“Are you threatening me?” My own voice is choked with a sudden rush of anger.
“I tried to be nice, but I think you need an incentive.” Nova waits, her thumb poised and ready to post. “I want the tree.”
I step forward and deliver a sharp kick to her shin, catching my hostage phone as she drops it.
“I don’t really give a damn what you want.” I snatch up my bag and head for the door. “I’ll never take you to that tree.”
I slam the door and head downstairs. It’s late and quiet and I’m just tipsy enough that driving is a bad idea. I slip into the living room and curl up on the sofa. The video glows on my phone. Just looking at it brings on a fresh wash of anger.
I sweep my thumb across the trash can, deleting the video forever.
22
MY DREAMS ROCK AND ROCK and rock. In them, I’m on one of my cousins’ four-wheelers, stuck in the mud and pulling the whole thing back and forth to work it free. It’s the end of the season. The cypress trees are beginning to rust between stubborn, green pines, and the air is just nippy enough to make my skin prickle. Mud coats my legs. It’s warm against the wind. I can hear Leo and Red haranguing me, making cracks about how my arms aren’t man enough for the job.
Back and forth, back and forth, the rocking gets more pronounced, but there’s no hint of the give I should feel as the wheels come free of the mud. Instead, the water begins to move in a circle, faster and faster until I’m pulled along with it and I spin and spin and spin.
I wake to whispers. No, not whispers. The rub of metal on metal. Knives. I wake to the sound of knives being sharpened. It seems perfectly reasonable for the few seconds it takes my brain to reconnect all of its circuits. The sound fades and I feel a small puff of wind against my cheek.
When I blink, the house is dark and unfamiliar. The ceilings are smoother than mine would be, the windows taller and lacking the pinpoint glare of my neighbor’s always-on security light. Not my room. Not my house. I’m lying on the Kings’ sofa because I wasn’t ready to drive. Right.
The floor heaves when I roll to my side and the whole room tilts on its axis. I feel drunk. Bad drunk. And in desperate need of a gallon of water.
My feet aren’t convinced that I should use them. It takes me a minute to feel secure in a standing position, one hand on the wall for balance. The distance between me and the kitchen is intimidating. I take my time, keeping each step small and quiet. My balance increases with each one.
I didn’t drink enough hooch to be this drunk. A few sips before the incident with Quentin, a few after, certainly not enough to cause this kind of feeling.
My steps are softened by the thick runner carpet, but I feel cold and exposed. The only sounds are the very faint hum of some appliance and a struggling moan from above.
I pause and listen. The moan falls and I decide it must have been the wind. Once in the kitchen I get blessedly lucky and find the Kings’ glasses in the first cabinet I try.
There is nothing so sweet as water. I guzzle glass after cool glass until my stomach reminds me it’s in a mood to be delicate. I stand, leaning my back against the counter, willing sobriety into my head. Afraid this tipping sensation is not a drunk feeling, but a crazy feeling.
More water. My stomach resists, but I gulp, hoping that by filling myself with water, I’ll feel more solid. I lean against the counter and take a few steadying breaths. Then it’s time to go.
The King house is more cavernous than usual in the dark. Now that my sense isn’t being dominated by a primal need for hydration, I can appreciate how truly eerie it is to be walking through their elegant living room in my thin cotton pants and tank top. Floorboards cackle beneath my feet. The moans from above gain a little volume and a shiver passes down my arms. I should leave. Slip through the front door and race home to my own sweet bed, but I see a sliver of light down the hallway that holds President King’s secret lair.
I take a few cautious steps toward it and stop, because now there are voices. Harried, urgent, whispered voices.
I move closer.
The first voice I hear is tinged with panic. “—we shouldn’t even be here. If she dies, it’s your fault.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” This voice, though still whispered, is somehow more substantial and mature. Mr. President King himself, I’d wager. “But we don’t have a choice anymore.”
There’s a pause. It feels weighty and important. I wish I could see the faces that carry it. Then the first voice speaks again. “Yes, we do. It’s just not a good one.”
Again, silence. This one is painful in length.
“Right now, my main concern is Candace,” Mr. King says, falling out of a whisper. “We need to—”
“I know,” Gage responds heavily. “But Nova won’t quit, Dad; she’s not thinking right.”
My head spins. I press a hand to the wall for balance. What, what, what are they talking about? I’m torn between the impulse to barge through the door or run away.
Run away. I think running is the smarter choice. Run now, confront later. When I’m dressed and less hazy and the sun is up.
I back away from the door. Above me, the moan comes again, wending its way through the walls and down the stairs. The hallway feels colder now than it did a moment ago, the moan more insistent. I follow the sound, climbing back up the twisted staircase and treading softly down the hall, away from the end with Nova’s room.
A few of the doors stand open, which makes it easy to see when they’re empty. I pass one that must belong to Gage, going by the tossed bed and stacks of books in need of a shelf. I take special note of the telescope by the window: it’s larger than any I’ve ever seen and actually pointed at the sky—not the typical use of telescopes around here. Guess his interest in astronomy goes deeper than constellations.
The next open door surely leads to Mr. King’s abode. There’s a small voice in my head reminding me that waltzing into someone’s bedroom, but especially this bedroom, is a piss-poor idea. I do it anyway.
Through the windows the sky is cloudless, the moon a bold capital D over the swamp, and not a single pine shuffles in the breeze. It’s calm as death outside. And from above, another moan, louder this time, glides through the house.
This room is a shrine in the worst way: elaborately framed pictures hang on every wall, all of the same woman I saw in the picture he keeps in his secret lair. In one, she’s young and laughing with her hair tossed out behind her. In another, she stands in her wedding dress, balanced on a brick wall with the long train of her dress dropping to the earth like a column. In yet another, she’s surrounded by the cradle of her three children, a tired but no less spirited smile on her face. And in yet another, she gazes at the camera with very little expression at all. It’s not fancy. She’s wearing a flannel shirt and there’s a smudge of dirt on her chin, but the look in her eyes draws me farther into the room. The others are so clearly a documentary of her life, but this one . . . this one is so personal I can’t look away.
The final picture is actually a tall painting mounted between the bed and the wall. It’s clearly a rendering of Mrs. King in her happiest days. She stands in a long dark dress before a cherry tree in full bloom with a wistful smile on her rosy pink lips.
Missing entirely is any sign of Mrs. King herself.
“Where are you?” I hear myself saying.
A sound makes me spin and for a moment I hold my breath and listen for any suggestion that Mr. King and Gage are on the move again. But all is silent.
Except for the quiet rasp of breath.
Not my breath.
But close enough to stir the hair at my neck.
I spin and there stands a woman with hollow cheeks and wide, mournful eyes. She’s the negative of the vibrant woman in the painting. A pale and withering Mrs. King. Behind her, the painting swings on hinges revealing a dimly lit staircase.
She’s so close I can see the crest of blue veins beneath the pallid sheen of her cheeks. The look in h
er eyes is both empty and entirely focused on me.
I inch backward. “Um, Mrs. King?” And I recall the curling script of the gala invitation. “Ruth? Mrs. Ruth?”
A sound begins in her throat. Her jaw worries up and down and then the word finds shape. She lists toward me. “Bonnnnnnes.”
“What?” I ask, inching back again, fighting the urge to flee this spectral woman.
“Bonnnnes,” she repeats and now she seems to find her strength because her voice rises. “Bones, bones, bones!”
She lurches then, mouth gaping, arms out, nails scraping at my flesh.
I scream, flailing to escape her grasp.
“Mom!” I hear Gage bark.
“Ruth!” I hear Mr. King shout.
Then there are hands pulling us apart.
“What are you doing in here?” Mr. King demands, struggling to contain his distressed wife. He continues, “You have no business being in here, Miss Candace.”
“I—” I search for the lie that isn’t too much a lie. “I thought I heard something.”
“Get her out of here,” he says to Gage curtly.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask.
But no one answers me. Gage’s arms are a vice around my shoulders. He steers me to the door and into the hallway, where he pauses.
“Are you okay?” he asks, looking me up and down.
I fold my arms over my chest and note that he’s barefoot and smells like swamp.
“I’m fine.”
Even in the dim of the night, his face is bright with conflict as he says, “You have to go. You have to go and never come around us again. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly.” I step away from him. My hands shake when I unclench them, so I keep them tight against me. “What’s wrong with her?”
He sighs sharply. “She’s sick.”
“I can see that, but why is she here instead of a hospital?”
Nova’s voice sounds from the other end of the hallway. “Everything okay?” She stands in the soft light of Thad’s bedroom, the boy clinging to her like a static-filled sock. “The shouting woke Thad.”
“Go back to bed,” Gage snaps, and I suspect a little of that anger is actually for Nova.
“You can have my bed if you want, Candy,” Nova offers kindly, as if our fight never happened. “I’ll bunk with Thad.”
At the same moment, Gage and I answer her.
“I’m going home,” I say, while he says, “She’s going home.”
Nova shrugs and slips away to rest with Thad and that’s as much of this family as I can take.
At some point, Gage’s hand reasserted its grip on my elbow. I pull away and head for the stairs. He follows. Silent. Guarding. Brooding. Until I’ve gathered my things and reached the front door.
At the threshold I stop, unable to resist a snipe. “You know what? Whatever it is you’re trying to hide here? It’s gonna come out. Secrets have a way of doing that around here.”
Then I leave. I march myself straight through the front door into the chill of night.
My breath comes in little white puffs. The cold sinks right through my thin pj’s and reasserts the injustice of being thrust out in the middle of a September night. I fumble my keys, drop my bag, and break a nail all in the course of trying to get inside my car. When I finally do, I start the engine, blast the heat, and lean my head against the seat until I can feel the tip of my nose begin to warm.
And right as I begin to reverse, I see a light flicker in the narrow gabled windows above the second floor. A figure ghosts past and back again, pausing to press a thin hand against the pane.
I strain to see more, but the hand fades and even through the layers of glass between her and me, her moan fills the night.
Nova said Mrs. King suffered from back pain, but that’s not what I saw. I saw a woman who’d lost her mind.
And I shudder because part of me also saw my future in her madness.
23
TOWN PICK-UP DAY WASN’T A real thing before this year. With the arrival of television cameras and the promise of fame, the town’s decided to sand off the uglier edges of Main Street: Clary General’s getting a fresh pour of gravel for the parking lot and new seat covers for the rocking chairs; the Flying J’s getting a new coat of paint and homemade signs that say things like “Stop here for cold beer!” instead of the disintegrating cardboard advertisement for Coors that’s been in the window since I was born; and Miss Kristy of Kristy’s Kountry Stitchin’ has made red-and-white gingham bows for every streetlamp from the school to Clary General. She says we’ll add sprigs of holly after Thanksgiving for some holiday flair.
The filming officially got under way at the now infamous gala, so it might be said that we missed the boat. But as Nanny says, it’s never too late for a face-lift. Mr. King’s planning some lingering shots of the heart of Sticks, and the town is eager to maintain the illusion that we have more to offer than beer and boogans.
Though I’m exhausted after my night at the Kings’, I meet Sterling and Abigail at the crack of ten a.m. With direction from recalcitrant Mr. Clary, we take up the task of smoothing pine needles around the porch garden of Clary General. There’s a strange tension in the air, as though everyone is supremely excited to be out painting and buffing and decorating.
Abigail—still mad—picks a spot on the opposite end of the porch to work. I decide to let it ride until she warms enough for an apology. There are more important things to discuss than my past insensitivities.
We work to the strains of country music and the familiar shouts of men. There are clumps of boys and girls our age and younger peppered all up and down Main Street. We’ve all learned that it’s far better to obey our parents’ demands and put in our time. The film crew is already here, cameras laid out beneath the shade of old oaks, interviewing folk about their close encounters with spirits. According to Old Lady Clary, a good half of them are just spinning yarn.
Sterling adopts an unusual role as peacekeeper, swinging between us like a confused pendulum. Our conversation is light, but there’s something off about her tone. She’s trying too hard.
On her fourth trip to me, I stop her. “You’re going to pass out if you don’t just say what’s on your mind, Saucier.”
I can see I’ve disappointed her by being so astute. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.
With a nervous glance at Abigail, she settles in closer. “What were you thinking, Candy? She’s really pissed. And I mean really.”
“I know, but I’m sorry! I know why what I did was wrong and I’d apologize if she weren’t cutting me down with those glares.”
Sterling squints with her whole face. “What do you think we’re talking about?”
From across the lawn, my name charges ahead of Quentin Stokes. Dread descends like a storm. I know what happened. The video was posted.
He arrives, face flushed and creased with fury. He grips my arm, but releases me just as quickly.
“How— Why—” He spits, unable to shape his rage. Sunlight flashes over a fresh reddening bruise on his ear. “Dammit, Candace! I thought we were good! Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t. I deleted it.” My protests sound weak even to me, and I know they’re true.
“Not before you posted it,” he roars, putting us at the very center of attention.
Guilt is quick to rot my insides. Horror follows as I realize what must have happened. Nova. She had plenty of time to forward herself a copy or post it herself before giving me back my phone.
“It wasn’t me,” I say.
“Oh yeah, then who was it?” he asks. “I’m not stupid. We were the only two people there!”
“What? No, Nov—”
“I should tell everyone your little secret now.” He’s desperate, eyes wild with fear.
“I swear to you, Stokes, it wasn’t me.” How can he not remember Nova was there?
“Who was it, then?” His gaze flies past me, hardening on a new target. “Your
girlfriend?”
Dread, guilt, patience, they all freeze beneath the wrath that wakes in me. I step forward and push a finger into his chest. “You listen to me, Stokes. Abigail Beale’s a better person than most of the people in this town. This has nothing to do with her and you’ll leave her out of it.”
His anger works itself through his jaw and when he turns his head, I see the bruise again. Someone walloped him good right in the ear. Recently.
“I’m sorry,” I say, genuinely regretful. “I didn’t mean for it to get out. I should have been more careful.”
“Yeah, you shoulda been.”
That was probably a threat. He’ll probably share my secret with the entire town now, and I can’t even hold that against him. My feet are too sick to move. I watch the back of his head as he huffs away.
All eyes are on me. They feel like knowing eyes. Like judging eyes. They feel like the same eyes that have been watching me since I was born, the same eyes that know more about my business than is decent, the same eyes that do or don’t see what our swamp is, depending on the weather. I don’t like this sensation of not knowing what thoughts meander behind those eyes.
Sterling bumps an elbow into mine and raises a questioning eyebrow.
“I’m okay,” I say. Quentin’s out of sight now. Crawling away to lick his wounds and probably plot my demise.
“Oh, I know you’re okay,” Sterling says. “I was suggesting that you put two and two together and figure out why Abigail’s pissed.”
Abigail’s words from last week are seared into the tender flesh of my brain. You used me.
I did it again. Only this time, it’s worse because I tried to do the right thing and failed.
I may not have pulled the trigger, but I knew the gun was there.
I ask, “Does everyone know?”
“It went Sticks viral last night,” she confirms. “Anonymous, but you’re the only two visible in the video, so . . . How could you do something like that?”
The answer to that question is uncomfortable—because I wasn’t the one posting, because I wasn’t paying attention, because I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.
Behold the Bones Page 20
