Chapter 18
I sprint through the forest back to the Parkers’ home, Russ’s words crawling up my spine.
Pine needles and birch branches slice my skin, but I don’t care.
I want to be free of this labyrinth. I finally spot the cluster of trees that leads to the Parkers’ and slow down to a walk, not wanting to frighten them.
Sweat pours from my armpits, and my hair feels like I stuck my finger in a socket.
I catch a whiff of chrysanthemum telling me I’m back on safer ground. I inhale and exhale slowly to steady my breathing and retie my hair into a ponytail. The yard stands still and empty, but I swear I can hear the echo of Russ Neuman.
A little girl fell off that Ferris wheel and died.
Bad dogs barking loud.
You shouldn’t have come here.
I spotted a glint of recognition behind his eyes when I mentioned the note. As if he knew something. But what? Something about me? Something about the Parkers? Something about his mother’s death? I wonder if there’s more to this than simply land. Is Eric hiding something? Is Laelynn?
As I reach the house, I notice the Parkers have removed Heathcliff’s body from the path.
If I didn’t know otherwise, I would assume everything was fine—except for the silence.
The sounds of Heathcliff—the pitter-patter of his paws, the panting breaths, the jingle of the bell around his neck—are gone.
I enter, expecting to see the family, but the living room and kitchen sit empty.
Laelynn must be upstairs with Olivia and the girls.
My nose catches the stink from my armpits, a mix of sweat and fear, and I realize I need a shower.
But I have to tell someone about Russ Neuman now or I’ll burst. I walk down the hallway opposite my bedroom toward Eric’s office, hoping I can catch him away from Laelynn. He seems the least likely to overreact.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I notice his door is closed.
A cute wood-framed sign hangs on the outside that says, “Quiet, please. Baker at work.” I smile and knock, but there’s no response.
He could be wearing headphones, lost in thought, I rationalize, my fingers closing around the cold metal.
As it clicks open, I don’t know what I’m expecting to see—maybe a desk with some memorabilia from the Parker family bakery business—but it’s not this.
The first thing I notice is the must, like you’d expect in someone’s basement.
To the left stands an antique mahogany desk, window overlooking a vibrant spread of chrysanthemums framed by dark forest curling around the side of the house.
It’s a quaint little nook where you could picture someone writing a novel.
I hear my dad clink ice in a whiskey glass.
But that’s where the quaintness ends. A series of frames clumped tightly—like family photos—hang on the wall, but in place of modern pictures of the Parkers are antique photos from what looks like Big Island.
A man fishing off the dock, his shirtsleeves rolled.
Two children in petticoats hover behind him like ghosts from another time.
A photo of a Dakota chief named Shakopee.
More amusement park memorabilia: rotted old ticket stubs, architect drawings, relics of another time.
Opposite the door, a series of bookshelves runs along the wall.
But instead of carrying books, they hold porcelain dolls; ancient dolls.
Each one more disturbing than the one before.
Hundreds of pale, damaged faces, some with gouged-out eyes, stare back at me.
Real human hair of blond, brown, and red hangs from their heads, their faces chipped and scarred.
They look as though they might come alive at any moment.
Beneath the pictures is the pièce de résistance: an authentic early 1900s fortune-telling machine, which is somehow even creepier than the dolls.
The machine rests in a dark walnut wood cabinet six feet tall.
At the top, a sign in bloodred and gold says, “Grandmother’s Predictions.
” Beneath the sign, behind glass panes, a pale wax mannequin looms in silk, her dry gray hair twisted into a bun, reading spectacles clinging to the sharp bridge of her nose.
A fake candle hovers on a desk in front of her and beneath another sign that says, “What Does Grandma Say?”
I don’t know what Grandma says. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.
But I do want to know more about this house. About how Eric Parker got it. About Russ Neuman. Why he told me I shouldn’t have come. And what happened to Marjorie Neuman? To Heathcliff?
I open Eric’s top desk drawer. Just pens and sticky notes.
I move to the top side drawer. Work papers. Bills from the bakery.
I check the bottom. It’s a file drawer lined with manila folders labeled clearly. “Vehicle information.” “Insurance.” “Tax.” “Business.”
I flip through the business folder. Find the Parker Bakery P I just find that era enchanting.
Part of me wishes I had been born then, ya know?
The crisp suits, the fedoras, champagne out of a coupe.
Pretty damn glamorous. It’s a bad habit of mine.
I’m always wishing I could turn back the clock.
These help me capture a piece of the past.” His voice quakes, and he swallows hard.
“Sorry, I was just giving you shit.”
“No, I get it. It’s corny. But that’s partly why I wanted you to visit. It allows me to turn back the clock in my own little way.” He clears his throat and places the doll back on the shelf. “So, why were you looking for me?”
“I went for a hike, and I ran into Russ Neuman.”
Eric blinks slowly and runs his hand through his hair. “Oh. I’m sorry. Hopefully, he didn’t bother you.”
“Not really. Although I’d prefer not to be alone in the woods with him ever again.”
“Neither would I.”
We both laugh, followed by an awkward silence.
“Anyway, it’s probably nothing, but he said something to me, and I thought you should know.”
He scratches the scar on his chin. “Really? What did he say?”
“Well, first he said there are ghosts on the island and recited an extremely unsettling poem.” I keep my voice light, but the words echo in my mind. Shadows on the wall. Noises down the hall.
“That sounds like Russ,” Eric says, unfazed.
“But then, as I was walking away, he said, ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’”
I watch Eric’s lower lip shift, but he catches himself, swallows it down, and turns toward the window, thinking. After a beat, he turns back, forcing a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s just trying to scare you.”
“Are you sure? He seemed pretty determined. And with Heathcliff—”
He cuts me off, his voice rising. “Yes, I’m sure. Now, enough talk of Russ Neuman. I’ve had more of him in the last twenty-four hours than I can handle.” His scowl transforms into a mischievous grin. “You know what you need?”
To go home? To get off this island? I think to myself. “What?” I say.
“You need to have your fortune told.”
My eyes shoot to the ghostlike grandmother in the box. “I think I’m good.”
“Oh, no.” Extended o. “You’re definitely not good.” He puts his hand on the small of my back and ushers me toward the machine. “Try it out.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Okay, but this better be revelatory, or I’m heading back to Chicago.”
“I don’t think Grandma takes kindly to threats.” He grabs a nickel from the jam jar sitting on his desk and hands it to me.
I take the nickel from his hand, allowing my hand to linger for a moment against his baby-soft skin. Then, I turn and insert the coin into the machine.
The fortune teller’s gears spin to life.
Grandma’s head swivels from side to side, her hand gliding weightlessly above the tarot cards.
It’s just an old amusement park game, but its sounds, its movements, give the impression of ancient wisdom.
The low hum of the gears turning. The light of the candle flickering.
The inhuman motions of Grandma coming to life.
Her distant eyes sear through me as if she’s seeing images from the great beyond.
Her gaze flickers, and a hand-painted card spits out of the machine.
I glance at Eric. As silly as it is, I’m nervous.
There’s something magical about this machine, and I’m afraid of what secrets it might hold.
I pull the card from the slot, a slight quiver in my fingers.
As I read it, I realize I had a reason to be nervous.
In a weathered serif font surrounded by a gold border, the yellowed card says, “Someone you trust is not who they seem.”