“Is everything okay?” she asked when she reached me.
“Yes,” I said. “Or it will be, as long as you don’t hate me.”
“Impossible.”
“Even if I leave now? For the day?”
She looked over her shoulder, toward the lobby. When she turned back to me, her eyes glittered. “You’re leaving with Simon?”
I paused, then nodded.
“Lucky girl.” She grabbed my arms and squeezed. “If only the Lighthouse ever gave Jonathan the time to think of such romantic gestures.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I asked, noting the Jonathan-Lighthouse connection for my ever-growing list of questions.
“I’d mind if you didn’t go. Of course, there is one person who might care a bit more….”
I peered behind her to see Oliver staring at us.
“He almost pulled his signature Zara move on me when he saw that I wasn’t you.”
That made no sense. I’d said all of ten words to him, and he’d seemed to grow crankier with every one.
“But if you don’t go now, I’ll fire you.”
I smiled. “I’ll back as soon as I can.”
“We’ve been here fifty years,” she said lightly, hurrying toward the kitchen. “We’ll be here when you get back.”
I kept my eyes lowered as I crossed the room and headed for the lobby, and was only a few feet away from Simon when I had to stop. I grabbed the edge of the closest table and closed my eyes. The pain had hit so sharply, so intensely, it was like someone had doused my hair in kerosene before dropping a match to it.
“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
I opened one eye enough to see a young father in a blue baseball hat looking at me. His eyebrows were wrinkled with worry—which was quite nice of him, I thought, considering that my thumb had missed his plate of blueberry pancakes by an inch.
“She’s fine.”
I let go of the table to grab my head with both hands.
“Aren’t you, Vanessa?”
To everyone else within hearing distance, Zara’s voice probably sounded perfectly normal—even sweet. Like we were the kind of friends who knew each other so well she knew my headaches were fleeting and didn’t warrant concern. But to me, it sounded like long metal nails being drilled through my ears and into the center of my skull.
“Hey,” Simon said gently. I could feel his warm breath on my face as he put one arm around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
My head throbbed less with every step we took. By the time we reached the front door, I could open my eyes all the way, and I turned to see Zara watching us. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes were narrowed into long silver slits.
“Do you know her?” I asked Simon. He’d never mentioned her, but they’d both grown up in Winter Harbor—they’d probably even gone to school together.
He glanced behind us and sighed. “It’s kind of hard not to know Zara Marchand.”
CHAPTER 10
I SPENT TEN MINUTES of the drive to Camp Heroine wondering what it was about Zara that made it hard not to know her. It was hard for me not to know her, since she’d seemed to dislike me as soon as she saw me, and my resulting anxiety caused blinding migraines every time she was near. But she clearly didn’t have that effect on men—or teenage boys. So what was it? Her looks? The charm she switched on like a light when she wanted to? Or was it some special love potion she slipped in their drinks when they weren’t looking? Because there had to be more to it than just her silver eyes and fleeting charisma.
I spent five minutes of the drive wondering why it bothered me so much that her effects weren’t lost on Simon.
Thankfully, the drive was only fifteen minutes long. We pulled up to the rusty, crooked gate of Camp Heroine before I could do anything I’d regret later—like ask Simon what exactly he meant by what he’d said before leaving Betty’s.
“Why?” he asked as we sat before the gate. “Why was he here?”
I forced Zara from my mind as we got out of the car. As far as I could tell, there was no reason for Caleb to be there. There was no reason for anyone to be there. In the 1940s, Camp Heroine had been a top secret military base disguised as a quaint New England fishing village to fool approaching enemy ships and planes. Over the years it had evolved from a military base to a park to a place for thrill-seeking kids to play truth or dare. In the 1990s, after several bodies were found on the camp’s beach and trails, state officials decided the area’s elemental conditions—dense fog, heavy surf, rocky outcroppings—were too dangerous for hikers and swimmers, and closed Camp Heroine for good. Now you heard about it only when the latest group of curious young tourists tried to see for themselves if the place was as bad as its reputation suggested, and the Herald reported on their illegal antics.
“We’ll have to climb it,” Simon said after tugging on the gate’s padlock and chains. He turned to me. “Unless you want to wait in the car?”
I shook my head. There was no way I was waiting by myself in the Subaru—or letting him wander through Camp Heroine alone.
He hoisted himself up the tall iron gates. When he got to the top and jumped to the ground on the other side, I took the rusty bars in both hands and wedged my sneakers between them. I moved up by pulling with my arms and sliding my feet.
“This isn’t like climbing down a ladder,” I said when I reached the top. The bars ended in sharp points, so unless I wanted to wander Camp Heroine with a punctured abdomen, I couldn’t turn around and use the same pull-and-slide method down the other side.
Not helping was that it had started to rain, making the iron slippery in my hands.
“It’s not that big a drop,” Simon promised. “I’ll catch you.”
Eight feet seemed like a pretty sizable drop to me, but I didn’t really have a choice. Using all my strength to keep my body an inch above the sharp ends, I brought my feet over, and then pushed off.
“You’re tough for a city girl,” Simon said when I landed on the other side.
I tried to smile but was too aware of his arms under mine, his hands on my waist, our chests pressing together—and the fact that he didn’t automatically let go, even though my feet were firmly on the ground.
“There’s the pay phone,” I said finally.
His hands lingered for another second before he released my waist and turned around. The phone was next to what had once been an information hut during the camp’s state park days. It was hard to imagine visitors stopping at the dilapidated, roofless building for brochures and hiking maps. Even harder to imagine was Caleb standing there just hours before.
“It’s dead,” Simon said after jogging to the hut and picking up the phone. He hung up and tried again. “No dial tone. No buzzing. Nothing.”
“It looks like someone wanted it that way.” Joining him, I lifted the jagged ends of the phone’s severed cord.
“That’s strange. I checked online. The park only had one phone, which the state kept in service just in case the weather messed with radio signals during rangers’ monthly visits.”
“Apparently whoever Caleb was with wanted his undivided attention.”
Simon’s lips set in a straight line as he replaced the receiver. He circled the small building and then forced open the door.
I stepped toward him as he disappeared through the doorway. What if whoever had wanted Caleb’s undivided attention was still there? Hiding in the hut, waiting for his next victim? Shouldn’t we call for backup? Or grab the small medical scissors from Simon’s first-aid kit? Or—
“Empty.”
I exhaled as he reappeared in the doorway.
“Nothing but leaves and old newspapers.”
He hurried down a dirt path, and I jogged to keep up, my eyes darting from one side to the other. Visible reminders of Camp Heroine’s divided past were everywhere. Concrete artillery bunkers covered in crawling vines sat a few feet off the path. Sagging picnic tables and metal wastebaskets were scattered th
roughout the overgrown brush. Black graffiti decorated the sides of long, rectangular buildings. If Caleb was trying to hide, this was a good place to do it.
“The main buildings are on the bluff,” Simon called over his shoulder as he veered right, onto another dirt path leading up and away from the one we’d been following.
I struggled to hear him over the rain. It was falling faster now, harder. The sky had been clear during our drive but had since grown dark. Peering through the leafy canopy overhead, I could see thick gray clouds rolling in off the ocean. When we reached the path’s end at the top of the bluff ten minutes later, the clouds had dropped lower, the rain was falling in a cold, solid sheet, and the first bolts of lightning were shooting at the ground.
“How did we not know this was coming?” I yelled, joining Simon at the edge of the bluff. The rain fell so heavily it was hard to tell where sky ended and ocean began. I couldn’t even see the beach below us.
“I checked the weather before we left,” Simon yelled back. “It said there was a chance of thunderstorms.”
I followed him to a building tucked in the woods several yards from the edge of the bluff. From the outside the building looked like a small church, complete with fake stained-glass windows and a fake steeple. Simon took a flashlight from his fleece pocket and shone it around the room. The bright beam illuminated wooden bunk beds attached to the walls, empty except for leaves, branches, and a forgotten sleeping bag.
It was the perfect setting for a horror movie, yet strangely, I found it cozy. Inviting. Like a place two people could camp out in and focus only on each other for days, if they wanted to.
“It’s not the Lighthouse Marina Resort,” Simon said, looking out at the rain, “but it’ll keep us dry.”
My heart raced as I stood next to him, and I wasn’t sure if it was because we were temporarily stranded in Camp Heroine in the middle of a thunderstorm, or because simply being near him felt different now.
“This wasn’t in the forecast.” Simon’s eyes met mine. “The radar didn’t show any sign of this system—here, or anywhere close to here.”
“Storms don’t move that fast, do they?”
“Not usually.” He turned his gaze back to the rain. “But the frequency of these storms is increasing, and so is their strength. And the meteorologists are dumbfounded every time, because there’s nothing to indicate their approach.”
“Like when we went to Chione Cliffs? You checked the weather, and it said it was supposed to be clear?”
“Like then. And today, and every other time the sky has gone from blue to black without warning, like Mother Nature just hit the switch so no one can see the damage she’s about to do. It’s what I’ve been researching. Because the meteorologists don’t get it. The National Weather Center doesn’t get it. My professors don’t get it. And by the time they do, there could be millions of dollars’ worth of damage done. Towns could be devastated. More lives could be lost.”
More lives.
“And it’s not just an off summer?” I asked. “Another example of climate change throwing the planet out of whack?”
“I wish it was that easily explained. But these storms, as big as they are, are confined to a very specific area. The Pacific Northwest sits at about the same latitude as the upper Northeast, and their weather patterns are totally normal compared to other summers.” He looked at me. “Remember how crazy the waves were when we saw Mark and his friends surfing? And the way the tides moved?”
I nodded.
“I think they’re related—the hyperactive ocean and the storm systems. I don’t know how or why, but I’m trying to find out. I’ve been traveling up and down the Maine coast, recording high and low tides, salt content, pH, hourly weather conditions—anything that might help piece together why this is happening where and when it is.”
“That’s a big project for one person.”
He looked down. “Except I’m not just one person. Not anymore.”
My cheeks warmed, as if the summer sun had broken through the blanket of clouds.
“And besides, I have to do it. I can’t not do it.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “If this were any other summer, Justine would still be alive. If this were any other summer, Caleb wouldn’t be running.”
This clearly wasn’t any other summer. And as the thin wooden walls shook and the rain roared even louder overhead, I began to think that Simon might be right.
“Do you hear that?” he asked a moment later.
I held my breath and listened. Outside, the wind and rain slowed, and the air grew still.
The wind resumed first. As it whistled through the walls and shook what was left of the door, it felt colder, like the temperature outside had instantly plummeted thirty degrees.
The rain followed a few seconds later. At first, it was hard to hear over my throbbing heart, but then it fell faster, harder, shaking the ceiling like a herd of moose galloping across the roof. Soon, the noise was so overpowering, I braced for the church to rip from its foundation and spiral up and away with us inside.
“Is that hail?” I shouted as Simon grabbed my hand and led me away from the door.
He didn’t answer. Reaching the back left corner of the room, he dropped to the floor and pulled me with him. The air grew so cold I could see my breath, and Simon took off his fleece, wrapped it around me, and held me close. It was the kind of protection any caring big brother would’ve offered in the same situation … but I didn’t feel like Simon’s little sister. In fact, I thought that if he moved his face just an inch closer to mine, and if our lips accidentally brushed together, I probably wouldn’t even notice the church flying from its foundation.
“I think that was the worst of it,” he whispered a few minutes later.
I opened my eyes and lifted my head from his chest. The church still stood. Through the shredded door I could see water dripping from the trees instead of the sky. The air grew brighter and warmer as the sun shone through thinning clouds.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. Because we’d just survived a freak assault by Mother Nature, we still had to find Caleb … and all I could think was that I didn’t want to move.
“Are you cold? Hurt? Did anything fall on you?”
“No.” I made myself pull away and climb to my feet. “Just a little rattled.”
“Well,” Simon said, standing, “that enormous cloud had a silver lining. If Caleb was here before the storm, he’s still here now; he couldn’t have gotten far with that going on.”
I followed him outside. The military had apparently done something right when they built Camp Heroine. There was no physical evidence of what had just transpired besides a fresh layer of leaves and twigs blanketing the dirt path. The fake steeple still stood atop the fake church, and the rest of the buildings had survived just as well.
“Do you mind if I get a few measurements before we keep looking?” Simon asked. “It’ll take three minutes, tops.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
He looked like he was going to say something else, but then he turned and started down the bluff. I stayed close behind. The bluff was steep, but sandy instead of rocky, which made the trek fairly easy. When we made it to the beach, he pulled a small notebook and plastic case from his backpack and jogged to the water. The ocean hadn’t recovered from the storm as quickly as the sky, and waves still pummeled the shore. Keeping an eye on Simon, I stayed near the bluff to avoid the spray.
He took several samples and scribbled in his notebook. Three minutes turned into five, and then seven and then nine. After ten minutes, I walked a few yards down the beach, turning every few feet to make sure he was still there and okay. Reaching a low group of rocks that would give me perfect views of him and the water, I stepped carefully across them and sat down.
I closed my eyes and tilted my head toward the sun. I had to get it together. A lot had happened and continued to happen, but that didn’t mean
I could just let it drag me out and pull me under. Whatever I was feeling for Simon was natural, considering how much time we were spending together in strange circumstances. I would feel the same way about a fireman who pulled me from a burning house, or a policeman who recovered my purse from a thief. The feelings would return to normal eventually.
I opened my eyes when the cool ocean water reached the toes of my sneakers—and keeping it together was no longer an option.
“Simon,” I whispered.
I wanted to yell, to scream his name at the top of my lungs. I wanted to jump off the rocks, charge up the bluff, and get as far from Camp Heroine as possible.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do any of it. My entire body was frozen, as if encased by a thick block of hail.
“Simon,” I tried again, my lips barely moving. “Simon.”
I don’t know how he heard me, but he was by my side in seconds.
“Vanessa? What—”
And then he froze, too.
A lifeless arm, attached to a lifeless body, stretched from the water toward the rocks. The body was facedown, but it was clear from the build that it was a man.
“Simon …,” I breathed, my eyes filling with tears. “It’s not …?”
“No,” he said, his voice grim. “It’s too big. And Caleb doesn’t wear a watch.”
My eyes managed to move from the purple hand to the swollen wrist, where a thick, silver band glinted in the sun like beach glass. A second later, a tall wave crashed onshore, sending the runoff streaming past the rocks—and the victim turning on his back.
I turned away, and Simon’s arms were around me, pulling me off the rocks and away from the man. “What’s wrong with him?” I whispered into his shoulder as tears ran down my cheeks. “What’s wrong with his face?”
He tightened his arms around me and rested one hand on the back of my head to keep me from turning again and seeing anything more. “Let’s go. We’ll call the police from the car.”
Simon didn’t have to worry about my seeing anything more. I’d already seen too much. As police and ambulance sirens howled toward Camp Heroine, I slid down the passenger seat of the Subaru, closed my eyes, and thought of Mom, Dad, Justine, Paige, Zara, Betty’s, the lake house—anyone and anything that would keep me from seeing it again.
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