“I'm good,” Peter told her. “It's a long drive, but I'd rather just do it and be home.”
She walked him to the door, admiring her friend. His nose was still just a little crooked from when he'd broken it back in high school. He had refused to go to the doctor that day until they'd stopped for tacos. Gwen still remembered eating a burrito in the waiting room, listening as Peter explained to the receptionist that he'd fallen out of a tree, never admitting he'd leapt out, forgetting that he couldn't fly. His smile now was full of fillings and his car was covered in dents. Peter Sweet carried all the eclectic scars of someone who had never gotten good at being an adult. Yet he was so much happier than so many other adults Gwen knew.
Once, in a tiny cell and the depths of despair, she had promised him she would grow up with him and stay beside him for the adventure of it. They were grown up now. She had made good on that promise.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she told him.
He gave her a sad and quizzical look. “Don't say that so sad-like,” he told her. “It's a no-good word anyways. I'll see you later. Rosemary will be back. We'll get dinner with James and Lasiandra again. Everyone always comes back again if you want them to.”
She nodded, but didn't amend her words. She smiled, but didn't amend her expression. Peter said his goodbyes the only way he knew how—by promising and proposing and postulating on future adventures. So caught up in these ideas, he didn't notice the frantic distress motions Gwen's shadow made. She stepped behind the half-closed door so her shadow couldn't reach out, and waved to Peter from there as he started up his cantankerous little car and putted off joyfully into the night.
Gwen closed the door. Her shadow continued to thrash. “You know,” she announced, “I'm never going to let you loose as long as you keep trying to cause problems for me.”
The shadow crossed its arms in a temper.
Gwen didn't let it trouble her. She walked over to her coffee table where Peter had set down the unsolved puzzle box and—in perfect Peter fashion—forgotten all about it. “You don't approve of my decision, do you?”
The shadow shook its head furiously, and pointed to Gwen's portrait.
“What would she think?” Over the years, Gwen had gotten better at deciphering her shadow's intentions when they communicated. “I can't imagine it matters now that she's grown up and gone… but I don't think she'd be disappointed.”
The shadow continued to flail in a fluster, but the puzzle box occupied Gwen. With a few quick slides, twists, and latches, she unlocked the Japanese box with practiced ease. Inside, she found the postcard from Sukumo, its back covered in her instructions for tonight.
She had an hour yet before she needed to leave, if she wanted to be there by midnight. She went upstairs and packed a bag. She swept up what little fairy dust Chickweed had left behind and saved it. She had long since memorized the contents of the postcard in the puzzle box, so she bundled it with all the other postcards she'd gotten over the years—from Rio de Janeiro, Hamburg, Hong Kong, Melbourne, Houston…
She put them in her bag, too, but not for sentimental reasons. She just knew she couldn't leave clues behind for the Anomalous Activity Department. She pulled on a pair of good boots and surprised herself, when the time came, with how easily she walked past her high school portrait, her dwindling hearth, and everything that she had made a home with in the little cottage.
Dressed warm for the night in a raven-black coat, Gwen didn't need to walk fast to fend off the cold. She ambled along the old country road in the opposite direction as her guests had driven home. As she walked away from the life she'd spent the past fifteen years building, she felt a little lighter on her feet with every step. She wouldn't fly away—flying was for children—but she appreciated the lightness.
She took her long ash-brown hair and began braiding it to keep the wind from wreaking havoc with it. Out of her bag, she pulled out a little bit of bark that she had stripped off a dying tree a long time ago. She put it in her mouth and started to chew it like jerky.
The stars twinkled in the clear night sky above her cottage, but as she walked down to the beach and the ocean docks, an eerie fog accumulated over the sea, so thick she might as well have been floating among clouds. Despite the murky look of the night air, the sea smelled crisp, bright, and full of promise. Gwen had only fallen more in love with the ocean over the years.
A hulking shadow moved through the fog and took shape as a massive old wooden ship came to port between the docks.
The metal of the anchor rattled and howled as it dropped down into the water, and crew members heaved the ship's wooden gangway down to the dock. The ship, highlighted with gold and crimson paint, had a beautiful masthead carved like a mermaid. Without a second's thought, Gwen walked aboard the gangway. Captain Starkey was waiting for her.
“Miss Hoffman,” he greeted her, “a pleasure to see you. I didn't know if you'd accept my invitation. Does this mean you've forgiven me for trying to spare you the fate of growing-up?”
“No,” Gwen told him, still holding a playful grudge against Starkey for attempting to kidnap her during the last battle of the old Neverland. “But I think I've had my fill of growing up now.”
Starkey's tight smile broke into a wide grin. When she was a teenager, he had seemed so old to her. He had been an adult and an authority, but now he seemed, if anything, younger than her. The moonlight lingered in their eyes and his smile seemed full of starlight, for he had spent his past fifteen years sailing in and out of Neverland's glow.
“They've recaptured Twill,” Starkey told her. “I could use another clever soul on board to help regain him.”
“So I've heard,” Gwen told him, taking the hand he offered as she leapt down onto the deck of the magnificent ship. “Whatever happened to the Grammarian?”
Starkey chuckled, “After the battle, you'd have been surprised and ashamed to see how many of our captured do-gooders defected. My crew all but doubled overnight, and we overtook the first better ship we could lay our hands on. The Grammarian is still harbored in easy waters, should we ever require her again.”
Gwen strode across the deck, Starkey walking with her. She was not the conflicted and confused girl she'd been as a teenager; every step she took resounded with the confidence of all the years she'd spent living and working for a life of her own. The crew did not intimidate her in the least. “So what do you say,” Starkey asked, “are you ready to return to Neverland, Gwendolyn?”
She smiled at the wind, and the dark expanse of the open sea. “Yes, I am.”
She would go back to that island, no longer a child, to play the villain and join in the games of her sister's design. No doubt the lost children would take her captive at some point and force her to tell stories. Other times, she would hunt them down in games of hide-and-seek for the highest stakes. She would convince Twill to defect again, or conspire against aliens, or wheedle bits of information out of star-gossiping mermaids. Anything was possible, but one thing was for certain: she would be back in Neverland, having adventures with Rosemary once again.
“Are you feeling nostalgic?” Starkey asked her.
“Isn't everyone, when they head for Neverland?” Gwen responded, flicking her braid over her shoulder as she turned to look at the skull and pens flag flapping overhead. She couldn't imagine a better flag for a storyteller to sail under.
“Earwig get the sails back up!” Starkey barked. “Two Toes, heave that anchor back aboard! Mercado, take Hoffman's things to her quarters! Who's at the helm?” he squinted at the shadow, barely lit by the moon behind him.
“I am, Captain!”
“Then chart the stars and take us away, Leonard,” Starkey ordered. “Set a course—first to the right and then straight on till morning.”
The sails billowed in the wind, bathed in moonlight as they caught a favorable air and set off, right away, on their magical bearing. The pirates broke out into a sea shanty work song, but Gwen wandered to the head of ship as if in a trance.
Starkey stayed beside her, looking out into the infinite unknown of the night as they set sail for a brand new adventure. Gwen smiled to feel the salty air blow against her face, for stories were started and finished as often as worlds were made and unmade, and she felt in herself the maturity and power to make and tell anything her heart so desired.
For all children grow up, and all children determine just what kind of grown-ups they will be.
About the Author
Audrey Greathouse is a lost child in a perpetual and footloose quest for her own post-adolescent Neverland. Originally from Seattle, she earned her English B.A. from Southern New Hampshire University’s online program while backpacking around the west coast and pretending to be a student at Stanford. A pianist, circus artist, fire-eater, street mime, swing dancer, and novelist, Audrey wears many hats wherever she is. She has grand hopes for the future which include publishing more books and owning a crockpot.
Audrey would love to hear from you!
audreygreathouse.com
[email protected]
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to Alison Leonard for allowing me to use her name to build a symbol for all that is good in adulthood, and to Craig Franklin and Rosie La Puma who were invaluable beta readers as always. I would like to thank my parents for their unwavering encouragement, Zaq for his unconditional love, and absolutely everyone else who supported me while they watched the sausage being made with this book (most notably Kyle Eschen). Finally, I would like to thank Claire Hanser for 1) dragging me off to learn the fine art of writing in bars when I was too mopey for coffee shops, 2) providing the impetus for a profound spiritual experience on Mardi Gras, and 3) our running gag with characters named Leonard.
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Prologue
Loose gravel crunched beneath her boots as Special Agent Camila Vasquez navigated the almost-empty parking lot to her car. Darting a glance around, she took in her surroundings, careful to listen for any approaching vehicles or footsteps. Settling her gaze back on her car, she found it undisturbed—no broken windows or picked locks. She took another glance over her shoulder to ensure she hadn’t been followed as she pressed a button on the fob attached to her keychain.
Wellhollow Springs was a small town with a tight-knit community, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. After she slid into the front seat, she glanced in the rearview mirror and spied the stack of files laid on her backseat. The information she’d been gathering for the past month would be enough to put a murderer away for the rest of his life. The fact that he was powerful hadn’t intimidated her in the least, but until she’d placed the evidence into the right hands, she couldn’t be too careful.
She placed her takeout box from the Japanese steakhouse on the passenger seat, dropped her purse onto the floor, and retrieved her phone. It vibrated in her hand. Her pulse began to race when she saw who was calling.
Answering quickly, she pressed the phone to her ear. “This is Vasquez.”
A familiar voice reached out to her from the other end of the line. “Vasquez, it’s Jones.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said with a smirk, jamming her key into the ignition and cranking the engine. “Your ugly mug pops up on my screen every time you call me.”
Special Agent Jones laughed, but it came out dry and forced. “That’s real cute. You want the results of this DNA test or what?”
Taking a deep breath, she gazed back through the driver’s side window at the tall pine trees lining the highway beyond her. She’d been feeling as if she were being watched for about a week now, yet when she turned around, no one was ever there. Finding comfort in resting a hand on the sidearm holstered at her hip, she reminded herself that she had protection.
“Let’s have it,” she replied.
“The DNA from skin cells found under Isabella’s fingernails matched the sample of saliva you sent me,” Jones said. “The findings are consistent with the medical examiner’s report—Isabella fought for her life while she was strangled, scratching and clawing. He’s the one, Vasquez. He killed her.”
Her grip tightened on the phone, and her eyes began to sting. Choking down a sob, she fell back against the seat. She’d had her suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. Aside from that, Camila had felt, deep down in her gut, that the man whose DNA she’d painstakingly retrieved from a coffee cup had been responsible for her sister’s murder two years ago. Now, she had proof.
“Are you still there?”
Jones’ voice snapped her back to reality, and she sat up, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped one eye.
“I’m here. I need those results sent to my email as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I am going to present everything I have here to the Young County D.A.’s office. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my sister.”
“Just watch your step,” Jones warned. “I’m not even supposed to be giving you this information, and you’re still on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation.”
Camila rolled her eyes. “A woman insists on investigating the death of a family member, and, suddenly, she’s crazy?”
“I don’t make the rules,” he retorted. “And breaking them could cost me my job.”
“Keep your panties on,” she muttered. “No one’s going to lose their job. Once I bring this guy down, they’ll be apologizing for not taking me more seriously.”
“I hope you’re right, for both yours and Isabella’s sakes. She deserves justice, and you deserve closure. Good luck, Vasquez.”
“I don’t need luck; I have evidence,” she said before ending the call.
The wallpaper of her home screen showed an old picture of her and Isabella. They’d taken the selfie together years ago while sitting on a park bench. Camila held the phone up while her little sister leaned into her, smiling and squinting a bit with the sun in her eyes. Isabella looked radiant and healthy—a far cry from the drug-addicted, waif-thin thing she’d been forced to identify in the morgue.
Giving the photo a sad smile, she sniffed and blinked back a fresh wave of tears.
“Don’t worry, Izzy,” she whispered. “I won’t let him get away with this.”
She placed her phone into the console beneath the radio, threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the restaurant parking lot. Being one of the few customers leaving at closing time, she found the highway leading back into Wellhollow Springs all but empty. The red taillights of the car in front of her eventually disappeared around one of the many bends in the road, leaving her alone with two walls of pine trees whizzing by on either side.
Glancing at the panel behind the steering wheel, she frowned. The brake light had come on yesterday, and she’d forgotten all about it. She’d been so consumed with her case that she had neglected to have it serviced.
Tomorrow, she told herself.
The moment she’d finished up at the district attorney’s office, she would have her car fixed. Since her administrative leave was indefinite until her superiors decided she was fit to resume duty, she might even stick around Wellhollow Springs for a while. The extended-stay hotel she’d been living in the past month was clean and affordable. Besides, she didn’t want to miss any new developments in the case.
Rounding another bend in the road, she spotted a large, dark shape thrusting up toward the sky from the top of the hill. Baldwin House—the home of millionaire real estate development mogul Douglas Baldwin and his family. His grandfather had made a fortune by building half of Wellhollow Springs, so it seemed appropriate for the family home to overlook it all like the castle of some king looming over the peasants.
Turning her attention back to the road, she found yet another sharp curve and pressed the brake to slow down. Sh
e frowned when her foot was met with little resistance, the car neglecting to respond. With a gasp, she jerked the wheel left and just barely made it around the bend. Her heart began to pound, throat constricting as she came upon another turn. She pumped the brake, turning the wheel right. The car went entirely too fast, veering into the metal guardrail and causing sparks to fly. Giving the wheel another jerk, she attempted to decelerate again, her breath coming in short pants as the downward slope of the road became steeper.
The vehicle was out of control now, speeding up into the sixties. It hit the seventies as she bit back screams and sobs of terror, fighting to bring it to a stop. The brakes weren’t responding at all, and another turn loomed ahead, a steep drop-off yawning beyond the guardrail.
“No,” she whispered, clenching the wheel with damp palms. “No, no, no!”
In a last-ditch effort to stop the car, she jerked the wheel to the right, and then yanked up on the emergency brake while speeding around the curve. Her tires screeched, the scent of rubber being burned by asphalt filling her nostrils. The world outside her windows tilted and spun until she couldn’t distinguish the sky from the trees or dark hills. A scream burned in her chest when the sound of metal crunching metal indicated she’d slammed into the guardrail. Her stomach shot up into her throat as the car tipped over, hurtling over the steep incline leading to the valley below her.
The car made impact—once, twice, three times, rolling and bouncing over and over, jostling her mercilessly. Her head bashed against the driver’s side window, causing her teeth to rattle. She must have bit her tongue, because blood filled her mouth at the same time it began to trickle down her face from a wound on her temple.
The Grown Ups' Crusade Page 27
