The Cousins(79)

“I think you’re wrong,” I say. I don’t know why I think that—there’s something creeping around the edge of my subconscious telling me so, but it’s refusing to show itself fully. My father is right about one thing: I am overtired. My eyelids are starting to droop like they did outside, but I force the sleepiness from my tone. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Dad? What did you do? Be straight with me for once in your life.”

“Aubrey.” His voice is pure ice. “Nothing. Happened.”

“You’re lying,” I say, before I disconnect and drag the pillow back down to the mattress. I might be only seconds from crashing into sleep, but I’m sure I’m right.



* * *



—

When I wake up, Milly is sleeping soundly beside me. Whatever might’ve happened between her and Jonah wasn’t an all-nighter, at any rate. My phone is half buried under her hair, and I free it carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I slide out of bed and pad my way into the living room.



Uncle Archer isn’t on the futon anymore. He must’ve gotten up at some point in the night and made his way into his bedroom. There’s a red Solo cup on the end table, half full with clear liquid. I take a tentative sniff; definitely not water. I’m tempted to dump it, but I put it back down instead. My low-level interference won’t make a difference in the battle Uncle Archer is having with himself.

The house is silent except for the loud ticking of a grandfather clock in one corner. It’s eight o’clock, too early to wake anybody else. I go into the kitchen and search the cabinets until I find coffee and filters. I don’t need coffee in the morning, but I know Milly can’t function without it. Once I have a pot brewing, I slip on the sneakers I kicked off at the sliding glass door last night, and pull it open.

It’s beautiful outside. A perfect cool summer morning, the sky a brilliant blue swirled with wispy clouds. Last night, when we went looking for the grill, I noticed a bike propped against the wall of the garden shed. I can’t remember if the bike was locked up or not, but if it isn’t, I could ride around the neighborhood while everyone sleeps. Maybe even down to the nearest beach.

I grin when I see that the bike is free for the taking. The tires are nice and full, and the seat’s the perfect height for me. I wheel it out of the shed and into the backyard, feeling a hum of anticipation to get moving and stretch my legs. Probably the best memory I have of my father is him teaching me to ride a bike when I was six years old, his big hands covering my small ones as I clutched the handles of my pink Huffy and— Oh.



I almost drop the bike as I stare at my hands and a shocked understanding rushes straight into my brain. I almost had it last night, when I remembered the Sweetfern picture of my father and grandmother, but I’d put the wrong mental image next to it. I’d been thinking about Gran’s face: half shaded like always by her hat, tight with sadness. I should have been thinking about her hands. Bare of gloves for once, wrinkled and age-spotted, but otherwise unblemished.

I fumble in my pocket for the keycard to the Catmint House gate. It’s still there. Then I grab my phone, which is down to one percent battery. I’ve never been that low before, though surely I can still send a few texts? But I only get one out to Uncle Archer before the screen goes blank.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll get what I need to prove that I’m right, and then I’ll tell them everything. I push the bike through the gate, hop onto the seat, and take off.





I wake to the smell of bacon frying, and that gets me out of bed immediately. When I enter the kitchen Archer is standing in front of the stove, and Milly’s sitting at the table holding a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. She’s wearing the T-shirt I loaned her last night, her dark hair a little mussed and loose around her shoulders.

“Where’s Aubrey?” I ask, taking a seat beside Milly.

“Unclear,” Archer says. He uses a pair of tongs to transfer slices of bacon from the frying pan to a paper-towel-covered plate on the counter beside him. “She’s not here, and she sent me a strange text that raises more questions than it answers.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

Archer crosses over to the table and puts the bacon plate next to a rolled-up edition of the Gull Cove Gazette. “It said, There wasn’t a birthmark.”



Milly snatches a slice of bacon before Archer has time to draw his hand away. I help myself to two and ask, “What does that mean?”

“We’ve been puzzling about it all morning,” Milly says, breaking her bacon in half and nibbling at one of the edges. “I mean, Aubrey has a birthmark, so…” She shrugs. “There’s no reason she’d text us about it.”

Archer takes a seat, looking pensive. “I wish she’d answer her phone.”

“It’s probably dead,” Milly says. “Mine nearly is.”

Archer opens the Gull Cove Gazette and starts flipping through it. “When I leave, I won’t miss that half the daily news is about my mother,” he mutters.

Milly cringes. “They’re not talking about the gala again, are they?”

“No. Some painting she sold at Sotheby’s went for a small fortune.” He turns a page. “You know, Mother always had terrible taste in art. We used to joke about it. Theresa must’ve been guiding her all these years to turn her into a connoisseur.”