Chapter Seven #2
I held the flashlight upright like a torch, and the light cast shadows on Margo’s face. “Steph’s family never lived at Dread’s Cove,” I said slowly.
Margo was still frozen. Then her jaw trembled, and she blinked up at me, like she was coming out of a trance. The seconds stretched out, and I realized she was deciding whether to tell me something.
“What is it?” I whispered.
She blew out a breath, glancing over at the bunk bed we’d shared. “Yes. They did. Steph’s parents met here. I didn’t know she’d lived here, though, too. She didn’t tell me that part.”
I gaped at her. “Wait, start over. What?”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, eyes going back to the photo.
“When Steph was a kid, her dad refused to talk about her mom. But he let it slip once, I guess, when he was doped up on morphine right before he died, that they’d met and fallen in love here.
It’s the reason I let her talk me into coming here that summer, of all places. She was looking for some closure.”
“No, but—she would have told me.” Even as I said the words, I didn’t know how true they were. Because I knew there was so much Steph had kept at arm’s length. She’d let me in just enough, made me feel just special enough, that I hadn’t wanted to push her.
Even when I caught her in bald-faced lies, she wanted me to play dumb. So I did.
Margo was frowning, studying the photo like it was a jigsaw puzzle she was a piece away from solving.
“I’m telling you. That’s her dad. Franklin.
He died when Steph was in high school, but I recognize him from the pictures I’ve seen.
He’s got those stupid glasses on, and he’s way younger obviously, but I’m sure of it.
And look at this woman. You’re telling me she doesn’t remind you of Steph? ”
The woman had a wide, open smile, and warm eyes that crinkled. It wasn’t their features; she had pale blond hair, milky white skin, and freckles. But there was something about her expression that was hauntingly familiar. The corner of her mouth was caught between a smile and a smirk.
So very Stephanie.
The back of my neck prickled, and I sensed more than one ghost around me.
“Do you know anything about Steph’s mom?
” As much time as we’d spent together that summer, we’d barely ever broached the topic.
The one time I’d asked, she’d been quick to shut the conversation down, and I’d been too scared to try again.
Margo pursed her lips. “Just that she left when Steph was a baby. Her dad refused to talk about her. He was pretty troubled, from what she told me. She moved in with her aunt and uncle when she was a kid. They adopted her, raised her. But they knew almost nothing about her mom, either. That was why she wanted to come here so badly that summer. Dread’s Cove was the only thing she had to go on. ”
I shook my head, bewildered, doing quick math in my head.
My birthday was in April, and hers was in August of the same year.
“This means that Steph lived here at the same time I did. We would have been babies together.” It was weird, almost unbelievable, and yet—as strange as it sounded, the photo gave me a charge of guilty excitement.
There was something, after all this time, tying us together.
There was nothing random about Steph coming to Dread’s Cove that summer.
Because this had once been her home, too.
“Okay, so you guys came here so she could try to learn more about her mom. Did she find anything?”
Margo shook her head, the movement sharp. “Not that she ever told me. But things got a little weird between us.” She pursed her lips. “I’m sure you remember that.”
Of course I did.
“I wanted to help her, but—” Her eyes widened, and I saw it on her face, clear as day: a new idea, taking shape. My heart bumped up against my chest, and I was already afraid of whatever she might be about to say.
“This is it,” she said, running a finger across the photo. “This is the story. We’ll figure out what Steph couldn’t. We’ll find her mom for her.”
A spike of unease shot up my spine. “Margo, come on, that’s—”
“Think about it,” she said. “I read all your texts, listened to all your messages, all right? I know how guilty you felt about what happened. I’m guessing that hasn’t gone away.
You told me that you’d do whatever it took to make this right.
Well, what if it’s this? What if telling the story Steph never got to can make it right?
” She swallowed, and I could tell she was trying to hold back the true breadth of her emotions.
“We didn’t save her then. But maybe we can help her now. ”
I couldn’t speak. I could only stare.
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying? We’re not going to tell your story, Greer. We’re going to tell hers.”
A vulnerable Margo Pierce was not something I’d often seen. But now, as she stood in front of me, I could feel the desperation. It was rolling off her in waves, palpable. Permeating into my own skin, coursing through my bloodstream, stronger than any alcohol.
“Think about it this way. It won’t just be for Steph.
You said yourself that you don’t want some big interview.
And I have to concur—you’re not exactly up to providing award-winning work at the moment, sweetheart.
But finding the long-lost mom of Stephanie Bennett?
Talk about karma. Talk about getting Dread’s Cove on the map again.
That’s your front-page story. That’s the kind of story that your mother would have wanted. So are you in or are you out?”
I bit my lip and considered this absurd proposal. I thought back on that feeling of foreboding I’d had earlier on the couch. The sense that she must be up to something. That I shouldn’t trust her. There were so many ways this could go wrong.
Obviously—obviously—this wasn’t a good idea. More likely, it was a terrible idea. Reckless, even. Because I knew exactly who Margo Pierce was. Or, rather, I knew who she wasn’t.
I knew she wasn’t my friend. I knew she never had been. I knew she held grudges.
But if she was determined to look into this—and I could tell by the hard set of her jaw that she was—it was probably wise to keep an eye on her. God knows someone needed to.
It was more than that, though. For years now, I’d been drowning. The guilt was a gaping, bottomless chasm, threatening to pull me in and never let me resurface.
I didn’t know if I could face another minute, another second, feeling so fucking useless. So fucking small. I hadn’t earned the title of my mother’s daughter in so, so long. She had been a problem solver; she had been a fiercely loyal friend.
If there were any good parts of me left, I owed them to her. I was certain that if she were in my position right now, she would say yes. Damn the consequences.
Anita Olsen would have done anything for the people she loved. Through it all, I had loved Steph.
So, yes, maybe it was reckless. But it also might have been the best chance I had to make it up to both of them. To feel worthy, for the first time in so long, of anything at all.
“Let’s do it,” I breathed, eyes resting on the little Steph in the photo. “Let’s find her.”
—
When we got back to the cabin—the bottle of whiskey completely empty now—Margo staggered down the hallway, holding her hands out against the walls as if needing them to stay vertical.
I waited for the sure sound of the guest room mattress squeaking, the light of the lamp spilling underneath the door.
Then, I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and stuck it under the faucet.
I could already feel the beginning of a hangover crawling up my scalp.
Water helped, sort of. I drained the glass, then filled it up again.
That’s when I noticed the single match sitting on the counter.
I stilled, stared at it like it might be about to bite me. Finally, I picked it up, took my time inspecting it. It was truly just a match. Used. Someone had lit it, then left it here.
But the cabin had been clean when I got here yesterday. And these counters had been bare when I’d brewed coffee this morning. I was positive.
“Margo,” I called down the hallway, a clear waver in my voice. A few beats of silence, then her door creaked open.
“What is it?”
“Did you light a match earlier?”
She yawned, long and exasperated. “Why are you asking me stupid questions right now? No, I didn’t light any matches.” Then the door snapped shut again, and I was fully alone.
There was a strange ringing in my ears. A quickening of my pulse.
Outside, I’d told Margo not to talk about it—about that thing we’d dealt with that summer.
But as I stood in my quiet kitchen, wondering if someone had entered my cabin while I was gone, had left this behind as some kind of message—it was all I could think about.
A figure sneaking in, disappearing without a sound. Evaporating into the darkness.
Just like the Phantom had.