Chapter 11. Is Time Really a Flat Circle? #2
Like my words have magical powers, Harper’s phone buzzes on the table, loud enough to hear despite the chatter.
She picks it up reflexively, then blanches.
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“No, tell me now.”
She sighs, then leans across Oliver. “He’s getting out.”
“Who?”
“Him. John Hart.”
I feel a moment of confusion before the name clicks into place. “What?”
“His parole got approved.”
“I thought he got twenty years.”
“Our justice system sucks.”
My hand grips Oliver’s, and it feels like I might pass out.
Because John Hart is the man who killed my parents. When I was eighteen, he drove his drunk ass into their car and ended their lives in an instant.
Mine, too. And Harper’s.
He’d gotten twenty years because of how fast he was driving, because it wasn’t his first drunk driving offense, and because they also found drugs in his car.
I tried not to think about the fact that it was the drugs that made his sentence longer. That the lives ended weren’t enough. I tried not to think about him at all.
I went to the trial, and once the sentence was handed down, I caught his eye in the courtroom and vowed never to think about the man again.
I mostly succeeded because I can put my mind to things when I want to. But why is this coming up now, today?
And why is Connor looking at me sympathetically like he knows exactly who John Hart is? I’ve never talked to him about Hart.
“Why do you even know this?” I ask Harper.
“I have a Google Alert on his name. I knew he was coming up for parole. I tried to stop it.”
“What?”
“I went and spoke at his parole hearing.”
“Why didn’t you—”
A glass clinks at the head table, and all eyes turn toward it.
Elizabeth is clinking the glass. She waits for the room to silence and stands.
“I hope everyone is enjoying their meal and that your sessions this afternoon were productive. I, for one, greatly enjoyed my small group—Rope. If you’re looking for some extra credit, the writing prompt I gave to my group is on the seating chart outside.
As I always say, more writing, more better. ”
A trickle of laughter runs through the room.
“I wanted to share a tradition that’s built up over the years at this festival—telling ghost stories. Because that’s what all good murders are about. The ghosts we live with every day. Those things unseen that haunt us. That keep us up at night like a fingernail scratching at a door. That go bump.”
She gets the frisson she’s looking for.
Of course she does. She’s the best.
“When I was researching what to talk about, I was reminded of the island’s oldest ghost story, its most famous one.
That of Blackbeard’s ghost. As the kids say—I know, right?
Well, yes. The fort at Old Nassau was built to withstand him.
And it did. It fended off the pirates who attacked from the sea.
But there are other enemies to fear. Ones sent here in exile.
And this very site is haunted by that terrible man who abdicated the throne of England.
Edward VIII. He was sent here in shame because of his Nazi sympathies.
Instead of tending to his duties, he partied and took it all lightly. An inconsequential man.
“I met him once in France. He was odious. But there was a certain group around him, you know the type, brought in by celebrity. Looking for favors. Looking for his favor.”
She pauses. “Why do I bring this up? Because it’s a lesson for all of us. That there are enemies within and we need to stay vigilant against even our friends.”
I meet Sandrine’s eyes across the table. She’s been silent, listening, observing—plotting? I wish I knew what it was that she thinks I did to her because the stolen book plot thing is thin.
I can’t ask right now, but she holds steady on my gaze, then has the decency to look away.
“But I was speaking about Blackbeard,” Elizabeth says. “An interesting fellow. But wait … We need the lights off for this part.” She gestures to someone on the side of the room—Mark, the hotel manager. As his hand reaches up to flip the switch, I’m about to say something to stop him.
Plunging us into darkness seems risky.
But it’s too late. The room is almost inky black, just the silhouettes of people visible.
I have a bad feeling about this.
You?
Elizabeth picks up a small pen light, which she holds under her chin. Her face is illuminated as she speaks.
“Did you know that Blackbeard liked to place slow-burning fuses into his beard and light them on fire as he went into battle? His targets would see him standing on the prow, his face aglow, and know that they were done for. What a brilliant man, if I do say so. Evil. But brilliant.
“But that is often true of evil. There’s a certain brilliance to it. How else would they get away with it? A stupid criminal is a criminal who gets caught, who leaves clues, who doesn’t plan ahead. You cannot pants a murder and expect to get away with it.”
Against all odds, a weird sense of calm overcomes me as I listen to her melodic voice. I’m safe here. Between Oliver and Guy. Even in darkness. Even if I have an eerie sense of déjà vu, like I’ve been through this scene before.
Which I have. I’ve sat in the dark when someone was about to try to kill another person in the room, and it felt like this. That moment of anticipation, like right before it rains. The air shifts, cools, and you can smell it before the first drop hits.
Is that …
I turn my head as I feel a rustling behind me; there’s the tang of a new scent in the air.
My eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dark. But my Spidey senses are working perfectly.
And what they’re sensing is freaking me out.
Because as Elizabeth talks of pirates, with all eyes on her, I can feel someone hovering behind me. I flinch reflexively to receive the blow I’m sure they’re about to administer.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, the presence behind me eases away as quickly as they came.
I’m safe. Nothing happened. Maybe I imagined it.
I exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
Elizabeth winds up her ghost story, one I admit I heard nothing of.
The applause starts. The lights come on. And I’m okay. No one hurt me. The hunch I had was a glitch.
Phew.
“Guy? Guy? Are you okay?” Sandrine’s voice rises in panic.
Ah, shit.
Oliver pushes past me as he rushes to Guy, who’s holding his throat like someone who’s choking.
But it’s too late. His face is a terrible shade of blue that there’s no recovering from.
And all it takes is a moment and one terrible shriek, and then it’s over.
Because there’s no escaping this conclusion about Guy.
He’s dead.