CHAPTER FIVE
Up the coast from Boston, past the fishing towns with their gummy lobsters and tourist traps, there is a dirt road that winds off the beaten path, through the woods, and straight to the scene of my happiest childhood memories.
I spent every August with Steph at her family beach cottage on Gordon Point, mostly for the benefit of the parents; Steph’s had fewer sibling fights to break up when there were friends around, and mine got a child-free month to assess the state of their marriage and ultimately change nothing.
But for me, that little cluster of weather-beaten houses was magic—like if Narnia were golden and summery and located on the North Shore of Massachusetts.
But then, I was never brought here against my will in a stolen car at midnight in February. So I imagine it’s a different kind of experience for Grant.
It doesn’t look great, I realize, that I’m driving him farther and farther into deep, ominous woods in the middle of the night.
But soon we’ll get to the house and I’ll explain everything, and he’ll see that I’m just your average innocent victim of an unfathomable magic mix-up.
We’ll figure out a plan and before we know it, this will all be in the past.
There’s just one thing I need to take care of first.
We emerge from the woods and the boarded-up houses come into view, cutting dark shapes against the moonlit water. I follow the road up the hill toward Gordon Point Park, glancing around the car for anything useful. There are hand weights in the passenger footwell. Perfect.
“Okay,” I announce to Grant. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Is the bad news that you’re kidnapping me?” he says. “Because I gathered that.”
I pause for a moment as I haul up one of the weights.
“… I have good news and different bad news.”
The good news, I explain, is that we’re close to our destination.
The road ends, but I keep driving over the grass, climbing toward the crest of the park.
There’s a path up there that runs alongside a modest cliff, offering spectacular ocean views for an idyllic summertime stroll. Or my less idyllic current needs.
“The bad news is that we need to lose this car.” I flip the power door lock and prepare to wedge the hand weight into position. “So I suggest you open your door.”
For a moment he doesn’t respond and there’s nothing but the steady hum of the car rumbling up the hill and the dull crash of waves below.
“No …” Grant’s voice breaks through, hoarse with disbelief. “No, no, no …”
I steer toward the cliff’s point and wedge the weight against the gas pedal, and we start to gain speed. “There’s a smooth patch of grass up ahead,” I call back as I unbuckle my seat belt and push my door open. The night air howls as we tear through it. “I’ll count us off, and then we jump.”
“Jump?”
“Out of the car.”
“But it’s moving!”
“I know,” I shout over the whipping wind. “That’s why you’re not going to want to be in it in about fifteen seconds.”
He issues a stream of curses as he fumbles over his seat belt and opens the door.
“I’m going to be sick,” he groans.
“You’re going to be fine,” I shout. “I took a stunt class on a trip to LA once. Just, like, tuck and roll.” I gauge the distance to the cliff and turn to face my open door.
The grass flies by in a dizzying rush, and a familiar exhilaration lights me up as my heart rate climbs with the speedometer. “Okay, get ready. One—”
“No!”
“Two—”
“Fuuuuuuuuck.”
“THREE! JUMP!”
I throw myself into the night and land with a thud, rolling like a log along the grass.
I rush to orient myself, looking up just in time to see the car speed over the path and go airborne off the cliff’s edge.
Everything freezes in the moment after it disappears from view, until I hear it—a weighty, thunderous splash.
I collapse with relief onto the ground, taking a moment to catch my breath. And then I remember Grant and pop up to look for him. He’s sprawled in a shadowy heap several yards from me, groaning in pain, and I hurry to him.
“Grant? You okay?”
In the moonlight, his grimace warps with fear as I approach.
“Stay away from me,” he sputters, recoiling. He scrambles as if to crab-walk away from me but winces and crumples back down.
“Did you hurt your leg?”
His expression turns incredulous. “I didn’t hurt anything. You forced me to jump out of a speeding car.”
“I told you to tuck and roll! It’s not my fault if you landed wrong.” As I step forward to get a better look, he flinches. “For the millionth time, I’m not going to hurt you.” He glares at me and I roll my eyes. “… On purpose.”
He hauls himself to a seated position, then clumsily stands. He’s taller than I realized now that he’s not huddled in fear in the back seat. Normally, I bet he could hightail it out of here and leave me in the dust; as it is, he tries to take a step and falters. I grab him before he goes down.
“Here,” I say, trying for soothing tones. “I’ll help you. We just have to get to that house over there and then we can get you some ice or something. Okay?” I brace an arm around his waist and pull his stiff arm over my shoulders for support.
After a reluctant silence, he grumbles, “Which house?”
“That one.” I point down the hill to the shadowy block at the far edge of the point. “The cute one with the big beech tree out back. Excellent climbing tree. Highly recommend if your ankle’s not broken.”
From his silence, I’m thinking he’s not in the mood.
The journey to the house isn’t an easy one, what with the steep hill and the fact that Grant is somewhat incapacitated, but we hobble along.
He holds on to me in a tense, careful way, keeping as much space between our bodies as possible, like he’s playing along for survival but prepared to speed-limp away if I do anything scary.
When we arrive, I stoop to retrieve the spare key from under an empty flower pot.
Like its neighbors, Camp Donnelly has been shuttered for the season, and the resulting darkness inside is thick and musty. It’s a far cry from its open, breezy summer self, all lemonade in the kitchen and seagulls scrabbling on the roof, but it feels safe nonetheless.
My adrenaline is ebbing away, leaving me goose-bumped and shaky and very aware that this house isn’t heated.
I help Grant hobble to the drop cloth–covered couch in the living room, then toss him a few mismatched blankets from the basket in the corner.
I’m relieved to find some leftover logs by the stone fireplace, along with a stack of old newspapers and a box of matches on the mantel.
Perfect. If I have to spend the night in hiding with a hostage who thinks I’m a maniac, at least I can do it by the light of a cozy fire.
Satisfied with the modest flames crackling in the hearth, I finally turn to face Grant. He’s grimacing with his leg propped over his opposite knee, gingerly rolling his ankle.
“If you can do that, it’s probably not broken,” I suggest. “I broke my ankle once. Here, actually. I bet my best friend Steph I could get enough air from the rope swing out front to land in the water. Fun fact: I could not.”
Grant looks around, frowning at the lacy curtains, the family photos, the seashells on the mantel, and the bookshelves crammed with old jigsaw puzzles and board games. “This is your house?”
“No, Steph’s. Her family’s, I mean. But they wouldn’t mind.” I don’t question the words until I say them. I’m sure they’d be happy to offer me sanctuary from a murderer; it’s the whole fugitive-with-a-captive thing that’s more of a gray area.
I blow out a big breath and drag a wicker chair over the nubby braided rug.
“Okay. I’m going to tell you what’s going on now, but I need to warn you.
It’s the craziest thing that has ever happened to me, and I once ran from a bull stampede in sandals and a dress after joining what I thought was a walking tour of Pamplona. So again: Open mind, got it?”
He nods in a way that’s more yes, fine, just don’t kill me than do tell, I’m all ears, but I’ll take it.
I stare at him for a moment, unsure where to start.
“I made a wish that backfired and now I’m trapped in a crime novel,” I blurt.
Rip-the-Band-Aid approach it is.
Grant’s expression doesn’t change. He blinks once, then speaks slowly. “You made a wish …”
I nod. “To be the main character. Of a … novel.” He doesn’t need to know that it was supposed to be a romance.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed; I just don’t have time for his inevitable literary academic judgment.
“The thing is, I didn’t mean for it to be a crime novel.
I didn’t mean it at all, really. It was a joke.
But it came true, and now there’s a killer after me and I have no idea what to do. ”
I tell my (literal) captive audience everything. Well, almost. I skim over the details of meeting Jack and how exactly I came to be at the scene of the crime. But I tell him about the Gifter, the near-stabbing, the escape. Everything up until I wrecked his Friday evening.
“Again, so sorry,” I say. “But those are the facts. I never intended any harm. I didn’t even know you were in the car when I took it.
But then you went on and on about writing and story structure and crime novels and …
” I stop to catch my breath and try to assess how convinced Grant seems. He looks more thoroughly weirded out than ever.
I lean closer in desperation and he pulls back.
“I’m out of my depth here. I don’t read crime or thrillers or anything like that.
I have no idea what to expect. But you do.
You can help me navigate this and make it out in one piece. Please? Will you help me?”
He hesitates for a silent moment, shadows from the fire dancing on his face. It’s the kind of face that looks accustomed to being in deep thought—not severe but focused, with pensive brown eyes. Something in them softens just a bit as he finally speaks.