Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
NOAH
A lead testing kit sits between us on the dashboard as I navigate the winding mountain road toward the springs in predawn light. The cheap plastic case from the hardware store looks woefully inadequate for the task at hand, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.
“Do you think this will actually work?” Holly asks, turning the box over in her hands. Her fingers trace the faded instructions on the back panel. “It says it’s for home use.”
“It’s better than nothing,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the road. The morning sun glints off patches of ice, making the drive treacherous. “We need evidence before we go to Mayor Winters. No one is going to believe the spring is contaminated without proof. We’re talking blasphemy here.”
Holly sighs, setting the kit back on the dashboard. “You think I might be wrong.”
I sigh. “I think we need to be sure before we say something that could destroy this town.”
The road narrows as we approach the springs, forcing me to slow down.
In the passenger seat, Holly fidgets with the silver pendant around her neck—the one with our initials engraved on the back.
The sight of it against her skin still gives me a jolt of possessive pleasure even with the somber circumstances.
“What if I am wrong?” she asks suddenly. “What if it’s not the springs?”
I consider this as I navigate around a particularly deep pothole. “Then we go back to square one. Look for other potential sources of contamination.”
“But Kai drank the bottled spring water,” she insists, obviously trying to convince herself. “And the children did too, we’ve confirmed that with all the parents. It has to be the springs.”
“Science doesn’t care what “has to be,”” I remind her. “It only cares what is.”
She falls silent, and I feel her anxiety pulsing through our bond.
Since Kai’s diagnosis yesterday, she’s been wound tight as a spring, oscillating between clinical detachment and barely contained panic.
I don’t blame her. The thought that the town’s sacred water source might be poisoning people—might have been poisoning Grayson and I during our childhood—is enough to make anyone anxious.
We reach the small parking area near the springs. This early in the morning, it’s deserted, which suits our purposes perfectly. The last thing we need is curious onlookers questioning why the town’s doctors are testing the sacred waters.
“Ready?” I ask, killing the engine.
Holly nods, gathering the testing kit and her backpack. “As I’ll ever be.”
The air outside is crisp and sharp, carrying the mineral scent of the springs.
Snow crunches beneath our boots as we make our way down the path to the main pool.
The area is beautiful in winter—steam rising from the water’s surface, creating a mystical haze that dances in the morning light.
Under different circumstances, I might appreciate the view.
We reach the main pool, where the water bubbles up from underground, filling a natural stone basin before flowing into smaller pools downstream. The steam rising from the surface carries that distinctive mineral smell I’ve associated with home since childhood.
Holly kneels at the edge, careful not to slip on the icy stones. “So, how do we do this?”
I crouch beside her, opening the testing kit. Inside are several plastic vials, a small bottle of reagent, and a color chart for reference. The instructions are simple enough: collect a water sample, add the reagent, and compare the resulting color to the chart to determine lead levels.
“We’ll test the main pool first,” I say, handing her one of the vials. “Then maybe check a few of the smaller pools downstream if that comes up clear.”
She nods, dipping the vial into the steaming water. The heat fogs the plastic immediately, but the sample is clear when she pulls it out.
“Now we add the reagent,” I say, uncapping the small bottle. “Three drops, according to the instructions.”
Holly holds the vial steady as I carefully add the drops. We wait, watching for any color change. According to the instructions, the water should turn anywhere from clear (no lead) to dark orange (dangerous levels of lead).
After a minute, the water remains perfectly transparent.
Holly frowns, holding the vial up to the light. “Nothing?”
“Let’s give it another minute,” I suggest, though I can already see the test is negative.
We wait in silence, the steam from the springs swirling around us. The vial of water remains stubbornly clear.
“Negative,” I finally say, comparing it to the reference chart. “No detectable lead.”
We taste four more sites around the central spring with the same results.
Holly’s expression is a complex mix of relief and disappointment. “This can’t be right. Kai drank this water. The children drank this water.”
“Maybe it’s the test,” I offer. “These consumer kits aren’t exactly laboratory grade.”
“Or maybe we’re looking in the wrong place,” she says, frustration evident in her voice. She stands, pacing along the edge of the pool. “But where else could it be coming from? The timing fits. The symptoms fit.”
I watch her move, admiring her determination even as I worry about her fixation on the springs. “Holly, if the water isn’t contaminated, that’s a good thing. It means the town’s spiritual touchstone isn’t poisoning people.”
“I know,” she says, stopping her pacing. “I know that. It’s just...I was so sure.”
She turns back toward the pool, and something catches her eye. “Wait, what’s that?”
I follow her gaze to the far side of the pool, where a metal bucket hangs from a simple pulley system attached to the rock face.
“I don’t remember ever seeing that here before,” I say, moving closer for a better look.
“What do you think it’s for?” Holly asks, following me around the edge of the pool.
I study the setup, noting the sturdy construction and the way it’s positioned to reach the deepest part of the spring. “Probably for collecting water to bottle. The deeper water is supposed to be more mineral-rich, more potent.”
“More potent how?” Holly asks, her scientific skepticism evident.
I shrug. “According to local legend, the deeper the water, the stronger its connection to whatever source gives the spring it’s power. It’s why people used to swim down to the very bottom to collect the water.”
Holly approaches the bucket, examining it without touching, a thoughtful expression on her face. She reaches for the rope.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing the water from the bucket,” she says, carefully lowering it into the spring. “Maybe water from deeper in the spring will test differently.”
The bucket splashes into the water, and Holly waits a moment before pulling it back up. The metal gleams dully in the morning light, water sloshing inside as she sets it on the stone edge.
“Let’s see,” she says, taking another vial from the testing kit. She fills it with water from the bucket and adds the reagent drops.
Almost immediately, the water begins to change color. What starts as a faint yellow rapidly darkens to orange, then to a deep reddish-orange that’s so vibrant it seems to glow in the vial.
“Noah,” Holly whispers, her voice tight. She holds up the vial next to the reference chart. The color is darker than the darkest shade on the chart.
“Fuck.” I take the vial from her to examine it myself. But there’s no denying what we’re seeing. The water from the bucket contains lead levels so high they’re literally off the chart.
“How can just the deeper water be contaminated?”
A cold feeling settles in my stomach as I look at the bucket with new eyes. “Maybe it’s not the water,” I say slowly. “Maybe it’s the bucket.”
Holly’s eyes widen with understanding. “We need to get this thing checked.”
I reach for it, then hesitate. “If it is contaminated, we shouldn’t touch it directly.”
Holly pulls a small towel from her backpack and hands it to me. I wrap my hand in it before carefully lifting the bucket from the edge of the pool. It’s heavier than it looks, made of some dull metal that could easily be anything.
I turn it over, looking for any markings or identification. On the bottom, barely visible through years of use, is an engraved manufacturer’s name.
The bucket suddenly feels so much heaver that I almost drop it.
“What?” Holly asks, obviously alarmed at the look on my face.
Silently, I tilt the bucket so she can see the manufacturer’s logo and name emblazoned on the bottom side.
Greythorn Industries.