Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
I wait until Cooper is nowhere to be seen before I make my way back across the footbridge, toward the funnel cake truck where I promised Charlotte I’d meet her and the girls. My entire body is shaking, and unanswered questions buzz through my mind like bees in a hive: Who sent Cooper here? Where are the ley lines he told me about? Why does he have a gift, and not Donovan? Does he mean me harm? What does it mean that he’s a witch, and what is he capable of? Are all witches different? How can any of this be real?
Maybe it’s absurd to feel this way, given that my ability isn’t exactly…ordinary. But it’s been a part of me for so long, it feels as natural as breathing. Whereas the existence of ley lines and witches just seems bizarre and fantastical.
Why couldn’t it have been Donovan who believed my premonitions were real? Why did it have to be his asshat brother?
I need to talk to Donovan. To explain, though God only knows how I’ll manage it. But when I step off the footbridge and back into the hullabaloo of the fair, he’s nowhere to be seen. I give the animal shelter’s tent a surreptitious look: no furious, arctic-eyed data engineer in sight. Fantastic.
Cooper’s visible enough, bending to pet Mrs. Grant’s groomed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life poodle and chatting with a couple of little kids. But he doesn’t so much as acknowledge me as I stride past him, and a good thing, too. I can just imagine the field day the Sinsters would have with that.
The food truck comes into view, with its distinctive rotating funnel cake on top. As I get closer, I can hear Emma chattering about how each funnel cake likely contains four times the recommended daily dose of sugar, Sophie protesting that they’re yummy, and Charlotte telling them both that it’s a special occasion, but for the love of everything holy, could they please use their napkins? The normalcy of it centers me, and I plaster what I hope is a ‘everything’s-just-fine!’ smile on my face as I come within a few feet of them and wave.
“Auntie Rune!” Emma says through a mouthful of funnel cake. “Whyduyuluklikuswrledalmon?”
My brows knit. “Excuse me?”
She takes a big gulp, swallowing, and tries again. “I said, why do you look like you swallowed a lemon? Do you want some funnel cake? It can help! I read somewhere that sugar counteracts acidity?—”
When I was eight, like Emma, I was probably reading The Lightning Thief. Knowing Emma, she’s probably going to ask for a subscription to Scientific American for her next birthday. “I’m fine,” I assure her. “But I won’t say no to funnel cake, if you want to share.”
This is a strategic move on my part, because from the way Charlotte’s eyes are trained on me, she’s about to unleash her inner prosecutor. And if Emma is any indication, it’ll be a whole hell of a lot harder for her to understand my responses if I have a mouthful of fried dough.
Sure enough, no sooner do I accept Emma’s offering than Charlotte grabs me by the arm, drags me a little bit away from the girls, and hisses, “Start talking,” right into my ear.
I point to my mouth, currently full of funnel cake, but she isn’t having any of it. “I saw you drag Sex Spreadsheet Guy off toward the gazebo, Rune. And then he came haring back here like his ass was on fire, muttered something to Jenny, and ran off. Ten minutes later, here comes the dude who freaking arrested you from the exact same direction, looking equally pissed. So you tell me. What the hell is going on?”
Crap, crap, crap. What can I tell her that won’t have her hauling me off for a psychiatric evaluation? “Okay,” I say, choking down my funnel cake. “Here’s the skinny. Donovan and I may have, um, hooked up in his office. Then we had a fight. Disagreement. Whatever. We had some unfinished business, which is why I wanted to talk to him. But then Officer Asshat came along. Turns out he’s Donovan’s half-brother, and they hate each other. Mayhem ensued. The end.”
My best friend’s eyes are the size of a supersized funnel cake. “That most certainly isn’t the end! I have questions, Rune. So many questions.”
You and me both. “What about them?” I say hopefully, gesturing at her daughters in hopes of distracting her.
“ They can wait. This is big-time drama, Rune. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the two of you hooked up! I’m a boring married woman. Don’t you know I need to live through you?”
She’s eyeing me so expectantly, I know I have to say something. And so, in desperation, I blurt out what’s been on my mind since my session with Hot Yoga Grandma. “I want to try to find my parents, Charlotte. I’m ready. Can you help me?”
Back at her house after the fair, Charlotte installs the sugar-drunk girls in front of Encanto. Then she and Jess, a high school guidance counselor, ply me with far too much Darjeeling and have me jot down everything I know about my origins. It’s a pitifully short list.
I feel a little guilty for using Charlotte this way. I’d love to be able to tell her the truth about everything that’s really going on, to get her level-headed opinion. But while I know I can’t tell her about curses, premonitions, or powers, I can ask her for practical help. For years, Charlotte and Jess have been gently urging me to find out more about my biological parents. I’ve always said no, that I wasn’t ready. But now, for so many reasons, things are different.
“So,” Jess says, tucking her short brown hair behind her ears as we sit around the coffee table in their high-ceilinged living room, “let me see.”
I hand over the list. I don’t have a copy of my birth certificate. I don’t know my parents’ names. I think I was born in Sapphire Springs, but I’m not sure. I entered foster care when I was a year old. I don’t know if I have any living relatives. I don’t know if Rune is the name my parents gave me. I don’t know who gave me the last name ‘Whitlock.’
Jess’s pert nose scrunches as she hands the paper to Charlotte. “So you don’t know a lot,” she says. “That’s okay. You haven’t even started looking yet. The first step will be to go to the Register of Deeds when it opens on Monday and request a copy of your birth certificate. Then, you’ll need to reach out to the social worker who handled your case, assuming she’s still working, and see what she’ll share with you about your file…” She goes on, her voice soothing, and I dutifully open the Notes app on my phone and jot her suggestions down. But as I type, all I can think of is whether, instead of giving me up because they didn’t want me, my parents’ lives were snatched from them. I imagine my mother clinging to me, my father screaming, as that blood tide rose and swept them away.
I drop my phone onto the coffee table with a clatter, startling Charlotte, who glances up from the pathetic list, and Jess, who gazes at me, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry,” I say, forcing a smile. “Too much tea, I guess. Bathroom. Be right back!”
The overly bright smile still glued to my face, I hustle down the hallway, lined on both sides with pictures of Charlotte, Jess, and the girls: skiing in Boulder, on the Ferris wheel at the fair, wrist-deep in cake on Sophie’s first birthday. I love them dearly. They’re my family. But right now, all the happy pictures of them burn my retinas like acid.
I lock myself inside the bathroom at the end of the hall and sit down on the toilet seat, head in my hands. With its pale blue walls, fluffy white rug, and ocean-scented candles, I’ve always found this tiny little room to be a peaceful place. But not today. Because as I sit here, struggling to calm my breathing, the red haze that threatened to consume my vision when I sat in the gazebo with Cooper descends again, and this time, there’s nothing to drive it back. I try breathing deeply until I see freaking spots, but nope. Much as I hate to admit it, the touch of Donovan’s asshat brother is the only thing that’s ever been able to halt one of my premonitions in its tracks. Certainly, nothing’s stopping this one.
I feel it coming, heavy on my chest, fogging my mind. I see the haze. But through it, I see the world, too, the way I always do: that same double vision, as if my two realities are overlaid on top of each other. And in the world that’s here, the bathroom light winks out.
There’s no window, so when the light goes, it plunges me into complete darkness. If the commotion I’m hearing on the other side of the bathroom door is any indication, I’m not the only one. Emma and Sophie are wailing that Encanto ’s turned off, and Charlotte’s swearing a blue streak as her feet thud down the hallway and up the stairs to their playroom. I catch the words fucking power surge and not again and have to talk to my mother about the goddamn overloaded grid before her footsteps crest the landing and creak above me. For someone who participated in Cotillion and was raised to have perfect etiquette, she’s in dire need of a swear jar.
Eyes tight shut, I rock back and forth, thinking about what Cooper told me: that he came to Sapphire Springs because of a spike in the ley lines’ power. Could that be what’s happening here? Could this somehow be my fault, like he insinuated?
I have to talk to him again. But first, I need to get out of this room.
The door that always accompanies my premonitions hasn’t appeared, and I wonder if it’s been scared right out of me. Gingerly, I open my eyes.
And let out a shriek.
That fiery scroll-and-dagger symbol is emblazoned everywhere. On the ceiling. On the wall. Inside the sink. Atop the fuzzy bathmat. On the back of the door. Heat radiates from every direction, and I’m burning, burning alive?—
“Rune!” Jess shakes the doorknob. “Are you all right? I heard you scream. Are you okay?”
Hold on, Rune, I tell myself. Keep it together. “I’m all right,” I manage, my chest heaving. “J-just stubbed my t-toe. Don’t mind me.”
“Uh huh. Open the door.” She shakes the knob again, which is currently blazing with fire, along with the eight other symbols all over her guest bathroom.
She won’t be able to see them, I remind myself. And they’re not real. Come on. Ovary up, Rune. Open the damn door.
Gritting my teeth, I reach for the knob. It’s as hot as I feared it would be, and I have to suppress a hiss as I wrench the door open, to find Jess standing so close on the other side, I almost run right into her.
“See?” I say, doing my best impression of Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-Freaking-Farm. “All okay. Everything’s great! I gotta go!”
“But—”
“Just realized I left my computer plugged into the wall! Gotta check on it!” I babble, my hand balled into a protective fist as I barrel past her. “Thanks for the advice. So helpful. I’ll keep you posted!”
“Don’t you want to say—” Jess begins, but she’s talking to my back. I’ve snatched up my purse from the living room couch and fled. It’s only when I’ve gone two houses down that I duck into an alleyway, lean against the brick wall, and unfold my fist.
I was sure it was my imagination. But no. There on my palm, branded deep into my flesh, is the scroll-and-dagger symbol.