Copyright © 2013 by R.R. Russell
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration by Ian Schoenherr
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Bang Printing, Brainerd, Minnesota, USA
Date of Production: March 2013
Run Number: 19902
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
April
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
May
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
June
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
November
Chapter 29
February
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
March
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For my daughter. You’re a fighter, Lahna.
April
Chapter 1
Keely turned off the ignition and pointed at the haunted island. “Well, Twig,” she said, “there it is.”
Mist swirled around the island in circles of warning. Spirals of rain and wind and secrets seemed to say, If you come, Twig, we will break you on our rocks like the waves. No one had lived on Lonehorn Island in recent memory, until the Murleys—and now a bunch of unwanted girls. Soon Twig would join them.
The wind whooshed from the island to shore and beat at the car windows with new fistfuls of rain. We are the Island. Leave us alone, Twig, or we will snap you.
Well, Keely would certainly get her way then. Keely said Twig’s name as if she wished Twig would snap in two. Twig had liked her name, back when Daddy called her Twig as though he were certain one day she’d sprout leaves of pure gold. Now Daddy said her name like she was already broken. Now Daddy wasn’t there, and Twig wouldn’t be around when he came home.
A small, bright blue boat pulled up to the dock in front of the parking lot. A man in worn jeans and a dark green raincoat climbed out and tossed a line onto the dock. He paused to wave before tying down, and Keely smiled stiffly and waved back.
Then Keely looked at Twig, her resolve visibly softening. “Maybe I should come with you. The Murleys said it would be all right.”
Twig shook her head firmly.
“Okay.” The edge returned to Keely’s voice. “Let’s go meet Mr. Murley. Looks like he’s got one of the other girls with him. Maybe you two can get to know each other on the way. Make friends.” You’d better, Twig, her tone said. You’ll be there for a long, long time.
Twig glared at the boat, at the small face pressed up against the window of the cabin. She got out and gave her car door a good slam. The rain lightened into fine, misty drops.
Twig ought to have been glad to get out of the car. The three-hour drive north along the Washington coast to Cedar Harbor had been cold and dark and quiet. But thinking about Lonehorn Island made her want to jump right back in the car and beg her stepmother to take her home.
The little island in the distance was one of many scattered off the rocky coast beyond Cedar Harbor, but it was the only haunted one.
Chapter 2
Put your hood up, Twig.” There was a new tremble in Keely’s voice as she pulled her own hood on tight.
Normally, Twig would’ve left her hood off just because Keely had told her to put it on. Left her head out so the rain could turn her long blond tangles dark with the wet. But Lonehorn Island made her shiver, so she pulled on the hood of her new, too expensive, all-weather jacket.
Keely had bought Twig new clothes too. “Good, sturdy farm clothes” she’d insisted Twig would need, and she’d stuffed the biggest suitcase Twig had ever seen full with them. Further evidence that Keely intended to be rid of her for good.
This morning Twig had ignored the new outfit her stepmom had chosen for her and dressed in her usual: a pair of boy’s jeans from the Goodwill that had never fit her right; a T-shirt of Mom’s that hung to her knees, and whose peeling logo had once read “Tipperary Tavern”; the canvas shoes that only still fit because the toes had split open.
Twig zipped the zipper all the way up so that the jacket covered her mouth. She Velcroed a strip that tightened the fit. She was a turtle, eyes and nose poking out, the rest of her hidden. Her skinny, useless hands found the pockets, and they were warm. It wasn’t so bad, this shell, even if it was bright red.
Keely struggled to pull the suitcase out of the trunk. Twig made no move to help; it wasn’t her suitcase. Everything that was really hers was in the mini-backpack under her jacket, inside her shell like the rest of her, safe from everything cold and spitting and whipping around her.
Mr. Murley’s work boots slap-thumped on the wet dock. He wasn’t what Twig had expected a rich guy whose uncle had left him an entire island to be like. His jeans had a clean but rumpled look. The wind whooshed his hood off his gray-brown hair, and he left it down so that they could see his smile.
“Hold on there!” he called. “I’ll give you a hand with that!”
“That’s all right!” Keely slammed the suitcase against the trunk several times before jerking it out and dropping it to the concrete.
She caught the handle in time to make sure it landed upright, on its wheels, but not in time to keep it from splashing into a puddle and spattering her pressed jeans. She fought with the handle until it extended, and she bump-jerked it to the dock behind her. Mr. Murley hurried to tie off the boat and come to their assistance, but Keely was quick and determined—determined to get rid of Twig.
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Tupper,” Mr. Murley said. Keely had come last week, without Twig, to check the place out. “And you must be Twig.” Mr. Murley held out his hand.
Twig looked at it, then back at her soppy socks sticking out of her shoe holes. Her stomach lurched. Mr. Murley squeezed her shoulder instead.
“Mrs. Tupper, you’re welcome to come al
ong to help Twig get settled in.”
Twig looked up. “No,” she said sharply.
Keely jumped. Twig hadn’t said a word in three days. Not that she talked much at all since Daddy had left. Twig grabbed the suitcase handle, not because it was hers, but because it was what was keeping them standing here, on the dock, instead of driving away in the boat—away from all hope of escape and all risk of breaking down and begging Keely to change her mind. Keely didn’t want her; Twig didn’t fit in Daddy’s new family, and that was that.
Mr. Murley let Twig drag the suitcase over to the boat, but he picked it up when she stopped at the edge of the dock and stared down into the gap of black water that wanted to swallow her up. It was protecting the island, protecting its secrets, just like the mist that was the island’s shell. The island wanted to be left alone. Twig’s held-back shudder escaped. She knew how the island felt. I’m sorry, she said to the island, to its ghosts. I have no choice.
The rain thickened. The wind tore at her hood.
“I’ll stay the night here in town.” Keely nodded at Cedar Harbor behind her. “I’ll be right here.”
“I’ll come get you in the morning.” Mr. Murley hefted the suitcase into the boat. “Like we talked about. And bring you to the island so you can see how Twig’s doing before you head home.”
Mr. Murley regarded the enormous suitcase, then the little cabin door. It would be impossible to cram it through. He pushed it to the back of the boat instead and wrapped a tarp around it.
Keely squeezed Twig tight before she could duck away. “If you change your mind,” she whispered quickly, “in the morning, I’ll take you back home.”
Twig twisted out of Keely’s arms. Keely sniffed and pulled a tissue from her pocket. The rain got it thoroughly soggy before it even made it to her nose.
“Good-bye, sweetie!”
The boat rocked a little when Twig stepped in, but Mr. Murley caught her arm.
Inside the cabin, a girl a few years younger than Twig sat on a long vinyl bench. She scooted over meaningfully.
“This is Casey. She’s so excited to meet you. You’ll be rooming together.”
Mr. Murley looked at Casey in an expectant but gentle way. Casey emitted a meek, “Hi.”
“Casey’s been with us a few weeks now.”
That was all Mr. Murley said about that, but Twig understood. She’s coming along. Soon she’ll be shaking hands and smiling like the Daffodil Princess in the Puyallup parade. Soon you will too, Twig.
No, Mr. Murley, Twig could’ve said if she were inclined to speak her mind these days. I won’t. That haunted island will swallow me up first. It wants to swallow all of you too.
Casey’s eyes were big and brown and sad. She looked clean, but she smelled like pony poo. Island Ranch was a pony farm—every little girl’s dream.
Mr. Murley started up the engine. Casey looked out the window at the parking lot and dutifully returned Keely’s wave, but Twig didn’t bother. Casey wiggled closer to her, and Twig wanted to shrink back, but her backpack was in the way.
“I’m eight,” Casey whispered. When Twig didn’t comment, she said reverently, “Mrs. Murley said you’re twelve.” Casey was quiet for a minute. Then, “We each get our own pony. Did you know that?”
She paused again, waiting for Twig to respond.
“They’re all Welsh ponies,” Casey continued slowly, bravely. “I think they’re prettier than Shetlands. My pony’s name is Bedtime Story, but I call her Story. I know how to take care of her all on my own now. You’ll have Rain Cloud.”
How fitting. Through the rain-streaked window, Twig glanced at the island again, or tried to. It was wrapping its mist around the boat, tighter and tighter. The island was nothing but a blur of thicker mist with a few black gaps in between.
Mr. Murley said, “Don’t worry about this weather, Twig. Blue Molly here can handle it just fine.” She must not have looked very convinced, for he added, “It looks worse than it is.”
Sometimes Keely took Twig and her stepsister, Emily, and stepbrother, Corey, to Steilacoom to walk along the beach and watch the ferry going back and forth to McNeil Island—the prison island. It was the first thing that had come out of Emily’s mouth when Keely had told her and Corey about sending Twig to Island Ranch—“Like McNeil Island?”
Emily had been horrified. Even Emily, who was so sure Twig was guilty, didn’t think Twig deserved to be imprisoned on an island. Keely had been quick to point out the ridiculousness of comparing a maximum-security prison facility to the pretty little pony farm.
Keely hadn’t mentioned the ghosts. No one had.
The Murleys had just moved to the island and opened their ranch for troubled girls a couple of months ago, though it had been under construction for several years. They’d been foster parents for forever. They were certified counselors, and the ranch was a registered private school. They had all the right credentials, Keely had assured Twig.
Twig didn’t care whether the Murleys were capable of fixing her. She was plenty worried about how they’d try to do it, but she was more worried about the stories she’d found online. Had the Murleys heard those stories? Stories about the island, that had made Twig shudder, even in a stuffy, overheated apartment?
Chapter 3
Lonehorn Island’s jagged shore reached for Blue Molly. Mr. Murley slowed the little boat down, and Twig cringed in anticipation of a rough meeting with the menacing black rock, but Mr. Murley began a wide turn. They skirted a point of cliffside, and there, sheltered on both ends by jutting rock formations about thirty feet high, was a sandy cove.
“Here we are—the lee of the island, our shelter in the storm.”
Fine sand and a sturdy dock built onto the beach quieted Twig’s fears, at least about never making it ashore. But the freshly built dock reminded her that this island wasn’t accustomed to human inhabitants—at least not living ones.
Mr. Murley secured the boat and helped the girls out, then heaved out the suitcase.
A neat little boardwalk made its way from the dock to one side of the cove, along its edge, where soft sand met hard rock. Casey picked her way up the beach in a careful, wary way.
In front of her, Mr. Murley navigated the path with the suitcase. “It’s a bit of a climb,” he said between labored breaths. “We’ve got a freight dock on the other end of the island, where it’s flatter, and an access road. But this beach is much closer, a straight shot to Cedar Harbor, so I keep Blue Molly docked here.” He looked over his shoulder with a grin. “If I’d known about this,” he said, nodding at the suitcase, “I would’ve left the truck on the other side and taken Blue Molly the long way around. I’ll bet we could fit you and Casey in here.”
Twig almost smiled. The suitcase was ridiculous, and poor Mr. Murley had to lug it she had no idea how far. She glanced ahead, at the top of the rocky incline above the beach. Small red-barked trees with twisting branches clung to the rocks. But beyond them was the evergreen wood. The path would take them into the thick of that wood, into the misty, shadowy heart of the island.
Behind Twig was the crushing of the waves. Beyond the water was Keely, waiting to go home, to the home that could never be one for Twig. A past with ghosts she knew all too well, that were all too real. Ahead was Island Ranch, whose ghosts were rumor and wisp. Maybe she’d dare to hope that they weren’t real, that this really could be a beginning.
“The truck’s just up this way,” Mr. Murley said. “It’s not far.”
They’d reached the top of the rocks, overlooking the beach. Mr. Murley’s smile was warm, but he glanced at the trees with a trace of uneasiness. He held out a strong hand for Casey and she took it. Twig quickened her step.
Casey stopped suddenly and pointed to the sky. “Mr. Murley! Your bird!”
Mr. Murley let go of the suitcase handle and fumbled in his pocket. Twig searched the sky but saw only
drizzle.
Mr. Murley aimed his phone upward, then jerked it toward the trees. “Got it! I think this is my best one yet.”
He showed the picture to the girls. It was little more than a bright green blur of wings, disappearing into the darker evergreens, but Casey said, “Oh! Taylor’s gonna like that one.”
“We have a mystery bird here on the island,” Mr. Murley explained. “It’s become a hobby of mine, trying to spot it. And I seem to have sucked one of our girls, Taylor, into it too. She’s determined to identify it for me.”
The boardwalk gave way to a gravel path that wound through thickening woods. Just a couple of turns along that path, and the only reminders of the openness of the water were the mist and the lichen floating from the branches like ghost hair.
Something shifted in the trees, a shadow within the shadows.
A deer? No, Twig knew the movement of a deer. At the old house in McKenna, whenever Mom’s friends came over, Twig would skid down the ravine beyond the broken-down cars, away from the laughter that grated her ears. The river’s reassuring song, washing everything else away, would sometimes be interrupted by the soft-snap footsteps of a fawn and doe. They’d look at her with their big brown eyes like Casey’s, then go on working their way through the riverbed, accepting Twig as part of the woods.
The island’s woods were different—denser, darker, deeper, powerful, and alone. Black-green evergreens wrapping themselves in shadow. And this movement was different too. Careful like a deer, but much bigger and paler—ghost-white.
Twig realized she’d stopped walking, that Mr. Murley and Casey were slipping out of view. Mr. Murley must not have noticed her absence, with the grinding and thunking of the bulky suitcase on the mud and gravel path.
There was a distinctive thump from the woods just behind Twig, and she froze.
A large white animal was barely visible through the tangle of early spring bramble, through the softening and shifting haze of the morning mist. A horse. The thump must have been its rider dismounting. It had to be Mrs. Murley or one of the other girls. But the chill creeping along Twig’s spine, under her shell, told her otherwise.
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