“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Enough to run off to Belize?”
Gretchen laughed. “Enough to run off, maybe, but not to come back.”
Angus’s grin was visible in the light of a street lamp. “Why would we want to come back?”
“Maybe because we don’t speak the language and wouldn’t be able to get jobs?” Gretchen suggested.
“They speak English in Belize,” Angus said. “It used to be ruled by the British. Like Grenada.”
“Why do you know that?”
Angus shrugged. “Because I’m incredibly sophisticated and cosmopolitan.”
Gretchen was about to reply, but there was a sudden explosion of footsteps, then Angus let out a shout and lunged to protect her. He stumbled—knocking against Gretchen—as someone landed a fierce blow on his shoulder. Angus hit back, and the man staggered backward for a moment—far enough for Gretchen to see his face, which was twisted in a complex arrangement of hatred, fear, and madness. The man raised his arm, and Gretchen saw a weapon gleam in the low light from the bank’s sign. The man turned to her.
“Hey!” Angus shouted.
In an instant, Gretchen felt flame whip through her, igniting her like dry tinder. Her body went numb and she couldn’t feel her limbs, but she could see them moving. She watched like a bystander as she stepped forward and grabbed the man’s arm. Her hand glowed with the subtle orange of a rising sun, as if it were lit from within, and the man screamed in agony. She heard the snap of bone, and the gun clattered to the pavement. And then she saw herself hit the man in the chest, sending him reeling, sprawling onto the cement ten feet from them.
Pain pierced her skull, forcing Gretchen to her knees.
“Are you okay?” Angus asked, kneeling before her.
No, she thought. She felt weak, nauseated … and confused. She touched her temple. No wound. It was just a headache so fierce that it felt like an injury. “Get the gun,” she whispered. She looked down at her arm, which was still illuminated, as if blown with stardust. A moment later, it faded and became merely the pale shadow of light skin in darkness.
Angus clearly hadn’t noticed—his attention was focused elsewhere. He grabbed the gun. “Shit!” he shouted. “Hot!” He managed to wrap his hand in his shirt and hold the gun that way as the man struggled to his feet. “Don’t move,” Angus shouted.
The man’s smile was eerie, haunting. “You don’t even know how to use it,” he hissed.
Angus flipped off the safety. “My entire family is a bunch of cops, asshole.”
The man hesitated. He started toward them, and a dark figure leaped from a tree.
“Shit!” Angus shouted as the figure landed on the man, knocking him to the ground. Angus took aim at the shadowy figure, who backed away, immediately raising his hands in surrender. Large, dark eyes stared at them in fear.
“Kirk!” Gretchen cried.
“Oh my God.” Angus’s arm fell to his side. “I nearly killed you, dude.”
Kirk looked at them for a moment, then turned and ran off.
“Kirk!” Gretchen called after him. “Kirk!”
“Let him go,” Angus said, sounding weary. “God, why is he always in a tree?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“Are you calling 911?”
“No, I thought I’d order a pizza,” Angus said as he punched three numbers into the cell. “All of this crime fighting really works up an appetite.”
Her weak laugh made the pain return to Gretchen’s temple. She sucked in a breath. Angus gave their location, and Gretchen knew it would take only moments for the Walfang police to arrive in a cruiser.
The man let out a low moan. His hand hung at a strange angle, and Gretchen wondered if she had broken it.
The light from the street lamp shone on his face. In his state of semiconsciousness, he didn’t look as threatening. He was white, in his forties, with a receding hairline and a pockmarked face.
Angus hung up and studied the man. “I feel like I know that guy.”
“How could you know him?” Gretchen asked.
“Small town,” Angus said. “Maybe I’ve seen him in the police station.”
Gretchen nodded. It was possible. Anything was possible.
Pity clutched at her chest, and she hoped that she hadn’t hurt him too badly. In the dark, he had seemed so menacing. Now he looked like a normal person, the kind of man you see at the grocery store, or someone who holds the door for you at the dentist’s office.
Everything looks different in the dark, Angus had said.
Yes, Gretchen thought. Everything.
Chapter Twelve
From the Walfang Gazette
Police Blotter
Authorities were called to the house of Mary Walters last night at 9:47 p.m., where a suspect was engaged in vandalizing property. Shaun Walters, son of Mary Walters, had locked himself in his room, and was heard destroying the furniture therein. Ms. Walters had her son taken in for emergency psychiatric evaluation.…
The minute the Gremlin pulled into the driveway, Will darted out of his room. It was almost two in the morning, and he had been waiting for Gretchen to get home. Waiting, and trying not to worry. Unsuccessfully.
She hadn’t replied to any of his calls, any of his texts.
But what could he do about it?
He had spent his time staring out his window at the house across the creek. The wooden shingle siding was a pale smudge against the darkness. The charcoal outline of the trees stood sentry against the starry sky. As usual, a soft yellow light spilled from a window in the corner, casting illumination on the gate and grass beyond. Every now and again, the breeze would carry a few notes as far as Will’s open window. Will remembered how, when his hearing was better, he would fall asleep to the sounds of Johnny’s music.
The scene would have been tranquil to most eyes, but to Will’s fearful mind, the house seemed more like a lighthouse at the center of rocky shallows, calling Gretchen back to uncertain moorings.
He wasn’t sure why he felt so uneasy tonight, but the fear had been growing in him over the past several days and had finally reached a fever pitch. As the minutes crawled by, Will watched the stillness for any sign of her. Every passing car made his heart leap with hope that she’d finally come home, and then came the inevitable disappointment as the headlights shone straight across the black asphalt and kept going, out of sight.
She was late. Late. And she wasn’t answering her cell phone. His heart pulsed with the fear of what it might mean, and his mind struggled to keep up with rational thoughts: She ran into a friend. She went to a midnight movie. She left her phone at home. Customers came in late; she had to stay. Angel and Lisette invited her over. And on and on. A thousand possibilities, all perfectly reasonable, but none as compelling as the undefined fear that haunted him.
And that was why, when the Gremlin finally pulled into the driveway, Will darted out of his room before the headlights cut off. He rushed out the front door and across the side lawn, over the small bridge, and into Gretchen’s yard.
She was still sitting in the driver’s seat, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. Will knocked against the window, and she turned her face to look at him.
“What happened?” he asked, yanking open the car door. His heart plummeted at the sight of her. Even in the darkness, he could see her despairing expression. The sleeve of her shirt was torn, her hair snarled. “What happened?” he repeated, trying to keep the desperate fear out of his voice.
Gretchen looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, the intense blue of her eyes half hidden in shadow. “We were mugged.”
“What?” Will knelt before her.
“Angus went with me to take the money to the bank,” Gretchen explained. “And some guy ran up behind us—”
Will reached for her, pulling her into a hug, pressing her against him. Of all the possibilities, a mugging hadn’t entered his consciousness. He kissed the top of her head, her wild
dandelion hair, and stroked her back. “You must have been so scared.”
“No,” Gretchen replied. “I wasn’t.”
He pulled away from her then. “You weren’t?”
“Not until afterward.” She put a weary hand to her forehead. “Does that sound strange?”
Yes, he thought. “Not really.”
Slowly she climbed out of the car. Will stood aside as the door creaked and slammed closed. “I’m so tired,” Gretchen said, clinging to Will’s arm. “I can’t deal with telling my dad about this.”
“I’ll come inside with you.”
“Would you?”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m not leaving.”
“You’re not?”
“I’ll sleep on your floor.” Gretchen laughed, but Will didn’t smile. “I’m not joking.”
He expected her to protest. But she just reached up and ran a light finger across the scar that slashed down his face. “You can stay,” she said. “But you won’t have to sleep on the floor.”
Gretchen turned restlessly in her sleep, and Will brushed a lock of damp hair away from her forehead. He wondered what dreams stripped their way through her mind. It was strange to think what a mystery she was, this familiar girl, who for as long as he could remember had been as much a fixture of his summers as hunting for crabs or riding the Ferris wheel at the county fair. He knew her. He knew her thoughts, he could finish her sentences, and yet she was a world of mystery to him.
What a deep, impenetrable loneliness that was—to know someone, and to love her, and to realize that there were places locked inside her that you would never see. Lonelier still was the feeling that he could help her, if only he could reach inside her and know her secrets.
And perhaps she could help him, if she knew his.
But fear kept him from speaking. And that, too, was lonely.
Why didn’t he speak? Will wasn’t sure of the answer. Once or twice he had thought that perhaps he should tell her about what happened that night on the bay. But he didn’t want to terrify her. Or maybe he didn’t want to terrify himself. And the longer he waited, the harder it became to break his silence. If she ever asked him why he hadn’t said anything when she woke up in the hospital, he would answer that he didn’t feel he could speak about it—not then. It was too much.
And now?
Now it was still too much, but in a different way, because Will had finally realized that he loved Gretchen, loved her so much that it caused him physical pain to think of her harmed or afraid. So he sent up the walls and kept his secret locked away. And here he was, in her bed with her bare shoulder beneath his hand, and yet she was further from him than ever.
A moan escaped her parted deep red lips. Will worried that she might have a fever, as her skin felt warm beneath his fingertips. But it was warm in the room, with their bodies pressed together. He stole out of bed, careful not to let his movements wake her, and crossed over to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, he lifted the window and let in the cool night air. A breeze blew in, stirring the fabric and cooling his skin.
She turned over in the bed, and the blankets fell away from her. Will covered her with the sheet, then sat at the foot of the bed. He watched her for a long time. Then, restless, he pulled on some clothes and padded downstairs into the kitchen.
He didn’t turn on the light, and when he opened the refrigerator door he was nearly blinded. He waited a moment for the shadows to become shapes, then reached for a pitcher of ice water. He poured some into a glass and drank, shivering, a rapid reversal from the heat he had just escaped. The house fell into darkness again as Will closed the refrigerator and walked down the hall and out onto the front porch.
It was early—five-fifteen by the clock on the kitchen microwave—and only the palest shade of gray had begun to light the horizon. Will liked this quiet time of day, when the earth seemed to be resting. The kitchen light was on at his house, of course—his mother was baking. She hadn’t noticed yet that he wasn’t in his bed. He wondered what she would say when she did.
“Gretchie?” The porch light snapped on overhead.
Johnny let out a surprised “Oh!” and Will stood to face him, blushing madly.
“Uh—”
“Oh,” Johnny said, relaxing slightly, as if he had feared an intruder. “It’s you.” He shook his head, bleary-eyed and confused. “Why are you still here?” The question was half addressed to himself, and he rubbed his goatee as his eyes traveled down Will’s rumpled, blushing form and to his bare feet, then back up to the glass in Will’s hand. An idea seemed to break over Johnny’s face, shifting his features. “Oh,” he said slowly, now clearly unsure what his response should be.
Will was frozen in place and might have stood there forever, dying particle by particle, but a scream, followed by the sound of breaking glass, pierced the quiet darkness. It came from overhead—Gretchen’s room.
Will reacted faster than Johnny, plunging past him and back into the house. He flew up the stairs and threw open the door to Gretchen’s room. Light and heat blasted from the doorway—her room was on fire.
“Call 911!” Will shouted to Johnny. Falling to his knees to avoid the smoke, he crawled into Gretchen’s room.
Everything was in flames—the books on her desk, the curtains, the rug—and she stood in the center of her burning bed, in her thin nightgown, staring blankly. As she looked at him, she seemed to snap out of a trance. “Will?” She looked around her, clearly disoriented and frightened.
“Gretchen!” he shouted, and he stood, reaching for her wrist. But it was hot, and he cried out in pain. “Get down!”
She leaped over the flames and crawled behind Will to the door. They ran down the stairs, and Will grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around her as they headed outside.
“Oh, God, where’s Daddy?” Gretchen asked. Will started back inside the house, but a moment later, Johnny appeared carrying Bananas. He set the cat down and pulled Gretchen into a hug. “The fire department is on its way.”
Gretchen looked up at her window. Flames were still visible, the curtains nearly disintegrated in the heat. “I did that,” she whispered.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Johnny stooped a little to look her in the eye. “It wasn’t.”
But Gretchen wrenched her eyes from his. Will felt her seeking his glance, and he forced himself to look at her, even though every fiber of his body revolted at what he knew she would say next.
“I did that,” Gretchen repeated. “But I don’t know how.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Tim!” Gretchen cried, but he was calling to someone else—the other figure on the boat.
Will. He looked up at Tim, and at that moment, a movement caught Gretchen’s eye. Something surfaced. It looked like a head, half out of the water near the boat. The full moon shone down, casting the eyes in shadow.
Bananas sat on Gretchen’s lap, purring contentedly, as if nothing had happened. Gretchen was perched in the corner of the Archers’ stiff couch, an uncomfortable beast that had nothing—not even excellent looks—going for it. The family’s living room was oddly formal, with a dark wood bowlegged coffee table and a faux Tiffany lamp. It was strange, because the furniture was so at odds with the comfortable, easy nature of the family itself. Gretchen guessed that the furniture was part of an inheritance. Maybe it had been in the house longer than any of the current inhabitants. But the furniture made the sitting room into something like a fancy shoe—it looked all right, but it wasn’t comfortable—and so it went mostly unused.
Gretchen knew how that could be. There were things she owned that she didn’t use and thus didn’t think about. She had been surprised how many had appeared when she packed up her room in Manhattan. A jeweled belt, a pair of red patent stilettos, a long purple Indian skirt—all fragments of personae abandoned. Gretchen liked to think that she was getting better and better at finding things that reflected the person she was on the inside. The trouble was, that person kept cha
nging.
Mr. Archer had arrived at the Ellis house only moments after the fire trucks had. Gretchen had been clutching Bananas, standing between Johnny and Will on the front lawn. They were watching as smoke poured from Gretchen’s broken window. Firefighters ignored them, going in and out of the house in businesslike fashion. Their heavy clothing and helmets made Gretchen think of army ants, who can carry twenty times their own weight.
“Cat’s not stuck in a tree, I see,” Mr. Archer drawled in his dry way.
Johnny turned and looked at his old friend, whose broad hand was on his shoulder. “Problem in Gretchen’s room.”
Mr. Archer looked troubled but not surprised.
Will said quickly, “These things are usually electrical.”
“You sure got here fast,” his father said to him, and Will clamped his mouth shut.
Gretchen couldn’t tear her eyes from the smoke. That fire, she thought, is not electrical. It’s me. I caused it.
She was sure of it.
I get upset, and things burst into flames.
It was a simple explanation, and although it seemed impossible, there was no other explanation that worked. It may not make sense, Gretchen thought. It may not seem possible. But that’s what it is.
The edge of the sky was orange, fading to lilac overhead as the sun prepared for yet another dramatic entrance. Gretchen wondered what time it was. “Why don’t you all come on over for a while?” Mr. Archer suggested. “These guys will finish up here.” He didn’t wait for a response, just walked over to the nearest firefighter. Gretchen watched as Mr. Archer indicated his house and the firefighter nodded.
Mr. Archer walked back to them. “Let’s see what Evelyn has cooked up.”
Johnny and Mr. Archer walked side by side in companionable silence, and Gretchen, still clinging to her cat, trailed behind them with Will. Bananas struggled, and Gretchen hoisted her half over her shoulder so that the orange cat was looking backward, toward the Ellis house. Bananas hissed once, then settled down.