27
ANSON
When my eyes snapped open, my head was down on one of the tables in the cafeteria.
I had no idea how I’d gotten there. We’d showered.
For modesty’s sake, Twill had used a stall on the far end of the coed bathroom, away from our eyes.
(Not for lack of trying on Paul’s part—his neck would probably hurt for a week from craning his head.) We’d dressed in night clothes pilfered from a storage room next door, then settled into our beds.
I remembered falling asleep. I didn’t remember returning to the cafeteria.
My internal clock told me it was a little after four in the morning, and a glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it.
That’s when I saw the memorial wall.
Red yarn started at Emily’s bracelet, weaved to the photograph of Ebby, then up to Brendan.
It didn’t stop there, though; it continued up through the wall, zigzagging across the photographs, newspaper clippings, and other items tacked up in remembrance of each missing person.
As I stepped closer, I realized the string traveled in chronological order, working backward through time.
How that was determined, I could only speculate.
The newspaper clippings were dated; some of the photographs too, but not all.
I traced the path with my fingertip, and when I couldn’t reach, I pulled a chair over.
I followed the yarn from start to finish, scanning the newspaper text.
“Body found on Folly Beach.”
“Body found in a submerged car near Johns Island.”
“Body found off Toogoodoo Road.”
Body after body.
Victim after victim.
But I couldn’t be sure of that. Aside from the yarn, nothing connected them. None of the articles mentioned holes in the skull. Some of the deaths were listed as accidental. Not all, though.
How can you be sure any are accidental?
That wasn’t Father’s voice, but my own mind pointing out a simple fact. Just because someone says something is doesn’t make it so.
When I reached the end of the string in the top left corner of the wall, I could barely reach it, even with the chair. I didn’t see the remaining ball of yarn until I got back down. It was on the floor under the table where I had woken.
You don’t remember doing it, do you, Champ?
I looked back up at the wall.
You don’t remember reading all those stories?
Studying all the items. The pictures. Piecing things together?
Puzzling it out? That happened to Mother sometimes, too.
Just now, when you went over the wall, did you feel déjà vu?
A little been there, done that? I know you did.
Because Mother always did, too. Like mother, like son, I always say.
Father had never said that.
Not once.
I had no memory of putting up the string. I had no idea how long that had taken. It came down in under three minutes, though. I was back in my bed in less than five.