“So you’re just going to leave? And go where?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”
“Also, what about the funeral? You are going to plan one right?”
“Just something simple I guess. How about you? You going to stay here?”
Ron shakes her head. “I doubt it. I’ve given up on the camp too.”
“Given up on your revenge?”
Ron had almost forgotten about that lie she told. “Yeah. It’s not worth it.”
“So what will you do?”
“I don’t know. Find a job or something?”
Giselle laughs. “Yeah, maybe I should do that too. I used to be a journalist you know. It’s why I hated that Iris always read that dumb paper. No fact-checking and many of the articles weren’t even proofread. Just errors everywhere.” She sits up straighter, that determined look she often used to have coming back. “I’ve always wanted to start my own paper.”
“You can do that. Make an even better one than the Normal News.”
She gives a small smile. “That would be great. Do you have any interest in journalism?”
Ron grimaces. “Not really. I’m more of a—”
The phone in her pocket rings and vibrates. She had left it in there all night and forgot to put it on the charger. She pulls out the phone.
It’s the sheriff.
She flips open the phone. “Hello?”
“Ron, hello,” the sheriff says. “Just calling to say Iris’s death was ruled as a natural cause. The M.E. said she died of a heart attack, no evidence foul play.”
“Okay, thanks for telling us.”
“We can release the body to you to have it buried, or if you’d rather it be cremated then, we can send it to a funeral home nearby and send the ashes to you. Save some time since you’d have to send the body over to that town to get it done anyway.”
“Oh, hold on. Let me ask Giselle.”
Ron presses the phone against her chest. “The sheriff says it was a heart attack.”
Giselle frowns but doesn’t say anything.
“She wants to know if you want to have her buried here or get her cremated in the town over and have her ashes sent here.”
Giselle bites her lip. “Cremated.”
Ron nods and moves the phone back to her ear. “Okay, she said cremated.”
“Alrighty then. I’ll have that arranged,” the sheriff replies.
“Ask her how long it’ll take,” Giselle says.
“She wants to know how long it’ll take for her to get the ashes,” Ron says into the phone.
“Hmm,” the sheriff says, “I think three to five days.”
“Three to five days,” Ron says to Giselle, who nods and lays down in bed.
“Anything else I can help you with?” the sheriff asks.
“No, thank you,” Ron says.
The sheriff hangs up. Ron closes the phone. The battery is at half.
She gets up and pulls out the phone charger from the wall. “What do you want for breakfast? Or I suppose lunch, given the time.”
Giselle just pulls the covers up higher. “Nothing.”
“You have to eat something. Let’s go to the diner together.”
“You go. I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll bring you back something. What would you like?”
“I don’t want anything.”
Ron sighs. “Okay, well, I’m going to go get something to eat.”
“Sure.”
Ron goes into the living room and plugs in the charger. She puts the phone on it and then digs through her backpack for the rest of her meager amount of money. She counts it. A little under eleven dollars. That probably won’t be able to buy her much at the diner.
As she puts the money back, she sees the box of Pop-Tarts she bought from the store a couple days earlier. She has only eaten a couple of them, so the box is still pretty full.
She takes the box to the kitchen and pops two in the toaster. As she waits for them, she wonders if Chrys will call or of if she should call Chrys. Granted, they did just see each other yesterday but Ron is feeling antsy, ready to leave this place this very moment.
She understands why Giselle wants to leave. Everything in this house reminds Ron of Iris. Nothing really seems like it could be Giselle’s. It’s hard enough for Ron, who’s only known Iris for a couple days, to be surrounded by it. No wonder Giselle hasn’t left the room yet.
The toaster pops up. Ron transfers the Pop-Tarts to a plate and sits at the table. She eats.
She’s glad, at least, that they ruled Iris’s death as natural so Chrys and Ron won’t have to worry about being on the run as murder suspects too. She’d have to tell Chrys that.
But what confuses Ron the most is Carl. Certainly he saw something, yet he claims he didn’t. And what about Noah? If Noah really is dead, he had to have done something with the body.
Ron finishes eating quickly. She’s still hungry but she’s used to hunger. She washes her plate and puts the box of Pop-Tarts back in her backpack.
Feeling like she has to get out of this house and just do something, she removes the phone from the charger—it only charged 1%—and puts it in her pants pocket.
She goes outside and walks towards Carl’s cabin.
She knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help herself.
She walks through the forest swiftly, making almost no noise. It’s funny how she’s gotten used to it after coming here just a couple times. When she reaches the clearing, she peeks in, still mostly in the forest.
Carl’s motorcycle isn’t there.
She creeps in and peeks in the window. The futon is still there but all the sheets have been stripped off. The once-messy room is now spotless—no clothes on the ground, no dirty dishes hanging around.
Ron goes around the side of the cabin and peeks in the basement window.
Most of the shelves are empty. The mattress is still on the floor, but the sheet is gone and there’s no body. The table, folding chair and laptop are all gone.
Ron gets out of there, going back to the diagonal road. As she walks back to the store, she passes a couple people, so she keeps walking past the store, until she gets to the town entrance.
No one is here.
She pulls the phone out from her pocket and dials Chrys.
After a couple rings, Chrys answers in a sleepy voice, “Ron?”
“Chrys,” Ron says, talking low despite no one being around. “Carl skipped town.”
Chrys breathes out, static in Ron’s ear. “He’s been in my dreams.”
“He must still be close by then, maybe in the forest. I doubt it can reach very far.”
“It can reach extremely far, actually. He could be anywhere.”
“That’s not good.”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. How is… Giselle?”
“Do you know what happened Chrys?”
Silence.
“Iris is dead,” Ron says.
“I know,” Chrys says in a small voice.
“The sheriff said it’s death by natural causes, saying she died from a heart attack.”
“Ah…”
“Look, I don’t wanna sound accusing or anything, but it kinda seems like you and Hunter—”
“Yes.”
Ron’s shoulders slump. She suspected it was true, but really hoped it wasn’t. “So you did do it?”
“It was an accident,” Chrys says, her voice breaking. “I would never—”
“I know.”
The two of them are silent for a while. It’s difficult for Ron to hear Chrys like that. Chrys is usually a rock, unreadable. But Chrys is also extremely fragile. People who hide their emotions usually are. Ron wishes she could have been there for her after the accident. She wishes she could
be there with her now.
“When do you think you’ll be done?” Ron asks.
“I’ll do the task today.”
“Do you think you’ll finish it today?”
Chrys sighs again, loud static. “It’s something that can be done in a couple minutes, but whether I’ll actually be able to get through it or not…”
Ron nods. “Get through it. I wanna get outta here asap.”
Chrys chuckles. “As you wish.”
“I’m serious. Carl is god-knows-where. Giselle is talking about leaving soon too and I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Yeah, me too.” She pauses for a moment. “How about this? You and I leave tomorrow afternoon, 24 hours from now.”
“Are you sure? What if you don’t finish the task?”
“Hunter told me about the task. He’s tried to do it too before. He says it’s the kind of thing that you have to do the first time, or else you’ll never be able to do it. So, the way I see it, if I can’t do it then I might as well leave anyway, because I’ll never succeed at it. Am I making any sense? I feel like I’m spouting nonsense.”
“You’re fine. I got it. Regardless of how things turn out, I’ll be waiting for you.” Ron pulls the phone away from her ear to check the time. “I’ll be at the town entrance tomorrow at 1:13. You better be here too.”
“Of course. It’s a promise.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Ron closes the phone and holds it at her side as she looks out at the forest across from here.
Twenty-four hours left in Bluewater.
Chapter 36
I wake up, heart pounding.
I’m alive.
I look around the cabin. It’s still empty. I look at my watch. Only fifteen minutes or so passed since I fell asleep.
Groggy, I climb down the ladder.
I touch my pocket, feeling that the phone is still in there. The board game is still on the rug. We really should clean that up. I doubt we’ll ever get the chance to finish it.
Walking around it, I leave the cabin and walk around the field. A lot of kids are out there, playing something. None of them even notice me, or if they do, they don’t care.
I wonder why I didn’t die. I’m kind of glad I didn’t but it doesn’t make any sense. How exactly does that gift work? It can make things that happen in a dream real, but not everything, it seems. Otherwise, I should have at least woken up with a metal band fastened to my head and a cord in my skull. But, I didn’t.
Maybe he has to specify what he wants to come true. The entries I read so far from Madeline Taylor only talked about dream manipulation but not about making dreams a reality. Maybe she talks about that later on.
I enter the Main House and go into the computer room.
Thank goodness it’s empty. I sit down at one and go back to the Madeline Taylor website.
I do a search for making dreams come true and it spits out hundreds of results. I open the first one and start reading, but I find myself reading the same sentence over and over, and the words on the screen blur together.
And then, I suddenly wake up to my phone ringing. My face had been on the keyboard. When did I fall asleep?
I rub my temple with one hand and pull out the phone with the other. It’s Ron.
I talk to her, barely aware of what I’m saying, hoping I’m making sense to her. All I really remember is promising to leave with her in twenty-four hours.
And the task. I have to get it done today, no more pushing it off.
Maybe now, while my brain is foggy, I’ll be able to get through it and barely even notice what’s going on. I can’t concentrate on reading anyway.
I shut down the computer. Where would Shikoba be right now? They’re still serving brunch now so, he could be eating. Or he could be in here somewhere.
Since I’m already in the Main House, I decide to check around here first.
I leave the computer room and look in the infirmary. Someone is sleeping in one of the beds there but it looks like a kid. I close the door and then look in the classrooms by the computer room. Empty.
I knock on Li’s office door and the little lounge next to it but no answer.
Could he be upstairs?
I walk up the spiral staircase and go to the door with his and June’s names on it. I knock a couple times.
After a bit, Shikoba opens the door. He has his silver hair tied back as usual and is in a white polo shirt and dark blue jeans.
“Chrys, I was wondering when you’d come,” he says. “Li told me you’re ready for your third task.”
“Yeah,” I say, stifling a yawn. “I’m ready.”
“Come in,” he says, moving into the room.
I close the door behind me. The room’s walls are covered with many drawings taped up—some childish and some amazingly good. There are drawings of people in the camp, animals, and trees. A wide dresser with a square mirror hanging above it also holds photos in tiny frames which I can’t really make out from here. There’s a queen-sized bed below a window, and in it a woman with long black hair and streaks of gray in it pooling on her pillow sleeps, the thin white sheet draped over her up to her shoulders.
Shikoba leads me to the mini lounge next to the bed. Two armchairs are facing each other with a small round table between them.
He sits in one of the chairs, gesturing for me to do the same.
I sit down and then look over at the sleeping woman and say in a low voice, “Won’t we disturb her?”
Shikoba shakes his head and says at his normal volume, “No, June can’t be disturbed. Nothing wakes her up. Anyway, let me tell you about the task. I will induce one of your memories and you will relive it. Now, you don’t have to worry. This is entirely private. I can’t see the memory like you do. I just get impressions of it, enough to know when to end it.”
“What kind of impressions?”
He shrugs. “It’s different for everyone. Sometimes I see a face, or a color, or feel an emotion, or smell a scent. It varies.”
“How do you know which memory to make me relive then?”
“I don’t know—not exactly. But I can sense that you’ve forgotten things—repressed is a better word I suppose—and I can bring one of those things back to the surface of your mind, the one buried the deepest.”
“So you don’t know what you’ll be making me remember?”
“Yes, I don’t know. I understand it can be very difficult to live through it again so if you want to stop at any moment, just say, ‘Take me out,’ and I will. I’ll make it forgotten again.”
“And if I get through it? Can you still make it forgotten?”
He chuckles. “No, Chrys. Don’t you see? That’s the whole point of this. To regain something lost.”
My mind is starting to clear up and I’m feeling very sober, the exhaustion fading away. This isn’t what I hoped for. I should start soon, before I become too clear-headed.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m ready to start.”
He nods. “Close your eyes and lean back in the chair. Get comfortable.”
I do as he says. The chair is plush and feels even better than the thin mattress in the cabin. I could fall asleep right now.
And for a moment, I think that I did fall asleep and now I’m dreaming because I’m no longer in Shikoba’s room or aware of the comfy chair.
Instead, I’m sitting on a hard bed in a stark white room with no windows. My hands are heavy, bound up in a thick layer of bandages.
No. I can’t be dreaming. I never dream of this. I never even think of this.
Something forgotten, yet I remember it so clearly. I remember exactly what’s about to happen, and I already want to get out of here.
The small window on the bottom of the door opens and a tray
slides in. On it is a meal replacement shake.
I don’t have to look over to know that. One has been sliding in multiple times a day. I ignore it and continue sitting on the bed, staring off into the distance.
Hunger used to gnaw at my stomach, but not anymore. The hunger went away weeks ago. Now, I just feel a constant nausea and light-headedness. I barely have the energy to stand, but I don’t want to anyway.
Sitting up in bed is my exercise for the day.
Trembling from the coldness in my body, I crawl back under the covers and close my eyes, desperate for sleep. But I haven’t been able to sleep much for days, and no matter how much I cover myself, the chills never go away.
“Alicia,” that man’s voice says from the speaker overhead. It’s so harsh and loud as it reverberates around the room.
My head already aches from it.
“Alicia,” he says again. “Please drink the shake.”
I shut my eyes tighter, willing him to shut up and go away. I want to yell and scream at him, but I don’t even have the energy to whisper. All I can manage are thoughts.
It’s your fault. It’s your fault I’m like this.
This memory. It’s too real. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to hear his voice or feel the tight lumps my hands have become or see what’s coming next.
Why is this my most painful memory? It’s not even that bad, if I really think about it. No one even dies. Yet, I can’t stand to see it.
Somewhere, I’m aware of my real body in a plush chair, my hands gripping the armrests tightly.
“Alicia,” the man’s voice booms, bringing me back to the memory. “You’re going to die. Is that what you want?”
Yes. Of course that’s what I want.
“You don’t want to die like this, Alicia. It’s slow and painful.”
Every time he says my name I clench my jaw.
“I won’t let you die, Alicia.”
Why must he say my name so much? I hate that name. It’s not mine. It was my mother’s.
How long have I been in here, in this room? I haven’t seen myself in years, but the bed which used to feel gigantic, at some point started to feel tiny. I must not be a kid anymore, but when did that happen?
“Alicia, you can end this,” he says. “We don’t want to keep you here either. We believe you’re a good person, so all you have to do is show us you’re in control and we’ll let you go.”
Gift of Death (Gifted Book 1) Page 23
