Dark and Shallow Lies(26)

I’m not sure if I said her name that time. Or if he did.

I’m still sprawled on the ground. He holds his hand out to me a second time. My head feels fuzzy. Like it’s full of cotton. I can’t think of the right questions.

I can’t think of anything.

“Who are you?”

“Zale,” he says, and I search my memory. But that name doesn’t mean anything to me.

“How did you know Elora?”

Something sad crosses his face. Those eyes darken a little.

“She was a friend of mine,” he says.

Was.

Everything feels so strange. Off-kilter.

Sideways.

“I won’t hurt you, Grey. I promise. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He takes a step toward me, and I scramble backward until my spine is pressed against the old clothes dryer. The touch of metal against skin shocks me. Just a sharp zap of static electricity. But it wakes me up, and it’s like I come back to myself. Whatever spell he’s got me under, I don’t like it.

I don’t trust it.

I don’t trust him.

“I have to go,” I tell him, and I push myself to my feet.

Surely this is where he steps in front of me. Blocks my path. Bares his teeth and eats me alive.

Only he doesn’t. He just nods and says, “I’m glad to finally meet you, Grey.”

I don’t say anything back. I just turn and start for the boardwalk off in the distance. But I don’t let myself run for home. Everybody knows you don’t run from a wolf. You move slow and easy.

So I count my steps and keep going.

And when I glance back over my shoulder, he’s gone.

The closer I get to the boardwalk, the harder it gets to slog through the mud. It sucks and pulls at my boots. I almost lose one. I have to stop and play tug-of-war with the soggy ground. But I win. There’s a sickening sound when the mud lets go.

I hit the wooden steps just as the light dies. The white paint is peeling. Turning grey. Curling up and pulling away at the edges of the boards. I hadn’t noticed it before. Rot and mold peek through.

Decomposition.

But the wood holds.

At home, I push open the back door and slip off my muddy boots. Honey looks up from the stove, where she’s working on dinner. I’m grateful for the light and the clean kitchen. For the artificially cool air and the smell of red beans and rice.

When I go to Honey, she turns and wraps both arms around me. Mud and all. And she doesn’t ask any questions. Which is so great. Because I have no clue what just happened. Sweet-N-Low drags himself over to lick at my ankles, and I don’t even bother to shoo him away. I just try to catch my breath while I stare over Honey’s shoulder at that photo frame on the wall. Me in that watermelon sundress. My mom with that one hummingbird hair clip.

And the haunted eyes. Now that I’ve noticed them, they’re all I see.

Later, after dinner, I still feel weird.

Slightly disoriented. Hungover. A shower sounds so good.

I peel off my tank top, then I slip out of my jeans. They make a jingling sound when they hit the bedroom floor. Wrynn’s collection. I fish the shiny little objects out of my pocket so I can toss them in the trash. But then I think about Zale. Those strange eyes of his. The way he watched me. So intense.

Tiny pinpricks on my arms. The back of my neck.

Gives me the frissons, sure.

Evie’s wind chimes kick up in the night breeze. She’s been busy the last few weeks. There must be at least fifteen of them dancing outside her bedroom window now. The tinkling sound of them burrows its way inside my brain. Sometimes I think I hear them ringing, even when there’s no breath of air on the bayou. Like a leftover echo inside my head. The ghost of a song.

Elora had a good luck charm. A little silver Saint Sebastian medal. Case gave it to her as a love token that twelve-year-old summer. His mama had gotten it for him when he made the sixth-grade baseball team at school up in Kinter, because Saint Sebastian is the patron saint of athletes, and I remember the way Elora batted her eyelashes at him when she slipped it into her pocket. From then on, she carried it with her all the time. All the protection she ever thought she needed.

I wish I had a charm of my own now. I reach for the blue pearl around my neck.

But it’s not enough to make me feel safe.

So I count the shiny objects in my palm. Three pennies. Five pop tops. Two bottle caps. And three paper clips.

Exactly thirteen.

Then I lay them out on the windowsill. One by one.





The next day, the Mystic Rose is slammed. June is always peak season for day-trippers down from New Orleans. They do way more looking than buying – nobody goes home with that ugly Himalayan salt lamp – but Honey still needs me all day. So I don’t get a chance to see Hart. Or anybody else. And that’s fine with me. I need some time to think through what happened last night.

The whole time I’m working, though, I keep seeing Zale.

His eyes, especially.

That strange blue fire.

And I hear the echo of his voice inside my head.

I have a couple flashes, too, while I’m wiping fingerprints off the glass countertop and again while I’m dusting the crystals. I’m looking through Elora’s eyes. I see the storm and the bayou so clear. I feel the force of the wind. But I can’t ever see who it is she’s so terrified of.