other dead girls before her, resembles these chochin. When she begins to shine so very brightly, I take her gently in my hands, the soft heat suffusing my being with a sense of peace I am unaccustomed to. It is only for a few seconds. But when you have resigned yourself to an eternity filled with little else but longing, a few seconds is enough.

I release her soul outside the Stained Shirt Man’s apartment. By then she is nothing more than a glowing ball of fire cradled against my withered form. I close my eyes, trying to absorb every bit of warmth I can take from her—to bring out and remember during other colder nights—before lifting my hands to the sky. Unbidden, she rises up, floating briefly above me as if granting benediction, before she continues to soar higher and higher like an autumn balloon, until she becomes another speck of cloud, another trick of the light.

Fire, fly.

I am where dead children go. But not even I know where they go when I am done, whether to a higher plane or to a new life. I only know this: like the chochin of my youth, where they go, I cannot follow.

I stand there for a long time, just watching the sky. But nothing else moves in that darkness, and in this wide expanse of night, I see little else but stars.

TWO the tAttooed BoY

The city wakes to the rhythm of daylight.

They first arrive in ones and twos. Lone boys with bicycles and newspapers, waging war against doorsteps. I count them: four, five, six. Men and women running down streets, singing aloud to music no one else hears. I count them: seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. A portly official thrusting important papers and packages into every other mailbox. I count him: one.

Then they arrive by the dozens. Men and women hurrying down sidewalks, a few in dark business suits, but the majority dressed simply in plaid or jeans. Some glance down at their wrists with an impatient air before boarding the horseless carriages they call buses or the smaller ones they call cars. (Twenty-seven.) Others saunter down the road with less urgency, with dogs of various breeds and sizes scampering ahead, restrained only by the collars around their necks. (Fourteen.)

A few dogs see me and growl, baring their teeth. I bare my own teeth and immediately they are off, tearing down the street in fright like hell has come nipping at their tails, their masters helpless in their pursuit. I have little regard for animals, and I imagine the feeling is mutual. Their leashes remind me of my own. Collars are as much a form of slavery whether they encircle necks or wrists, whether they are as heavy as lead or as light as a ropestring.

Finally, they come in droves. People in rich suits and richer tastes hurrying along, their minds immersed in the petty affairs that consume their lives (thirty-eight). Children squabbling in cars on their way to school, mothers and fathers behind the wheel (sixteen). They have no reason to see me—an unavenged spirit, a nothing-more. I am not a part of their world, as much as they are no longer a part of mine. They have the rest of their lives before them, and I do not.

I often spend the passage of days in a strange haze. When there is little to attract my vengeance, I lie in unusual states of hibernation.

Some days I curl up in attics and abandoned sheds. I do not sleep, so instead I exist in a period of dreamlessness, a series of finite instances where I think little of things and dwell on the wonders of nothing. It lasts for hours or days or years, or the time it takes for a bird to flap its wings, or the time it takes for a deep breath. But soon the rage curls again, the quiet places inside me that whisper, whisper whispering find more find more and so I rise, driven to seek out, to devour, to make to break to take.

I have ridden on ships and sails. I have taken to the air on steel

wings. I have schooled myself in the languages of those I hunt, their culture of contradictions. I have burrowed into the skins of those who know the dark ways, those who welcome the trespass of body. I have crawled out from the thickness of blood, from the salt of the dying.

I can possess, however briefly, those close to death, or those who have known death intimately and escaped. I have learned to move among people in a hundred different ways, to linger in numerous places at once and still keep my sense of being. But today I am drift ing, aimless in this moment, basking in the afterglow of the night before.

And when there is nothing else, I count.

I allow the whim to carry me farther down the street, where a lone peddler sells food from a metal stand (one). A cat on the other side of the road (one) arches its back and hisses at me, yowling its temerity, though its tail quivers and the hairs along its back bristle. People walk past, eating and tossing empty wrappers into bins. I count them: thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

A young man in a tan suit stops in mid-bite to stare directly at me. Slices of bread slide unnoticed to the ground, and he begins to tremble. I move, retreating as a group of students run past (seven), laughing and giggling, and flicker out of his vision. I am occasion ally seen by those cursed with a peculiar sight they themselves are rarely aware of, but I have grown skilled at evading their scrutiny once discovered. I have no quarrel with the young man, who dashes away pale and frightened, though I am sorry he sees more than he ought.

But something else commands my awareness. It is a teenage boy in a car driving past this intersection of roads. He is of average countenance, perhaps fifteen years old, with bright blue eyes and straight black hair that shoots out unnaturally from his head like spikes. He is staring out the window with a surly demeanor I have found common in many boys of this time.

But neither his features nor his behavior arrest my attention. There is something that throbs and moves from inside his clothes, restless movements both repugnant and familiar. An unnatural glow sets around him. And in his mind I taste the sweetness of home, the land of my once-birth, thousands of miles away.

The boy does not notice all this. His eyes look out on the world and pass over me, unseeing, as the car turns a corner into a smaller lane.

It stops in front of a large house where several men are moving furniture out of a large truck that says “Picking’s Movers” on its side. Tables and chairs and many more items litter the yard outside the house (sixteen). Some of these men (ten, a perfect number) are moving more in: two wooden beds, one vanity stand, sixteen assortments of electric devices, and many boxes. One mirror.

The boy gets out of the car, still scowling, with an older man of the same blue eyes, though his hair is a dirty yellow. They watch as the men move their furniture inside. I count the boxes: one, two.

“What do you think, Tark?” the older man finally asks.

The boy doesn’t answer. Ten, eleven.

“It’s nicer than our old house in Maine, don’t you think?” the man continues, ignoring the silence. “You’ll get your own room, of

course—bigger, with more windows. We’ve got enough space to put up a rec room, maybe a swimming pool in the backyard once we’re done settling in. It’s only two blocks from Callie’s place too.” Seventeen, eighteen.

Still the boy does not answer. He continues to watch the movers. The strange light persists around him, a queer dimness that radiates more than it shines.

“And we can go visit Mom next week. Dr. Aachman says she’s been feeling a lot better than the last time, and that we can go to the hospital whenever we’re ready. And now that we’re only twenty minutes from Remney’s, we can visit as often as you want.” Twentyfive, twenty-six .

A peculiar shift crosses the boy’s face, and I see emotion in him for the first time. The jaws tighten, the eyes harden, the mouth curves down. He folds his arms across his chest and a sleeve rides up, exposing a black tattoo on his forearm. Thirty-three boxes.

It is curious for a boy his age to possess tattoos of any kind.

Someone made a curious choice in the design of the tattoo on his arm. It is of two circles, the larger encompassing the smaller sphere and covered in meticulous writing, but of a language I do not understand. More symbols mark the length of his arms, climbing up to disappear, hiding under the folds of his shirt. These tattoos cause him to glow with that strange light as they hum and throb against his skin. As if suddenly aware of my scrutiny, he pulls the sleeve down.

“Dad, I’m not sure I should be visiting Mom at all,” he says.

“Don’t say that, Tark. I know she misses you.”

“Trying to scratch my eyes out is a strange way of showing just how much she misses me.” The bitterness is apparent in his voice.

“Dr. Aachman says that’s not going to happen anymore,” his father says firmly. “She’d been given the wrong kind of medication, that’s all. We’ll visit her right after your session with Miss Creswell on Wednesday. Okay?”

The boy only shrugs, though the anger in his eyes does not go away. Neither does the fear.

I pass into the house. Some of the inner rooms are bare, while the movers are gradually filling others with boxes and crates. I move upstairs into more empty rooms and, perhaps out of habit, drift to the ceiling. The previous owners left nothing of themselves here: no happiness, no grief, no pain. It is the best anyone can wish for in a place to stay.

Down below, the movers continue their work while the older man supervises. The boy sidles away to seek solace under the shade of a tree, shielding his eyes to glance up at this new house. Then his eyes widen.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

He runs into the house before anyone can stop him, and after trading startled looks with some of the movers, his father follows suit, confused by the boy’s excitement, his sudden animation. By the time he catches up, the boy is standing by the window, unable to explain the room’s emptiness.

“Didn’t you see her? There was someone in here!”

“I don’t see anyone, Tark,” his father says after a pause.

“It was a woman!” The boy prowls the room, then moves into

the next, still hunting for a presence and finding nothing. The father follows. “She had long hair, and she was dressed all in white!”

His father places a hand on his son’s shoulder in a manner I believe is meant to offer comfort, but not belief. “It’s been a long trip. Why not take a little nap in the car? I’ll wake you up as soon as they get most of the things inside.”

A pause, then the boy nods, having little of either evidence or alternatives. They walk back outside, but rather than getting in the car, the boy remains outside by the gardens. He continues to watch the house, seeking something to prove himself right and his father wrong. But I am careful, and he sees nothing but an empty house where spirits do not wander.

But someone else watches him. Another car is parked two houses away, a white one, small compared to the many others that roam these streets. Its driver observes the boy, and I know this because I can feel his hunger reaching out like a web of invisible malice. From the direction of this small, white car, I hear sounds of weeping, and I recognize these noises all too well.

I leave the house and steal across the street. I slip into the man’s backseat and study him with the mirror that dangles over his dashboard. Unlike the Stained Shirt Man, he is clean-shaven and handsome. His suit is dark and very well-pressed. He has green eyes and brown hair. Other people might say he looks “friendly” and also “kindly” and “well-mannered.” He is smiling, but there is nothing in his eyes.

There are dead children strapped to his back.

(One girl, two girls, three.)

They fill the car with cries and lamentations. I see the familiar pieces of rope on their wrists, all affixed to the man’s forearms. But like the others, the smiling man takes no notice and continues to watch the tattooed boy. (Four girls, five, six.)

They are blondes and redheads and brunettes. They are blueeyed and dark-eyed and brown-eyed and green-eyed. They are pale and freckled, and dark and brown. They are six years old and eight years old and twelve years old and fifteen years old.

(Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.)

Some of these children have been tied to him for almost twenty years, others only since the month before.

(Twelve. One boy, two boys, three, four, five.)

He smiles now, this smiling man. It is how he sets his bait, how he entices. And his smile this time is for the boy with the tattoos. I could take him take take him take him now. I could take his smiling, putrid little head and crush it crush it crush in my mouth. I could make him suffer. I could make him scream scream scream scream SCREAM SCREAM for me. Daylight holds no power over spirits such as me. But I prefer the thrill of night. I prefer the same enclosed spaces in which these people do their work, where they feel themselves at their most powerful. It is a greater pleasure to kill in darker pastures, that much I know. It is not much of a vanity, but that is all that remains with me.

The Smiling Man

take him crush him

starts his car. The dead children watch me as I watch him drive away, and I know I will see him again. I quell the hungers, the quiet places, and they retreat, for now.

The boy, too, intrigues me—for the first time in as long as I can remember—and that is a long, long time. His strange tattoos intrigue me. What lies moving underneath them intrigues me. There is something inside the boy that calls and repulses. There is something strange and malevolent hiding inside him, though I know not what, or why.

There is something inside him that reminds me of home.

I want to know the language of his strange tattoos. And time is one of the few things I have left to spend.

And when the Smiling Man take him makes his move—as I know he will—I will be there. Waiting for him.

Until then, I can keep my own vigil. For in this new house, there also is an attic.

THREE

LiGht shAtters

Few things of note pass during the nights at this new house, despite what finds residence in the empty room upstairs. The lethargy finds me again, and by the time I become aware, several days in the tattooed boy’s lifetime must have passed. The furniture has been unwrapped and assembled, and the rooms no longer look abandoned. The man inspects the attic only once but quickly leaves again, unsure why he is repelled by its strange emptiness.

It is morning. The tattooed boy is sitting at a table, and his father is cooking, steam lifting from various metal pots and pans. The boy does not look happy. He is wearing dark pants and a long-sleeved shirt he keeps pulling down over his arms. The tattoos that so fascinate me only seem to anger him. He does his best to cover them up so no one else sees, though there is nobody present but his father, who has seen them many times.

“School blows,” he says by way of greeting. I count the plates in the kitchen. Eleven.

The father sighs like he has heard this all before. “I know it’s going to take some time for you to get used to a new city and a new school, Tark, but you have got to meet me halfway on this one. Applegate has a lot of friendly people. Even my boss is nice, which is about as rare a thing as you can imagine.” He is attempting to be funny, but nobody laughs.

“Not really.” The boy bites into his bread with admirable feroc ity, tearing a good chunk of it out with his teeth. I count glasses. Six.

“I’m sure things will be better today,” his father says encouragingly. The boy looks unconvinced and shrugs again. It appears to be his favorite habit. I count the spice racks that line the walls. Eight.

In the time it takes them to finish, I have counted the flower patterns on their wallpaper, the lights overhead, the knots in the ceiling, the kitchen tiles. I follow them into the car, where there is very little conversation. The tattooed boy fidgets uneasily on occasion and often glances over at his right, like something out of the corner of his eye puzzles him. But when he looks my way, all he sees is the window where other cars pass them by, swift glimpses of pedestrians, and other ordinary sights.

The car stops before a large building that says Perry Hills High. Beside it is another with a sign proclaiming it is Perry Hills Elementary. A series of corridors and walkways connect one to the other. A blond girl stands outside the main doors of the elementary school, a troubled look on her face. At eighteen, she is younger than she looks, though her manner and actions are those of an adult.

Children stream past her to enter, but she ignores them, waving at both the boy and his father.

“Uncle Doug! Tark!” She is smiling, but the worry in her brown eyes does not match the curve of her mouth. “Tark, you’re going to be late for class!”

The boy groans but accepts her hug willingly enough. “I’m not one of your fourth-graders, Callie.”

“Sorry,” the young woman says, not sounding sorry at all, “but that doesn’t change the fact it’s already two minutes to eight.”

“Ah, crap. I’m out of here. See you later, Dad, Callie.” He hitches his backpack, and a tattoo briefly slips out again from underneath his shirt as he turns to leave. The young woman sees it but is unsur prised, though the worry on her face grows.

“How’s my favorite niece?” the man asks with a grin. “I must say—I expected the teachers here to be older. Why didn’t you tell us you were working for the faculty?”

The young woman blushes. “I’m a teacher’s assistant—not a full-fledged teacher yet. For now, I mostly get by with tutoring and babysitting, but Mom insisted on paying the rent ’til I leave for college next year.”

“Good to hear. And speaking of Linda, how is she?”

“Mom’s still with Doctors Without Borders. Still fighting malnu trition in Africa—and winning, if you believe the last email she sent me. She’ll be back just in time for Christmas.”

The young woman pauses, glancing behind her to ensure her cousin is out of earshot. “I’m worried about Tark,” she says, lowering her voice as if fearful others might hear. “I didn’t want to mention it

in front of him. I had a feeling he was a little touchy on the subject. But it’s those…those strange tattoos on his arms.”

“I did my best to explain them to Mr. Kelsey, if that’s what you mean,” the man begins, but the young woman shakes her head adamantly, nervously tucking wisps of wheat-yellow hair behind her ear.

“All the principal told the other teachers—and all Mom told me, for that matter—was that his mother gave him those when he was only five years old. I never really knew Aunt Yoko, and I don’t want to hurt Tark any further and pry, but—something about those tattoos scares me. A couple of times I’ve looked over at him, and I could have sworn…”

“Could have sworn what?”

That his tattoos were moving is what she wants to tell her uncle, but she does not. She does not tell him that the boy feels wrong. She does not tell him that she cannot shake off the feeling that there is someone else in the room, watching, when he is there. She does not tell her uncle because she believes it to be a figment of her imagination, a mockery of her senses. It is the permanent ink staining her cousin’s skin, she tells herself, spreading across the canvas of her imagination. All these thoughts she keeps to herself and does not say aloud. What she says instead is this:

“I just want to know if I can do anything to help. He doesn’t seem to want any friends, and he always keeps to himself. Nobody’s been going out of their way to bully him or anything like that, but few people go out of their way to befriend him either.”

“Tark’s been doing pretty well at home, considering,” the man

says. “He stays in his room a lot, but he doesn’t listen to death metal or write about suicide or anything of that sort, thank God. Your cousin’s a good kid. I don’t want to pressure him into doing anything he’s not comfortable with yet. And for the record—he wasn’t abused by his mother. Not in the way you… He wasn’t abused. It’s a little complicated.”

He tries to smile again. “Thank you for being concerned, Callie. I was worried you wanted to talk because his teachers told you Tark was being disruptive in class or getting into fights with the other students. He’s been seeing a therapist, and he’s still a little moody around other people, but he’s improving.”

The young woman nods. “Okay. I just—I just wanted to be sure.”

“I would appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him whenever you can, though. Moving here was a little tough on Tark, and he could use a friend.”

“Or an overbearingly fastidious older cousin to boss him into having a social life,” the young woman finishes. The man laughs at this, but as he walks away after one last hug, I can see that his brows are drawn together and his eyes are tired.

After he leaves, the young woman stands there for a few more minutes until a bell rings and rouses her from her trance. She wraps both arms around herself and shivers before turning to enter, pulling the large doors closed behind her.

I spend the rest of the day counting. There are two janitors roaming the school grounds. There are sixteen rooms in the building. There

are thirty students in the tattooed boy’s class, and most ignore Tarquin in the same way Tarquin ignores them. Once, a girl beside him asks for notes from Mr. Spengler’s history class from the day before, and he looks at her in a way that makes her uneasy. Still, she persists.

“Your name’s Tarquin, right? That’s an odd name.”

“It’s the name of some Roman emperor everyone’s pretty much forgotten,” the boy says, hoping she will take the hint.

She does not. “My name’s Susan. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Texas,” the boy lies. “Home to beloved exports like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, mad cow disease, and bullets. I collect mannequin legs and spider bites. A race of super-ferrets live inside my hair. They hate water so I shower with an umbrella. I eat bugs because I’m allergic to fruit. I wash my hands in the toilet because sinks are too mainstream. Anything else you want to know about me?”

The girl gapes at him. Her friend nudges her away. “Just ignore him, Nat,” the girl whispers. “He’s weird.”

Nobody else bothers him for the rest of his classes. The boy prefers it this way.

There are thirty-two students in one of the elementary-school classrooms next door. Of these thirty-two, one giggles when she spots me.

“Is there something funny you would like to share with the class, Sandra?” The teacher does not sound happy.

“There’s a pretty girl at the back of the room, just standing there,” the girl objects, pointing straight at me. It is the other students’ turn to laugh.

“Don’t make up stories, Sandra. Pay attention,” the teacher says, and the girl obeys, though she cranes her head to look in my direc tion whenever the woman doesn’t see, still grinning at me.

Soon the teacher leaves, and the yellow-haired, eighteen-yearold girl from before takes her place. As part of the lesson, she wheels in a large cart.

“Mrs. Donahue’s still out on maternity leave, so it looks like you guys will be stuck with me for another week,” she says with a grin. “I promised last time we’ll be conducting our own experiments in static electricity, right?” The students sit up, interested.

The tattooed boy is done with his own classes for the day, and at that moment he is passing through the hallway, where he stops to watch his cousin at work. The young woman sees him and smiles, and the boy lifts a hand in greeting. She gestures at him to enter the classroom.

The little girl, Sandra, is the first to see the tattooed boy. The smile slowly slides off her face.

“This is my cousin, Tarquin Halloway. Say hi to Tarquin.” A chorus of “Hi, Tarquin’s” echoes around the classroom. “He’ll be assisting me in this experiment.” Tarquin shakes his head, waving his hands to show just how terrible he thinks the idea is. “Don’t be shy, Tarquin. Class, would you like Tarquin to help out today?”

Another choruses of yeses from the class, and a whimpered “no” from the girl called Sandra, whom no one hears.

The boy does not know which is worse: social activity, however brief, or turning his cousin down and losing face in a classroom full of ten-year-olds. In the end, he sighs and opts for the former.

The young teacher brings out several lightbulbs and dozens of combs. The boy places his backpack on her desk.

“I’ve wrapped all the bulbs in transparent tape because I know some of you are all thumbs—yes, Bradley, that means you.” More students laugh. “I don’t have enough lightbulbs for everyone, but I do have enough combs, so I’ll be dividing you all into groups of four.”

The students troop up to take the lightbulbs from the cart, until only one remains on the teacher’s table. The teacher’s assistant gives each student a plain silver comb. “Now, we’re going to need absolute darkness. Shut all the windows while I turn off the lights.”

This is done promptly, and from inside the dark there are whispers and giggles, until a flashlight switches on. The young teacher sets it at the edge of the table, light trained up at the ceiling. I begin to count. One bulb, two.

“This is the best part. Bend your head my way, Tark.” She picks up a comb and runs it briskly through Tarquin’s hair. The boy looks resigned to his fate. The students giggle again.

“You can rub the comb against your sweater or anything fuzzy if you’d like, but make sure to do it for as long as you can and let it charge up.” Some of the students copy her movements; others all but scrub their combs against their shirts, switching hands when the first one grows tired. Three, four.

“Ta-da!” the young woman says, and taps her comb against the lightbulb. There is a faint sputter, and inside the bulb, little lights begin to dance briefly at its center before winking out, like small handmade fireflies. Five, six.

There are several oohs and aahs, and more bulbs begin to spark

and twitch around the room as students press their combs closer. Seven, eight.

Nine. Nine bulbs, all bearing strange little fireflies.

“That’s how normal electricity works too, but to a much greater extent, of course. Otherwise, you’ll have to keep brushing your hair thousands of times just to watch a half-hour episode of your favor ite show.”

No nines. Not-nine, Nevernine.

The girl named Sandra eyes me strangely.

“Whenever you do things like comb through dry hair, or wear socks and shuffle your feet along a really fuzzy carpet, you generate what’s called static. Remember what we talked about last time, about electrons? One way to move electrons from one location to another is by—”

NO NINES!

The teacher’s table rattles, like something has taken hold of its legs and is knocking them hard against the floor. No nines

no nines never

NO

NINES NO

NINES

NO NINES!

The lightbulb on the young woman’s table ex plodes without warning.

At the same time, the flashlight trained on the ceiling catches on a face there, a woman hanging upside down. Tarquin jumps back, mouth open.

There are gasps and cries of surprise, of fear. Somebody switches on the lights.

It is the young woman. She stares down at the misshapen bulb on her table, the glass irrevocably and inexplicably crushed, the tape still wrapped around what remains of its shape.

Though the air is warm, the tattooed boy is white and shivering, trying to pull more of his shirt around himself. The glow around him grows marked, and the tattoos hiding underneath his clothes ripple. It is almost like a shadow is rising out from them, snaking past his chest and neck.

“How—how—” The young teacher stutters, then remembers the sea of inquiring faces before her. She checks the ruined bulb hastily and seems relieved that none of the glass has flown out of the tape. “This is why you mustn’t try this at home without any parental supervision,” the young woman finishes, but it is clear that she herself is distressed over what has happened, though she fights hard not to let it show.

The boy’s shivering has also passed. Color returns to his face, but he too, is unnerved. The peculiar shadow seeking to fold itself around him has disappeared.

“Experiment’s over for now! Who can tell me what the difference is between a positively charged atom and a negatively charged one? Brian?”

The lessons continue until the bell rings again and the children file out of the classroom, eager to be off. “I want everyone to leave the room through the back door!” the young woman warns. “Just to be on the safe side, in case there’s glass on the floor that needs sweeping up!”

“I’m sorry,” she tells the boy after most of the students have left. “I have no idea how that happened.” The boy’s backpack has fallen off the table, some of its contents spilling out: one binder, three books, and two sharpened pencils. The young woman bends to pick them up.

“Oh, these are good, Tark!” She holds up the binder, now opened to pages of quick sketches and rough drawings: landscapes, animals, miscellaneous people.

The boy snatches it back. “Thanks,” he says, more embarrassed than angry. He stuffs it back into his bag. “I really gotta go, Callie. There’s a shrink waiting to see if I meet her minimum requirements of crazy.”

“Stop that,” the young woman says with a natural firmness that she often adopts with her charges. “You’re not crazy, so stop saying you are.”

The boy grins at her. Something unnatural lurks at the corner

of his eyes, something not even he seems aware of. “Sometimes I wish I could believe that, Callie. But my own mother’s batshit crazy, and I’ve seen so much other strange crap in my life that there’s no doubt I’ll be following in her footsteps soon enough.” He glances up at the ceiling again, but there is nobody there. “I don’t think your attempts at immersing me in the sanity of the general population’s hive-mind are going to work here, but thanks anyway.”

“Tark!” But the boy has already walked out of the room, a hand raised in farewell.

The young woman sighs, sinking into her chair. She picks up the broken bulb and turns it sideways. There is no doubt that the glass inside has been smashed, like a hammer has been violently taken to it. A shield of tape still holds some of the shards in place.

“What happened to you?” she whispers, her tone wondering. She lifts it to get a better view and sees her own slightly distorted image on the surface, tiny and unfocused.

As she watches, another reflection within the bulb moves beside her own.

She gasps, whirling around.

“Miss Starr?”

It is the girl called Sandra. The young teacher’s heart is pounding. “Sandra! You startled me…”

“She’s really sorry,” the child says sincerely.

“Who is?”

“The girl who broke the lightbulb. I know she’s sorry. It’s ’cause you brought nine a’ them. And she really, really doesn’t like the number nine.”

The young woman stares at her.

“I still like her better than the other lady, though.”

“The other lady?”

“The lady with the strange face. The one with Mister Tarquin. She scares me.”

She skips out, leaving the young woman staring after her, and on her face I can read her terror.

There is a crackling sound. Something is on the floor, trapped underneath a table leg. It is a piece of paper from the tattooed boy’s binder.

The young woman picks this up with shaking hands. Unlike the other detailed drawings the boy has drawn, this is a mass of uneven loops and spirals. It is a rough drawing of a lady in black wearing a pale white mask, one half-hidden by her long, dark hair.

Okiku and Tark’s journey continues in The Suffering.

ALSO BY RIN CHUPECO The Sacrifice

A HUNDRED NAMES FOR MAGIC SERIES Wicked As You Wish An Unreliable Magic

THE BONE WITCH TRILOGY The Bone Witch The Heart Forger The Shadowglass

THE NEVER TILTING WORLD SERIES

The Never Tilting World The Ever Cruel Kingdom

Visit rinchupeco.com for more information.

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C H apter oN e

I don’t know how I got here.

Not here here, in the back of my parents’ car, heading down the Beltway toward the airport. I mean I don’t know how I got to be the one from my school who’s going to Rome.

“Today,” I whisper to myself. “I can’t believe it’s already—”

My dad swears under his breath. Traffic has come to a complete standstill. My mom sighs and searches her nav app for a nonexis tent alternative route, all panicky about being late. I have plenty of time—my plane doesn’t leave for three-plus hours but we’re meeting Sofia, the student from Italy who I’m switching places with. She’ll do English immersion here, living with my family, while I live with her parents, the Rossis.

Sofia’s plane landed five minutes ago. We’re still fifteen minutes away.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “She needs to go through customs first.”

Not that I’m an expert on international travel, but I’ve done my homework. At least about that. “We’ll be there.”

“And if we aren’t…” My mom turns around, a dark strand of hair trying to cover the worry crease between her eyebrows. “How would you feel, Tess, if the Rossis aren’t there to meet you?”

She has a point—I’d probably crumple in the middle of the Rome airport, heart pounding, tears gushing until I finally got the sense to call my host family or my extended family who lives in Italy still.

They’re why I applied to Exchange Roma in the first place. Aside from my dad, my great-aunt and cousins are my only direct link to my grandfather, who I call Nonno. I used to beg Nonno to take me to Italy so I could see and taste and feel the village where he was born and after wander the streets of Rome where he grew up.

“But you’ve been,” he’d say. I’d remind him I was four years old at the time, I could barely remember anything, and besides, I wanted to see Italy with him. “Someday,” he’d say. “Someday.” But he passed away before that could happen.

I poured all that into my application essay. And though I don’t really speak Italian and though there were seventeen other appli cants to the program from my school, I was the one who got accepted. The essay must have had something to do with it.

My mom sighs again and shifts her anxiety from the traffic to me. “You have everything, right, Tess? Phone, laptop, chargers, passport?”

I’ve been basically attached to my passport since this entire fantasy came true. I wave it at her for the third time today. And traffic magically clears.

My dad starts driving like a wild man. He makes it to the airport twenty-three minutes after Sofia’s plane landed, pulls to a screech near the airport entrance, shoos my mom and me out of the car, then goes to park. I humor my mom and sprint with her toward the gates.

Fifteen minutes later, Sofia finally comes striding out from the security area like she’s a supermodel on a runway, debuting impec cably chic, totally wrinkle-free black clothes that cannot have traveled thousands of miles. Her mass of long, dark hair frames her heart-shaped face and flows behind her in near slow motion.

I knew she was gorgeous—we’ve FaceTimed her and her parents weekly since we were paired up—but seeing her in person… Is there a step above breathtaking? Even her long, manicured fingernails are perfect. If every girl in Italy is like Sofia, I’ll be utterly ignorable.

She races up and gives us each the double-cheek kiss. “Ciao! Ciao! Ciao! Famiglia Alessandro! Finally! We meet, how you say? Head-to-head. No, no. Face-to-face!”

“Face-to-face! Yes!” I say, trying to sound much more inter esting than I am. If only I had a few days to absorb this aura she’s beaming out.

My dad, a good three inches shorter than Sofia, grabs her carry-on, gets that sparkle in his eyes, and tries to show off his Italian. “Benvenuto a Washington, DC. Speriamo che lo…”

She waves him off. “We keep the talk with the English. More easy for you. Me, more practice.” Then she turns to me. “Your Italiano? Is okay now?”

When we first FaceTimed, it was a total fail on my part. “I’m getting there,” I lie.

The truth is, my Italian is terrible. My dad had me check inter mediate proficiency on the Exchange Roma application and told me that I really would get there. But so many people applied, and my chances were so slim, that becoming fluent enough would have only raised my hopes then crushed my dreams when the program chose someone else. Then when I did get accepted, I scrambled and tried to learn by streaming Italian movies and TV with English subtitles. People pick up languages like that all the time.

It didn’t really work, and my three years of high school French— Italian and French are supposedly similar—didn’t help much either. Now, I keep wondering how long before they discover I’m a fraud.

“Si. The language, she’s hard.” Sofia tilts her head, sympathy filling her eyes. “But is no problema. My parents. They make you fast learn. Do all the things. You will see. They make sure you have many, uh, honest times.” She shakes her head and laughs. “No. Mean, you will…you will no forget your time.”

“We expect your time to be unforgettable too,” my mom says.

Even with that awkwardness, we manage to talk about food and weather and whether Sofia might see the Washington Monument and the White House. Or even the president. And we tell her about life here and how my friends want to meet her and everything.

By the time we take her bags to the car, swap them out for mine, and get me checked in for my flight, I still have nearly an hour before I need to go through security. We head to a juice bar inside the airport.

“Berry blast smoothie,” I tell the woman behind the counter.

“You too?” Sofia says. “Me too!”

The woman nods. “Sisters do that.”

We laugh.

“Cousins, then? You’ve got to be related.”

We look at each other. There is some resemblance. “I guess it’s the Italian in me,” I say.

Sofia grins. “Same! Italian in me! Selfie!” She blasts a few of us laughing then hands me her phone so I can see. I look acceptable. She still looks like a supermodel.

We pass the phone around the small table, and once my dad gives it back to Sofia, he clears his throat like he does when he’s about to tell one of his stories. Ugh.

“You know, Sofia,” he says, “we have family in Rome. My own father grew up there.”

“Yes? I want to hear!”

He launches into the full version of My Italian Family Story: The Immigration Years. It takes him five minutes to tell her how Nonno constantly argued with his father, even more so after Nonno’s mother got sick. One day, Nonno had enough. And with his mother’s blessing—go for th and please do right by our family he left for the United States.

“He brought only his clothes, a few mementos, and forty-six dollars. He was only fifteen years old,” my dad says. “Can you imagine?”

Even I shake my head. My dad never told me that Nonno was only fifteen when he immigrated, neither speaking the language nor

knowing where he’d live and what he’d do. It’s weird enough that someone is taking over my life here—my room, my parents, my friends. Then there’s the awkwardness of living with total strang ers and the dread that the exchange program will discover just how little Italian I can speak. But Nonno’s story changes things.

At seventeen, I have money, a credit card, and a return ticket home, plus a phone I can use to translate anything or call anyone, anywhere in the world. Nonno’s courage has me feeling fearless.

It may be a little early, but I jump up and lead the way to security. First, I give Sofia a hug, then my mom, and my dad last. He hugs the tightest of all, his cheek lightly scratching my temple. He lets go, mostly, and slips a small package inside my backpack.

“What’s that?”

“The perfect thing for this trip. Wait until you’re in the air, though.” He gives me an even bigger hug and looks like he might cry.

I can’t leave him like this. I resort to the one Italian saying, pretty much a family motto, I’ve known since birth—something he’s always said when I’m sad or frustrated or scared. Just before I get swallowed up by the people in line, I start it. “Chi cerce…” Whoever searches…

“Trova!” both my parents call back. Finds. Simultaneously, Sofia chimes in, “Non trova.” Doesn’t find?

Her eyes reduce to slits. She smirks. And my blood runs cold.

C H apter tW o

I grip the handle of my wheelie bag tighter, white at my knuckles, light in my head. I look back through the crowds of people, but Sofia and my parents have left.

Breathe, Tess. In four, hold two, out six, hold two. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I take one more cleansing breath and shake it off. Sofia’s look meant nothing. Either I misinterpreted it or I mistook her smile for a smirk. It’s just all this nervous excitement.

I get to the gate an hour before we board the plane with little to do but tap my foot, check my phone, and watch people stare at theirs. A family sits in the seats opposite me, and I play a long round of peekaboo with their little girl, who can’t be more than two. Their parents thank me, but I should thank them for the distraction.

Sad that the two-year-old won’t remember a thing about this trip. I barely remember my only visit to Rome, and I was double her age. I haven’t flown overseas since, and I’ve never flown alone.

My best friend Carly has done both. When she came to say

goodbye this afternoon, I had her double-check my bags to make sure I didn’t forget anything.

“You might want to carry on a full change of clothes in case your big suitcase takes a detour to Barcelona.” She inspected its contents and pulled out a ratty stuffed bear. “Beanie Cubbie? He’s not coming with.” She sat him back on my windowsill. Then she held up three pairs of black jeans and three blue shirts. “Just no.”

“The shirts are not identical,” I said. “Besides, I want to fit in. Not look like some flashy American.”

“You’d rather be boring?” She tossed out one shirt and one pair of jeans and added a romper and a sundress. “You’ll thank me,” she said. “Three reasons. It can get hot in Rome. Italy might be the fashion center of the universe. And it can’t hurt to look cute on occasion. Listen to me. Conosco i miei polli.”

“What the hell? I know my chickens?” Ever since I got accepted to Exchange Roma, Carly’s been learning Italian idioms with me, but that was a new one.

She shook her head. “I know what I’m talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“No. That’s what it means.” We both laughed. Now, I send her one last same-time-zone tex t, a gif of chickens. She FaceTimes me back, but all I can see is the ceiling until her face whips into view, tight curls piled in a messy knot on top of her head, green eyes open wide. “Need more fashion advice?”

“Of course,” I say. “What does one wear to a festa?”

“Unless it’s a party for doctors, not these.” She grabs up a new pair of scrubs.

I gasp. “You got it!?” She’d applied for a prestigious internship with a pediatrician, but when she hadn’t heard back in forever, she was sure it went to someone else. “When were you gonna tell me?”

“Now? Just got the email. But I haven’t said yes yet.”

“Seriously? It’s all you’ve ever wanted, Dr. Carly CureKids.”

“What if I suck at it? Or can’t handle it?”

“Carly. She chose you. You handle the sick kids. I’ll take care of Rome.”

We keep talking until they announce it’s time to board.

Carly holds up a finger. “Before you go, one more saying, my favorite, but do not use it. It’s so old-timey, people will look at you funny. Here goes: Non calare le brache!”

I give her a funny look. “Don’t pull down my pants?”

“It means don’t chicken out. Go there and kill it!”

“You too, Carly. Call Dr. Abrams and accept!”

“Only if you promise to stop worrying about Sofia’s smirk. It was nothing.”

I promise. Then I walk down the jetway, channeling the confi dence Sofia showed coming out of security. But one step inside the plane, and my heart speeds up instead.

The flight attendant directs me to my immediate right. I find row twenty-three, stash my wheelie in the overhead compartment, and awkwardly scuttle past the man sitting in the aisle seat to get to mine at the window. He greets me in some language I don’t recog nize then lowers his eye mask and falls asleep. Now, I’ll have to climb over him to use the bathroom.

I can’t worry about that now. I lean back and close my eyes, replacing every bad thought with visions of me, arms outstretched, twirling in the center of Rome.

I sit with that and with the passing landscape below us until we’ve been in the air for fifteen minutes. Then I pull out the package my dad gave me. The small box is tied with a ribbon the colors of the Italian flag—green, white, and red. I slip it off, open the lid, and move the card aside. Underneath is a silver locket engraved with lines and curves that remind me of the space where a tree trunk might meet its branches. Even more, where flower petals meet the stem.

I read the card.

Dear Tess,

Don’t groan. This is not a total repeat. I’m skipping the part where Nonno came to the U.S. with only his clothes, etc. But here’s what you don’t know. Your great-grandmother handed him this just before he left for America, to remind him from whence he came. When you were born, Nonno passed it along to me, ribbon and all, to give to you on your 18th birthday. Knowing how you wanted to travel back to the old country with him, 17 is close enough. Nonno would agree.

All our love, Nonno & Nonna Mom & Dad

Inside the locket are pictures of Nonno and my grandmother, Nonna. I hold back tears. My grandparents were both killed in a boating accident three years ago. I miss them so much. But it’s like they’re always looking down on me. Maybe that’s the answer, in a greater-universe sense, to the question of how I got here—on this plane, into this program.

I close the locket, give it a kiss, and slip the chain around my neck. Suddenly, I feel a sense of peace, as if the locket were my new superpower.

I roll the ribbon, place it inside the box, tuck it into my carry-on, and pull out my new journal, a gift from Carly.

Inside the front cover, in big balloon letters, she wrote “Tess’s Roman Holiday.” Underneath, she glued in a picture of orange flowers. Snapdragons are her favorites. The next several pages are filled with messages from all our friends—some private jokes, some advice, some hoping I have fun. I draw individual picture frames around the messages to make them even more special. Then I decorate the margins with flowers and stars and fireworks. And I may have just turned this journal into a sketchbook.

I haven’t told anyone, not even Carly, but I want to get better in art. Or just more confident. Not that I have any talent, but sketching gives me a sense of calm. No one has expectations of me, and I have zero expectations of myself.

On the first empty page, I sketch the locket—the chain, its shape, and the lines and curves of the flower-not-a-flower. Not bad. On the next page, I sketch the man next to me in seat 23B. Without staring at him, I start with the curve of his jaw, the hint of his bushy

mustache and eyebrows, then separately, the fold of his hands on his belly.

The man shifts. I cover the page even though there’s zero chance he’d recognize himself. To call the sketch amateur would be an insult to amateurs. I’m better off sticking to lockets and flowers-not-flowers.

I sketch a full flower and turn it into a field of tulips, leaving space for a haiku.

Even in fields of Fully fluttering feelings Flowers find their feet.

I’m not a poet, but I love haiku. Counting the syllables, finding the right words, drawing mind pictures—together, they rival the calmness of sketching.

But I’m jolted from the calm as the pilot’s voice crackles over the plane’s speaker, announcing something-something-something and that the weather in Rome is beautiful.

Just as he starts to repeat it in English, a woman comes bustling down the aisle, spewing a string of words so fast, I can’t be sure it’s Italian. She’s flagging a flight attendant, her saggy cheeks flapping in time to her underarm flab, the obnoxious scent of perfume wafting behind her.

If my friends were here, we’d laugh hysterically. And I can’t even exchange glances with the man next to me, who’s been lightly snoring for too long now.

I should sleep too. It’ll be morning when we land. So, I find that calm again, close my journal, lean my seat back, and plug in some music. Three songs play. Five songs. Fourteen. Still no sleep. Well, maybe I doze for a minute. Maybe.

I stretch my legs, open my eyes, and…hold in a gasp. Mr. Mustache, who’d been sleeping next to me, is gone, and in his place is Perfume Woman. There’s no hiding that odor, a combination of baby powder, rose petals, and wet dog. She gives a crooked smile.

I smile back, but my heart is racing. Something about this feels completely off. Is it the smile? The perfume? Did I pass out for hours? I press on my temples. My breathing comes rapid-fire. Breathe, Tess. In four, hold two, but my out- six whi stles like a windstorm.

My seatmate is now looking directly at me. She rattles off something in Italian, but the only part I understand is her asking if I’m all right.

I nod, and she pats my arm.

I nearly recoil, but I manage to look back at her, hoping she’ll stop staring at me. “Grazie.” I point to myself. “Bene oro.” That should mean I’m fine now.

And I am. I’m going on an adventure. In a foreign country. Filled with so much beauty.

I might not have friends there, I will need to fake my profi ciency, and I may feel awkward and uncomfortable and ignorant sometimes. But I have it pretty good.

Though I could do without one more minute of the woman and her perfume.

C H apter tH ree

Seriously? Does this woman need to stay on my tail? No matter how fast I walk off the plane and into the Rome airport, her perfume drifts from behind. Either that, or it’s permanently implanted inside my nose. I stay in the middle of the crowd, hoping to lose her.

Eventually, the space divides into two areas: one for arriving passengers with European passports, and the other for the rest of us. As I veer toward mine, the smell fades. Thank God I’ll never have to see her weird smile again. And thankfully, the immigration guard at the end of the long line speaks English. Why are you here? How long are you planning to stay? I answer, then he looks me in the eye and gives me my first passport stamp.

Outside of security, Sofia’s parents are holding a sign with balloons. Ciao, Tess! Even without the sign, I’d recognize them instantly. There’s no question that Anjelica, from her long

fingernails to her smoky eyes—maybe she’ll teach me—and her long, dark hair is Sofia’s mom. But unless Anjelica uses a straight ener, Sofia gets her curls from Francesco. His lighter brown hair with its natural highlights falls every which way in medium-length waves. Add in his scruff of facial hair, and he’d almost look like a bad boy, except the glint in his eyes shows a true soft side.

I trot up to them, and they, to me. Their hugs are so warm, and their smiles so big that I feel at home already. We start walking, all three of us talking over one another in a mash-up of Italian, English, and sign language.

I get my voice to break through. “I can’t believe I’m finally here! Meeting you in person!” Ugh. I meant to say that in Italian, but it just burst out in English. I start to repeat it like I’d practiced, but they’re already saying pretty much the same thing back to me.

They insist on carrying all my bags, and we walk through the airport, their longer legs outpacing me so much I need to run every few steps to catch up. We grab a taxi at the stand. Anjelica and I climb into the back seat, while Francesco sits in the front. He turns around and gestures to himself and Anjelica. “Niente auto.” He simultaneously shakes his head and motions like he’s steering.

Okay, so they don’t have a car. Or they don’t know how to drive.

“Questa volta abbiamo preso il taxi. Solitamente usiamo la moto,”

Anjelica says. “We have moto. Capito?”

I do understand. Some of it. Maybe. Usually, they drive motor bikes? I roll my fists like I’m revving a motorcycle. “Vroom-vroom! Si?”

“Si!” And Francesco pantomimes how it would be if the three of

us and all my luggage were riding a motorbike through the traffic. “Tre pagliacci.”

“Three…” I start translating aloud. “Pagliacci?”

Anjelica flops her feet up and down and makes goofy, animated faces.

“Clowns!” I say. “We’d be three clowns. Tre pagliacci.”

And all three of us do our best clown impressions until I’m laughing so hard, I can barely see. I finally take a breath, and a beat of quiet, to look out the window at all the traffic, mostly small cars and Vespas whose drivers don’t seem to notice that they’re weaving past ancient buildings, far older than any back in DC. “Wow!” I say. “Wow. Wow.”

“Welcome. To. Roma,” Francesco manages. And for the first time, he turns and faces front, holding up all five fingers on his left hand. Then like a countdown, he lowers his fingers one by one. We turn the corner, and he points out the window.

I gasp. Out of nowhere, right in front of us, is the Colosseum— four stories of arches and stonework, a giant stone layer cake. This place with all its competitions and all the death, this ancient halfruin, sits in the middle of the city like any normal building.

“It’s so amazing!” I stare and stare. “There should be signs and lights and trumpets to celebrate that it’s still standing after two thousand years.”

Francesco and Anjelica look at one another, clearly confused.

I barely know the Italian word for bathroom. How do I explain? I grab my phone and have my translation app say that for me.

“Si, si!” says Anjelica. “We take granite.”

I smile and put the phone down. Apparently, they see it so much, they take it for granted.

The taxi weaves past countless piazzas—tow n squares—some major and some barely noticeable. All these neighborhoods, all these twisty, narrowing streets—it’s dizzying. I’d be utterly terri fied to find my way around this city or anywhere, really, if it weren’t for nav apps.

Francesco has the taxi stop at the entrance to a “street” that’s only wide enough for half a car. “Benvenuti nella Capitale!”

I understand that: Welcome to central Rome!

Anjelica tugs me and my smaller bags down the narrow street like the cobblestones are smooth as glass, even in her heels. I barely take a step without tripping. Francesco catches up from behind with my big suitcase. We dodge motorcycles and pedestrians past ground-level stores, cafés, and a gelato shop, getting occasional whiffs of a Rome I’ve only imagined until now.

Above the businesses are five- and six stor y, old-stone build ings in shades of brown, tan, gray, rust. And one that’s ocher, but a dirty yellow with stains streaking down as if the mortar between the stone blocks has been weeping for decades. It almost makes me shiver. Please. Any building except this one. But Anjelica points straight at it. “La nostra casa.” Our house.

I get an instant shiver. Why can’t it be the rose-colored one with the gelato shop underneath? But I need to stop judging the book by its cover. And Sofia said I’d love it.

Sofia was right. Up four flights of stairs, the bright apartment has clearly been renovated. The living room has picture windows,

white leather sofas and chairs, a human-sized floor lamp, and, on the wall, large Renaissance-type prints in sleek, contemporary frames. Straight ahead is a short hallway, and to the right is a small dining area, a dazzling kitchen, and a spiral staircase.

Francesco picks up my suitcases like they’re empty and heads up the winding stairs, but Anjelica leads me the other way, down a short hall. She points out the bathroom, then we stop at a small, bright bedroom. Sofia’s room. But now, there’s no furniture, one of the walls is torn up, and leaky stains snake across the ceiling. In the middle are paint drums, buckets, ladders, and other construction materials.

“Sorry.” Anjelica shakes her head. “Problema qui. You no sleep qui.”

She leads me back to the spiral staircase and its wooden steps that are attached to wrought-iron handrails. The unrenovated space up here has no bathroom. Its only window, eye-level, is the size of a shoebox. And the room itself is… Well, to say it’s cozy would be generous.

Anjelica gestures that I should unpack later. “Un pisolino.” She pantomimes with her cheek resting on folded hands, eyes closed. Yes, I do need a nap.

“Grazie,” I say as she leaves, then I try to adjust my expectations. In fact, this dark tower room is sort of fairy-tale romantic. I take a picture of the window then a selfie of me with the stairs spiraling down behind. I post them. My Roman hideaway!

Then I FaceTime my parents like they asked. When they pick up, I show them a 360 view of the room.

“This is it! My home away from home. The spiral staircase, my bed, and a wardrobe, which I think Francesco said he built himself.”

“Careful going down those stairs at night,” my dad warns.

Really, Dad? “Anyway, we have a night table, alarm clock, lamp, shelves, little mirror, picture of flowers. Enamel crucifix for you, Dad. Sorry, Mom. No Star of David. That’s about it.” I tell them about the construction downstairs. “If I understood right, they packed up almost everything this past Wednesday when the roof started leaking.”

My mom’s worry crease deepens. “Sort of bare.”

“But I have this vase,” I respond, trying to keep positive. “Anjelica bought the flowers for me at the market. And a monkey figurine, because everyone needs a monkey figurine.”

My dad gives a laugh, but not my mom. “Will you be okay up there?”

“Not just okay. It’s my own private retreat!” I put extra enthusi asm into my voice and hope that sounds convincing. I test out the small bed and yawn. “So comfortable. Sooo comfortable.”

“That’s what’s most important,” my mom says. “Need a nap?”

“Definitely. Love you!” I disconnect, close my eyes, and…

Anjelica is hovering over me. I shoot up. She laughs. According to the alarm clock, it’s one o’clock, and by the light eking in from the tiny window, it’s afternoon. That means it’s 7:00 a.m. back home. I slept for a couple hours, but my head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton.

Anjelica taps her phone, and the translator speaks. “Clean up and change clothes if you want. We will take a walk to show you the neighborhood. We will go to the market, get some lunch at a café. Gelato too. Keeping busy is the best way to recover from jet lag. Yes?”

“Si. Grazie.”

Half an hour later, we stop at a small restaurant on Via della Scrofa, a few narrow streets away. We don’t talk much while we’re waiting for our food. Well, Francesco and Anjelica do, but mostly to each other. I look out the window at the people going by, then point to a plaque on a house across the street. “Amerigo Vespucci lived there?”

“Si,” Francesco says, smiling at me like I’d asked a ridiculous question.

I run out to take a picture. In that one spot, I could take a thousand of them. And I take nearly that many of my pizza, the best—la migliore—I’ve ever eaten.

Francesco points to my pizza. “La migliore?” He shakes his head. “No. Domani! Pizzeria da Michele a Napoli!” He kisses his fingers.

He wants to go to Naples tomorrow just for pizza? We don’t need to. I mean, I just got here a few hours ago. But they seem so excited to share that with me, I can’t let them down.

I wipe my mouth, push back, and I stand next to them to capture the moment. “A picture of you? Of us? Una foto?”

Anjelica covers her face. “No. Evitiamo i selfie, vengo male nelle foto

. Me. Photo. Brutta.”

There’s no way Anjelica could take an ugly picture. She looks so much like Sofia, and Sofia looked amazing in our selfie.

Before I can protest, Francesco gestures to a kitschy decoration of a fat chef with a ruddy face over a steaming pot. “Photo him. More pretty.”

I laugh, but they seem serious…too serious, and so different from the people just seconds ago.

My good mood starts to fade. So little has gone like I’d imagined. The weird woman on the plane, the bedroom, a sudden trip to Naples, and now this. Maybe it’s exhaustion or homesickness, but I suddenly feel like I’m going to cry.

C H apter Four

I excuse myself to splash water on my face but first lean into the small bathroom mirror. There’s a blob of pizza sauce on my cheek. If I didn’t feel it, I must be exhausted.

I come back to the table shaking my head. “You didn’t see? Um. Hai visto?” I point to my cheek. “Giant zit of sauce. Gigante salsa… Zit.” I pantomime popping it and break into a wide grin. The mood resumes.

Back outside, we take the streets uphill to Il Pincio and its breath taking overlook of central Rome. Below us is a world of crowded busyness, a patchwork of rooftops in reds and tans and browns, and countless church steeples, massive and small. The view is so worth the hike, but I love the gardens up here even more. Fresh and green, calm and quiet. Along its paths are marble busts of famous Italians. Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Marco Polo, hundreds more. Sadly, some of them are littered with graffiti. But somehow, I fall in love

with Boccaccio and his Sharpie’d eyebrows, mustache, and soul patch. I stand next to the poor guy, take a picture, goofy expression on my face, and post it immediately.

“Is this whole area Il Pincio?” I ask Francesco. Anjelica has wandered a few steps away.

“Questo è Villa Borghese.” He sweeps his arm around and points to a large building. “E lì giù c’è il museo.”

“Museum?”

“Museum.” Francesco nods and points to Anjelica. “Sua, uh, cognata?” And when I clearly don’t understand, he launches into a bunch of words and motions.

“Oh,” I finally say. “Anjelica’s sister-in-law works there?”

“Sister-in-law. Si.”

Anjelica comes back and gives him a playful swat. “Nessuna famiglia oggi. Solo Tess.”

Sweet. No family today. Just me.

I ask/pantomime if we’re going into the museum.

“Non vendremo oggi,” Francesco says. “You. Scuolo. Credo.”

He seems to think that the school will take us to the museum. If not, we’ll go back another time. So instead of going in, we take a rowboat onto a very small lake, which is total perfection after all that walking, except for the moment that Francesco nearly capsizes the thing.

The Rossis sense that I’ve reached my limit, so we make one last stop at a market. I help Francesco pick out fruits and bread and mostly vegetables. He’s making minestrone for dinner and asks me to be his sous-chef.

He started soaking the beans this morning, but he has me chop

tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, garlic, and celery. He contains his hair with a headband before he handles the other ingredients, especially the onions so I don’t cry. With everything in the pot, we sit down to a game of Scrabble.

Anjelica takes on a sly smile.“Solo parole italiane.”

Only Italian words? “No fair!” I find a way to communicate that in Italian.

“Si. Non è giusto.” But it will be fairer, she says, if I use my app.

By the time I stumble through and lose terribly, the soup is ready. And with the crusty bread and hunks of cheese, it tastes so incredible.

It has me smiling even when I wake in the morning. And when I’m halfway down my spiral stairs on the way to the bathroom, Anjelica, still in pajamas, comes to greet me.

“I hope I didn’t wake—” I stop and try to say it in Italian.

She tells me I didn’t wake her, though I think she’s being kind and that the sixth and ninth steps apparently squeak. I’ll remember that so I don’t wake anyone again.

Immediately, though, the Rossis have me get dressed and eat a quick breakfast. Then we hustle to the Metro station near the Spanish Steps. It’s not so different than the Metro in DC that I’ve ridden hundreds of times. We take a quick ride to Termini, the main station in Rome, get off, and head to another area with dozens of platforms. Very different than the Metro in DC.

I’d be totally lost if I were by myself, but I keep up with Anjelica and Francesco, and we board our train, which leaves just minutes after we find our seats.

The high-speed service whirs us through industrial rail yards

and past graffiti-lined walls, announcements coming in both Italian and English. It doesn’t take long before the concrete changes to green countryside, mountains in the distance. Then the landscape becomes flat as far as the eye can see.

I never knew that a long train ride could be this calming and relaxing. What seemed so overwhelming yesterday is utterly perfetto today.

I turn away from the window to say all that to Anjelica and Francesco, but they’re huddled together, speaking low. Instead, I let myself be mesmerized by the passing scenery. Then in a snap, just over an hour since we boarded, we come to an area very different than the Rome I’ve seen so far. To my right are modern skyscrapers like in any city. I’m hoping there’s more charm to Naples than this.

The Rossis arranged for a driver, chauffeur’s cap and everything, to pick us up. Soon, we leave the generic cityscape behind and move into the Italian quaintness I’m already loving. Even the driver’s chattiness is charming, though I wish he’d keep his eyes on the road instead of glancing back at Anjelica and me. But he manages to weave past pedestrian- and motorcycle-only streets without swerving even once. He must know his chickens.

The driver lets us out on a cobblestone street—nearly an alley— that is crammed with four- and five-stor y apartment buildings in reds and pinks and yellows. Laundry lines strung from building to building, with their clothes and sheets flapping in the breeze, act almost like a canopy Plants, flowers, and Italian flags decorate some of the narrow balconies. And I catch an occasional aroma of onions and tomatoes cooking in these families’ kitchens.

Many of the buildings have small shops on the ground floor. Anjelica leads us past a number of them until she ducks inside one filled with knickknacks and antiques.

While they examine every goblet on the shelves, I glance into the jewelry cases. My dad likes interesting watches and my mom, unusual earrings. It would be so great to bring gifts home to them, except I don’t have that type of cash, and they’ll see everything that goes on my credit card.

In the third shop, I do find the perfect watch for my dad, one with a 24-hour dial instead of the standard 12-hour. I take a picture in case, at the end, I still have enough money to go halfsies with him. I’m sure he’d love that. I might even be able to navigate here by myself.

We meet our driver at the end of the fourth street we’ve wound down, and he hands Francesco a slip of paper with a number. “Circa quindici minuti.”

Fifteen minutes for what? It turns out that the wait for Pizzeria da Michele is more than two hours long, but not for us. The driver went there and brought back a line number.

We go right in and sit at a small table against a wall of green and white tiles. I face the curved, blue-tiled wall with its arched ovens. The flames are blazing, a blast of heat occasionally brushing my cheeks. A man with a long-handled paddle pulls a pizza from one of the fires.

The menu is on the wall and… This wouldn’t fly in the United States. Only two choices: pizza with cheese, and pizza without. No toppings.

When in Rome…or Naples. Pizza margherita, it is.

Through the translation app, the Rossis explain that they take pizza-making so seriously in Naples that the city regulates who gets to own pizzerias and exactly how the pizzas are made.

When ours come, I follow the Rossis’ lead and cut my pizza into quarters, fold the outside corners of one piece into the middle, and take a bite of heaven. It’s that good. Pure. Simple.

I nod to Francesco. “You’re right. Il migliore.”

He says something in Italian that’s probably the equivalent of I told you so, but he doesn’t rub it in. When we’re done, he has the driver take us to a whole different area where a blue sea spans before us. We get out and stroll along an arm of the Mediterranean, eating gelato amid the cruise ships, private yachts, grand hotels, and expensive restaurants.

I could stay here for hours looking out onto the waters, but we need to head back to Rome and to the reason I’m here. Suddenly, my stomach is twisting in an all-too-familiar jumble of excitement and dread.

The Exchange Roma welcome party is tonight.

C H apter Five

I have just enough time to go back to the apartment, clean up, and change clothes. Also, to get in a FaceTime pep talk from Carly.

I give her a tour of the place and a quick intro to Anjelica and Francesco. Just before they turn away, Carly takes a screenshot of them.

“Why’d you do that?” I tell her about Anjelica’s ridiculous camera phobia.

“Sofia will love it. I’m meeting her tonight.”

“Wish I were there. Or really, that you both were here.” I go up to my room and ask Carly to talk down my anxiety. “Eighty-three new people. I can do this, right?”

“You’ll kill it,” she says. “Except, what are you wearing?”

I show her my black-jeans, blue-shirt uniform.

“Just no. Wear the romper.”

“But I want them to meet the real me.”

She gathers her hair in her hands and sighs. “The real you actually picked that out. Be daring. Look cute. Good impression and all. That’s number one. Number two, stop being ridiculous. Have you checked your Insta? Do you see how many likes you got just this morning? And remember it’s not even eleven here. On a Saturday. We love you here, they’ll love you there. Stop obsessing. Promise.”

“If you promise you’ll say yes to your internship. Monday morning. No excuses.”

“And no excuses, you. Go there, meet everyone, report back.”

That’s all I need. I change clothes and head downstairs.

Anjelica gives me a twirl. “Ooh! Molto bella!”

“Perfetto,” Francesco adds. He hands me a key to the apartment. “Ma non necessario.” Not necessary because they’ll always be here for me, or they’ll keep the door open.

I give them each a hug. And even though it’s early, I’m ready to go.

Francesco and Anjelica walk me to the program’s school tonight so that I can get there by myself on Monday. We head south, one block off the Tiber River, and pass by a long, wide strip of green space. Well, greenish space. The grass is both green and muddied out.

“Cos’è quello?” I expect a shrug or a wave of their hands.

But Francesco smiles. “Circo Massimino.” Circus Maximus.

I stop. Stare. The Romans once held chariot races in that very spot. I imagine the thunder of hoofbeats, the waving of flags, the roar of the crowd.

I catch back up to the Rossis, and just a bit farther, we move from ancient times to apartments and businesses. Then, at the next corner, Anjelica and Francesco, who don’t want to be embarrassing parents, point out the rest of the way and send me off with kisses.

The main school building is set back from the street, a treed lawn to the front and sides. Probably in back too. This place has grounds. Then again, it’s a private school, where the students mostly come from rich or important families. My friends and I found some of the other Exchange Roma people online, and their families seem rich and important too. Mine is neither, which also has me freaking. I don’t want to play one-upmanship with anyone.

I’m nearly twenty minutes early, so I walk off to the side, sit under a tree, and pull my journal and pencils out of my backpack. Carly tried to convince me not to take them, but here I am, sketching the branches and leaves above. Sort of. It looks more abstract than real. I add lines to signify a bird. Then a squirrel.

Behind the building, partially visible, is the edge of the party tent. I’m about to sketch it when two people, already chatting like they’ve known each other forever, enter the grounds and head back there. The girl has spiky, blond hair with red tips. The guy is tall and thin like a string bean.

Before I can sketch Red and Bean, another guy wanders onto the grounds, moving like he both has a sense of purpose and not a care in the world. The ultimate confidence. I’m jealous.

I try not to stare, but as he nears, I manage to catch his wave of light brown hair, his ruddy cheeks, and especially his eyebrows that dip close to his blue-green eyes before they raise to a perfect curve.

Our eyes connect. One of his brows arches up, and he shoots me a lopsided grin but just for a second until some other girl calls out to him.

Even still, my cheeks are hot and I’m kicking myself for not smiling back or waving or something. I go back to my journal and sketch the perfect quirkiness of that arched eyebrow, the oval of an eye beneath, the outline of its pupil, the—

A shadow comes over my page. I freeze. Please, not him. It’s him.

I slam my sketchbook closed, which makes my pencils tumble toward his feet. I lunge for them, hitting my head on his knee.

He topples backward into the grass and sits back up with a laugh. “I am so sorry.” Then he scoots a few inches closer. “Truly sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault. I should be the one apologizing.”

“Shall we start over?” The Eyebrow’s English accent shines through. “I’m Devin Kessinger- Scott. And I believe you’ve captured my eyebrow.”

“I what?” My cheeks don’t lie as well as my mouth does. “No. My friend says if you can sketch an eyebrow, you can sketch an eye then a nose then a mouth then…”

“Right.” At least he doesn’t ask me to explain. He just points to himself then back to me.

Is that some British thing?

“Right, then,” he says. “I must’ve been too vague. One more try. I’m Devin Kessinger- Scott, British, London, England. And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry. Tess Alessandro, American, Washington, DC.”

“Tess Alessandro, artist and liar.”

“Guilty,” I say. “Not of being an artist, but for my one small lie. I’m a terrible liar.”

Devin picks a few blades of grass. “Yes, you are. You looked to the left before you talked about the eyebrow.”

“I what?”

“It’s a common tell. Something about the right side of your brain being the creative area, so people look left when they’re fabricating lies, you liar.” He throws the grass at me. “My tell is this.” He raises his left eyebrow.

I smile. “Socking that away for future reference.” He raises it again.

I try. Fail. “How do you do that?”

“It’s my only talent,” Devin says. “Otherwise, I am talentless, talent-free, talent-negative.”

“Oh, I doubt that!” The voice lilts from behind me.

Two other people walk around and join us on the grass.

The girl is striking. She has perfectly streaked, shimmery hair that falls in choreographed waves framing her flawless skin. The guy she’s with, her height, has a smattering of freckles and a wide smile that crinkles his eyes. She gives his sleeve a tug. “Should we be speaking Italian?”

“Dah, si, oui, ja…” He keeps going with yesses in all the languages. Before I can give him a full smile, the girl looks at me. “You’re Italian, right? You look Italian. Do you speak—”

“English,” I say. “I’m American. Tess, from DC.”

“I’m Bright. As in bright lights. I was on Broadway when I was

seven. Revival of South Pacific. Eight-month run, four shows a week.” Let the bragging begin. “I met Nicolas”—she nods to the guy with her—“at the Newark airport. He was scheduled for the direct flight, but—”

“Hey, Bright,” he says. “You know I can actually speak.”

“I get carried away sometimes.” She gestures for him to go on.

Nicolas moves his mouth, but nothing comes out.

We all laugh. Then he explains how a thunderstorm headed directly toward Chicago O’Hare had him catch an earlier flight to Newark to avoid it. They met there.

“Not only that,” Bright says, “but they assigned us to the same teacher here. And we both got upgraded to business class. Unless you were already in business class, Nicolas?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “His father works for the NFL. Tell them.”

Nicolas scratches his shoulder. “He’s not a player, but yeah. He travels to games on Sundays.”

“NFL?” says Devin.

“National Football League,” Bright says. “American football. Not your football.” She leans into Devin and laughs.

I am so out of their league. Literally.

“So, what’s your deal, Devin?” Bright asks. “Where do you come from? Who do you know?”

“I know her.” Devin nods at a girl who’s walking toward the tent. “Larissa. She’s already been a sous-chef at a four-star restaurant in New York.”

Seriously? Another prodigy? “I was also a sous-chef.” Somehow, I keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“You were?” Devin asks.

I nod. “For my host dad last night. We made minestrone.” I laugh. “And I hate to brag, but I have this other talent. I can pat my head and rub my stomach while I hop on one leg.”

They make me show them.

“But don’t be too impressed,” I say. “That’s the extent of my coordination. Me, mountain biking, wall climbing? Total fail.”

And the conversation morphs. Bright can do a perfect dolphin impression. Devin can fit his whole fist into his mouth. Nicolas can turn his eyelids inside out. He does.

Bright screeches. “Stop it! You’re scaring me.”

“Good.” He puts his eyelids back. “I need company, because this whole exchange thing has me scared as shit. Who are these strang ers I’m living with? How can I possibly speak Italian for eight hours every day? And now I’m inside an alternate universe with a dolphin, a hand eater, and a stomach rubber.” We all laugh.

A voice comes over a speaker from back by the tent. “Benvenuti!”

The four of us race over there.

A man slightly younger than my dad, balding with black-rimmed glasses, stands at the front of the tent. He gives us a smile and a salute, which makes everyone else, already seated, turn and watch us scramble for empty chairs at a back table. The man continues speaking, distinctly, but it’s all Italian. I catch a few phrases, but whatever’s making some people laugh flies over my head. I under stand enough to put together that he’s Signor Matteo, director of Exchange Roma.

He goes on to explain the program. I know this only because I

read about it again and again and again. During the first two weeks, we’ll be taking field trips almost every day. To start, they’ll center on different topics—history, theater, government, art, religion, indus try, whatever else—to help us decide our personal areas of concentration. During our last week, we’ll be giving two full presentations, one individual and one group. In Italian.

Before that reality fully freaks me out again, Signor Matteo calls up the professional chef and four culinary students who will prepare our lunches daily.

Bright tugs a strand of hair at her temple. “I bet you a back rub, Devin. That girl you met, she’ll be in their kitchen before the end of the week.”

“Si,” says the girl next to her, the one Devin talked to before he caught me drawing his eyebrow. Larissa. “Assolutamente e parler italiano.” And she’ll be speaking Italian. Apparently, in the advanced proficiency class.

I’d be turning three thousand shades of red, but Devin doesn’t blush. “Hello again. I mean, ciao di nuovo.”

Bright remains cool too. She introduces herself and us like we’re old friends. Then says how she can’t wait to visit Larissa’s restaurant in New York.

I nearly pinch myself. I sketched an eyebrow, I performed a stupid party trick—both beyond embarrassing—but fifteen minutes later, I’m settling into this incredible new group of friends. How?

It doesn’t matter because, suddenly, everything—ever ything is going to be okay.

C H apter Six

By morning, with the sun sneaking through the little window, in the surprising comfort of this tower room, I can’t stop grinning about last night. Bright, who we dubbed the Ambassador, made sure to introduce us to every person there. By the time the evening ended, she’d identified everyone in our particular class— intermediate proficiency—and put all the contact info into her phone. She’s already planning a party.

I lie here until clicks and aromas lure me downstairs. Francesco, who can draw much better than I can, is sketching the row of glasses on the shelf, but each of his is a little different—some crude, some ultra-elegant—as if he were going into goblet design. Or has some strange fascination with them, the way he and Anjelica picked up every single one at that shop in Naples.

I point at his drawing and give a thumbs-up. And he says something, maybe how their family loves glasses? I have no clue

how to respond, so I just smile and tell him—or try to in Italian— that I’m teaching myself how to sketch but I’m only brave enough to use pencil.

“Spero che tu sia migliore di me.” He’s wishing me something. No clue—he talk s so fast—but I smile anyway. Then he closes his book and slips it under a framed picture of Anjelica, Sofia, and himself just as Anjelica brings us hot chocolate and rolls with jam. Deliziosa. Almost before I put the last bite into my mouth, the two of them have me out the door to wherever we’re headed.

“Dove oggi?” I ask, impressed with myself for asking where without mentally translating my question.

Francesco simply gives a sly smile. “Ti piacerà.”

Of course, I’ll like it. I’ve liked everything else.

Our taxi navigates narrow streets then larger ones to the Colosseum, which opens just as we get there. Anjelica and Francesco already have tickets, so we head straight in.

They lead me around, giving me time to read the pages in our bilingual guidebook that correspond to where we’re standing. We start at the top of the structure then navigate down and around stone bleacher seats, enough for eighty thousand people. NFL stadium size. But everything looks bigger, thicker, and much more imposing. We get closer to the surface where, in ancient times, they’d sometimes flood the floor to hold boat races. Inside an arena. Insane.

There’s an area tucked underneath the bleachers called the hypogeum, where animals and gladiators would wait. Like a green room before death matches.

“We go. Si?” Anjelica says.

Francesco contorts his face and bares his teeth. “La! Leoni. Tigri. Orsi.”

“Ah! Lions and tigers and bears.”

We clamber down steps to the shadowy area, an underground system of tunnels and windowless rooms. Francesco and Anjelica hang back while I wander deeper into a small space—a cage for animals that were imported for battle or for the gladiators who were kept under control after Spartacus’s rebellion. This space may be smaller than my tower room, but even if it isn’t, at least I have a window and stairs to escape. Here, some hoisting mechanism would drop the victims to a brutal ending. Just imagining that has my heart pounding.

Soon, the Rossis call me out of there. We need to leave for whatever they have planned next. It takes twenty-five minutes in a taxi and a walk across the Tiber River before I recognize the church in the distance.

“The Vatican?” I ask.

“Si,” Anjelica says.

The approach to St. Peter’s Square is lined with vendors hawking everything from food to toys to selfie sticks. Nonno and Nonna would hate the gaudiness and, especially, the sellers who are trying to profit off one of the holiest places on Earth.

We pass through the gates where a mass of people is gathered, all facing St. Peter’s Basilica, a church with multiple domes and columns and arched windows. Anjelica turns me to one particular window with red curtains and something like a tapestry, red and gold, hanging from a balcony. Not ten minutes later, the pope himself comes out there to speak. I’ve never heard such a hush come over such a huge crowd.

His address seems to be more of a Sunday sermon than a prayer.

More than ever, I wish I’d studied Italian. And I wish I could have come with my dad and, especially, Nonno and Nonna.

At the end, after he blesses us all, we beat the mass exodus and grab another taxi, which takes us close to home. Francesco gestures that the apartment is toward the left, but once we get out, we veer right to stop for lunch in Piazza Navona, the largest square I’ve seen so far. The open area, supposedly constructed in the shape of a stadium, was once the site of some sort of competition (that’s all I understand) and is circled with yet another church, a museum that was once a palace, buildings—maybe apartments?—and restaurants, all with outdoor seating. People are flocking to a large restaurant in the corner, but Anjelica waves a hand at it. “Bah! Troppi turisti!” Too many tourists. She makes a beeline to a smaller one farther down.

We sit where I can look out over the three fountains and the row of artists in the middle, some stationed next to their makeshift galleries, some painting new pictures on the spot.

After we order, I get a closer look. The first artist has paintings of people walking along the Tiber. They’re good. The next artist is practically leering at me, not even pretending to paint but just surrounding himself with pictures as if that makes his staring invis ible. I rush by the creep. The third artist, though, is finishing a picture of a woman in a red dress, holding a yellow umbrella under a blue sky and walking by the closest fountain, Fontana del Nettuno.

This is how I want to remember Rome—the sights, the smells, the sounds, everything here in this place of beauty and inspiration and aspiration. My mom would tell me I’m waxing poetic like my dad sometimes does, but I don’t care.

The painting will be ninety-five Euros, the artist tells me, nearly a third of my spending money. If this were week six, and I’d saved enough, I would buy it on the spot. Maybe I’ll come back. I’ll definitely come back.

Anjelica shows up—our food is here—and she takes a picture of me with the artist and the painting. I post it immediately.

We stay at lunch for nearly three hours, which seems like three minutes. Then we continue walking, but my energy soon lags.

Francesco loops his arm through mine. “Ho un’idea!”

Anjelica, as if reading his mind, lights up. “Buns! We get… No, mean, we go buns!”

“Buns?” I pat my stomach. “Too much pasta. Uh. Troppo pasta.”

By her expression, it’s the language barrier again. Instead, she loops her arm on the other side, and as a conjoined trio, we make a sudden turn.

I ask if we’re going to a bakery, but they laugh. “No good English,” Francesco says. Anjelica mimes sleeping then jerking awake, eyes bugging out. If I’m reading her right, wherever we’re headed will wake me up.

Where we’re going, though, is another church. They want me to pray for energy?

Anjelica pulls out two big scarves and covers her shoulders with one and mine with the other. No going sleeveless in churches here. They enter first and cross themselves. I almost feel like I should, but being raised in a mixed-religion house, my dad never had me do that, so I just follow behind.

The sanctuary has black-and-white marble floors, about a dozen

rows of dark wooden pews down the middle, and ornate arches on the sides. The Rossis aren’t kneeling to pray, though. They steer me toward another space. Then Anjelica pulls the scarf over my eyes. “Okay?”

“Why? I mean, per che cosa?”

She takes the scarf down. “A sup, sup…supplies?” She opens her mouth into an O, and her eyes follow.

“Oh, surprise. You want to surprise me.”

“Si, si. More speciale. Fidati di me.”

Sure, I’ll trust her. I help her cover my eyes. They each take a hand, and soon we’re going down a staircase amid a crowd of people. We get to the bottom, walk a little farther, a little farther, then she lifts my scarf. It takes my eyes a bit to adjust to this room with decorative doorways and arches and bridges made mostly of— I gasp.

Francesco and Anjelica laugh.

These aren’t buns. They’re bones. Skulls. Hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands of skulls line the walls. The coat of arms above a fireplace-like alcove is, literally, crossed arm bones. The clock and the decorative trim along the ceilings and walls, bones. Even the statues standing there are skeletons. Not the kind from biology class. Real, from people, skeletons. And if I understand right, that’s skin still clinging to them. Five rooms of human bones in all: the Crypt of Skulls, Crypt of Pelvises, Crypt of Leg Bones and Thigh Bones, Crypt of the Three Skeletons, and one more I didn’t catch. I hope I can forget the whole thing before this gives me an eternity of nightmares.

It takes a long walk back outside in the hot Roman sun before I

finally lift the scarf from my shoulders. I give one huge shudder. “La cripta dei cappuccini. Molto oro.” I have no clue if I said the crypt was scary or it had a lot of gold.

Either way, they laugh.

“Ti ha svegliato, sì?” Anjelica pantomimes someone waking up.

“Yes. Si.” It definitely woke me up. And freaked me out. I could use a Disney princess movie to counteract it all.

But we get another gelato, apparently the energy snack of champions, and walk while we eat, turning down one street, and another. At the next corner, Anjelica stops and gets out the scarf. Church again? But no. She uses it to blindfold me and leads me forward, it sounds, toward a large crowd of people. A rushing noise too. We stop. Francesco takes my other elbow and has me step onto a ledge, maybe a foot or two high.

Anjelica gently bends my neck forward, lets some light in from the bottom of the scarf, and, once my eyes adjust from the dark, fully lifts it.

“Oh! Wow!”

I knew the Trevi Fountain was large, but this thing is massive. I look up a few fast facts. It’s eighty-six feet high and 161 feet wide and was completed in 1762, which makes it older than the Declaration of Independence. I put my phone away and get hypnotized by the sight. It’s like a myth come to life with tritons, horses, chariots, and the Greek god Oceanus.

We’re at a height from the fountain itself, so we make our way down through the crowd, to the water’s edge. And just stand there, Francesco and Anjelica letting me be.

It’s hard to look away, but after some time, I turn my back and toss a coin with my right hand over my left shoulder into the water. With that,

according to legend, you’re destined to return to Rome. I’m already figuring out how to do that. I’ll be way more skilled with the language next time, though I’m not sure it matters. I’m getting by one word at a time.

I take one long, last look for now, and we move on.

I wanted to stop by the Pantheon earlier, but it was too crowded. Now, though, closer to dusk, it’s pleasantly busy. I pass through the eight columns and the squared entrance into the breathtak ing rotunda. I almost hate to walk on the checkerboard floor, large squares and circles of marble in red, gold, blue-gray, and white. The walls are lined with more marble: columns, panels, alcoves, tombs, statues. And it’s unbelievably pristine.

I fix my sight on the real reason I’m here. The oculus, a large open space in the dome’s ceiling and the only source of light. It’s also thought to be an opening to the heavens. I center myself directly below it, the last of the sun’s rays falling into the centuries-old struc ture. I close my eyes, tilt up my chin, and will the angels, the powers, or the God of any religion to beam down positive waves for my first official day of Exchange Roma and its full Italian immersion.

If the oculus’s connection to the heavens works, I don’t feel it.

And the energy from the gelato has officially left me. I turn to the front of the Pantheon, but there’s no sign of Anjelica. Francesco, though, is talking to an equally tall, older man off to the side. I head that way, and a strange grin spreads over the man’s face. He looks me up and down: slowly, deliberately.

Like with roadkill, I look away, then look back…

Because that man. The artist, the creepy one, from Piazza Navona. It’s him.

Copyright © 2022 by Rin Chupeco

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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress. Printed and bound in Canada. MBP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

He who offers the sacrifice controls the Godseye.

The first to feed, the second to seed, the third to wear, the fourth to birth, the fifth to serve, the sixth to lure, the seventh to consume, the last to wake.

ONE

THE CAVE

Nobody tells Hollywood about the screaming.

Nobody tells Hollywood about the curse. Or the way things walk across the sands here like they are alive enough to breathe. Nobody tells them of the odd ways the night moves around these parts when it thinks no one sees.

Nobody gives them permission to visit, and it’s all the incentive Hollywood needs to permit themselves.

The people who live in the provinces nearest the island don’t talk. Not at first. But money is the universal language, and the years have been lean enough, desperate enough. Tongues loosen. The words come reluctantly.

Yes, they say. There is a curse. Yes; at least five people dead.

No, they say. We will not step foot on that island with you, not even if you gave us a million dollars.

Hollywood crashes into the island, anyway; it’s a new breed

of conquistadors trading technology for cannons. First their scouts: marking territory, measuring miles of ground, surveying land. Next their specialists: setting camp, clearing brush, arguing over schematics. Then their builders arrive with containment units, solar panels, and hardwood. In the space of a few days, they construct four small bungalows with an efficiency I’m not accus tomed to seeing.

The noise is loud enough that they don’t hear the silence how I’ve always heard it.

They scare the fishes away most days, and so I’ve gotten accus tomed to idling, to watching them from my boat instead of hunting for my next meal. Hollywood does terrible things with machinery. They whirl and slam and punch the ground, and the earth shakes in retaliation. They dig perfect circles, add pipelines to connect to local supplies, and install water tanks. They set up large generators and test the lighting. They cut down more trees to widen the clear ing to place more cabins.

None of them step inside the cave. The one at the center of the island, where the roots begin.

They don’t talk about the roots that ring the island, half-hidden among white sand so fine it’s like powder to the touch, so that they trip when they least expect it. But they talk about the balete. “I came here expecting palm trees,” one of the crew says with a shudder. He stares up fearfully at one of the larger balete trees, with their numer ous snake-like gnarls that twist together to pass as trunks, and at the spindly, outstretched branches above. “If trees could look haunted, then it would be these.”

Soon they notice me standing by the shore, only several meters away.

“Hey, you there!” one calls out. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and dark shorts. A pair of sunglasses are slicked up his head. “You live nearby?”

I nod.

“Oh, thank God, you can understand us. We’d been having a hell of a time trying to translate.”

“Most of the people here understand English,” I say. “They probably don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ouch. Big ouch. Well, you’re still the only local I’ve seen this close to the island. Even the fishermen stay clear. You’re not afraid of the curse?”

I shake my head. Askal peers cautiously from around my legs, watching the foreigners curiously. “You?” I ask.

He guffaws. “I’m more afraid of my bosses docking my pay if we don’t get this right.” He peers back at Askal. “Cute dog. I’ve never seen the locals bring pets on their boats.”

“He’s used to the water.”

Askal wags his tail, sensing he is being praised.

“Want to make some money, kid? We need someone who knows their way around the place. Everyone we’ve asked on the mainland has turned us down.”

I row closer to where they stand, hopping out and dragging the boat through the last few feet of water. Askal scampers out after me.

“Not scared like everyone else, eh?” Hawaiian Shirt’s companion asks, a guy with a goatee and bad haircut. Clouds of smoke rise from

the little device he’s puffing away at, and it smells of both cigarettes and overly sweet fruit. A half-empty beer bottle is tucked under his arm. His eyes are bloodshot, and I’ve seen enough drunks on the mainland to know what that means. “You hang around this place a lot?”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Hawaiian Shirt scowls. “That’s what the officials here have been telling us the past few months while we’ve been negotiating, but it’s not gonna stop us. We have all the necessary permits. It’s hypocritical, don’t you think, telling us to leave when you’ve obviously been poking around here as much as we have?”

“I didn’t ask you to leave. I said you shouldn’t be here.”

“Semantics. Look—we need someone to point out the mystery spots, maybe tell us about cursed areas on this damn island. Besides the Godseye. We’ve heard about that. We’re on a deadline, and we need to get things moving before the rest of the crew arrive.”

“The Godseye?”

“The cave on this island. The one where all those deaths happened. The locals didn’t have a name for it, but we needed one for the show and that’s what Cortes called it. You know why we’re here, right? You must have heard the news by now.”

Goatee blows rings in the air. “How are we gonna build three seasons around one fricking cave?”

“We’ll figure it out, Karl. They say there’s gold hidden in the cave that Cortes stole. Viewers love hearing about buried treasure. I’m sure Ethan’s storyboarded more ideas.” Hawaiian Shirt scratches his head. “You ever been inside the Godseye?”

“Yes.”

Both stare at me. “All this time,” Goatee mutters, “and he’s been here all along. Kid, if you’re who we think you are, then you’re famous among the locals. You’re like a ghost whisperer, they said. You’re the only one brave enough to come here. We’re hoping you could help us.”

I look about pointedly and gesture at their building. “Do you even need permission anymore?”

“We signed off with the authorities. Well, we offered them a ton of money and they took it, so I guess that’s permission. But we need more information, and that’s the one thing they ain’t selling.”

“I’ll give you five thousand dollars to come on board with us,” Hawaiian Shirt says eagerly. “And another five if you stay the whole season, but that means you’ll have to go on camera to talk about any creepy stories you have about the island. All the highlights of this place.” He eyes my empty net. “That’s gotta be more than you make fishing in at least a decade, right? I’ll have a contract drawn up for you in an hour. You can look it over and tell me what you—” He stops. “You can read, right?”

I frown. “Yes.”

“No offense, just checking. Get a lawyer to look it over for you if you want. It’s got some terms and clauses you might not be familiar with—saves a lot of headaches later. So you’ll help?”

I take my time, coiling my nets, making sure the boat’s beached properly. Askal lingers near me, keeping a careful eye on the two men. “Have you been inside?”

“Well, no. Not till our legal department clears us to proceed. Or the exploration team gets a crack at it. Standard precautions.”

Without another word, I head up the path, Askal keeping easy pace beside me. I can hear them scrambling to follow me.

No one can miss the cave entrance at the center of the island. It’s two hundred feet high, built for giants to walk through. Limestone stains mar the walls. Something glitters in their cavities.

It doesn’t take long for Hawaiian Shirt and Goatee to catch up, both looking annoyed.

“Ask it permission,” I tell them, and they guffaw.

“The hell I’m asking some ghost,” Goatee says with a snort.

“We can’t go in until we get the all clear,” Hawaiian Shirt repeats.

“A few steps in won’t make a difference.” I place my hand on the stone, which is cool to the touch. “Tabi po,” I murmur, and enter.

The ground is softer here, and my sandals sink down slightly wherever I trod, leaving prints in my wake. Though reluctant at first, I hear them following, Hawaiian Shirt grumbling about all the trouble they could get into should R&D find out. Askal pads along, ears pricked as if he already senses something we cannot.

It’s not a long walk. A stone altar lies a hundred feet in. Part of the ceiling above it caved in at some point, revealing a view of the sky. It’s late afternoon, and the moon is already visible and silhouetted against a sea of blue.

The altar is more yellowing limestone bedrock, chiseled from ancient tools and carved with purpose. I look down at the ground and see, running along the sides, withered tree roots so old they’ve grown into the cave wall, stamped so deeply into the stones as to be a part of its foundation.

The passageway branches out, circles around to another tunnel that lies just behind the altar, leading deeper into rock.

“You said something before we came in,” Goatee says. “‘Tabi po’? That’s how we’re supposed to ask permission to enter?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” I say.

But the two men are no longer listening. They’re too busy staring at the stonework, and then at the sky where the moon stands at the center of the hole above—a giant eye gazing down at them.

Askal whimpers softly. I lean down and stroke his fur.

“They weren’t kidding about the Godseye,” Goatee says, impressed. “How’d you have the balls to come here all by yourself, kid? Seen any of the so-called ghosts? See Cortes himself?”

I pause, debating what to tell them. “I’ve heard the screaming.”

“No one’s told us about any screaming.”

I approach the altar but do not touch it. I hear a soft, rasping sound, and look down to see small makahiya leaves writhing quietly on the ground. From the corner of my eye, I catch the tree roots on the walls curling, stilling only when Goatee, sensing their movements, steps nearer.

I have spent enough time on this island to recognize when it’s distressed.

“You all shouldn’t be here,” I say again.

Goatee snorts. “Let’s wait until the cameras start rolling before you get all creepy, kid.”

“The Diwata knows me. But outsiders are another matter. You can’t stay here.”

The smile Goatee shoots my way is patronizing. “Kid,” he says,

as the sounds of digging outside resume, “we’re just filming a TV show. We have permission.”

“Better drag Melissa here to do some initial shots,” Hawaiian Shirt says happily. “This is gonna look beautiful in our promos.”

“We’ll still need to hook viewers for a second season,” Goatee says. “Maybe something’s haunting the mangroves on the eastern side of the island—a spirit that pulls people underwater. Or maybe a dead woman. Dead women are always hits.”

He laughs. Hawaiian Shirt laughs along with him.

From somewhere within the cave, something mimics their laughter.

They stop, tearing their gazes from the eye above them to into the cavern’s depths. But all I hear now are the faint reverberations of their voices.

“Easy to see why people think this place is haunted,” Goatee says, with a nervous, quieter chuckle. “Makes you start imagining things.” He raises his hand, which trembles slightly, and downs the rest of his beer in one noisy gulp.

They do not linger long. Askal nuzzles at my hand, lets out a soft whimper. “We’re leaving, too,” I assure him. Before I follow the men out, I look back at the tunnel stretching farther into the cave, waiting for a shift in the darkness beyond—but find nothing.

There’s only the altar, which has borne witness to old horrors, blessed with the moon’s quiet, unrelenting light.

TWO VISIONS

The island has known me my whole life. As a child I raced along its shores and scavenged oysters hiding underneath its rocks, caught the small fish trapped in its shallow pools at low tide. I would lie down near the shore and while away lazy hours, diving into the waters when the sun grew too hot for my liking.

My father taught me everything. How to catch fish with my bare hands. How to scale trees for coconuts. How to quiet the voices on the island. How to show them you mean no harm.

Except ’Tay hasn’t been strong for a while now.

Occasionally I would see things. Things pretending to be one of the trees by the coast, dangling from branches. Or crouched against the stones by the cave, waiting for nightfall.

The creatures here leave me alone, and I’ve become accustomed to their presence.

But I am no longer the only person on Kisapmata, and I can see

signs of the island’s discomfort. Now as I walk along the shore, small makahiya plants litter the soil, opening their leaves as I pass. They snap shut when Goatee or Hawaiian Shirt or the Hollywooders step through.

The island has not had this many trespassers before, and for so little reason.

I say nothing. I only stay close and keep watch. Askal refuses to leave my side. He’s always been protective of me.

Goatee and Hawaiian Shirt give me little to do in the days after our meeting. “We tried looking for you, but nobody knew where you live,” the latter tells me. “People said you were likely on one of the smaller islands, the ones that aren’t even big enough for a village. Wasted ten months searching. Every lead we had of you was a dead end. ‘Why not head to the Godseye,’ Hemslock finally said. ‘Sooner or later we’ll find the kid.’ And he was right, goddamn it. You don’t live in Leyte?”

“I live nearby, with my father.”

“He ever been to this island?”

I nod. “Taught me everything I know about it.”

“You or he give anyone guided tours before us?”

“No.”

“Because of the murders, right? I know they’d locked up access to this place afterward. Lucky for us the mayor decided our inten tions were noble. The plan is to put you on camera without any prep, so you can tell us what you know of this place. Steve thinks it’s gonna be more authentic that way, provoke better reactions from the cast if they’re hearing the story for the first time. So he wants us to wait for him to get here for that. Just a heads up—sometimes

we’re gonna have to move your words around, to make a bigger impact for the show, right? That’s specified in your contract, but since you’ve already signed it, I’m assuming you know.”

Hawaiian Shirt sighs. “I’m gonna try and look out for you, all right, kid? I’ve worked enough shows to see how easy it is for producers to take advantage of someone for fifteen minutes of fame. We’re gonna be the first people to stay on this island since, what? That plane crash? Whatever happened to that, anyway?”

Goatee shrugs. “Investigators tried to dig up the island till the locals put their foot down and said no. They couldn’t find any bodies, other than that one passenger they found buried here. No evidence of plane debris, either. That’s not stopping Gries, though.”

“Who’s Gries?” I ask.

“You’re gonna meet him soon enough. Used to be a hotshot back in the day. Got some blockbusters under his belt, and I don’t always mean in theaters. Broke up a few unions in his time. Ruthless. Then his wife died, and he lost his edge. This show’s supposed to be his comeback as much as it is Hemslock’s. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get some fame from this too, kid. Get you on the circuit. Anything can happen in Hollywood.”

I look at the cabins they’re building. Pre-fab houses, he called them; they are a riddle of metal containment units joined together to create the trappings of luxury. “I don’t want fame,” I say.

Hawaiian Shirt grins, like he finds the idea hilarious. “That’s what they all say at first. Look, I want the island to throw something at us. That’s what we’re here for. It’ll be much easier to film haunt ings than have to create them.”

Slowly, and then very quickly, I watch them gentrify the island. Several generators are on standby to funnel electricity for a secure internet connection. There are water tanks and medical tents. A refrig eration system for food storage. There is even talk of paving part of the island to make walking easier, but the idea was thankfully discarded.

Hawaiian Shirt gives me a quick tour of the pre-fab houses. One for the showrunner/actor, two more for some executive producers who wanted to come with the production. Everyone else has to be satisfied with tents, which are nonetheless far more impressive in size and interior than what the name suggests.

There are more people than I expected. Aside from production there is the safety crew responsible for checking the equipment, a medical team, and a group of scientists keen to explore the Godseye.

A larger bungalow is the mess hall. It is where the crew gather to eat their meals and to plan the rest of the series. There is a large freezer inside the mess hall stocked with food flown from overseas, and the crew has employed several chefs.

But the island is surrounded by fresh seafood, and so I oblige when they ask me for a sampling of the local delicacies. On the days when Askal and I can catch enough fish, their chefs cook them over a makeshift grill. They’re good fish—tilapia, galunggong, bisugo— and it helps endear me to the crew.

I negotiate with other fishermen, and they frequently supply us with other varieties of seafood—curacha, alimasag, and other kinds of crabs on luckier days, but more often squid, green mussels, and mackerel.

The crew offer me an extra tent. I accept but rarely spend nights

there. Sick father, I say. Need to look in on him. I live only several minutes away. They are sympathetic.

Askal and I go home and spend time with ’Tay. He sleeps more frequently nowadays, though I know that is normal for his age. I’m not worried about the time I’ll have to spend away from him. My father raised me and Askal after my mother’s death. He’s stubborn enough not to want help from anyone. Runs in the family.

’Tay was delighted when I told him about my new job. The money will be good. The Americans know the risks. It’s not my fault they won’t listen, and it’s not on me to protect them.

While he dozes, and while Askal lies down beside him and does the same, I look at the contract I signed, the one promising me ten thousand dollars if I stay through their filming. It’s more money than I’ve ever expected to have in my hands all at once.

And for a moment, I feel selfish, tempted. There are so many things I could do with this money. Leave the island. Make my own way in the world.

’Tay stirs beside me, and the thought dissipates. Ten thousand dollars can only get you so far. And I’m not going to abandon ’Tay.

But there are far too many people on the island. This will not end well.

“Paano na?” I ask myself quietly, knowing I don’t know the answer to that.

“This island is almost perfect,” one of the crew members gushes the next day, when I return. “Add a Panera and I’d be all set. Do you go

to school on the mainland, Alon? You speak English so well, and I know there are excellent schools in Leyte for—”

“Harriet,” another woman rebukes sternly, and Panera Lady gasps.

“I didn’t mean that people here can’t speak English well,” she says hastily, unhelpfully. “I know most people here do because of, uhhh, colonialism, right? I wasn’t expecting—I mean—”

“You need to stop constantly sticking your foot in your mouth, you know that?” the woman says, not caring for tact. She takes Panera Lady’s arm and steers her away. She returns later to apolo gize, though I am mostly amused. Panera Lady isn’t the first to assume that Filipinos don’t understand English, and she’s unlikely to be the last.

The nicer lady’s name is Melissa, and she wears her hair in a style she calls an undercut, bleached pink at the roots but gradually blending to purple at the tips. She’s got a tattoo of something called a roomba on her bicep—a private inside joke, she says, between her and her girlfriend. She’s also a PA—a production assistant—a fancier name, she admits, for a glorified unpaid intern. She’s only older than me by two years, and I like her best out of everyone so far. “But they pay me for being here,” I point out. “And I do a lot less than you.”

She chuckles. “That’s not how it works in Hollywood—or a lot of other places in America. There’re a lot of us desperate for a chance to break into the industry, and they know we won’t complain. They pay us in connections, in introductions to bigger names who can poach us for positions with actual salaries. I live with my folks, so I don’t need to pay rent. I’m lucky. I know people who’d be better at the work than me but can’t afford the job.”

It is a strange thing to say, to afford a job.

Melissa bends down and pets Askal, who likes the attention, his tongue lolling out as she scratches behind his ears. “What’s your deal? The scuttlebutt is that you’re the island whisperer. That you’re one person the island won’t curse.”

“The island won’t harm the people living around the area.”

“But the others don’t come here even so. Why do you?”

I stare in the direction of the cave. “I was five the first time I came here,” I say. “’Tay brought me.”

“’Tay?”

“Tatay.”

“That means dad, right? So this was back when he wasn’t ill?”

I nod. “You don’t think about whether or not you should be afraid of this place when you’ve lived around here your whole life. Respect is key. But most foreigners don’t have that for us.”

Melissa winces. “Well, that’s true enough. Is he doing all right, your dad? Is someone looking after him while you’re here?”

I think again about my contract, the quiet way ’Tay breathes in and out. I want to stay on Kisapmata, but money and ’Tay are not the reasons I do. “He’ll be okay.”

Later, Goatee tells me more about showrunners. They pitch ideas to network executives in America. If the latter likes it, they receive hefty budgets for pre-fab houses and generators among other expenses.

“They’re calling this show The Curse of the Godseye,” he shares, offering me a cup of coffee. Melissa said the food’s free, and the caffeine boosts are unlimited. “Or maybe just Godseye; we’re still

deciding. Either should be catchy. Ever watched any ghost hunting shows before? You know—intrepid spirit investigators staying in haunted places and screaming at whatever’s there to scream back?” Goatee doesn’t take coffee. He’s got another bottle of beer on hand, though I’ve already seen him drink four today.

“There have always been ghosts,” I say. “Even when there’s no one around to see.”

“Yeah, but now there’re cameras and CGI to monetize the shit out of them. You’re in luck, kid. Hemslock’s the best screamer in the business. Made ghost reality shows cool again. He had a couple of setbacks the last few years, but they’re throwing big money behind him this time.”

I know little of Hollywood, but I know directors are usually involved and hear no mention of one for this production.

“That’s not uncommon with these types of shows. Hemslock made his name with the solo survivalist format—you know, the ones where you do all your own filming on a handheld camera, pretending you’re the only one there? That’s his brand—him versus the world—so it’s par for the course. Twenty years ago, he would go this solo. But he’s a big name nowadays, so we’re here taking the risks for him first.”

“You’re friends with him?”

“Dunno if friend is the right word. Colleague, drinking partner. Know some of his family. Southern boy. His ma’s big on church. Dad served in ’Nam. Joe—that ’s his younger brother—died in a car accident. Some uncles and aunts he likes to talk about—an Aunt Elle who was arrested for fraud and an Uncle Mal who was

in the Irish mob or something. He always said he got his bravado from his uncle.”

Goatee looks around at the crew working. “That group’s gonna check the caves, figure out which caverns we can film. Then there are the cameramen for interviews, for following Hemslock, and for whatever B-roll footage we haven’t gotten already. Light and sound guys to make everything watchable. Editors to make sure shit makes sense, figure out if we need more footage. Most are gonna head back to the mainland before filming begins. Hemslock wants as few people around for that as possible.”

Some of the crew members are watching videos of Hemslock on his previous shows in the mess hall when I enter. Hemslock is a large man with a head of yellow hair and pale skin tanned from the sun. In one video, his hair is long and disheveled, and his beard is full, as he screams inside a temple in Cambodia for Khmer Rouge spirits to come and assault him. In another he is clean shaven with a crew cut, sitting in darkness inside a castle while making demands for unseen things to curse him. In one more he is being forced out of a shrine by several irate priests. Hemslock is shouting, accusing the priests of harassment.

“Kinda ironic,” says one of the show’s editors, a dark-skinned man who wears a wide-brimmed straw hat. “Considering all that shit that went down with him after this aired.”

“He doesn’t respect sacred places,” I say from behind them.

The two crew members jump, their fear melting into relief when they see me.

“Don’t sneak up on us like that!” a redheaded woman gasps.

“Causing outrage in sacred places is what made him popular,” Straw Hat explains. “People eat this up.”

Reuben Hemslock, as it turned out, is not his real name. They tell me that it is Paul Grossman, and that two years ago, eighteen women, including a few ex-girlfriends, stepped forward to accuse him of longstanding abuse. He has since taken a two years’ sabbat ical to distance himself from the scandal; this show will mark his return.

“Of course it turns my stomach,” the redhead says. “But this is my paycheck. I’ve got three kids. I’m not going to risk my job for anything. Besides, I’m heading home when they arrive. Hemslock wants a skeleton crew, which is real bullshit because they’re keeping the chefs.”

Goatee takes a much more relaxed stance regarding Hemslock. He’s drinking again, this time from a bottle of Red Horse, a local beer he must have brought from the city. “You get a lot of enemies when you’re famous,” he explains, after a long pull. His eyes are slightly unfocused. His fingers shake with the natural tremors of an unrepentant alcoholic. “That’s what happened to Hemslock. These women want to make money off knowing him. Their tell-all book s, talk show slots. But people have shit memories; dangle some new celebrity bait, and they’ll forget the scandals soon enough. They’ll forget this one, too.”

“What are their names?” I ask.

“Beats me. I think one’s an Audrey and maybe there’s a Jill? Main girlfriend is Gail Merkan. D-list actor.”

“Hey, wait,” Straw Hat says. “Weren’t there rumors that Gail

Merkan was visiting Cebu or something? Isn’t that the next island—”

“That’s all rumors. Tabloids getting a slow news day, trying to bait us into making a statement.”

“If these women are making accusations for the fame,” I ask, “then why doesn’t anyone remember their names?”

Goatee scowls at me. “Yeah well, he makes money, and that’s what we’re here for. I’ve worked with him on other projects. He’s fine. No idea what those bitches are going on about.”

“You’ll probably like Chase better,” Melissa says cheerfully. “He’s a celebrity, too. Sort of.”

“Chase?”

“Leo Gries’s son. Content creator or social media influencer or whatever. He’s pretty popular.” Melissa types on her phone then, grinning, shows me a video of a good-looking, shirtless boy wearing skimpy shorts and a plastic horse’s head, tap dancing to music. “He got almost twenty million views from this alone and literally put “I Need a Hero” back on the billboard charts. He got some publicity for the horse head, but he’s such a big goofball that it’s hard not to like him.”

I don’t claim to understand the logic behind the video’s popularity, but Askal seems to enjoy it, letting out staccato yips in time to the beat.

I hope Goatee is right, and that many of the crew will leave once shooting starts. There are far too many strangers on this island.

Two weeks before filming officially begins, a team of scientists explores the cave. I sit on a nearby rock and watch as they disappear

inside. Askal seats all fifteen pounds of himself on my lap and barks. “They’ll be all right,” I tell him.

The sands feel soft underneath me. The nearby balete sway against some unseen wind. I watch their branches ripen; tiny makahiya leaves unfurl along their length. They are tiny and segmented like small feathers, and while they have no flower heads, the plants on this island can grow several feet long, resembling creeping ivy. I heard some of the scientists ponder taking samples; makahiya don’t normally thrive on balete. Most things don’t.

Makahiya close on its own from external stimuli, like when it’s been touched. There is no one else nearby, but I watch the slender leaves fold in on themselves anyway, one after the other, as if caressed by something unseen.

One of the larger buds opens; something oddly familiar winks at me from within before the bud seals itself up again.

Soon, the scientists return. “It’s breathtaking,” one says excit edly, as they brief the rest of the team on their findings. “We’ve found writing to corroborate both Cortes’s and Key’s journals. We marked off areas inside. Make sure Mr. Hemslock and his team don’t go farther than that. But he’ll love what we’ve found. There may be a few more closed-off caverns in there, but we couldn’t find a way to get in. Incidentally—Gerr y, the maps those plane crash investigators provided were completely inaccurate. It’s almost like they explored a different cave system.”

“They seemed reliable,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “Let me double check. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary when they were inside, either.”

“None of you tell Hemslock,” Goatee says dryly. “He wants to pretend like he’s the first to discover everything.” He takes another gulp of his beer—and then starts in surprise.

The bottle in his hand shatters.

“Jesus Christ, Karl!” The scientist moves away from the broken glass.

Goatee stares at something within the dense patch of trees just several meters from camp, and I see a glimpse of something moving within the copse.

A woman. Long brown hair, pale skin. She stares unblinkingly at him. The rest of her is hidden behind the gnarled lower branches of a tree; only her face is visible.

There is something odd about the way she tilts her head.

“Get me another drink,” Goatee says hoarsely.

“Karl? You, okay?” The scientist persists.

The figure is gone when I look back. Goatee rips his gaze away.

“No,” he says, voice trembling, only slightly slurred from the alcohol. “Does it look like I’ve ever been okay?”

And then he grabs another bottle from his assistant and downs its contents, until every drop is gone.

THREE

TRESPASSERS

It isn’t long before there’s another sighting, and the rumors begin. The witnesses, this time, are the redhead with the kids and the Panera Lady.

“We thought someone on the team was injured, so we called out,” Panera Lady says, still shaking like a leaf. “Someone was staggering around like they were drunk. We thought it was Karl. We walked toward it—and then it turned and—and—”

“It had no face!” the assistant editor bursts out. “Like—you’ve seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre, right? Like Leatherface.”

“Exactly! Its face was peeling off, and it was naked—”

Hawaiian Shirt raises his hands. “Well, what do you want me to do about that? Write it up for HR to sanction? Did it attack?”

“No,” Panera Lady falters. “It disappeared. I can’t stay here, Gerry. I want out, I want—”

“Look. Supernatural sightings are great for PR, but there aren’t

really any ghosts. People see all kinds of weird crap out in the boondocks. I know you’re both scared, but my hands are tied till Hemslock gets here. Tasha, you’ll be off the island soon, so hold on till then. Don’t let Gries make it hard for you—he’s fired people for less.”

Theirs is not the only report made. The number of sightings grows as the days pass, giving Hawaiian Shirt more reason to worry. Something with tangled, dark hair skulking among the trees. Naked. And yet somehow not naked, either. No face that anyone could remember.

Until they could.

In the space of a day, the accounts shift again. There is a face, and it’s the face of a cameraman’s father, dead for years. It’s the face of a staff writer’s estranged brother, a production coordinator’s best friend, a gaffer’s school bully. The sightings last no longer than a few seconds. All happen within the vicinity of camp.

Frustrated, Hawaiian Shirt cancels filming for the day and sends everyone back to their tents. There are no new reports the next day, but one of the generators stops working, and it takes another half a day to fix. In the afternoon, one of the water tanks produces greenish, bracken-like fluid for an hour before reverting to normal. A check reveals nothing has been tampered with.

Next there’s a scream in the middle of taping. It unnerves the crew, and this time Hawaiian Shirt hears it as well. The safety team does a check. Everyone is accounted for. No one claims responsibility.

“Are there animals on the island?” Hawaiian Shirt asks me, trying his best to act calm though it is clear he’s unnerved.

“Only insects and fish. And Askal.”

Askal barks importantly.

“It was a woman’s scream, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what you mentioned hearing before? When we first met?”

I nod.

“Equipment breaks down all the time, so that’s to be expected. But some are claiming they’ve seen the ghosts of their grandpa or people who should be dead. What’s that all about? How is that related to the screams?”

“Should I tell you now,” I ask dryly, “or wait for the cameras?”

I am not expecting him to take me up on the offer.

Soon Hawaiian Shirt is hollering at the cameramen, for the light technicians to work their magic, for assistants to pin a mic on me and make sure they can hear every word. Askal dances in and around their legs, excited by the flurry of activity.

“All right,” Hawaiian Shirt says, determined, once everything has been set up. “You can answer now. What’s the deal with all these so-called sightings?”

I try to ignore the camera pointed at my face. “It’s the Diwata’s way of testing people, to see if they’re worthy.”

“Worthy of what?”

“Of being sacrificed. If you’re one of the eight deaths that he’s looking for. The ones who are kind—he won’t harm them. The ones who are not—” I pause. “If you’ve done your research, you would have known this already.”

“Have you ever had sightings like the ones my crew has been experiencing?”

I take a deep breath, not knowing why I am being so honest. “Not my own, no. But I see everyone else’s. I know you’re going to dismiss this as nothing more than superstition, but I’m telling you that the legend is just as real as you and me. And while I may not agree with your reasons for coming here, I don’t want to see any of you harmed, either. Kisapmata is dangerous, and you should start treating it as such.”

Hawaiian Shirt gazes steadily at me for a few more seconds. I can tell that he’s more worried now, but he shakes it off.

“Nice work,” he says. “We got all that, Rich? Do you mind saying everything again but in Tagalog, so we can decide the better version to air later?”

Hawaiian Shirt seems happy to pass off the visions as a form of mass hysteria. The psychologists on the team mandate that those who’ve had an encounter schedule an appointment with them.

Goatee, I notice, never reports his own experiences.

The VIPs reach the island two weeks later. The ship that brings them to shore is a bangka larger than mine, large enough for tours but small enough to get close to the shallower shoals. It anchors beside a small wooden pier built for the production. A dozen people climb out; they look around with curiosity, a few with distaste.

The first out is a man in his fifties wearing a suit despite the hot summer day. He glances about with misgivings, shaking off someone’s attempt to guide him to the sand. “This is an Armani,” he snaps. “Wash your damn hands first.”

Reuben Hemslock arrives with eight men dressed in military fatigues and camouflage, all visibly armed. They hover around him like a moving barricade, stopping others from getting too close. Hawaiian Shirt quietly assures the surprised crew that this is normal, because Hemslock has specific stipulations for them in his contract. A flex in Hawaiian Shirt’s jaw also tells me that some other clause has been broken, nonetheless.

“He’s been in a few movies, you know,” Goatee murmurs, words slightly slurred. “Ever seen them? Infinite Space? The Fight at the End of the World? That recent Star Trek movie? He’s done a few popular roles in television, too. Best Served Cold? The Con-In-Laws?”

I shake my head.

“You’re missing out. He’s been nominated for several awards, for Infinite Space especially. He started out with reality documentaries, but it turns out he’s a pretty great actor, too.”

Reuben Hemslock is exactly what his shows depict him as—a six-foot-six-inch-tall behemoth of a man, with a handsome, smiling face. He wears no beard this time, and his sunglasses obscure his eyes. He strides down the wooden planks with an air of selfpossession, surveying the shore like he owns the island and has come to collect taxes. The crew members applaud as he walks past—even Hawaiian Shirt and Goatee. Reuben Hemslock bows theatrically, his ponytail curling down one side of his neck.

“Appreciate the welcome. Who’s ready to make an award-winning documentary with me?” he shouts, and more cheers greet his call.

“And who’s this?” the actor soon asks, spotting me. Unlike the others, I do not clap.

“Name’s, uh,” Hawaiian Shirt taps rapidly on his phone to check. “I’ve got the signed contract here—yeah. Alon. Alon Budhi. Our official tour guide for the rest of the season. Dog here’s named Askal—Az for short but we haven’t bothered asking him to sign.”

“Here’s a tip for you, kid,” Reuben says. “Az is a crappy name for a dog. The other dogs are gonna kick his az if they haven’t already.” He chuckles at his joke. I don’t. “Is this who we’ve been trying to find?”

“Yeah. Fishing nearby, if you can believe that. Knows more about the lore than anyone else and is willing to tell us on camera. We’re waiting for Steve before we get the whole story, but kid’s been inside the cave before. Eighteen years old, but dunno if we’d be all right filming a teen inside the Godseye. Legal tells us it’s all good, but optics-wise it’s dodgy, might get us some pushback.”

“Nah,” Reuben says. “Eighteen’s an adult. If Alon here wants to come into the Godseye with us, then the kid’s got every right to. And how many of these folks would kill for a chance to be on an American show? You agree, Alon?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“See? I’m gonna crash for a bit at my cabin. Partied too much at Austen’s last night. Why didn’t anyone tell me it was gonna take fifteen hours to get to this goddamn island?”

“Reuben,” Hawaiian Shirt says, smile fading from his face. “You promised you’d stop drinking. The press is already on your case for the rehabs, plus all that other news. I don’t think you should be—”

Reuben yawns. “We’ll talk about this later. After dinner. Where’s my trailer?”

Hawaiian Shirt rubs the bridge of his nose after the actor

departs, his bodyguards trailing closely after. “You said he was going to clean himself up,” he says to another man, the one wearing the Armani suit. “He’s not taking off those shades because his eyes are bloodshot, right?”

“There’s no paparazzi here to photograph his drinking bouts, Gerry. How bad could it be? Give him a day to wind down, and he’ll be good to go. If you can handle Karl, surely you can handle Hemslock.”

“We can’t afford any more scandals.”

“I’ve been his work partner for years. We fended off those hyster ical women months ago. This is nothing.”

“Bodyguards all look ex-mercenary to me. He said he was bringing in four people, not eight. Who does he think is gonna attack him here?”

“He paid them all on his own dime, so why not?” Armani looks back, as another man joins them. “Leo, the cabins for you and your son should be that way.”

“Thank you,” the newcomer says, stretching. Unlike the man in the suit, he wears a casual polo shirt and long khaki pants. His hair is graying, and his face naturally tanned but tired. “This is…a lot less gloomy than I expected.”

At his side is a boy my age with yellow hair and bright green eyes, looking like he dressed for a beach party but caught the wrong boat. He’s carrying a suitcase over his shoulder, oddly enough. He holds his phone in the air, grinning widely at it, and I realize he’s taking a picture of himself.

“Dad, you didn’t tell me this was literally in the middle of nowhere,” he said, finally lowering it to blink at us.

“You said you wanted to take a break from home, Chase, so this is that. I told you this wasn’t going to be a five-star resort.”

The boy turns to look at me and nearly trips. His suitcase falls, and I reach out without thinking—and then grunt when the weight nearly sends me to the ground. The boy grabs it back with a sheep ish grin, one hand holding the suitcase like it weighs nothing while the other helps me balance. He’s stronger than he looks. “Sorry,” he says. He takes another look at me, and his eyes widen. “I just, ah—hi! Who are you?”

“This is Alon,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “Our tour guide.”

“A tour guide?” The boy asks, sounding genuinely confused. He stares at me like I’ve grown another arm. “But I can walk around this island in like an hour.”

“Chase, show some respect,” his father says sternly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Alon. This is my son, Chase. My name is Leo Gries. I’m the co-executive producer for this show. It’s been a lovely visit so far. We stayed in Cebu for a couple of nights before coming here to Kisapmata, and I was so very charmed by the people there. I hope we’re compensating you well for this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s been difficult to find anyone local willing to tell us about this island.”

“The island doesn’t look cursed,” Chase says, still in wonder. “Have you seen those waves? U-uh, Alon, right?”

Gries smiles at me, then shoots an exasperated look at his son. “Chase.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just—I know you told me about a curse, but I

thought you guys were just gonna magic it all up in the studio. You mean, for real this is a cursed island?”

“Your son’s right,” says Armani. “We’ll have to put some darker tones in, maybe a blue filter to set the mood. It doesn’t look haunted if it’s always this sunny.” He shoves his suitcase into my hands. “Here. And get some coffee ready for me.”

“Steve!” Leo Gries grabs the bag and shoves it back at the other man. “Alon isn’t the hired help!”

Armani shrugs. “Well, my cabin’s on the left. That’s where I expect it to be by the time I get there.”

“This is Steve Galant,” Hawaiian Shirt says, with lesser enthusiasm. “Another of the show’s executive producers.”

Armani scrutinizes me. “So you’re the kid Gerry’s been going on about? Your English’s impressive.”

“Steve!” Gries exclaims once again.

Melissa takes the suitcase and shoots me an apologetic look as she lugs it away.

Armani laughs, pats me on the back. “I’m kidding. If Gerry’s right, you’re gonna be the hidden star of this show. Just don’t tell Hemslock I said that. We’re gonna talk shop at dinner. Stay and eat with us. I’d like to pick your brain about this place.”

Leo Gries turns back to me when Armani leaves. “Can you give us an idea why so many of the people living nearby have refused to tell us anything about Kisapmata?”

“At least fifteen people have already died on this island, sir. The people here do not want to be blamed for any more deaths.”

“Fifteen?” Chase breathes. “And it’s not like, drownings or shark

attacks? Like people were murdered? Even though no one actually lives here?”

His father sighs. “Yes, Chase. Actual murders took place here. If you’d read the articles I gave you, you would have known that. The murder of the poor woman by that cult is the one we want more information about. We’ve been asking for any related documents from the municipalities for months, but they only shrug and say they can’t find any. Likely destroyed by now, they said.”

“A woman’s murder?” Chase echoes nervously. “Cult?”

“Apparently there was an active cult here a couple of decades ago. They were supposedly killed on the island before they could be arrested, but all we’ve found are rumors and secondhand accounts. No official case reports. I’ve been hoping that we could find someone here willing to talk. Do you know anything about this, Alon?”

I shake my head.

Askal ambles toward Chase, sensing his nervousness. The boy absently reaches down and scratches him behind the ears. “Nice dog,” he says. “Is he yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Some lab mix?”

“Maybe. We don’t pay much attention to pedigrees here.”

Chase smiles, and it transforms his face. The worry in his brow eases and he appears more relaxed. “Heya, Askal. You’re a cute fella, just like—”

He stops and turns red. Askal yips happily and licks at his hands. Hawaiian Shirt shoves his into his pants pockets and sighs.

“We’ve got more problems,” he says. “Did Cameron tell you the local first responders won’t be coming if we run into any emergen cies? That we gotta fly in our own medics? They really hate this island.”

“They don’t hate it,” I say.

“Could have fooled me.”

“They aren’t fearful of the curse. They’re afraid of what all of you might do while you’re here.”

A soft indrawn breath from Leo Gries. “Then why are you helping us? Why aren’t you warning us away like the others?”

“I’ve walked this island many times before. I’ve fished in its waters. I am familiar with the island’s ghosts, and they are familiar with me. My countrymen will be blamed if anything happens to any of you. My presence might help.”

“You are very kind. Thank you.”

“We’re not going to be intimidated by some old wives’ tales,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “We stand to make a lot of money from this show if we get the ratings we’re after—or at least if we make it good enough for the network to give us a bigger push.” He grins at me. “And when we do, we’ll give you a bonus, Alon, and a nice treat for your dog, too. We’ll finish out this season, whatever happens.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than we hear a horrific crash.

The sound comes from the direction of the cabins.

I sprint toward the site before the rest of them can react. Crew members flee, screaming.

By the time I arrive, the damage has already been done.

One of the pre-fab cabins is gone, fallen into a sinkhole that has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere—a perfect circle on the ground, a mimicry of one of the many machines that the builders used for construction.

An ancient monstrosity stands at its center. A tree without a trunk. It is, instead, a fortress of webbed roots and slim ivy-like coils climbing up the pre-fab’s foundation to spread its ossified tree branches. They reach up greedily, as if to claw at the sky above with their gnarled fingers.

Crew members gather at the edge of the sinkhole, unable to look away. Someone screams and points toward the thickness of the strange, twisted mass within the dead tree.

Within the cobweb of branches, a body lies huddled; its head is thrown back, and its mummified mouth is twisted open in an endless, soundless scream.

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Printed and bound in Canada. MBP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

VIDEO #1

I PUSH THE RED RECORD BUTTON.

I’ve never made a video like this, never tried to talk so openly to strangers. Icy sweat trickles down my back. I don’t know what to say or how to begin.

My face beams back at me, pale and thin from the time I spent in the hospital. I wear a small white bandage on my forehead, and I’m still feeling the effects of the concussion. Bright lights make me wince like a vampire exposed to the sun. If I move too quickly, I get nauseated, and my ears won’t stop ringing.

It’s time to talk. My phone is recording, and I can’t just sit here staring.

I almost turn it off—shut it down. But I need to talk. I need to get this out.

“Hi,” I say, before realizing how simple that sounds. “My name is Hunter Gifford. I’m seventeen years old. A senior. I don’t know, maybe a lot of you already know who I am. I guess everything that happened has been in the news. That’s why I’ve

stopped looking at my phone. Or talking to anybody. Or maybe they’ve stopped talking to me. I’m not really sure. But it has the same effect. Normally, I like to write things down to make sense of my life, but I haven’t been able to write since the accident. I just stare at the blank page and nothing comes out. So I decided to give this a try.”

I clear my throat and watch the red light. My face looks even whiter than when the video started…if that’s possible.

I remind myself to keep talking.

“I’m making this video because of all the things that happened that night. Because of the accident. And because my girlfriend, Chloe Summers, hasn’t been seen since then. A whole week ago. She was in the car that night, but no one has seen or heard from her since. I guess I should back up. I think she was in the car that night. She should have been. We’ve been dating. We went to homecoming together.” I try to swallow again, but I can’t produce any spit. “We went everywhere together. So I assume we left the dance together, but I don’t know for sure. Because of the accident, and what happened to my head…”

I see myself point to the bandage. My movements look awkward, but I don’t want to stop and start over. If I stop, I may not start again.

“I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember much of that night. There are holes—blind spots I just can’t see. And that means I don’t know what caused the accident. Or what happened to Chloe. The police told me we drove into a tree in Dad’s

Charger, and somehow I ended up at the hospital. The truth is, no one even knows how I got there. The police think a Good Samaritan found me dazed, wandering on the side of the road, and dropped me off. But Chloe was gone. Everything she had with her—her purse, her phone, even her shoes—was still in the car. But no Chloe. Gone without a trace. That’s what they keep saying on the news.”

My mouth is dry, and my lips look like cracked pottery, but I need to finish.

“So I’m hoping someone out there knows what happened. To Chloe, I mean. Everyone is worried. Her parents. Her friends. Her teachers. Me. If you know, just call the police. Or message me. Or tell a teacher or somebody. Because she’s somewhere, right? And she might be hurt. She might not remember anything just like I don’t. And she’s probably scared or confused or cold or completely out of her mind.”

The next part makes me nervous. I’ve thought about leaving it out. It’s really personal. Everyone thinks people my age just spill everything all over social media, but I’m not like that. But it feels right. It does.

“And, Chloe, if you’re seeing this…well, I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t remember. I really don’t. But I remember that I love you.” I pause. I don’t even try to swallow because I can’t. “And I want to know where you are and that you’re safe. I just want to know that more than anything. Even if you don’t want to see me or date me, I need to know you’re safe.”

BELL

I take a deep breath. The red light blinks back at me. I should probably smile. My whole life, people have told me to smile more. Smile when I have my picture taken, and smile when I meet a stranger. But I don’t like smiling that way because it feels weird and fake.

My skin feels itchy, my limbs stiff. I don’t want to smile, but I want to look concerned.

Worried. Or whatever I’m supposed to be. But I don’t know how to do that, either, so I end my spiel.

“Just let me know, okay?”

I push the red button to stop recording.

ONETHE ALARM RINGS, BUT I’M ALREADY AWAKE.

I slept maybe an hour, and my eyes burn like they’ve been scoured with bleach.

I groan, a noise full of desperation, and pick up my phone to silence the screeching alarm. The concussion effects make it sound ten times louder.

My screensaver taunts me. A photo of Chloe and me taken on a day we spent at the lake during the summer. We’re both smiling, and a burst of sunlight pops over her right shoulder. Like she’s glowing. Her eyes are bright blue.

During the brief time I slept, her face filled my dreams. She was alive and by my side. I reached out to touch her, to take her hand. Contact with her skin always sent an electric jolt through my body, and every cell in me jangled with energy when we were close.

But then I woke up and landed in reality with a cold splash. I groan again. No words, sounds, or thoughts are enough to sum up everything that has gone wrong. Chloe is missing.

My head hurts, a constant reminder of the crash. I take in the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, the things that used to make me feel at home. A shelf full of science fiction and fantasy novels. The covers worn, the books well-read. A poster of the movie Dune the original—that Mom bought years ago. A cactus Chloe gave me that she named Harriet after her favorite book, Harriet the Spy. A few of the soccer trophies and ribbons I still display.

My phone tempts me. I posted the video last night, and then checked the page about fifty times a minute.

Big mistake.

The number of views was nothing to write home about. But the comments…

You killed her.

You know the truth.

You’re a liar.

Memory loss. Right.

But I kept looking, hoping for the one person who might have posted something helpful—the one person with the missing piece of the puzzle. But it never came. I finally put down the phone around 4:00 a.m. and tried to sleep. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. Awake or asleep, I only see Chloe’s face, the wrecked car, the lonely spot by the woods on County Road 250. Chloe was there that night when the car crashed…wasn’t she?

Where is she now?

Water runs in the bathroom down the hall. My sister, Olivia, getting ready for school. I know where I have to go today. I just don’t know what lurks ahead.

The rumpled covers and the soft pillow tempt me to stay in bed, but if I do, I’ll only think about Chloe all day. I’d stare at photos and texts all day. I’d start to read the hateful comments

again, the conspiracy theories and accusations. The stories claim ing Chloe was taken into the woods by Satan worshippers. I know I’d give in to it all.

I’ve been hiding in my room for almost a week, ever since I came home from the hospital. The therapist said to go back to school, return to my normal life.

Routine is therapeutic, she told me.

I grab the jeans I threw over a chair last night. A shirt from the closet. Socks and shoes. I’ll give her advice a try, even though

I don’t believe for one minute anything will be therapeutic. And nothing will ever make me feel normal again.

TWOIN THE KITCHEN, A BIZARRE SIGHT GREETS ME. DAD stands at the stove holding a beat-up wooden spoon, stirring something in a pan. Whatever it is appears to be smoking and smells like hot tar on a summer day. I gag.

Dad is dressed for work. Tan pants, olive green sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He smiles at me, but it’s forced. The way you’d smile at someone you feel sorry for.

“I’m making oatmeal,” he says. “I thought…well, this is what you eat in the morning. Right?”

“I usually have cereal.”

“Oh, I thought…not oatmeal. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Dad.”

“Do you want me to…” He points at the refrigerator. “I can make the cereal.”

“I can make cereal,” I say. “Okay. I mean, if you’re sure. I just wanted to…”

Dad teaches history at the community college. He’s always

reading something or grading papers. His words frequently trail off in the middle of sentences. People who’ve taken his class tell me it’s so inspiring how much he loves history, that when he lectures about some important topic like D-Day or the Civil Rights Movement, he goes on and on until one of the students reminds him the period is over.

When I ask if they’ve ever gone to his office hours, they say, “I’ve never done that. He’s not really the kind of professor you go talk to.”

I always want to tell them, He’s not that kind of dad, either.

Which is why the oatmeal is so weird. Dad last made break fast…never. At most, he points to the coffee he brewed or the loaf of bread for toast before he rushes out the door for his way-tooearly office hours.

He hands me the wooden spoon like it’s a fragile ancient artifact. “Here you go. If you put some cinnamon in there…the burning taste or whatever.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Since he’s made the effort, I grab a bowl, slide the pan off the burner, and scrape out some oatmeal. Dad just stands there by the table, holding his coffee mug like he has all the time in the world. Like a guy trying to show no sense of urgency. And utterly failing.

This is about me going back to school. I can feel it.

“I’m okay, Dad. I can handle it.”

“I know, I know. I don’t doubt that.” He takes a loud sip of

his coffee. “It was on the news this morning that the latest search didn’t come up with anything. They’re not…not sure when they’ll do a big search again.”

“Are they giving up?” I ask.

“Not that,” he says. “It’s just…to get that many volunteers out.”

“People have short attention spans.”

Dad nods. He has as much faith in humanity as I do.

His overstuffed messenger bag and his laptop sit by the door. He taps his foot against the tile, shifts his weight.

Dad is almost fifty but still thin, not like most dads. He rides his bike on the weekends, rarely overeats. Once a month he sits in the backyard looking at the stars and smoking a cigar that smells worse than the burnt oatmeal. He must think about Mom on those nights, but I never ask.

“You see, Hunter, people can be…cruel. They can say things. You’ve been in the news, and some people always think the worst about the boyfriend when something like this happens.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m just saying…”

The spoonful of oatmeal nearly chokes me. It tastes scorched, like he stirred ashes into the pot as a seasoning. I don’t want to hurt his feelings but…

“I’m just saying that if you want to stay home today, or if you just don’t…I mean some kids get homeschooled. I can certainly help with that. And my colleagues on campus can help, too.”

Mom died of breast cancer a year and a half ago. Since then,

Dad has pretty much had to do everything. He works a lot and pays the bills. He drove us around everywhere until I got my license. He tries in his own weird way to be both parents, even though it’s not his strong suit. Things are always a little awkward with him.

Tears form in my eyes. I stare at the gross oatmeal like it’s the most important thing in the world. Like black tar breakfast is my absolute favorite. I can’t look at him. Not now.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say. “I’m ready. I need to do it sooner rather than later. Besides, it’s better than sitting around the house just… thinking.”

“And your head, it’s... Is it feeling better? The nausea?”

“No nausea,” I say. Unless I eat more oatmeal. “Just a little headache. It’s getting there.”

Dad nods. Maybe he even looks a little relieved. He wants me back in school, getting on with my life. And he hates having his routine disrupted.

He finishes his coffee and sets his mug on the counter with a little thump. “Well,” he says.

One of our awkward silences descends on us. He’s ready to go but doesn’t know how to leave.

And I don’t have anything else to say to him. As usual.

Olivia clomps down the stairs. She comes into the kitchen like a miniature hurricane, her phone clutched in her hands, her eyes and mouth wide.

“Oh my God, you guys,” she says. “Did you see this?”

“SEE WHAT?” DAD ASKS.

THREEHe looks like a poisonous snake has just curled up next to his foot. His son is a murder suspect, and he can’t handle any more bad news.

Olivia is holding her phone like it’s a holy book she’s about to read from. She’s fifteen and dressed in her usual outfit: combat boots, tight jeans, black T-shirt, flannel shir t tied around her waist. She has a new streak of color in her brown hair. Purple this time. Last week it was pink.

Dad is about to get blindsided. He would have told me not to do it. To keep my mouth shut and put my head down until everything blows over. As if it ever will…

“Hunter made a video,” Olivia says. “The quality is terri ble. He should’ve picked a different background. It’s like some low-budget terror ist group made it.” She looks up from her phone. “You should have at least sat in front of your bookshelf. That would be interesting. Here you just look really pasty and pale. I mean I know you’re hurt and everything.”

“What video?” Dad asks, pushing away from the counter and moving toward Olivia.

“Why did you put this on YouTube and not TikTok?” Olivia asks.

“It’s not really right for TikTok—”

“Oh, I see,” Olivia says. “You shared this on the creative writing club channel. Ex Libris. Clever. Then people at school can see it and start to share.”

“What video?” Dad asks.

“You should at least do a TikTok telling everyone you posted on YouTube,” Olivia says. “Although the comments tell me people are seeing it already. Yikes.”

“What is this video?” Dad asks.

“It’s about Chloe,” Olivia says. “What else?” She hands her phone to Dad and pushes the play button for him because he pretty much can’t do anything on his phone without help.

My voice comes across the kitchen, tinny and small.

Hi, my name is Hunter Gifford…

Dad watches with an open mouth and Olivia turns to me. “Have you read the comments?”

“Some.”

Oliva makes a face. “Nasty. People are so rude. They get online and totally stop acting like human beings.” She breezes across the kitchen and peers into the pan on the stove. “Blech. Who made this?”

“Dad did,” I say, pushing away my bowl.

“Dad made it? Professor Benjamin Gifford cooked?”

We both look at him as the video ends. Dad takes a deep breath. He hands the phone back to Olivia like it’s a dead bird. He goes over to his bag and picks it up. Dad doesn’t like conflict, and he never tells us what he’s feeling. We just have to guess when he’s unhappy with us. And it’s pretty obvious he’s unhappy right now. All the goodwill that went into him trying to make breakfast and offering to homeschool me seems gone.

“This is a mistake, Hunter,” he says, his voice level. For him this comment amounts to the Gettysburg Address.

“I’m trying to find Chloe,” I say. The ache in my head gets more intense.

“Things just started to quiet down a little,” he says. “The crank calls. The dog crap on the porch. We just got some peace.”

“You said they’re done searching,” I say. “Maybe this will motivate them to try again.”

“It’s a mistake. The lawyer told you to keep a low profile when you left the hospital. And you posted that on a school channel?”

“Dad—”

“It ’s not a school channel,” Olivia says. “It’s a club channel. Hunter and Chloe created it, and this livens it up a little. Usually, Ex Libris posts boring poetry readings. Snooze.”

“Oh, jeez,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Okay, I’m late. Are you sure you’re okay to drive to school?”

“The doctor said I could.”

“Okay. Just be safe.”

And then he goes to the door without looking back.

“What are you so pissed about, Dad?” Olivia asks.

“Livvy, it’s okay,” I say.

“No,” she says. “He’s trying to help find Chloe. He has the right to do that, even if his presentation is ass.”

Dad stops in the open doorway. He doesn’t go out and doesn’t come back in. He just stands there, a man caught in-between. He doesn’t look over his shoulder when he speaks. “The cops said to keep a low profile. There are a lot of raw emotions. People get…” He pauses and lifts his free hand to his forehead. “Hunter’s going back to school today and that…It’s going to be tough.”

“What if the video helps us find her?” Oliva asks, her voice rising.

Dad stands in the doorway a few moments longer. He looks like he’s going to say something but stops. Then he says, “Just be careful driving, okay? And if you don’t feel well, go tell the nurse.”

And he’s out the door and off to work.

Olivia throws her hands in the air in an overly theatrical gesture. She wants me to be just as outraged. Which I am, in a way, but I’m also trying to understand. Dad doesn’t like talking about things. He doesn’t like emotions being on display.

As Chloe used to say, “The apple doesn’t fall far.”

Used to say? No. Says. Chloe says that about me.

“It’s okay, Livvy. Maybe I shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it’s just going to make things worse. All the things people will say… all the things they’re posting.”

Oliva stares at me with her mouth wide open, her braces gleaming beneath the kitchen light.

“What people say? What people say? Is what people say or post worse than the fact that nobody knows where Chloe is? Or people harassing us by smearing dog shit on the porch? Or knocking over the trash cans? Come on, Hunter. Think. Is that stuff worse?” She stomps off, but as she goes up the stairs, her

voice floats back to me over the sound of her heavy steps. “I think it’s beautiful how much you love Chloe, Hunter. I really do.”

And she’s right. I do love Chloe. And I love my lunatic sister, too.

FOUR

DAD WOULD BE HAPPY. I DRIVE SO SLOWLY IT FEELS LIKE the car is standing still. Old ladies in giant cars pass us—that’s how slow we go. I barely notice my headache.

The accident on homecoming night is still under investi gation. They tested my blood, and they know I wasn’t drunk or high. The police say it’s possible another car might have been involved—either accidentall y or on purpose—because otherwise how did we just randomly plow into a tree?

They checked both our phones, so they know we weren’t texting. They took paint scrapings off her dad’s nearly new Charger to see if someone else rammed into us. Why they think someone would do that, I have no clue.

Even though it was her dad’s car—which is nicer than the gray 2010 Corolla I drive—it appears I was driving, and Chloe was in the passenger seat. Her shoes, phone, and purse were found on that side. My blood was on the steering wheel. A trace of Chloe’s blood was on the inside of the passenger door. They have a whole team of cops trying to figure it all out.

Since I can’t remember a single thing about the accident, I’m not any help. But the police turned my life inside out. They took hair and saliva samples. They went all through my room—my closet, my desk, my computer. They took the clothes I wore that night and went through my locker at school. If I had any secrets, the cops know every one of them now.

The lawyer Dad called—a middle-aged woman who looks more like a librarian—allowed the police to do those things, and then privately told me I’d be fine as long as I told the truth.

But it all raises the question—why would someone want to run us off the road?

And if it was just an accident, why did they leave the scene? And take Chloe?

And why did I wander around until someone found me? Why didn’t I stay?

Why didn’t I try to help Chloe?

Maybe my head was too messed up. Or maybe…that’s where I start to look suspicious.

It turns out the hospital has security cameras outside the emergency room doors. No car dropped me off that night. I just came wandering up. The cops showed me the grainy video that looked like something from a found footage horror film, and I saw myself stumbling to the door, my hand held to my bloody forehead. I look like the guy in the movie who brings the virus into the hospital. Either someone dumped me in the lot and stayed out of sight. Or they didn’t want their car to be seen for some reason.

Or maybe I faked the whole thing. That’s what some people say. I drove into a tree and bashed my own head and did something terrible to Chloe. Then walked five miles to the hospital in the dark. With a concussion.

As we make the drive to school, my hands grip the wheel tight. This is only the second time I’ve driven since…since that night. I stop extra long at every stop sign. I look both ways even when a light turns green. I’m wrong to make fun of the old ladies. Their behavior makes sense to me now.

Olivia is in the passenger seat, texting away, her feet tucked underneath her. She’s clearly not worried about my driving. Her thumbs move over her phone like a video in fast-forward.

She spends every ride to school texting this way. But I want to talk. Maybe I’m more anxious than I realize. Maybe dad is right. Maybe I should lay low. After those comments on YouTube, who knows what people will say in person?

“Aren’t you going to see Gabriela in less than five minutes?” I ask.

“I need to plan where we’re meeting. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

“Wow. So long.”

She lowers the phone to her lap. “Oh, shit. Am I being an asshole for texting Gabby while Chloe’s missing? I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I wasn’t saying that.” And I wasn’t. “I was just teasing you. You know, the way I always do.”

“Are you sure? I’ll stop.”

“You don’t have to stop. I’m glad you have Gabriela. You’re lucky.”

“I know,” she says dreamily. “And it’s almost our three-month anniversar y. So let’s talk about something happy.” Olivia turns and looks out the window. We’re driving through a neighbor hood near ours. Rows and rows of brick ranch houses that Chloe called midcentury modern. The yards are full of leaves, and a lot of the porches have been taken over by pumpkins and cornstalks and plastic skeletons. “Look at all the Halloween stuff. Isn’t it awesome? Gabriela and I are taking her little cousin trick-ortreating. Did I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t. Or maybe you did, and I can’t remember.”

“No worries. We’re all going to dress like zombies. You know, all pale and deathly and shit.”

Pale and deathly. That makes me think of something…

“Livvy, about the video…”

“Don’t worry about Dad, Hunter. He can be such an asshole sometimes. It’s like when I try to talk to him about Mom, and he’s all like, ‘I just don’t want to think about that, Livvy.’ Can you believe he says that to me? By the way, I told him fifty times to stop calling me Livvy. I’m not a little kid.”

“I call you Livvy all the time.”

“You’re allowed to. You’re my brother, and I give you permis sion. But not Dad.”

“Give him a break. He’s just…private.”

“I hate that word. Private. ‘It’s private, Livvy.’ ‘Some things are meant to be private, Livvy.’ Mom never said that shit to me.”

“Is the video bad?” I ask. “I mean, people are already saying shit in the comments. Will it get worse?”

Olivia takes her time answering, which is rare. Usually she fires from the hip, the words flying out of her mouth like missiles. But she’s looking back out the window now, her fingers twining through the purple streak in her hair.

“Your intention with the video is really sweet,” she says finally. “I know how much you care about Chloe. And I love her to Jupiter and back. I mean, she’s way better than Hannah. I don’t know how you could stand her. I know Chloe can’t stand her.”

“They basically can’t stand each other. And I dated Hannah two years ago.”

“Okay. But I love Chloe, you know? I really do.”

“I know.”

Olivia stops twirling her hair. She raises her hand to her eyes and touches each of them gently. Everything makes Olivia cry. Movies, puppies, songs, babies. They all make her cry. She’s seriously missing Chloe, too. Chloe is an only child, and Olivia doesn’t have any sisters. Olivia always told me I could never break up with Chloe because if I did, she’d disown me and claim Chloe as her own.

“But people are going to say shit,” she says. “In person, and not just in the comments. They’ve already been harassing us. Dad didn’t want to tell you, but somebody let the air out of his tires on campus a few days ago.”

“They did?”

“Yeah. He had to call a tow truck to come and fill them up so he could drive home. People are assholes, Hunter. It’s like Shark Week. A little blood in the water, and they go wild.”

“I wish Dad had told me,” I say. “Have people been bullying you?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “People have said some things when I walk by. Cowards. Every once in a while, somebody says some bullshit about Gabby and me. I can handle it. I mean... I know why you made the video. And I know you were feeling some real shit when you made it. But some people might not get it. You’re kind of like Dad in that way. People don’t know what’s really going on inside. Maybe you should have just written something. Video is kind of…you know, unforgiving. And it looks like it’s already spreading around the school. Maybe you should stay off TikTok.”

“Are you saying the video makes me look fake?”

The school comes in sight. Rows of yellow buses, the endless procession of student cars. I used to pick up Chloe and drive her to school. She and Olivia would text jokes back and forth while I drove. They’d laugh and laugh and sometimes not let me in on it. Then we’d park in the lot, and Olivia would sprint into the school looking for Gabriela while Chloe and I walked together holding hands.

I wish I could hold her hand again. Like in the dream. Like we used to do walking into school. Just hold her hand…

I find an empty spot, aware that Olivia still hasn’t answered my question.

“Well?” I ask.

Olivia is staring straight ahead, but then she whips around to face me. “You look stiff. Like in school pictures. You always look like you’re sitting on a nail or something.” She takes a big breath, her shoulders rising and falling. “Like I said, I know who you are. But all these people who don’t…and, my God, Hunter, a lot of people have probably shared it now.” She gestures to the parking lot, the school, the town beyond. “I’m afraid they’re going to think you look guilty.”

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ONE BRONWYN

I stared up at the two-story house, dim blue and faded with age, with a vague sense of dread. It looked large enough to swallow me whole and mean enough to consider the attempt. If the thick surrounding woods didn’t get to me first.

Dad was still unloading the U-Hau l with the hired movers, grunting as they hoisted my wardrobe. Mom went inside with a suitcase. The sky was gray with cracks of blue where the clouds didn’t overlap. The light that shone through gave them a bright silver lining, which was ironic. There was no silver lining here.

We had just moved from Berwyn, Illinois, back to my Dad’s hometown in Arkansas—away from all my friends, my competitive swim team, and the intense schedule that kept me on track to one day becoming an Olympic swimmer. The reason made the situation more dismal. Lala had a stroke six months ago and was in hospice.

The news was a shock. Uncle Nathan, who lived in town, had kept the first stroke a secret from Dad. Mom said it was so Dad wouldn’t worry, but Dad didn’t see it that way. And the way they

stayed up late at night, having hushed conversations that bordered on arguments, I wasn’t sure if that was the full story. It seemed like there was more under the surface, like a closed wound that was still suffering from an infection.

Dad visited a few times, but when it was clear Lala was not getting better, the decision was made. We would come to make the most of whatever time we had left with her, and Dad would help get her affairs in order.

It was only one year, but that didn’t make the situation any less shitty.

“Bronwyn, help your mother take in what you can, okay?”

Dad said. “Oscar, Jerome, and I will bring in all the heavier stuff.”

I glanced at the U-Hau l. It was small, and for good reason. The only ‘heavy items’ were my bed and a wardrobe for the room I’d be staying in. We didn’t need much. Lala’s furniture and her whole life were here, so we could use what she had instead of dragging all our stuff here and back.

“Sure, Dad.” I smiled and grabbed the nearest cardboard box. I managed to hold my smile until his back was to me.

The windowpanes had cracks, and tufts of grass poked out of the stone steps that led to the porch. Back in Berwyn, we lived in a similar two-story house, and sure, ours was worn in a way that told you people lived there. But this house—Lala’s place felt less like a lived-in residence and more like it was inhabited by ghosts.

The surrounding woods only added to that feeling. This place was rural, in the middle of nowhere. Back home, we had neighbors and sidewalks. I could go for a walk without the fear of coming face to face with bears or other wild animals. Now it was looking like I’d taken that safety for granted.

Inside Lala’s house, the hallway was long and narrow, flowing straight to what looked like the kitchen, with the living room

on one side and a staircase on the other. The sound of cabinets opening and glass clinking told me Mom was checking things out. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d visited. It was probably when I had, several years ago. Dad did his best to keep the house well cleaned while he visited, but well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he let that slip. Grief does that.

I put the box down in a corner and decided to take a quick look around. The floors creaked under me like a warning. I started toward the kitchen when gravity pulled me down suddenly I grabbed onto the banister. I pulled myself up and stared down. The thin rug with tassels slid on the floor easily and had nearly taken me out before I was ten steps into the house.

“Christ…” I hissed under my breath. It was hard enough feel ing like the entire world was against me, but now it felt like the house was trying to say I wasn’t welcome.

I rolled up the rug and shoved it to the side. There was no reason to leave a tripping hazard out when there were about a dozen more boxes to bring inside.

I took a cautious step forward. Then my feet moved without me thinking about where to go.

I’d been to Lala’s house before. I was too young to remember exactly when, but bits and pieces were coming back. Soft giggles vibrating off walls as my little legs ran up the stairs. The smell of pancakes, bacon, and eggs in the morning before I opened my eyes. The times she tried to get me to pronounce “abuela” correctly, but I couldn’t, so she became Lala to me. Still was, I guessed.

It had been a while since I’d seen Lala, but I remembered the smell of her lotion and feel of her arms around me—thick and secure, a loving warmth. I continued forward, simultaneously going on a curious tour of the house and down memory lane.

I suddenly remembered where the bathrooms were, the look

of the sand-colored cabinets and white laminate countertops in the kitchen. I came to the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

“You okay, Wynnie?” Mom asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I fanned myself with my hands. “It’s really humid in here.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, looking around with vague distaste. Mom was trying to keep the peace, but I could tell she wasn’t fond of the move either. Like me, she had a whole life back in Illinois, friends she had brunch with on Sunday mornings, work. Sure, her job was remote, and she could work anywhere, but internet access didn’t exactly make a house a home. We were both out of our element.

Mom’s thick curls were tied back with a silk ribbon, framing her heart-shaped face and wide eyes that observed everything. I was told that I took after her that way—always watching and trying to make sense of things.

“Why don’t you open a few more windows. Hopefully, it’ll get a nice breeze flowing.”

Without another word, she turned on her heels and went down the hall. Then she called out, “Wynnie, do me a favor and grab the paper towels by the window, too. I don’t know why your father let it get so dusty in here.” She tsked.

Turning toward the kitchen counter, I unrolled a few sheets of towels. When I tore at the perforation, dust particles blew out and danced in the sunlight. The kitchen window was particu larly dusty and when I started wiping the pane, I noticed a blur of movement outside.

For a second, I thought it was a bird. But then it happened again, and my eyes caught on a shadow. It was too big to be a bird.

Was that… a person?

By the way they ducked behind the tree, it was clear their intentions weren’t good.

A stack of boxes blocked the back door, so I zipped back down the hall to the front door, pushing by Mom.

“Bronwyn?” Mom yelled, shock hitching in her throat.

I didn’t slow down. Every tree looked the same in the wooded yard, but whoever was out here couldn’t get far without being seen.

“Wynnie, are you okay?” Dad ran to catch up. His breathing was heavy. I tossed a glance over my shoulder. His shirt was soaked with sweat from moving and the heat.

I stared back at the trees.

“Do we have any neighbors?” I swallowed.

“Unless you count a family of foxes as neighbors, no—there shouldn’t be anyone else within a mile of here.”

The rows and rows of trees only confirmed what he was saying. I looked back at Dad.

“Someone was spying on me through the window.”

“What?” Dad furrowed his brows. He took confident strides ahead of me and stopped before the tree line. “Did you see what they looked like?”

I opened my mouth and shut it. I shook my head. “No, they hid too fast.”

“Did you see if they were holding a weapon?”

“No…”

It was a shadow. It wasn’t like I could see any weapons, but some guns were small and easily concealed. What if someone thought the house was abandoned and was casing it for a robbery?

Dad stood still.

“Excuse me,” Dad shouted in the direction of the trees. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t mean to intrude, but this is private property. Would you mind stepping out and clearing up this misunderstanding?”

His voice was met with a slight breeze brushing over the tall grass. We both said nothing for a few moments, waiting, guarding.

“You sure it wasn’t a deer or a raccoon?” he asked, his voice much lower.

“I’m sure it was a person,” I whispered back. There was no mistaking it.

Dad’s shoulders rose and dropped with a deep exhale, and he strode toward the trees. My heart threatened to stop the closer he got to the nearest one.

There was one other time when I felt like I was being targeted. After a school dance, I walked home and someone followed me. They weren’t even sneaky about it, simply trailing behind me for several blocks. Part of me felt stupid for letting the walk go on so long, but I could see the guy clearly and I could point him out in a lineup if I needed to. In the end, I called my dad and he met me. The guy walked off, appearing to find something better to do than square up with my 240-pound, 6-foot father.

This time though, I had no idea who we were dealing with. I could only stare in shock as Dad twisted his body around the tree. I watched his face for any reaction, but he continued checking around the trees until it became dense woods at the back of the property. I slowly exhaled as he walked back to me and plopped a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“I didn’t see anyone. Maybe you’re tired from the long trip?” He gave a sympathetic smile.

I know what I saw, I thought again. But I didn’t argue. Instead, I followed Dad inside, ignoring the prickling sensation on the back of my neck.

The sun began to set by the time the movers peeled off. Our stuff was nowhere near unpacked, but it was all inside so we called it

a day anyway. The smell of pepperoni pizza drifted through the kitchen and down the hall, beckoning me from the window in the living room. I didn’t press the issue with Dad, but I still had the unnerving feeling of being watched.

“Your pizza’s gonna get cold if you don’t eat soon, Wynnie,” Mom said.

After staring out at the dark woods, the kitchen light was almost blinding. I rubbed my eyes as I sat down at the short end of the kitchen island. The pizza was still hot, so I blew on it before taking a bite.

“So.” Dad cleared his throat. “Are you ready to start school this week?”

I bit back an exasperated groan. Hillwoods High School was only one of two high schools in town, and the second one was technically not even in town. It wasn’t like I had any choice.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, it’s… you know.”

I glanced over at Mom who took the hint.

“Back in Berwyn, swim team was your whole world, and there isn’t a swim team here,” she said. “But we still want you to take this opportunity to expand your circle.”

“What circle?” I asked, keeping my tone even. “I don’t have any friends here. The circle is basically a dot.”

“That’s not true!” Mom said. “You have your cousin, Anais.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. A cousin wasn’t a friend— especially not a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. While it might’ve been true that we used to be friends, that was when we were ten. Then one time, she visited and was suddenly secretive about everything. Dad thought it would be a good idea to teach her to swim, but she wouldn’t even dip her toe in the shallow end of the community pool. When I dove in and showed her the dog paddle, she

let out a blood-curdling scream, which made everyone uncomfort able enough for the lifeguard to kick us out.

Even weirder was what happened that night when we were going to bed. She slept on an air mattress, and I slept on my bed with my back to her. I heard her sit up, which I ignored, assuming she was going to go to the bathroom. But she didn’t. She just sat there and said the four creepiest words I’ve ever heard.

“Why didn’t you burn? ”

I stopped breathing for the moment, too stunned to do or say anything. Really, how was I supposed to answer that?

I waited until I heard her lie down and turn over before I exhaled. To this day, I have no idea what prompted those words. I knew that even if I asked her, she wouldn’t tell me.

It was easier to accept we’d never be friends.

“She doesn’t count,” I said, taking another bite of my pizza.

“Okay, fine.” Mom put her hands up defensively. “Cousin Anais doesn’t count. But that means you’ll have to try to make friends.”

“I won’t make any promises.”

“I think Hillwoods does have a pool,” Dad said suddenly. “Or used to.” He had that far off look like he wasn’t sure if he’d imag ined it, but it still gave me a bit of hope. “Yeah, it was part of the rec center. I remember your uncle and I used to try to climb down into it since it was always drained.”

That killed my hope.

“So, it’s closed?”

He nodded. “Now that I think about it, the rec center has been shut for a while, and the pool itself has been closed since before I was born. Sorry.”

“Fabulous.” I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t speak again for the rest of the dinner. Instead, Dad

talked excitedly about driving around town and seeing what stayed the same and what had changed.

“Dad, you’ve been here. Don’t you already know?” I asked, half-hea rtedly. I was met with silence, and it forced me to look up.

“Well, you know, I’ve been busy with your grandmother. She’s not in town, and I’ve been going to see her.”

“You haven’t seen Uncle Nathan?”

I couldn’t help the hostility that seeped into my question. Dad had gotten into a fight with Uncle Nathan during one of his visits. Like, a huge one, practically a fistfight. No one would tell me what it was about, but considering I’d never heard Dad raise his voice, much less seen him raise a fist, I knew it was seri ous. Mom gave him an ultimatum, either he stayed away, or we all moved in. And here we are.

Again, only silence.

Mom gave me a pointed look. “Like he said, your father’s been busy.” She gave Dad a pointed look, too, and he forced a smile.

So, he and Uncle Nathan hadn’t made up. Still, they thought Anais and I should be best friends?

“All right. Keep your secrets.” I went back to my pizza.

“W-what secrets?” Dad stammered. He was a terrible liar.

Mom grabbed his hand and squeezed it. I looked away. I hated moving away from my swim team, my friends, and my entire life at the start of junior year. But it wasn’t like the situation was ideal for anyone. Lala was dying. Uncle Nathan and Dad were fighting. Mom didn’t seem to like the house, and she’d never been one for traveling, anyway. We all needed to adjust.

I looked down at the pizza grease collecting on my plate and remembered what Mom promised me before we moved—only one year.

“Wynnie?” Mom’s voice pitched up.

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed early.”

I took a moment to toss the paper plate in the trash before glancing out the kitchen window again. I knew I saw something earlier, but there was no point in bringing it back up. Instead, I forced myself up the stairs and into my bedroom. I drew the blinds on my window if only to feel safer before plopping into bed.

The darkness was only mildly comforting. Every time I’d close my eyes and start drifting off to sleep, it was like a bright light shone through my eyelids. But paranoia could keep me awake for only so long. By the time I fell asleep, the only glow I saw came from two fireflies that shined like eyes in the dark.

10 WE DON’T SWIM HERE

TWO ANAIS

It was sometime after 1:00 a.m. when I started getting ready. I knew this because most of the stuff on television was infomercial after informercial with the occasional break for an old family-friendly sitcom rerun that people could only stomach at, well, 1:00 a.m. And even then, it was only because they were half-asleep.

It was dark—both inside and outside. The glow of the television matched that of the moonlight, and the house itself had fallen into a quiet sort of rhythm, like the heartbeat of a sleeping animal. I shifted off the couch and pushed the blanket aside. Mom always made sure to cover me from head to toe in the thick quilt, believing that it got drafty at night and the first floor was chillier than the second. Not that we had AC.

Underneath the couch, my running shoes waited side by side. After pulling on socks, I carefully slipped the shoes on and stretched into a standing position. Falling asleep on the couch always made me feel groggy with some muscle ache—the cushions

were permanently out of shape. It wasn’t that my own room was unbearable or that my bed was ridden with bedbugs—rather that the floorboards leading out of my room were incredibly noisy, which was generally unhelpful when I needed to sneak out of the house.

Like tonight.

The side door was my favorite way out, if only because it was the most hidden. Mom and Dad’s window faced the street, and the neighbors couldn’t see much due to a thicket of bushes and low hanging branches. I closed the screen door, which waved even in the briefest of winds, so I made sure to stick a few bricks in front to hold it shut. The air was cool, brushing the beads of sweat from my forehead and sharpening my senses.

At night, most of Hillwoods became what I liked to call a “blindspot.” The rules and rituals did not apply, as if the town itself were asleep and couldn’t be bothered to regulate our nightly lives. Not that any of us had much of a nightlife.

Still, the road was empty and silent. The shadows and peering eyes were shut away in the dark.

For once, I could breathe. Putting one foot in front of the other, I headed down the driveway. It was my last chance before everyone realized Bronwyn had moved in and all hell broke loose.

I stopped for a moment, thinking I heard a soft chime. The leaves were rustling, but that was it. I swallowed and took a few more steps until I heard it again: light notes. The words were melodic and hard to decipher. On instinct, I covered my ears. It couldn’t be her—not Sweetie—not now. We didn’t start the ritual for another few days—cou ldn’t she wait until then to wreak havoc?

I swallowed and looked around. The trees loomed over me. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, only that it kept coming and was getting closer. It followed me as I trotted ahead,

growing louder the farther I walked. Eventually, I set into a brisk run—she was not getting me, not when I was so close to finding my way out.

A short figure leaned out from behind a tree. The darkness rendered them more shadow than person, obscuring every detail of their body. And yet, by the sound of their muffled laughter, I knew who it was. My incredibly annoying ex.

I exhaled sharply and stomped over to her. “Hanna. What are you doing here?”

She threw the question back at me. “What are you doing here, Anais? It’s almost 2:00 a.m.”

“You don’t live around here, Hanna. How did you even get to this side of town?” I clenched my fists.

“Borrowed my brother’s moped. Need a ride? It’s around the corner.”

Seeing as she wasn’t going to answer my question, I pushed past her. “I’m fine.” The smell of cigarette smoke made my stomach flip, which pissed me off even more.

“Hey!” Her hand hovered in midair, as though she were reaching out to me, before thinking better of it.

“I don’t have time for this, Hanna.”

She put her hands in her pockets. She was wearing an over sized hoodie with track pants that were too large for her. Though her hoodie cloaked her head, I knew she had her hair tied back at the nape of her neck. Seeing her like this made my chest ache— and urged me on my path.

A few seconds later, Hanna jogged past me. She disappeared around the corner of a house. A moment later, there was the sound of a motor starting and she reappeared on the back of a large moped. She circled around and stopped a few feet ahead of me.

“Hop on,” she said.

For all the frustration she brought me, it didn’t take much convincing to climb behind her. The night was long enough with out adding an on-foot trek through the woods. I tried not to lean in too close, even when she hit the gas, but every bump in the road made me rethink this decision. I shut my eyes as the wind became more piercing. Was this her plan? For me to cling to her like old times, mistaking my racing heart for attraction rather than an indictment of how fast she was going?

“Slow down!” I hissed. She obliged.

Twenty minutes later, we were at the break in the road. At first glance, it looked like an actual intersection, trees parting to reveal a cobblestone road. It was curious enough to make anyone take a closer look. Except the supposed road bled into the forest until it disappeared. There was a reason for that, actually. The road used to be a fully functioning path to the lake, where a bus would pick up and drop off eager residents who were looking to cool off with an afternoon swim. Eventually, whether it was for funding reasons or new property laws, the road was closed. Wildlife reclaimed it, growing over much of the cobblestone like a scab closed over a wound.

Hanna parked off to the side.

“Didn’t know you were inviting yourself along,” I said, warily.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think I was going to leave you out here?” She stood beside me. “Someone’s gotta bring you back, safe and sound.”

Who said I wanted to come back?

I kept that thought tucked into the back of my head as I turned down the cobblestone road. Fishing out my cell phone, I turned on the flashlight app. The dark was so oppressive here, it was crushing me. The light reminded me to breathe.

On both sides of the road, dirt and grass snaked over much of the stone, and I shined the light along the soft border.

SWIM

I squinted into the dark. “The legend said to find the stop…”

“Why do you keep looking for it?” Hanna interrupted.

The bus that used to run to the lake was rumored to still be around. In just about every iteration of the story I could find, a great tragedy struck the bus. It crashed into a tree or ran straight into the lake, killing everyone onboard. The tragedy changed faces depending on who you asked. And ever since the crash, at the darkest time of night, a person might hear an engine rumbling. The clip-clopping of people’s shoes as they climbed aboard.

They say that if a person were to get on the Ghost Bus, they would never return. No one knew where this Ghost Bus went and truthfully, I didn’t care.

Anywhere was better than Hillwoods.

“Are you really going to keep looking for it?” Hanna grum bled. Her hand gripped my shoulder, using me as her guide.

“You can go home if you want, Hanna,” I reminded her. “No one’s forcing you to stay.”

It was hard to say exactly what went wrong between us. Sometimes, I think it was because she was too abrasive while I was too sensitive. If someone even looked at her wrong, she fought back a hell of a lot more than I ever did, as if to signal she was tough with thick skin and nobody was going to make her feel bad about herself. Maybe it was because Hanna and I were the only two nonwhite girls in town, and while that made for fun commiseration, it made me wonder if we had anything else in common.

Hanna’s eyes darted all over the place, and she stuck closer to me than I liked.

“Wait a minute—are you scared?” I turned to her. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Ghost Bus.”

“Shut up,” she said a little too quickly. “I’m not scared. You’re the one with the light.”

“You have a cell phone, too. Unless you left it at home,” I pointed out. She didn’t answer.

“Hanna…”

“I didn’t leave my cell phone at home!” Hanna snapped. Her hand left my shoulder, and I could hear her rustle through her pockets. Her light joined mine. “See?”

“Great, now use the light to get off the path and go home.” I went ahead.

“Anais—wait up! Can you at least tell me why you’re still looking for it?”

Hanna knew well enough about the flickers I got. Brief glimpses of the town’s ghosts, both people and events. I saw the Ghost Bus months ago, careening through the trees like smoke, stopping at a nonexistent stop and then picking up speed again when no one boarded. It was a lesser legend of the Hillwoods vari ety. The Ghost Bus couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t go looking for it. Most people knew of it but didn’t know if it was really true. I was one of those people.

At least until it came for me.

“Something’s not right about it,” I responded. There were rules to Hillwoods and everything in it. And by that logic, the bus should have never deviated from its path. It should have never stopped in front of my house at 8:00 a.m., when I was rushing to be on time for school.

“Oh, you mean the fact that it’s a ghost?” she said, sardonically.

I wheeled around, nearly causing her to collide into me. “Hanna, please, if you’re not going to be helpful, can you at least be quiet?”

With my light pointed downward, I couldn’t see her expression. I imagined it was stunned, or maybe she rolled her eyes at me. Either way, she was silent.

I tried to recreate that morning a few times. I tried wearing the same outfit, being late on the same day of the week—nothing I did summoned it to me. Eventually, the thought sprouted: what if it needed me?

I wasn’t a psychic or anything, but something made me think the bus or the town—I wasn’t sure which—was trying to tell me something. Maybe if I had swallowed my fear and gotten on the bus when it showed up outside my house, I’d know what that message was. But I didn’t. I’d turned myself around and gone back inside, deciding to call it a sick day.

Tonight was my last shot to find the ghost bus because start ing tomorrow, I’d have to keep an eye on Bronwyn. It was for her own protection. So far, the news of a new resident barely perme ated the town, and I was thankful for that. The last thing I wanted was for someone else to be watching her.

Hanna and I stumbled through the dark for another hour before calling it. She yawned loudly as she led the way back to her brother’s scooter. Every few steps, I glanced back over my shoulder, hoping to catch something. A sign that I was on the right path or a clue about what I needed to do instead. But nothing so definitive came.

Once we were far down the road, a light flickered in the woods.

THREE BRONWYN

My stomach flipped whenever I thought of my first day of school in a new place. It was bad enough being the new kid—it wa s worse that I was starting a few weeks into the school year. I would stick out, unsure of where to go or who to befriend. Part of me wished that I could’ve been homeschooled for the whole year, but I knew that I would never speak to another person outside of my family if that happened.

Still, it was tempting.

Dad jingled his car keys at the doorway. “Come on, Wynnie! Don’t wanna be late.”

Yes, I do.

Mom gave me a peck on the cheek before shuttling me out the door. “Have a good day! I wanna hear all about the friends you’ve made when you get back!”

“Ha.” I rolled my eyes as I walked to the car.

I didn’t realize it until we were driving to school, but Lala’s was on the outskirts of Hillwoods, much further from the town than I expected.

The densely populated trees became sparser until I could actu ally see buildings in the distance. The winding dirt roads turned into paved roads, and there were a few sidewalks that separated street from grass. Even the ride became less bumpy. We passed a movie theater and motel, then housing developments.

There was no school bus system, and I noticed the other cars pulling in for drop off were driven by parents while students carpooled in old cruisers, which inspired envy because I still didn’t have my learner’s permit. It would be a whole year of being shuttled back and forth from school by Mom and Dad. I sunk in my seat, willing myself to disappear.

“Alright, here we are,” Dad chirped happily as he slowed in front of the school. It was only two stories tall but wide enough to take up half a neighborhood. The kids noticed us newcomers and did nothing to hide their displeasure, eyeing us through the windows and windshields of the car. Dad put his hand over mine and squeezed reassuringly.

“It’s just school, okay?” It was like he was trying to convince himself. “Try to find Anais if you can. She can help you to your classes. I’ll pick you up after school. If anything happens, you have your cell phone.” The look in his eyes was firm like his hand.

I nodded before pulling away.

“See you later, Dad.” I shut the car door behind me and made my way up the steps of the school. I could feel Dad’s stare following me, waiting for me to enter, and I tried my best not to look back.

Inside, there was the normal chatter of students, sneakers thumping against the floor, and lockers squeaking open and shut right before the start of the school day. It might have been my imagination but the moment I arrived, it was like a switch flipped. A hush fell over the halls. It rippled from the entrance and spread out until the only sound I could hear was my own heartbeat.

Every single person paused to look at me. Their eyes were curi ous, sizing me up. I froze, taken aback. Then, I took another step and the switch flipped again. Students went back to their usual morning banter and flowed through the halls to their lockers and classes.

A year. I could make it through one year, couldn’t I?

“Hi! You must be new here,” a voice chimed. I turned to see a smiling redhead holding her hand out to me. She had Band-Aids around several fingers. Trying not to stare, I shook her hand and kept a placid smile on my face.

“I-I’m Bronwyn,” I stammered.

“Molly Grace. And yes, everyone does say both names.” She laughed at her own joke before gesturing to walk and talk. “What brings you to Hillwoods, Bronwyn?”

“Uh, personal family stuff,” I replied. “And just for the year.”

I expected her to be shocked or ask why the short stay, but she didn’t.

“Interesting.” Molly Grace stopped in front of a door labeled the main office. “You can get your class schedule here.”

I blinked, surprised she’d led me to where I needed to go.

“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

Her smile lit up even brighter as she saw me off. “No worries! Hope you have a great first day! See you later, Bronwyn.”

I turned to the office. The wooden door was decorated in star stickers, most of which were peeling off and leaving behind sticky dirt marks.

I entered. “Hello?”

Behind the secretary’s desk sat a plump woman with rosy, red cheeks and a stern expression. Her beady eyes gave me a once over as she twisted her lips.

“New student?” She twirled in her computer chair and unlocked a file cabinet. “Name?”

DON’T SWIM HERE

“Bronwyn Sawyer.”

I glanced around the office while she ruffled through papers. Her desk was a clutter of picture frames and an old bulky Apple computer. A golden nameplate read MRS. ROSEMARY and was almost hidden behind a bowl of sour candy. A poster for the school’s Fall Talent Show hung on the wall. It was in two weeks, but there were already a few names scrawled on the sign-up sheet.

“Here’s your class schedule.” She held out a stack of papers but didn’t let go. “I’ve also taken the liberty of printing a map for you since this school can be a little confusing.”

“How confusing could it be?” I flipped to the map. There was a Hallway A through D and a Hallway G but no E or F. The base ment was designated as the first floor, so technically I was on the second floor already.

Ah. That’s how confusing it could be.

The secretary let out a short huff that almost sounded like a chuckle. “The last page is a list of school clubs, if you’re interested. I’m not sure what you were doing at your previous school, but we might have something up your alley.”

“I was on the swim team.” Hope fluttered in my chest. “Is there a pool here?”

She didn’t answer. I felt myself shrink under her hardened stare. “Mrs. Rosemary?”

“You should get to class,” she said. As if to make a point, she spread her lips in a wide, hostile smile.

I scrambled out of there, eager to get to class for once.

It wasn’t too difficult. Despite how oddly the encounter ended, Mrs. Rosemary’s map was surprisingly helpful in getting to homeroom.

Determined not to draw any more attention to myself, I went straight to the back of the class.

The only person in the room was a thin guy with blond hair sticking out from under a beanie and a thin military jacket. He sat slumped in his seat, arms crossed and eyes shut. I slid into the desk next to him quietly as other students flowed into the classroom. They spotted me and even with their faces in mid-yawn and their feet shuffling to their seats, I could practically see the gears turning in their heads.

The teacher came in at the last second, closing the door behind him as the bell rang. He was a short, pot-bel lied man with red hair and beard. His eyes locked onto mine, and I pursed my lips and gave a short nod.

“Good morning, Mr. Wallace,” a few students chorused.

“Welcome to your study period. Before I leave you to your own devices while I take attendance, I’d like our newest student to introduce herself.”

Oh no.

Mr. Wallace gestured for me to stand as everyone turned to look at me. I slowly rose from my seat.

“Hi. My name is Bronwyn Sawyer. I’m from Berwyn, Illinois. I actually have a cousin here, Anais, if you know her.”

There was no immediate response, no look of recognition.

Shit, what if I was in the wrong school? No, that wasn’t possi ble. I literally just got my schedule.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bronwyn. Is there anything else you’d like to share? A hobby you enjoy, or a goal for your life?”

“I like to swim.”

Mr. Wallace gave me a sharp look as if I cussed him out. The students shared glances and unreadable expressions.

Then Mr. Wallace forced a cough, regaining everyone’s attention. “That’s nice. Physical activity is very important for your health. Unfortunately, as you may already know, we don’t swim

DON’T SWIM HERE

here, but I hope you can find some other method to blow off steam and enjoy yourself.”

He cleared his throat again and moved on with morning announcements. I slowly sat back down and glanced at the other students beside me. No one would even look in my direction.

Everyone except the blond guy. His eyes were now opened, and they were glued to me. Like Mrs. Rosemary, his stare was hardened. I forced myself to look away, but the same odd phrase repeated in my head.

We don’t swim here.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Lunch came around faster than I thought, and though I didn’t have any appetite, I found myself following the scent of lasagna all the way to the cafeteria. The double doors opened to a large stadium-like room with circular tables and a line of lunch ladies plopping food onto trays.

Except there wasn’t anyone in the cafeteria. It was completely empty. I wondered if I was mistaken, that maybe I was a little early, but before I could step back to check the hallway, one of the lunch ladies locked eyes with me and waved me over. Reluctantly, I went to her.

“What’ll it be? We got lasagna with a side of coleslaw or a turkey leg with a serving of rice. Or if you’re feeling less adven turous, there’s always cheese pizza.” She gestured toward a pizza pie that already looked cold. It took me a moment to take in the situation. Either she didn’t notice that there was not a single other student in the cafeteria, or she was in on whatever was happening. And as old as she looked, I doubted that her sight was failing her.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why is no one here? Am I early?”

The lunch lady took off her plastic gloves and scratched under her hairnet. She made a noise that sounded like a grumble as she looked around. I followed her sight to the open doors of the caf eteria. Students passed by, completely oblivious to the source of food. The looks on their faces were unreadable from a distance, but I felt a strange pull beckoning me forward.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” The lunch lady asked, breaking my internal thoughts. “Tell you what, why don’t you go and see for yourself. I’ll save you a hot tray for when you get back.” She smirked when she said this, making me doubt that I would return at all.

As I headed for the hall, one of the other lunch ladies snapped at her. “Why would you tell her to follow them?”

“Kids always do what you tell them not to do,” she replied. “It’s better that she finds out now rather than later.”

The hallway had emptied. Every classroom I passed was empty too, with no sign of any of the students that filled the school a few minutes ago. Frustrated, I stepped out into the parking lot, but all the cars were still there.

“Where did everyone go?” I muttered, walking back inside. I reached one of the stairwells. Shuffling sneakers and squeaking doors echoed from below ground. Quietly following the sound downstairs, I discovered students standing along the wall.

But it wasn’t a few kids standing around—it wa s a long line, wrapping around a corner. I followed the line straight into what looked like the gym.

“I’m just saying, human blood might work,” someone muttered. A shorter kid with blue-tinted hair smacked their arm.

“Yeah? And are you gonna volunteer your blood?”

“Well, no, but I heard that girl at the pawnshop has a vial of it she wears…”

They hushed as soon as they saw me staring.

“What? Get out of here!”

I jumped, then hurried into the gym.

The line went to a single table with a black ballot box. The student at the very front reached in and grabbed a single piece of folded paper. His hands shook when he opened it and his eyes scanned the page. Suddenly, he relaxed, and his arms fell to his sides. With a sharp exhale, he moved out of the way for the next person to draw from the box.

No one spoke. There were only sighs of relief and the sound of rustling paper as people drew a ballot, scanned it, and tossed it out.

One student stood by the box, arms crossed with a scowl on her face. Bright red hair fell over her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” I whispered but against the silence, I might as well have screamed.

“Don’t worry about it,” someone snapped. Annoyed faces glanced at me and moved forward in the line.

I looked around the gym, noting the bleachers, basketball hoops, and storage closets that were part of every standard gym. The boxes that were stacked against the wall seemed to be filled with supplies.

I squinted. They were sitting in front of a door. The sign on it was peeling off but still legible.

POOL.

Hope filled me as my legs brought me in for a closer look. I didn’t get very far before someone grabbed me roughly and pushed me out of the gym.

“You’re not a part of this.”

I opened my mouth to retaliate but was cut off by a familiar voice.

“Hey! What’s going on here?”

Molly Grace stomped over. Any hope that rose in me was immediately crushed by the look of displeasure on her face. And the guy who pushed me became sheepish, quickly getting back into line and pretending like he’d done nothing.

“Molly Grace?”

“Bronwyn!” She forced a strained smile. “Hey, right now’s not a good time for you to be here. Your cousin is Anais, right? Anais!” she called out.

Soon enough, Anais came running with crumpled paper in her hand.

“Anais, get your cousin out of here.”

“Wait but—”

Anais cut me off as she threw her arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Bronwyn, let’s go for a walk.”

Anais led me out of the gym and upstairs, away from the base ment. She hummed and kept a polite smile on her face as though this were all very normal, like as long as I remained calm, everything would be fine.

But her eyes were empty.

“Soooo, how’s Uncle Greg?” she asked.

“Doing as well as he can, considering the circumstances,” I answered. “By the way, do you know what happened between him and Uncle Nathan?”

“They’re not talking,” she said, shrugging.

“Yeah, no. I got that,” I said. “I’m talking about why they’re not talking. I mean, I know Dad’s still upset Uncle Nathan didn’t say anything about Lala’s first stroke, but we didn’t come here to throw hands.”

Anais looked away, as if she was trying to keep her attention literally anywhere else. I waited for her answer and grew more impatient by the second.

Then Anais spoke. “I mean, I heard something. My parents were arguing one night. It was a whole thing.” She rolled her eyes. “Something about how my dad thinks Lala favors your dad. Said he’s been babied since high school.”

“What?” That was news to me. “What happened in high school?”

“I don’t know.” Anais rolled her eyes. “It’s as much of a mystery to me as it is to you.”

She didn’t sound very convincing, but it was more than I was going to get from my own parents. I moved on. “Have you been visiting Lala?”

“Not as much as I probably should. Mom and Dad go as often as they can. High school’s made me real busy and…” Her voice suddenly dropped to a mumble. “I’m not really good with those sorts of places.”

That made the two of us.

“Do you know how she’s doing? I haven’t been to see her yet.”

Her smile fell into a straight line. An emotion I couldn’t read flickered across her face.

“From what Dad’s told me, she’s… doing her best.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that. I pivoted to a different conversation.

“Why is the pool hidden?”

“Because it’s closed.”

“Why?” I stopped in my tracks. Anais gave me the same blank look as before.

“The pool is empty and closed.” Her words were strung out, miles apart for emphasis. She was mocking me. For some reason, it reminded me of what she said when she thought I was asleep: Why didn’t you burn?

Even now, I couldn’t ask her what all that was about.

We continued to walk down the halls in silence. Once we were back to the first—wel l, second—floor, I could tell she was leading me to the cafeteria. The smell of lasagna was still strong, and she went ahead of me to grab a tray. The lunch lady gave me a knowing smile that creeped me out even more than her smirk.

“How was it?” she asked, handing me the tray she’d promised to hold for me. She cackled loudly, and my face reddened.

I grabbed the tray, paid, and quickly walked to a table.

I sat down beside Anais, who was already tearing into a cold slice of pizza. She didn’t seem to be enjoying it, but she took big bites all the same and occasionally washed it down with water. I picked up the plastic spork on my tray and poked at the edges of my lasagna.

“So, are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

“The redhead is Molly Grace. She’s a busybody, and for some one who’s technically not the student body president, she’s taken on that role…”

“Anais!” I slammed the spork onto the table. “You know what I mean.”

She put down her pizza. There was the smallest flicker of fear in her eyes as she thought carefully about what to say next.

“You’re here for only a year, right?” Anais grabbed her tray and stood up. “Don’t worry about it.”

Walking off, Anais dumped her food in the trash. Something fell out of her pocket as she went and when I picked it up, I noticed it was a crumpled paper from the ballot. I smoothed it out as best as I could.

The paper appeared blank. There was nothing on either side.