Chapter 38
I can’t sleep.
My mind whirs. My brain loops, stuck recalculating every permutation of what’s happened here. Churning. Rotating.
Like a carousel.
Like a Ferris wheel.
Heathcliff foaming at the mouth. The axe missing from the pile. Threat notes impaled on the Parkers’ front door. The Adwanis bludgeoned in their bed. Marjorie Neuman. Dead in this home before I even arrived.
Who did this?
Haunting images fill my wine-soaked dreams. Vivek’s eyes open when they should be shut.
The shrieks of the merry-go-round. Grandma’s grin, teeth like tombstones.
Freida’s blood dripping down the walls of my old Chicago office.
Heathcliff barking. My reflection in the window looking back at me with a stranger’s smile.
I bolt upright, my body slick with sweat.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Outside the window. That same sound. The one from the other night.
Footsteps, cautious and light.
I blink hard. This isn’t a dream. I’m awake. Wide awake.
I slide from beneath the covers and crawl across the cold hardwood, my oversize T-shirt whispering against the floor. I crouch beneath the sill, every nerve in my body thrumming.
Thunder, but no rain. A giggle. Distant. Too light. Too close.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Ghost of Big Island? Seriously? I’m losing it.
But I rise anyway and peek through the glass.
And I see her. A blur through the fog.
A girl.
The same one from the other night, dark hair bouncing behind her. She moves like mist.
I blink. She’s gone. No. No, not again. My breath stutters. Something inside me cracks.
I snap.
I’m done. With the whispers. The shadows. The lies. I need to know.
I fling open the front door, barefoot and half mad, the cold, wet gravel biting into my soles as I sprint through the humid blackness toward the apparition. My heartbeat thrashes. I round the side of the house—
Nothing.
Just fog curling low like smoke. Silence so thick it chokes. Then another giggle, this time behind me.
I spin.
No one.
The wind hisses through the trees. Taunting me. I grab the croquet mallet from the lawn. The feel of cold, damp wood steadies me.
Crunch.
Near the shed.
I inch toward it, the mallet raised like a baseball bat. The lock hangs open, swinging gently.
But Eric locked it. Didn’t he?
I take a breath. Then another.
And yank the door open.
Two ghostly figures leap out.
“BOO!” Penelope and Emma shriek in unison, their grins bright and cruel, like jack-o’-lanterns.
My heart slams into my ribs. My grip loosens.
“You thought we were ghosts, didn’t you?” Penelope beams. Each of them grabs my wrists, bouncing up and down, so proud of themselves for scaring me, their laughter ringing through the night.
I know that laugh. It’s the laugh of the girls I grew up with.
The ones who see kindness as weakness. I’m eight years old again.
On the playground at recess. Girls tripping me and laughing.
Chanting “Char-klutz, Char-klutz.” Me fighting back the tears.
Forcing myself to get up, knowing they’ll push me back down again.
I stare at the twins, body trembling. For a second—just a second—I consider swinging the mallet. Not hard. Just enough to wipe the smirk off their faces.
Instead, I gather myself. Barely.
“Bed. Now.”
They pout their lips and flutter their eyes. “We’re sorry,” they say.
“No, no. It’s too late for the ‘we’re sorry’ routine. You ladies are in big trouble.”
“You’re not our mom,” Emma chirps. “You can’t make us do anything.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do,” I say, voice ice.
Their smiles falter.
“And when I tell your father your secret—that you pretended to be a dead girl in the middle of the night—well, good luck.”
Emma raises one eyebrow and flicks her tongue through the gap in her teeth. “You have a secret too.” I pause outside the entrance. “We saw you sneak out,” she says.
My mind jumps to the other night. Carlos’s late-night visit. The girl I saw. It was them.
“That’s none of your business.”
She stares at me and smiles but says nothing.
I march them upstairs and shut their door behind them. I don’t care if they sleep. I don’t care if they dream of ghosts. I just want to rest.
I stagger back to my bed and collapse, but peace doesn’t come.
Instead comes the rage.
Rage at this cursed island.
Rage at these children who toy with fear like it’s a game, who lord secrets over me like a guillotine.
Rage at myself—for being here, for losing my temper with the twins, for not knowing anymore whether I’m the hero or the villain.