Chapter 36
The road rises and falls in lazy waves before dipping into the valley known as Fairmont. The roller-coaster ride mimics my emotions, high, low, and uncertain, and my stomach doesn’t seem to want to settle anytime soon.
We’re getting closer to answers. I can feel it. But what happens after we break the curse? Is there still a we when the magic is gone?
I’ve spent all year set on leaving behind this town and everyone in it.
But the thought of driving off without Xander riding shotgun guts me.
Right now, we’re bound by this weird in-between, this need to escape.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it to be more—or if I said I wasn’t scared Whitley might be right about him.
When the curse lifts, I’ll finally know if Xander is different or just another name I have to leave behind.
“You’ve arrived,” my phone says. But we’re parked outside a brick building that’s split into a pawn shop and a home improvement store. Both have Closed signs pressed against their glass doors.
I check the time again. The women’s center should be open for another hour, according to their website. It also says they provide free, anonymous counseling, legal support, and education for the women of West Virginia. Dara is listed as their program coordinator.
“Do you think it’s upstairs?” Xander asks, tilting his head toward the second floor.
“Only one way to find out.” I kill the engine, rip the keys from the ignition, and step outside.
The hot air hits me like a wall. It clings to my skin, dragging beads of sweat down my spine. The street is deserted. Most of the parking meters flash red. No one strolls the sidewalk. No doors swing open. It’s like we’ve stepped into a ghost town, a perfect setting for a boy no one else can see.
“Over here,” Xander says, waving me down a narrow alley. I follow him between the buildings and onto a path littered with overturned trash cans and warped wooden planks. Tucked behind the storefronts is a smaller, blue-brick building. A white sign above the door reads Fairmont Women’s Center.
We pause.
“Do you think she’ll believe us?” Xander asks.
I shrug. “When she realizes we can see her, we won’t have to do any convincing. That’s the easy part about this curse.”
He smiles. “I never expected to make so many new friends so quickly.”
“Hopefully she’s nothing like her stepbrother.”
His smile flattens and his gaze falls to the fly-infested puddle at our feet. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
“You first,” I say, opening the door. Its hinges cry out like a dying rabbit in the middle of the night.
The waiting area is sterile and quiet, boxed in by white cinder block walls. A row of faded blue plastic chairs lines the perimeter. They’re all empty. No people to count. No music.
A receptionist sits behind a plexiglass barrier with thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She sizes us up.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
It’s not Dara. The woman on the website had long hair as black as mine, and hollow, sunken brown eyes. This woman has cropped hair and round, watchful eyes.
“Hey, yeah,” I say, stepping toward the desk. “We’re looking for someone.”
“We?” she asks. “Who’s we?” She leans to the side, searching the empty lobby. The tap of her pen against a notepad quickens.
I turn to Xander, who is standing just beside me. He spins his thumbs in his hands and pulls in his lips.
I forgot. Again.
It’s just me.
I take a deep breath to steady myself. “My friend is waiting in the car. We’re—”
“The identity of our clients is confidential,” she cuts in, folding her hands over the desk.
“We’re not looking for a client,” I say. “We are hoping to speak with Dara. She works here.”
The woman raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
The moment the word leaves my lips, I regret it.
She points her pen at the door. “Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow. We’re closing soon.”
Xander huffs. “This is stupid,” he says. “I’m going back there to find her.”
“What?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He strides forward, ignoring the Please wait to be called sign, and disappears through a side door.
“Dara is wrapping up with another client right now,” the receptionist says, misunderstanding my alarm meant for Xander.
“But . . . we . . .”
I search the lobby for an excuse to stay, something to buy us a little time. But there’s nothing. It’s all motivational posters and pictures of the Appalachians—the mountain range I can’t seem to escape. The images remind me of their permanence in my life.
“But my friend . . .” My voice softens.
The receptionist stands, adjusting her glasses. “Who’s in the car? Is this an emergency, young man?”
“Yes!” I shout. The word comes out sharp. I step forward and grip the edge of her desk. The woman presses a hand to her heart. “It is an emergency,” I insist. “Can we be seen?”
She pulls open a drawer and retrieves a clipboard stacked with intake forms. “Fill this out. And then—”
A scream tears through the air. A raw, guttural scream.
It ricochets off the cinder block walls and rattles my rib cage. The receptionist gasps and drops the clipboard from her hands. It clatters against the desk, then tumbles to the floor, landing on my foot.
But I don’t feel it.
I don’t feel anything except the satisfaction of that scream.
“Dara!” the receptionist cries, scrambling from her chair. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
But I already know.