Chapter Fifteen
For several seconds, all I can do is stare at the empty dining room chair.
And then a wild surge of hope goes through me. She’s gone. She’s finally, actually, really gone. There’s not even any sign
she was ever here. No creases in the rug from the feet of the chair being pushed back. No smudges in the fine layer of dust
on the dining table.
My heart thuds against my ribs. Maybe it’s over.
I cross the room, pushing through the bifold door.
Maybe I’m finally alone.
“Hello?” I flick on the lights in the kitchen. “Dad?”
“Yeah?” He looks up from the sink, in the middle of rinsing a mug. “What’s the matter?”
My heart drops like it fell off a cliff. “You’re still here,” I say.
He looks around, confused. “Where else would I be? I just wanted to finish these dishes . . .”
But I’m already turning away. Already heading for the bathroom . . .
Jackson is in the middle of patting his face with a towel when I open the door. “What?” he says.
Shit.
I back out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed, fighting the urge to slam it. Or kick it. Or pound it with my fists like I’m throwing an actual tantrum.
It’s not over. The cottage is still messing with me. My dad and Jackson are still here. The only one missing is Professor
MacAndrew.
So what happened to her? Where did she go?
A faint beam of light sweeps across the living room floor. I reach the front window just in time to see headlights coming
up the gravel drive, visible through the trees—Dina, back from Provincetown.
I grab my phone, switch on the flashlight, and push my way out of the cottage.
She’s just unlocking her front door when I reach her. “I need to talk to you.”
She pauses, looking up in alarm. “What’s wrong? Is Nathan all right?”
“Yeah, he’s . . . he’s inside.” I gesture, vaguely, to her house. Nathan is the last thing I want to think about right now.
“Dina, I need you to tell me what’s going on. With the house. You know more than you’re letting on; I know you do.”
Her face turns blank—but it’s a careful kind of expressionless. “What is it you think I know?”
“That there are people inside!” My voice cracks, desperate. “The house is showing me people, I’m not losing my mind, and I
need you to tell me what’s going on and what it means.”
She studies my face, the porch light catching in her eyes. Then she lets her breath out, a slow, whispering sound, and says,
“I can’t.”
For a moment, I’m too surprised to say anything. I was prepared to fight her harder. “Why . . . why not?”
“I just can’t.”
The surprise changes to anger. “Well, what would make someone in the house disappear? Can you tell me that? Why would I see someone for weeks and weeks in the same room, every single day, and then one night they just . . . vanish?”
Something crosses her face. Something almost pained. “I can’t tell you.”
“Right.” I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “So I suppose you also can’t tell me why I keep running into a twentysomething
version of your nephew in the bedroom?”
She’s silent for long enough that I drop my hands, half wondering if she’s somehow vanished too.
She hasn’t, but she’s staring at me with a strange expression, like she’s looking straight through me. “You should be careful
with that door.” She turns away, pulling out her keys. “The knob is loose.”
“Yeah. I know. I asked you to fix it.”
“I’ll add it to my list,” she says shortly, and pushes her way into her house, closing the door firmly behind her.
I turn and stalk back up the flagstone path. But I can’t bring myself to go back to the little cottage. The anger coursing
through me won’t let me be still, so I change direction, careening blindly through the darkness to the stairs in the side
of the dune, and then down them to the beach. The anger and frustration drive me all the way to the water’s edge. I reach
down, fingers searching, until I find a rock, and then I hurl it, with every ounce of my strength, into the ocean.
Then I find another, and I throw that one.
And another.
And another.
I hurl rocks into the water until my shoulder aches. Until my throat is raw and burning from the salty air, and my cold, stiff
fingers can’t find another stone to throw.
And then, finally, I walk back to the stairs, collapsing on the bottom step, trying to slow down my breathing.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and google Dina.
Down here on the beach, it takes the page a while to load, but when it finally does, it’s all the same hits I got last time.
The article from the local Cape Cod newspaper.
Shady sites claiming to know her address or phone number.
Everything else is clearly about some other Dina Daley.
A real estate agent in Arizona. A local councilwoman in Ohio. Various obituaries.
It’s useless. Nothing here will tell me what she knows, or why she won’t tell me.
I hit the backspace key, erasing the search. And then, on impulse, I type something new: Nathan Daley.
Pages and pages of hits pop up, and most of them are obviously not the right Nathan Daley. It’s way too much to sift through.
I try Nathan Daley Cape Cod instead.
There’s a lot less this time. The first result is from a local newspaper for Dartmouth, Massachusetts. I tap on the link.
Obituary: Steven Daley and Heather Caldwell
Dr. Steven Daley, 54, and Dr. Heather Caldwell, 52, both residents of Dartmouth and professors of marine biology at the University
of Massachusetts, Dartmouth, died Saturday while conducting research near Buzzards Bay. Daley and Caldwell met when both were
studying in Maine. They later relocated to Dartmouth, where they lived for twenty-two years. They will both be remembered
for their contributions to the field of marine biology, especially for their study of the impact of industrial fishing on
the dolphin colonies of the Atlantic coast. They are survived by Dr. Caldwell’s parents (William and Janine of Brunswick,
ME), Dr. Daley’s sister (Dina, a resident of Cape Cod), and their son, Nathan. A private memorial will be held at Rose Bay
Funeral Home on Saturday. In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to the following marine science scholarship funds . . .
I swallow. There’s a new kind of rawness in my throat now, one that has nothing to do with salty air or anger. I scroll back
up to the top of the obituary. It’s dated April 21, 2017.
Nine years ago. Nathan would have been a senior in college.
I push myself up, stuffing my phone back into my pocket, and make myself go back up the stairs, even though my legs are burning.
Back up the flagstone path. Back into the cottage. I don’t even bother taking off my shoes. I just go down the hall to the
closed bedroom door, grabbing the knob, wiggling until I hear a soft click.
But when I open the door, the room beyond is empty, just like the dining room.
Dina said to be careful with this door, because the knob was loose. Maybe she was trying to tell me something. Offer a clue.
Maybe this door is different, and if I turn the knob just right, I’ll be able to bring him back.
So I try. I twist the knob. I rattle it. I turn it gently. I wrench it.
But nothing works. No matter what I do, no matter how many times I open the door, the room beyond stays empty.