“But?” she asks when Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t continue.
“You’re friends with the Pearson boy, aren’t you?”
Rachel shrugs, muttering, “Meh.”
“Well, are you up for a recon mission?” she asks. Rachel sits quietly, then nods. Mrs. Crenshaw scoots to the edge of her seat, leans forward, and says in a conspirator’s whisper, “Only a few people have access to the town council’s archive—a couple of Shadow Grove’s founding families. If you want to get more information about what’s happening—unedited history that’s been redacted from public record—you could ask Greg to take you there. It may save some time with your research; it may even have some information your father couldn’t get his hands on.”
Rachel averts her eyes to the carpet, fumbling with her hands. She wonders if her mother is capable of senseless violence now that she’s developed a Hyde-personality. The absolutely that pops into her head, answering her unasked question, doesn’t sit well with her. Infiltrating the Pearson house and using Greg to gain access to an archive Rachel hadn’t known existed until now is Mrs. Crenshaw’s way of pushing her in the right direction, helping her come to the bottom of the mysteries plaguing Shadow Grove. If Rachel’s assumptions are correct, the archive could contain knowledge to help her mother return to a semblance of her old self and may even shed some light on the Night Weaver’s location. The problem, she realizes, is that Greg isn’t stupid enough to fall for pretty lies or hollow threats. They’re far too similar and much too competitive not to recognize each other’s usual tricks.
“While you’re in the Pearson household, you should also check to see if Iris is behaving oddly,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, interrupting Rachel’s thoughts.
She needs a solid plan if she wants to convince Greg—a plan so simple he wouldn’t expect her of anything untoward. If she goes to him and starts making demands, he’d never allow her into the archive.
Rachel grins as an idea takes shape in her mind. “It won’t hurt to try, right? Not if it’s for the greater good.” She stands, ready to follow the new lead to the end. “Let’s see if I’m lucky enough to pull this off. Do you have any other hints or tips?”
“Keep that umbrella of yours within reach,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, her tone conveying a serious, secretive advisement rather than a general suggestion. “It may rain later on.”
Rachel frowns, purses her lips, and nods. “Noted. Anything else?”
Mrs. Crenshaw makes a show of thinking as she reclines in her armchair. “Nothing comes to mind right now, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Eight
The Grim Realities Of Growing Up
Pearson Manor, the biggest colonial-styled residence in Shadow Grove’s wealthiest suburban neighborhood, possesses an almost aristocratic quality due to its Georgian-inspired architecture. The Palladian grandeur with minor Baroque influences, better suited for the British countryside than a nowhere town in Maine, is further emphasized by a long gravel road, which is flanked by extravagant topiaries and well-kempt lawns with striking, sprawling gardens. It ends in a moderately-sized circular drive, surrounded by flowerbeds in full bloom.
As Rachel makes her way to the front of the house, where columns are topped with a decorative pediment, she repositions the rolled-up map under her arm and pushes her free hand through her loosely curled hair. Taking her time to cross the distance, she smooths down her cropped denim jacket and straightens her short, white sundress, which flaps carelessly in the slight breeze. The large black door with the brass knocker centered at eye-level comes into full view. The point of no return looms. With a deep breath, Rachel reaches out and uses the knocker to alert the Pearson family of her unannounced arrival.
She waits a while before trying again. Three knocks in quick succession.
A few agonizing moments pass before the door unlocks and is opened wide. Greg wears a startled expression. A small part of her revels in catching him off his guard. He’s as dressed up as ever—faded jeans, a button-up shirt, blazer rolled up to his elbows, and hair perfectly coiffed. Another part of her dreads having to go through with the deceit.
“Did you get my texts?” He runs his gaze over the length of her body.
“What texts?” she asks, genuinely surprised by the question.
Greg composes himself and suspicion takes over. He folds his arms and leans with his shoulder against the entranceway. “Your mother came looking for you here yesterday after you disappeared with that foreign guy. She asked me to send you a text, so I did.”
She remembers the text messages from the unrecognizable number. “That was you?”
Greg nods, dipping his eyes ever so faintly to look at her long, bare legs.
“Also, why would my mom come looking for me here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he says. His stormy gray eyes return to hers.
“That only explains the first text, though.”
“If something happens to you, I’d have no academic competition whatsoever. Can you imagine how boring school would be if I was pretty much guaranteed the valedictorian title?” Greg says. “By the way, your mom’s in the pool house with the rest of the mom club.”
Rachel tilts her head and says, “What?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” The frustration obvious in his tone and the exhaustion is clear in his face. “There’s a congregation of moms in the pool house,” he says slowly, almost patronizingly. “Your mom is with them.”
“Why?”
Greg shrugs. “They’ve been coming over here for months, sometimes more than once a day. Anyway, if you’re not here about the texts or about your mom, then why are you here at all?”
Rachel glances at the edge of the rolled-up map protruding from underneath her arm. “Can I come in?” she asks, not wanting to tell him the half-truths while they are out in the open.
He sighs loudly, pushes away from the doorway, and steps aside to grant her access into the large house with its mezzanine foyer and oblong windows. A crystal chandelier hangs from the double-high ceiling, illuminating the entrance hall. Turn-of-the-century furniture is accented with expensive vases, tasteful paintings, and framed photographs. Rachel walks over to the traditional console table standing against the wall and studies the large photograph of the Pearson family. Mr. and Mrs. Pearson are both smiling happily, wearing casual beachwear, while Greg and his brother are making goofy faces at the camera. Greg was maybe nine or ten when the picture was taken, and his fraternal twin brother—Luke—was still alive.
“Are you done snooping or would you next like to see Luke’s room?” Greg asks in a deadpan voice. “It’s exactly the way he left it, you know? A holy shrine my mother can’t bring herself to dismantle.”
Rachel turns to look at him, wide-eyed and heart panging with sorrow. Once upon a time, the three of them had been inseparable. Luke was the more daring, sociable twin, who pushed Rachel and Greg to their limits. Greg, sensible and cautious, used to be the voice of reason.
She remembers the summer the three of them visited the Pearson horse ranch, up in Winterville. They couldn’t have been older than eleven at the time, and although Mrs. Pearson was well aware what type of trouble they often got themselves into in Shadow Grove, she never expected them to “borrow” horses and go on a joyride through the mountains. Rachel vividly recalls how Luke had pushed them to go farther and farther, away from any civilization in the sparsely populated town, while Greg had tried to get them to turn around.
Luke had gotten them well and truly lost in the wilderness that day.
When they had reached a brook near the foot of The Pinnacle, Luke hadn’t hesitated to strip down to his underwear and jump in. Greg had been wary. It’d taken a lot of goading, some chicken clucking, and calling him a scaredy cat before he joined them in the bubbling brook. Splashing away, trying to catch fish with their hands, and sunning on a nearby rock. They had played for hours in the water while the sun moved across the sky.
When night
drew closer, Greg had begun to worry about bears, mountain lions, murderers, and hypothermia. Typical Greg stuff.
Luke, the boy with the devil-may-care attitude, had said, “Well, it won’t be a worthy adventure if there isn’t some danger, Greg.” He’d pulled out a lighter from his back pocket and flicked it until a flame had danced in front of his face, and the grin he’d been wearing grew larger. “Let there be light.”
Greg had become infuriated with his brother’s chilled outlook on life, and they had argued long and hard while the three of them had built a fire. Eventually, they had lain under the stars, talking about unimportant things, feeling invincible and free for the first time in their lives, until they’d fallen asleep side-by-side-by-side.
Luke had been the lynchpin that kept them together, the mastermind of all their escapades. So, when he died the year before they headed to high school, from meningitis of all things, Greg had withdrawn into himself. He didn’t want anything to do with anybody in a social setting, least of all Rachel. She suspects it’s because she reminds Greg of the brother he’s lost, the antics they once had and the ones Luke will never be part of, but she can’t be certain.
Then, during their sophomore year, Greg flourished into an ambitious social-climber and seemed to join every club Rachel belonged to—from the debate team to the track team—just to try and beat her at whatever she excelled at. It still boggles her mind trying to fathom what his motivations were for turning into such a prick toward her.
Against her better judgment, forgetting about the intricacies of her plan to persuade him to sneak her into the town council’s archive, Rachel steps closer and raises her free hand to press her palm against his cheek. He doesn’t recoil or look angry at the invasion of space. Instead, Greg closes his eyes and leans into her touch.
“I miss Luke, too,” she says in earnest, stepping a bit closer. “He was my best friend.”
Rachel drops the map to the floor. The hollow thump as it lands on the polished wooden floors is succeeded by the sound of subdued rolling. She raises her arm to wrap around Greg’s neck, wincing from the pain persisting in her shoulder. Greg wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her tightly against him, resting his chin on her crown. The herbal smell of his cologne invades her nose as she rests her head against his shoulder. She tries not to let her emotions get the upper hand as her mind wanders to the what if’s. How different would things have been if they had mourned Luke together?
They stand there for what feels like forever, holding on to one another for dear life.
“Before this gets any more awkward than it already is, you should either feel me up or let me go,” Rachel eventually whispers to lighten the mood.
Greg’s real laugh, not the diplomatic chuckle he employs in public, comes out as a breathy snigger. He releases her slowly and she puts some space between them. Rachel rolls her shoulder a few times to loosen up the bruised muscles, scowling from the obdurate pain.
“You okay?” he asks, studying her.
“Yeah, it’s a battle bruise I picked up yesterday,” she says, gradually lowering her arm. “That actually brings me to why I’m here.” Rachel bends to retrieve the map. “Is the dining room free for us to use?”
“My mom is redecorating a few rooms in the house, the dining room and office being amongst them, so we’ll have to use the desk in my study. Unless—” He pushes his hand through his hair, the indecisiveness obvious. “The kitchen is free if the idea of being alone with me in my apartment doesn’t appeal to you.”
“Should I be concerned about being alone with you in any type of setting?”
“No.”
“So, what’s the issue?”
Greg grimaces, shakes his head, and walks through the foyer. He turns into a long corridor, which branches off to the guest toilet and a storage closet and ends in an adjoining bachelor apartment.
Rachel walks into the apartment’s open-plan living room where a black leather sofa is situated in front of the mounted flat-screen TV. Beneath the TV, game consoles are displayed in the chrome and glass entertainment unit. Rows of games line the open drawer, categorized by genre and alphabetized by title. A granite kitchen island separates the living room from the kitchenette, where two barstools are stationed. Through a narrow hallway that leads out of the living room, three doors stand open. Two, she knows, are bedrooms, and the other is a full bathroom.
“When did you move in here?”
“A few years ago,” Greg says, opening one of the kitchen cupboards. “Do you want something to drink?”
“It depends on how good your coffee-making skills are,” she says, walking over to the kitchen island and setting the map on the cold surface.
Greg looks over his shoulder and blindly takes out a glass mug. “I convinced my mom it was time for her to get a new coffee machine, so I liberated the old one.”
“In that case, I’ll have a coffee, please.” Rachel leans on the island and looks around the kitchenette. All the necessary appliances are present—fridge, stove, microwave, coffee pot. “No dishwasher?” she asks.
“I come from money, but I don’t rely on it as heavily as people think,” he says, hauling over a Tupperware container. “Choose your poison,” he instructs and walks back to the fridge.
Rachel opens the container, which is filled with coffee capsules, and pokes around to find a flavor. She chooses the caramel latte flavor and sets the capsules on the granite island.
“The second text was because I worried you’d gotten hurt in the forest. I wasn’t serious the other night about you going in there; you just rubbed me the wrong way.”
Rachel finds Greg staring down at her, soda in hand. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t advise anyone else to go in there. Dougal and I were almost killed.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, picking up the capsules from the counter. He heads back to the coffee machine, which whirs to life as the water percolates and gathers. “Did you find anything? Maybe some trace of the missing kids?”
Rachel pushes the container aside and pulls the elastic band off the map she’d brought along. She spreads the paper across the island and uses the container to hold down one end. As Greg returns to her side, Rachel points out the approximate distance of their travels the previous day. “We didn’t even go in a third of the way,” she says. “We also didn’t find any clues relating to the kids, but they’re in there. I’m sure.”
He exhales through his nose. “Do you want me to rally the troops and send them to their deaths?”
“No, but I do need your help.”
“I’m not Luke, Rachel,” he says in a firm tone, pointing at the forest on the map. “That place scares me senseless for reasons I can’t explain. Only a fool would go in there thinking they’ll come out alive.”
“I’m not a fool and I’m not asking you to go in there,” she says, mimicking his tone. “Leave the actual rescuing to me and Dougal. We will retrieve the kids from the forest when the time comes, but we can’t make any rescue attempts until we have enough information. That’s why I’m here. I need your help with the research.”
“What research?”
Rachel tells him the facts she’s gathered during her independent investigation, omitting anything remotely unbelievable so he won’t laugh her off. The others may have mentioned some type of bogeyman stalking the town, but there’s no knowing if he would accept it as truth. She answers his questions as they come up, nothing too intrusive but important nonetheless, like how she knows this unpleasant history of Shadow Grove is cyclical and from where she’s gotten her information. Rachel can see him contemplate her words. They might’ve grown apart over the years, but Greg still loves solving problems, even more than she does.
“Unfortunately, the library books are riddled with made-up history about our town, and my dad’s journals are incomplete. I have no idea where to find unedited historical accounts pertaining to the era, and without it I can’t verify my assumptions.” Rachel sighs and takes a sip of her coffee, which
he’d brought over. “I can’t go into the forest without knowing what we’ll be up against.”
He sits quietly, contemplatively, before he says, “You’ve heard about the town council’s archive, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
More silence. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do, but there are two conditions.” Greg holds up two fingers to emphasize his terms.
“Of course,” Rachel says in a matter-of-fact tone, earning a shrewd grin from Greg. “What are your conditions?”
“The stuff I get my hands on can’t leave this house. You’ll have to come do the research here.”
“Doable,” she says, nodding in agreement. “What’s the other condition?”
His grin evaporates and he lowers his hand, spreading his fingers out on the granite island. He averts his gaze, a frown forming on his forehead. A battle is waged behind his stormy eyes. She waits patiently for his words to be formulated.
“I need you to find out what’s been happening with our mothers. They’re acting ... odd,” he says without making eye contact. “Today, I’ve already gotten three texts from girls attending Ridge Crest High who say their mothers cleared out their closets. What the hell do they expect me to do about it? I’ve got enough trouble dealing with my own mom these days, not to mention everyone’s looking my way to find the missing kids.” His frown deepens. “Can you help me with the mom club?”
Behind him, through the kitchen window, she sees the numerous gray-clad women exiting the pool house. Rachel knows her mother would soon see her car parked outside, and she’ll either text to find out why she’s here or come looking for her in person.
“We have a deal,” she says, lifting the coffee mug to her lips and swallowing the remainder of her drink. She fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket and quickly types in Mrs. Crenshaw’s number. She holds up a finger to Greg, signaling for him to wait before she lifts the phone to her ear and listens as the call goes through.
The Night Weaver Page 8
