Hereafter s-2

by Kate Brian

  He looked at me and scoffed sadly. “I wish.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the fan tick, tick, tick overhead.

  “What happened to Jessica?” I asked.

  “Jessica,” he said, then looked me in the eye. “Jessica was sent to Oblivion.”

  My hand went to my wrist, clutching my leather bracelet. “But you said there were only two destinations.”

  “There are. For the visitors,” he said quietly. “Oblivion is a very specific, very awful region of the Shadowlands. It’s reserved for Lifers who break the rules.”

  “So…wait a minute,” I said, getting off the stool, my feet hitting the floor with a thud. “If I had left you at the ferry landing yesterday and told my family what was going on, not only would they have gone to the Shadowlands, but I would’ve gone to Oblivion? You didn’t feel the need to share that little factoid with me?”

  “I didn’t have to,” Tristan told me. “I knew you wouldn’t tell them. You love them too much to do that to them.”

  “Is this why you…I mean—” I paused, trying to summon the guts to say what I wanted to say, what I needed to know. “Is this why you backed away from me this morning?” I fumbled out. “Because you think I’ll go bad? Because you don’t trust me?”

  Tristan shook his head and stepped down from his bar stool. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you’re going to go bad. I just…what Jessica did…it killed me. It killed me that I didn’t see it coming. If I hadn’t been so blindly in love with her, I could have stopped it from happening and saved all those people,” he said. “Forget about trusting someone else. For a long time I didn’t trust myself. And I realized somewhere along the line that I was going to have to live with that pain and uncertainty forever.”

  I breathed in and out slowly. For a long moment we just looked at each other, and all I wanted to do was sink into him. To hold him. To wrap my arms around him and tell him that I was different, that I would never hurt him, that I wasn’t Jessica.

  But he didn’t move, and neither did I.

  “This is what’s best, Rory,” Tristan said finally, formally. I looked into his eyes and saw hardness that cracked my heart in two. “It’s what’s best for both of us.”

  Wrong

  So now she knows. Not everything in this magical place is exactly what it seems. Whatever people say about trust and family, there are always secrets. Always half-truths. There’s always more to learn. But now she knows the most important fact, that however idealistic we all make it sound, things can go wrong here. They can go very, very wrong. The question is, will she even realize that it’s already happening? Will she be able to stop it before it’s too late?

  Not if I can help it.

  The mayor

  The next morning, I stood in our kitchen, surrounded by cracked eggs and white powder. After several attempts, the pancake batter I’d made finally started to hold its roundish shape in the hissing pan. I placed another heavy skillet on the next burner and grabbed the matches. Today was going to be a normal day. Just me and my family, eating pancakes and bacon and sipping fresh coffee. No Lifers, no usherings, no insane accusations. Just a normal day. I struck the match, but nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. I was just going for a third try when I saw something move outside the kitchen window. I was so distracted that the flame traveled down the match and burned my fingers.

  “Ow!” The match dropped to the linoleum floor, and I stamped it out under my sneaker. “Great,” I said to myself, sucking on my fingertips. “Burn yourself over a stupid bird.”

  But even as I said it, I saw another flash. Someone darting by the back window, right outside on our deck. Someone wearing a black sweatshirt. My heart hit the floor. Whoever it was had been watching me. Placing the matches silently on the counter, I tiptoed toward the door. The lurker had either sprinted down the steps to the beach or was standing in the blind spot between two windows, not three feet away.

  I held my breath and slowly, shakily, reached for the doorknob.

  “What’re you doing?”

  My hand flew to my heart. Darcy stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the front hall, eyeing me as if I were conducting chemistry experiments on the kitchen table.

  “Making pancakes?” I said dumbly, trying to recover from my moment of panic.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that working out for you?” she asked, padding over to the stove in her bare feet. She took a peek at the pan and wrinkled her nose at the gelatinous glop bubbling in the center of an oil slick.

  “Not very well,” I replied, my shoulders drooping.

  She picked up the pan and threw the whole mess into the sink. I opened the door quickly and glanced outside. Nothing but the marigolds rustling in the ocean breeze.

  “It’s in the genes, I guess,” she said. “Remember when mom tried to make penguin-shaped pancakes?”

  “Of course.” I smiled sadly as I closed the door. I would never forget that day. I was eight, and my mother had almost burned down the house with an oil fire, leaving a huge black stain on the kitchen ceiling, but instead of freaking out, she’d opened all the windows, dumped the pan and the remaining batter in the garbage, and found a coupon for IHOP.

  “I think we polished off three dozen stacks that morning,” Darcy said as she opened a bottle of water.

  “I miss IHOP,” I said with a nostalgic smile, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “The grease, the butter…the regret.”

  Darcy laughed just as a crow landed on our windowsill, cawing at us.

  “That should be our first meal when we get home,” she suggested, rinsing out the pan. “Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N’ Fruity.”

  We locked eyes. “Extra on the fruity,” we said together.

  And we both laughed. It was my mom’s line. Actually, it was my grandfather’s line, but my mom had claimed it as her own. Darcy reached for the pancake mix as tears filled my eyes.

  Don’t cry. Do not cry over IHOP, I told myself, clutching the dish towel. There’s no way to explain that.

  As I watched Darcy move around the kitchen, her graceful movements so much like my mom’s, I wondered what kind of selfless acts Darcy and my dad would need to do to make them Lifers—and how I could help them accomplish those feats. I’d already said good-bye to my mother; I didn’t want to have to say good-bye to them, too. Not if there was anything I could do about it.

  “How about we start over?” Darcy said, pulling some eggs out of the fridge.

  “We?” I asked, happily surprised.

  She shrugged. “I’ve baked for a lot of bake sales. I must’ve learned something. Where’s your measuring cup?” Darcy asked, taking a clean bowl out of the cabinet.

  I reached past her for the ceramic coffee cup I’d been using, and she grabbed my arm, staring down at my leather bracelet. My cheeks burned and I snatched my arm back.

  “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  “Nowhere,” I said automatically. She gave me a “nice try” sort of look, and I sighed, busted. “Krista gave it to me.”

  “She just gave you one. Just like that,” she said skeptically.

  I shrugged one shoulder. Obviously Darcy had noticed, just like I had early on, that Tristan, Joaquin, and their entire crowd all wore these bracelets.

  “So…what? Are you part of their little clique now?” she asked, opening a drawer so violently all the utensils inside came sliding to the front.

  “No! Of course not. She just thought I’d like it,” I improvised. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Uh-huh.” She took out a set of plastic measuring cups and slammed the drawer. “Whatever you say.”

  I swallowed hard, knowing how jealous Darcy must have felt. She was supposed to be the popular, cool girl, not me. If there was one thing she hated, it was being left out. Of anything.

  “Darcy, I—”

  At that moment, my dad came barreling down the stairs. I was about to ask him if he wanted pancakes when he entered the kitchen
, and the question died on my tongue.

  His face was flushed, his eyes wild, his normally neatly combed hair sticking out behind his ears. It was a look I knew well. For a long time, my father’s temper had been beyond short, his ability to be patient nil. Whenever the cable guy was an hour late or they forgot his fries at the drive-through window or he had to wait at the doctor’s for more than fifteen minutes, this was the look he got on his face—like that of a deranged madman.

  “Girls,” he said, half in, half out of the kitchen, “I just came in to tell you I’m driving over to the mainland.”

  “What?” I blurted out, gripping the counter as my legs gave way beneath me.

  “Can I come with you?” Darcy asked at the same time.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “Because we’ve been here for over a week and no one has contacted us,” my father explained, shaking his fist angrily. “Not the FBI, not the U.S. marshals. And I can’t dial out from this damned island. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know what’s going on back home and whether or not Steven Nell is still on the loose.”

  Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. Steven Nell wasn’t still on the loose. He was dead, just like we were, except, according to Tristan, I’d sent him to the Shadowlands. We were completely safe right now. If you considered being dead a state of well-being.

  “Dad, I’m sure everything is fine,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  “No, it’s not! This is not okay!”

  I looked at my father, his eyes alight with hopeful concern. He was just trying to protect us. Just trying to get us home. I loved my dad in that moment. More than I had in a long time. But I could not let him leave this island.

  “Dad, let’s just wait a few days. Maybe by then—”

  But he didn’t listen. He closed the door so hard it shook the windowpanes. I had only made it halfway through the living room when he leaped into the car and gunned it out of the driveway.

  “Dammit,” I said under my breath, reaching back to untie my apron.

  “Where’re you going?” Darcy demanded, throwing a hand up as I ran out the door.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “But what about the pancakes?” she shouted after me.

  “I’m sorry!” I called back.

  Out on the street, I chased after the car. My father took the left toward town at top speed and disappeared up the hill. I ran after him as hard as I could.

  What am I doing? I thought desperately, trying to control my breathing. There’s no way I’m going to catch him.

  But I knew I had to try. His afterlife might depend on it.

  When I emerged at the top of the hill, I saw my father’s car across the park, turning toward the ferry docks. I took a moment, relieved. At least he wasn’t going to the bridge.

  The wind whipped, and from the corner of my eye I saw an odd flash coming from the rotunda windows of the library. My heart thumped. The flash came again. Then again. It was as if someone was sending Morse code, flashing the sunlight back out at the world with a mirror. I squinted but could make out nothing, and suddenly, the blinds fell.

  My dad turned the corner, and I tore myself away from the window. Taking a deep breath, I sprinted across the park, then up the hill to the bluff. In the distance, bobbing over whitecaps, was the ferry. It was still a few minutes out, but once it was docked, my father was going to attempt to board it. I did the only thing I could think to do—I ran up to Tristan’s front door and collapsed against it, pounding on the wooden panels as hard as I could with both hands.

  Tristan threw open the door. He looked angry until he saw me. Then his face softened.

  “Rory, what—”

  “What happens to someone if they try to leave the island?” I demanded, grabbing his arm.

  He turned pale. “What?”

  “My father…he’s on his way…to the ferry,” I said between gasps. “He wants to go back to the mainland to find out what’s going on with Steven Nell.”

  I managed to get the bulk of it out in one breath, then leaned against the wall. The world was starting to go prickly, and I had to bend over to keep from passing out.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me, steadying my shoulder in his strong grip.

  “Yes! But my father—”

  “I’m on it,” he said, turning toward the door on the far side of the foyer. I took a staggering step to go with him, but he placed his hand on my shoulder again. “You should wait out here. The mayor can be sort of…” He paused as I looked up at him through my sweaty bangs. “Just wait here,” he said with an apologetic, grim smile.

  “Okay. Just hurry. Please,” I told him. Then I fell onto an antique bench against one of the front windows, leaning my head back against the cool pane. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was the determination in my father’s face. If Tristan didn’t automatically have an answer for this, then it was not good. I heard a door open and jumped up.

  A tall woman in a cream-colored suit and matching heels strode out of the office, her long, tapered fingers clasped in front of her. Her makeup looked professionally applied, and there wasn’t a single stray hair slipping out from her blond chignon. Diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes, and she wore a strand of pearls around her imperious neck. When she smiled at me, I ran my tongue over my own slightly crooked front teeth.

  “Rory Miller,” she said in a welcoming tone, her hand stretching out in front of her. “It is a distinct pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Um, you, too,” I said, shaking her cool, dry hand with my hot, clammy one. I glanced past her at Tristan. He raised his shoulders, as confused as I was. He’d made it seem like she’d be annoyed by my intrusion, but instead I was a “distinct pleasure”?

  “Tell me…what is your father up to?” she asked, lifting her hand to her chin and tilting her head like a politician listening to a laid-off worker.

  “He’s trying to get off the island,” I told her. “I didn’t know what to do. What’ll happen to him if he—”

  “Interesting, interesting,” she said, narrowing her clear blue eyes. “Well, I don’t want you to worry about that for one more minute,” she said, clasping her hands together again. “I will take care of it.”

  She smiled down at me, then at Tristan, like she was some kind of magician and we were two rapt kindergartners.

  “Okay, but what—”

  Tristan shot me a look that said to stop, so I did, and the mayor turned and strode back into her office. The door closed with a click, and two seconds later I could hear her talking in a low voice. Tristan stepped over to me, watching the door the entire time, as if expecting it to open again.

  “What’s she going to do?” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied. “If the mayor says she’s going to take care of something, it gets taken care of.”

  “But what happens to people when they try to leave the island?” I asked, my heart racing.

  Tristan’s face was a blank. “I’m not sure anyone has ever tried before.”

  A door down the hallway behind Tristan suddenly closed. My heart skipped a beat.

  “What?” Tristan asked, noticing my change in demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

  I walked past him and pushed the door open. In front of me was a wide, modern kitchen with every amenity from a microwave to a stainless-steel oven to a double refrigerator—the complete opposite of our quaint nineteen-fifties throwback. But the important detail was, it was empty. Not a soul was there, and not a dish was out of place.

  “What is it?” Tristan asked again, coming up behind me and pushing the door even wider.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I could have sworn someone was back here. I saw the door move.”

  Tristan glanced around but saw the same thing I did. An empty kitchen.

  “The house is drafty sometimes,” he said. “I’m sure it was just the wind.”

  “Oh,” I replied. “I guess.”

  But as
I turned to go, I heard footsteps overhead, followed by a soft, keening giggle. And just like that I knew: Someone had been watching me. Because on this island, someone always was.

  Brainwashed

  My father never came home. I spent the entire day on the front porch pretending to read on my iPad, but I was really watching the road. Aside from a few bicyclists, a skateboarder, and one happy strolling couple, I saw no one all day. By the time the sun had started to dip behind the gray house across the street, I had about a dozen theories as to what the mayor had meant when she’d said, “I will take care of it,” and none of them were good.

  I looked up at the ceiling of the porch, leaning my head against the hard edge of the back of the swing. From the corner of my eye, I saw that one of the potted marigolds on the porch railing had withered and drooped, its formerly bright yellow bloom gone brown. I sat up fast. I could have sworn that a few hours ago, that flower had been alive and well, its stem curving toward the sun.

  “Hey, Rory!”

  I was so startled I almost jumped.

  Aaron strolled toward me, a large take-out bag swinging by his side. I sat up as he opened the front gate, placing my feet on the porch floor.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to smile.

  “I brought you guys dinner, enough for four.”

  Aaron lifted the bag, which was imprinted with the Crab Shack logo, and smiled back. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the collar turned up, just like the guy he’d chatted up at the bar the other night.

  My heart sank at the reminder of my father. “Thanks. That’s great. But my dad’s not home, so it’ll only be three.”

  “More for me, then,” he said happily, reaching for the front door and holding it open for me. Amazing how the source of such anguish for me was a happy surprise for him.

  “Darcy!” I shouted as the door swung closed. “Aaron’s here.”

  I heard her bed squeak, then her door slam, and she appeared at the top of the stairs. Her hair was all done up and curled around her face, like she was getting ready for prom.