Chapter 4
Four
With a gasp, I wake into the suffocating darkness of night. My heart hammers against my ribs with the will to escape my chest. The nightmare clings to my mind, slicking my hair back with sweat.
Mom and Dad’s voices called my name through sheets of rain. Their catering van spun on the mountain road as I helplessly watched from the passenger seat I should’ve been sitting in.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
But it’s not a remnant of my nightmare.
It’s actual thunder, making my whole body go rigid.
I pull the heavy comforter over my head, but it doesn’t block out the sound of rain, pattering against the tall windows.
“It’s just rain,” I whisper under the covers. “You’re safe. You’re inside. It’s just rain.”
But my body doesn’t believe me. Every rumble of thunder hits me like a car crash. Every gust of wind sounds like voices calling for help.
I surface from under the comforter and check my phone again. 2:53 a.m.
Creaks and groans settle around the house. Probably nothing more than old house noises. But I can’t help wondering if there are footsteps in the hallway. Or perhaps a door closing? I strain my ears, but all I hear is my own ragged breathing.
I must drift off again, because I’m back in the van. There’s another car looming towards us in the storm. I try to grab the steering wheel, but my hand passes right through it, like I’m a ghost.
I wake up at 4:26 a.m. with tears on my face and Mom’s name on my lips.
The rain has stopped, but the silence that follows feels worse somehow. At home, I could always hear something. Traffic on the main road. The neighbor’s dog barking. The familiar hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Here, there’s nothing but oppressive quiet.
I try to fall back asleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see the van spinning.
I unlock my phone and appreciate the blinding backlight.
I hit play on the Sky Chaos clip and my nervous system settles.
The alt rock track plays on a continuous loop, and I watch the darkness fade as pale gray light seeps around the edges of the heavy curtains.
7:43 a.m.
I think I know every lyric off by heart now.
At least it’s morning. Not that it matters much. I don’t have anywhere to be. Tomorrow I start at Ashworth Academy, but today is just an empty Sunday.
Like the rest of my life will be.
Empty.
I’m staring at the crack in the ceiling, trying to work up the energy to face another day, when sharp knocking jolts me upright.
“Alice?” Miranda’s voice is crisp through the door. “I’m coming in.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. The door swings open, and my aunt strides in wearing yoga pants and a fitted athletic top. She looks like she’s already been up for hours, probably working out in some home gym I haven’t discovered yet.
In her arms is a stack of books and papers that she dumps unceremoniously onto my writing desk.
“Good morning, darling,” she says, reefing the curtains open to let light into the room. “I hope you slept well.”
I didn’t, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“I’ve arranged everything for this afternoon’s tutoring session,” she continues, gesturing to the pile of materials. “I called the school on Friday and had them courier over everything you’ll need to help Ryder. You’ll be working primarily on English. That’s where he’s struggling most.”
I blink at her, still foggy from lack of sleep and unable to think of anything besides Ryder singing the chorus of my apparently new favorite song. I force myself to pause the song in my head and manage to sit upright.
She had this arranged on Friday? The day of the funeral? When I was barely standing, she was making calls to ensure I’d be ready to tutor her precious musician?
“Two o’clock sharp. The boys are rehearsing all morning.
They have a showcase coming up that’s absolutely critical for their careers.
” She taps a book with a manicured finger.
“Ryder’s teachers are losing faith in his ability to improve his grades.
Tomorrow is a fresh start, and I need him walking into those classrooms ready to impress them.
That means you need to get him up to speed today. ”
My stomach churns. “But I haven’t even…”
“You have all morning to review the materials,” Miranda interrupts smoothly. “You’re a straight-A student, Alice. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble preparing. In fact, I’m counting on it.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Remember, your tutelage will contribute to Ryder’s success.”
The words land like a threat.
“I’ve cleared out the library for your sessions,” she continues. “It’s on the first floor, past the dining room and kitchen. It’s quiet, private, and has everything you’ll need. Two o’clock. Don’t be late.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m alone with the mountain of books and papers.
I drag myself out of bed and approach the desk with the same enthusiasm I’d show a pile of dirty dishes.
There’s a worn copy of ‘What We Carry’ by Redmund Marsh, along with several literary analysis guides, a syllabus for senior English, and a stack of worksheets that look like they’re from Ryder’s teacher.
The pressure sits heavy on my chest. I’m supposed to review all this, prepare a study plan, and have Ryder learn all this material… in one afternoon?
I pick up the book and breathe out a sliver of relief.
It’s a novel from the 1910s that I’ve already read.
I had a summer of being really into classic literature.
Thank goodness, because I can barely focus on the thousands of lines of text sitting before me.
Especially when they’re all blurring into two.
With a trembling hand, I set the book down by the study materials.
Through the tall windows, I notice dark clouds lingering on the horizon. Is the storm not done with me yet? Didn’t it get its kicks when it robbed me of sleep last night?
I plonk on the bed and let out a long sigh. Glancing at my phone, I remember the way the Sky Chaos song had kept me out of my spiralling thoughts. My heartbeat slowed down, and I stopped clawing at the bed sheets.
Maybe doing my part to make Ryder a success is worth something. If one song can put me at ease, a whole career of music has to be in my best interests.
I cross to the window and yank the heavy curtains shut, blocking out the threatening sky. The room plunges into dimmer light, but at least I can’t see the clouds building.
With my stomach growling but no desire to face Miranda or her staff in the kitchen, I remember the gas station snacks from yesterday’s drive.
I drop to my knees and rummage through my bag until I find them.
A crumpled bag of barbecue potato chips and a warm energy drink that probably tastes like artificial citrus.
The kind of pathetic food my parents would have lectured me about.
Which is why they’re absolutely perfect right now.
I tear open the chips and take a handful, the salty-sweet flavor coating my tongue. Not exactly breakfast, but it’s something. The energy drink is warm and vaguely syrupy. I chug half of it anyway, hoping the caffeine will help me focus.
Settling back at the desk, I try to make sense of the materials Miranda left. I remember the novel centers around a woman named Sophia, who has to decide whether to save her grandfather’s church from demolition. Themes of inherited responsibility, family obligation, and identity.
I make notes in the margins of the syllabus, identifying key chapters and important quotes, but my mind keeps drifting.
Why am I doing this? I just moved here, and I’m put to work.
Does Miranda not know how to deal with me? Is she hoping distracting me with schoolwork will help me forget my grief? Is it her own twisted way of helping me? She saw I excelled at school and thought I would enjoy it?
I rest my head in my palms and comb my fingers through my messy hair. School is the last thing I want to think about. I don’t want to change schools. I don’t want to be without my parents.
I lift my head and reach for the framed photo of them.
“Oh, Mom,” I whisper at her captured image. “Dad. Why did you have to leave? You couldn’t have wanted me to come here. Oh, I wish you could tell me what the deal is with Miranda. I’m freaked out, because there has to be a reason why neither of you spoke about her.”
I set the photo frame back down as pressure builds behind my eyes. As I will myself not to cry, I hear something that halts my breathing.
Music.
Not just muffled sounds through walls, but something clearer. A guitar melody that thrums through the very foundation of the house. Then drums join in, steady and powerful. A bass line that I feel in my chest.
And then a voice.
The voice I listened to over and over as I tried to get to sleep last night.
Ryder’s voice.
Raw, gravelly, and absolutely beautiful.
My hands press to my face as I listen. Like if I don’t freeze, the sound might slip away and never return. The music seems to seep through the walls and fills the empty spaces of this cold, stone room. It pulses to me like salvation.
I stand from the desk, forgetting the tutoring materials. My feet carry me to the door before I fully register what I’m doing. I just want to hear it better. Be closer to something that makes me feel less hollow.
The hallway is empty and dim, with only a few wall sconces providing light. But the music is louder out here, echoing through the corridors as if the house itself is the amplifier.
I follow the sound, my heart beating in time with the drums. Down the hallway, past closed doors and dark portraits. The music grows stronger with each step, pulling me forward like a lifeline.
The warring thoughts in my head melt away into nothing as every step becomes more hurried. I pant for breath and wipe the fallen pieces of hair away from my clammy face.
The sound leads me to a heavy wooden door, and through the gap at the bottom, I see light and movement.