Dark and Shallow Lies(23)

Honey calls me inside then, and I spend the rest of the afternoon helping her in the bookstore, scheduling appoint ments and working the register. Mackey stops by to drop off some French mulberry that his mama harvested, and we drink sweet tea from mason jars while he tells me about some girl up in Kinter that he has a crush on. I smile and tease him, but really, I’m stuck thinking about Evie. What she said about the dead telling lies. And what she was doing out there on the dock last night, crying into the fog.

For dinner, Honey cooks more of my old favorites, and it makes me feel loved.

Comfortable.

Safe.

And I’m grateful for that.

Before I get into bed, I turn off the light and move to the window to search the inky blackness. But there’s nothing there. No ice-fire eyes staring at me from the shadows.

No rougarou howling at the moon.

I double-check the window latch before I crawl under the sheets and close my eyes. But when I roll over on my side, I wince, so I sit up and flip on the lamp. Bruises ring my upper arms. Blotchy blue-and-purple fingerprints.

There are things out here in the dark, Greycie.

I turn the lamp back off and lie down again. Evie’s wind chimes whisper through the room like a ghost, and I wonder what Hart is so afraid of.

Exactly what kind of monster is hiding out there in the night?





Three or four times that night, I jolt awake in a cold sweat, struggling for air, with those disjointed flashes of Elora flickering across my mind like a badly edited movie. I get out of bed and go to the window.

But there’s never anything there.

The next day is Monday. Memorial Day. Honey and I close down the bookstore that morning so we can pay our respects at the cemetery up in Kinter. We open up that afternoon, though. And Honey lights extra candles for the dead.

When night falls, Sera comes by to invite me to a bonfire out at their place. We all pile into their airboat with Sander in the driver’s seat. Me. Sera and Sander. Mackey. Evie. Hart. It’s so close to being right. But none of us can ignore the fact that Elora isn’t with us.

Or Case.

The six of us huddle around the fire together, trying to push back the darkness. But it won’t be held at bay. Mackey plays his guitar. We sway to the music, but nobody sings along. Hart is moody. He drinks too much. Gets moodier. Sera and I sit on a rough plank bench, with Evie smooshed between us, and watch the flames change color. But I keep looking back over my shoulder, scanning the dark for blazing eyes.

When Evie gets up to go pee, I turn toward Sera. “I’m worried about her,” I say. “Evie. Something’s going on with her.” Sander stops poking at the burning logs to turn around and listen.

Sera nods. Her river-sand-and-copper hair hangs in long, loose waves tonight. Glowing and gorgeous. She’s combing it with her fingers. “Evie’s been through a lotta shit this year. That’s all. She’ll be okay.”

“We’ve all been through a lotta shit this year,” Mackey says from the other side of the fire.

“I’ll drink to that,” Sera adds, and she lifts her plastic cup in a toast. Tilts her chin up toward the stars. “This one’s for Elora.”

We all nod and mumble. “For Elora.” Hold up our own cups. On the edge of the circle, Hart lights up a cigarette. Turns his face to the shadows. And I wonder if he’s crying.

Later, back at home – before I crawl beneath the quilts – I find myself drawn to my bedroom window again. But the darkness is empty.

No stranger. No blue eyes blinking back at me like ice on fire in the moonshine.

There’s nothing the next night, either. Or even the night after that. And before I know it, two weeks have melted away in the swampy heat.

Elora is still missing.

And my hope is fading. The cold lump of dread in my stomach feels heavier every day.

Hart keeps watch.

Case keeps his distance.

And Evie keeps making those pretty wind chimes.

Sera whispers to Sander in Creole – even more than usual – while Mackey does his best to pretend like everything’s normal.

And each night, I wait by the window and look for a secret stranger who isn’t there.

The Flower Moon wanes. Still no rougarou.

I dream about those wild blue eyes, though, whenever I manage to fall asleep. And even when I’m awake, I can’t shake the feeling that someone – or something – is just out of sight. Watching me. Sometimes when I’m outside, I feel it so strong that I turn around quick, sure the stranger will be standing right there. Burning me with those fiery eyes.

But there’s only flat, empty bayou stretched out behind me.

I keep having flashes of Elora, too. They come more and more often. Sometimes they hit me out of nowhere and I end up frozen, fighting the wind and water and the mud. The terror. When it passes, I look up to catch Honey studying me.

But I still don’t know who Elora’s running from. Or how it all ends.

So by the middle of June, I’m no closer to knowing what happened to my twin flame than I was that first morning I stepped off the mail boat.

Elora and I were born on June 16. We’re just two days away from turning seventeen. So far, nobody’s mentioned my birthday, though. Our birthday. And that’s fine with me. The thought of blowing out candles alone gives me a pain so deep in my chest that I’m sure my lungs have imploded.