Spells for Forgetting(92)

But I stopped short as I passed the fireplace, my eyes pulled to the photograph on the mantel. The one of my mom and Hannah, with Emery and me perched on their hips. Fishing boats bobbed in the gray expanse of sea behind them and their feet were bare on the sunlit dock.

I picked it up, wiping the glass with the palm of my hand, almost smiling. Almost.

This, I’d take.

I looked over the living room and kitchen, surprising myself when I realized that I wanted to be sure I would remember it. The percolator on the stove, the rag rug beneath the sofa, the retro chairs at the kitchen table that looked like they’d once lived in a diner. The last time I left this house, I hadn’t been ready to say goodbye, but standing there now, I was. Maybe because I wasn’t running this time.

I went out onto the porch and jostled the key in the temperamental lock with the frame tucked beneath my arm. When I finally got it turned, the key stuck. I tried to yank it free, jiggling the handle until it rotated another centimeter.

The sharp flash of movement in the shadow at my feet made me freeze, and my fingers tightened on the knob. The slats in the porch creaked and I drew in a breath, listening. But by the time my eyes focused on the reflection behind me, it was too late. The heavy blow of something hard hit the back of my head, sending me forward, and the sound of shattered glass was the last thing I heard before it hit me again.

Then, there was only black.





Fifty-Five


    EMERY


We had to get off this fucking island.

I burst through the door, swallowing down the burn climbing up my throat. The house was dark, the fireplace cold. But if we hurried, we could catch the last ferry before it left the harbor.

“August?”

I went to the bedroom, opening the wardrobe and pulling the first bag I saw from inside. I didn’t care which one. It landed on the bed before I took an armful of clothes from the top drawer: underwear, T-shirts, a few sweaters.

“August!”

I reached into the pocket of my jacket, finding my cellphone, and searched with trembling fingers for the number he’d given me. It took several tries, but when I finally had it ringing, I put it on speaker and went back into the room, pulling my winter coat from the hanger. We had a little more than twenty minutes to make it to the harbor. We couldn’t wait until morning. We couldn’t wait another hour.

When the call went to voicemail, I cursed, dialing again.

A soft buzz in the house made me pause and I abandoned the bag, following the hall back to the living room. There, on the table beside the sofa, was August’s phone. My name was illuminated in white letters across the screen.

His packed bag was still on the floor, tucked under the kitchen table, and across the road, the windows of the Salt cottage were dark. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I saw the wall of black clouds tangling in the sky.

I hung up, pulling the door back open. I crossed the road, glancing over my shoulder to the darkening woods. The starlings were still singing, even though it was nearly night. The sound of it was like the cut of a blade in my ears, echoing in my head like screaming. They skipped through the branches overhead, moving from one tree to the next as I walked and I picked up my pace, trying not to look at them. They were following me.

The door to the cottage was closed, but when the sound of glass crunched under my boot, I didn’t take another step. I hesitated before I looked down.

Scattered across the porch, shattered glass trailed to the left of the door, where a gold-rimmed picture frame was lying facedown. I crouched down slowly, picking it up and turning it over. It was us. August, Eloise, me, and my mother.

“August!” I shot back to my feet, trying the knob, but the door was locked. “August!”

My hands pressed to the window as I looked inside. Everything was dark, the lights off, the house tidied. He wasn’t there.

I turned in a circle, suddenly feeling cold as the whispers of the woods found me. My eyes skipped over the trees, my heart beating so hard that the black pushed in around my vision.

The starlings weren’t the only ones watching. The island was watching, too. I could feel it.

The truck engine roared as I plowed down the dirt road in the pouring rain, the dim headlights barely piercing the darkness. The sound of the ferry horn was far away as it drifted from the harbor. In minutes, it would be gone.

I took the two turns to the fishing cabin and the road narrowed before it came to a dead end. I slammed the gear into park, climbing out of the truck without even turning the ignition.

I ran up the walk and shoved through the door.

My dad nearly fell out of his chair, jolting when he saw me. “Em?”

“Where is he?” I spoke through gritted teeth, meeting his eyes with every bit of fury boiling inside me.

But he looked utterly confused, hovering over his open tackle box with a pair of small pliers clutched in his hand. “What? Who?”

“August!” I screamed. “Where is he?”

Dad looked around the cabin, getting to his feet unsteadily. “I—I don’t know.”

I raked both hands into my hair, trying to think. I was shaking.

“What’s going on?” He reached for me, but I stepped back, a cry breaking in my throat. “Em?”

“August is gone.”

“He left?”

“No—I”—I stammered—“I don’t know. He couldn’t have. His stuff is still at my house.”