by Kat Ellis
I frown at Carla’s stressy tone, entirely not in the mood for it. Then I notice that even Daphne looks on edge. “Why?”
“Have you seen Ford today?” Daphne asks.
I haven’t seen him at all, which is weird. His locker is right next to mine, after all.
Daphne and Carla watch me with matching grim expressions, and my heart plunges through the soles of my boots.
“Oh God, no . . . Has something happened to him?”
“No,” Carla cuts in. “But I’m pretty sure something’ll happen to him when you find out what he’s done.”
“Will one of you just tell me what this is about?”
Instead of answering, Daphne thrusts her phone at me. “Watch this.”
I see a video thumbnail showing a glimpse of blood-red hair. “Is that Freya?”
Carla makes an affirmative sound, and Daphne adds, “It was her last Insta Story. Someone screencapped it, and now it’s being shared everywhere.”
Although the last thing I want to look at is a video of the girl whose body I found just twenty-four hours ago, I hit play.
“Hey, friends.” For a second, I think I might throw up. Hearing her voice, which yesterday would’ve seemed so normal, now feels like I’m trespassing somewhere I have no right to be. “Just giving you all a heads-up that you’re gonna want to watch the next episode of Haunted Heartland reeeeeal close because there’s a huge shock coming your way . . . Also, not entirely unconnected, I want to intro my new buddy Ford, who’s gonna be making an appearance in the new episode! Okay, so technically Ford is in the bathroom right now, but I’m here hanging out in his room, so what better way to get to know him than by poking through his stuff, am I right?”
This must’ve been posted the night before she died. On-screen, Freya is busy rifling through Ford’s underwear drawer, which I could honestly live without seeing, even knocking the bottoms of the drawers in case they have hidden compartments. Then she moves on to his closet. Freya pulls a phone out of her pocket and holds it to her ear.
“Uh, hi, is that the police?” she says. “Yeah, I need to report a fashion crime . . .”
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask. Daphne shakes her head.
“Just keep watching,” Carla says, her mouth drawn in a straight line.
Next Freya moves on to check under Ford’s bed. A vintage 1980s skin mag appears (surprising choice, honestly) and then Freya utters an “AHA!” as she pulls out a small black box.
A box I recognize immediately.
“What . . .” My question is left hanging as Freya opens the box and pulls out a necklace. One with a distinctive red apple pendant.
My grip tightens on Daphne’s phone, fingertips bloodless.
“Oooh, look! I think I just found a late birthday present. What do you think, friends? Isn’t it pretty?”
Freya holds the pendant up to her throat.
My mother’s necklace. The one my dad gave her. And the last gift either of them gave to me. What the hell was it doing under Ford’s bed?
Freya preens for the camera, making kissy faces as she models my necklace, then dangles it above her open mouth as though she might swallow it. If I could reach through the screen, I’m not sure whether I’d snatch it back or throttle her with it. And I don’t care how messed up that is right now.
“Ava?” Daphne’s voice cuts through the white noise in my head.
I tear my eyes from the video, where Freya is now giggling as she shoves the jewelry box back under Ford’s bed at the sound of his approaching footsteps.
“What?”
Then I look past Daphne along the hallway. Ford is coming toward us, laughing with a couple of his drama-club friends.
“You’ve got this weird, scary look on your face,” Carla says. “Are you . . . oh.” Her gaze follows the same path as mine.
Ford must feel something burning his skin. His smile drops, and his eyes meet mine.
“Tell me,” I say, voice low and seething, “why Freya Miller found my mom’s necklace under your bed.”
I turn the video to face him, but Ford barely glances at it. His face has gone sickly pale. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. It’s no mistake or misunderstanding.
My best friend in the world stole my dead mom’s necklace from me. For all I know, he really was planning on giving it to Freya.
I can’t breathe.
“Let me explain,” Ford says.
I turn on my heel and slam back through the door to the parking lot.
* * *
* * *
If Ford’s mom is home, I can just take back my necklace. That’s the plan, such as it is.
I have to crawl along the road to Ford’s house, thanks to the snow and the millions of cop cars dotted around town.
A girl was murdered here yesterday—of course the cops are patrolling.
I’m only surprised the media haven’t rushed in yet. Hot on the heels of that thought, I spot a news van coming toward me, heading in the direction of the school.
There’s no answer when I call at Ford’s house, and his mom’s car is gone. What now? I mean, I’ll make Ford give back the necklace, obviously. But there’s no way I’m going back to school, and I can’t go home to the cottage because Carolyn has the afternoon off and will ask me questions I don’t want to answer.
There’s really only one thing I want to do right now. I head to the cemetery to see my parents. A really harsh part of me wants to blame my no-show yesterday on the Millers, like I usually would. But Dominic couldn’t help getting a migraine. Freya couldn’t help being dead. And Uncle Ty was still too sick to go to school today, so I guess I should just do this solo.
I park in the cemetery lot. Crooked iron gates mark the way in, and they creak as I open them. It’s a squawk so birdlike, I look up at the surrounding trees, expecting to find an owl peering back at me.
All day I’ve had that sense of being watched, and it’s followed me here. Or it was waiting for me, maybe. I head down the path toward the mausoleum. My feet crunch on frosty gravel. The sound makes me feel even more exposed somehow.
I’m just jittery. Who wouldn’t be after finding a dead body, right?
Our family mausoleum is one of only a handful in the cemetery, set way back in the oldest section. Ancient, gnarled yew trees lean down over it like enormous spidery guardians.
My gaze lands on one of the more recent gravestones as I pass. The engraved lettering is relatively fresh, still painted gold: Edna Miller, Aged 88 Years. Madoc Miller’s mother. Dominic and Freya’s grandmother. I remember Mrs. Miller. She lived in one of the cottages not far from where I live now. She was a tall, wiry woman who always seemed to be in a hurry, and her gaze never failed to turn ice-cold whenever she saw me or my parents. Or anyone with the last name Thorn, I guess.
She was a math teacher years ago. The bane of Uncle Ty’s middle-school existence, according to him, and more than happy to continue the bad blood between the Millers and the Thorns by trying to flunk him out of her class. Of course, that was around the time Dad, chair of the town conservation society, persuaded local officials to refuse Madoc and Lucille the filming permits they wanted to set up their business, more or less forcing them to move to Evansville.
I don’t actually think I ever spoke to her. She got diagnosed with cancer right before the Millers moved back—I guess that’s why they came—but she died not long after my parents.
And now Freya’s gone as well.
There are too many people on both sides buried here—Thorns and Millers.
The angel on Edna Miller’s tombstone smiles sadly, like she’s agreeing with me. So much bad blood . . . but it all ends up here, doesn’t it? Soaking into the dirt.
The graves grow older as I walk deeper into the cemetery. Many of them date back centuries, their weathered stone faces practically
worn smooth, the grave owner’s history obliterated. Does anyone still remember who they were? Or is it inevitable that we’re all forgotten? Entire families erased.
Before I’m really ready, I reach the Thorn mausoleum. There’s a wreath resting against the locked front gate. It’s made up of red and white carnations, and reminds me of blood spattered in snow.
Who left it? One of Mom and Dad’s friends from town, maybe?
But then I see the card written in Carolyn’s neat handwriting. I guess she must’ve come here while Uncle Ty and I were at the police station. It’s the kind of thoughtful thing she does. I unlock the gate and go inside.
It doesn’t smell of anything in the narrow space between the individual marble chambers where my ancestors’ ashes and bones are stored. It should smell of Mom and Dad—their perfume and shampoo or something. Or maybe of dust and long-dead spiders. Just . . . something. The fact it smells so nothingy makes me feel their absence like it’s a part of me, a hollowness in my bones.
Each member of my family who’s interred here has their own plaque in front of their burial space. And they’re not buried, really. The chambers are like the morgue lockers you see on crime dramas—barely big enough to crawl into, if you were inclined to try. But I guess we Thorns all end up inside one of these meat lockers sometime.
We all have to crawl.
I don’t stay long. Just whisper a few words to Mom and Dad (I skip over finding Freya’s body—don’t really want them to know about that), then cry some. Less than I would’ve done last year. I think they’d be happy about that part. But I still miss them horribly.
Each day when I wake up and remember they’re gone, it’s like being punched in the heart. It’s not something you get used to, exactly, but over time it at least stops being a surprise. Maybe that was what Dr. Ehrenfeld meant by moving on.
As I trudge back down the path, I pass Edna Miller’s grave again. Freya will no doubt be buried somewhere nearby in a week or so.
That’s a screwed-up thought. People my age aren’t supposed to have graves. And, although there was definitely no love between me and Freya, I can’t deny she was a force. Like she filled a room, you know? I can’t imagine all that Freya-ness being relegated to dirt.
A sound drags my attention away from Edna’s grave. There’s someone sitting on a bench set against the nearest wall of the cemetery. He’s hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, face in his hands as he lets out these deep, rib-breaking sobs.
I never imagined seeing Dominic Miller cry. And now I have, twice.
My chest aches looking at him.
Why is he here, though? Where are his parents? I stand frozen, not sure whether to leave and pretend I haven’t seen him, or go over. I’m saved from making the decision when his phone rings. Without even glancing my way, Dominic roughly wipes a palm across his face. Then he takes a deep breath, and answers.
“Hey, Mom . . . No, I’m fine. I just needed to get out of the house for a while . . . No . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you . . . Dad was asleep and I . . . Yeah, I’ll be right back . . .”
I don’t hear any more as I’m making my way briskly back to my car. And the worst thing is I’m relieved I didn’t have to talk to Dominic. The guy just lost his sister, and is feeling the kind of pain I understand like few other people our age do. And maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to talk to me, or even see me. Maybe I couldn’t have said anything to make him feel better. But I didn’t even try.
There’s still a couple hours before I can safely go home, and the cemetery is right across the street from the public library, so I head in there to work on Mostly Deadish. I walk up the stone steps to the grand arched doorway of the library where the outer wooden doors stand open. It’s only as I pass through them that I notice something I must’ve walked past a thousand times in my life: Within the ornate carvings covering the wood—swirling vines and birds, lizards and flowers—there are eyes. There’s one hidden in the center of a rose. Another in the curling tail of a lizard. And another on the wing of an eagle.
They really are everywhere in this town.
Mr. Maitland, the head librarian, looks up as I walk in.
“If you’re looking for young Mr. Walsh, I’m afraid he hasn’t come in today,” Mr. Maitland tells me, a little sharply. Before I can correct him that I definitely wasn’t looking for Liam, he smiles briefly, as though to show that the sharpness wasn’t aimed at me. “It seems he was rather distressed by the death of his friend.”
“His friend?” I ask, surprised.
“The young Miller girl.”
“Oh . . . I didn’t realize they knew each other,” I say, but Mr. Maitland’s already striding away, presumably to whatever corner of the library where people are not. That’s weird, though, about Liam knowing Freya. I can’t remember ever seeing them together, even on social.
I go to my usual spot in the local-history section, really meaning to work on my art project this time, but as I pass by the door marked private I remember about the documents Dominic found in there. He sent them to me yesterday, but I didn’t look at any of it, what with finding a dead body and all.
I take out my phone and scroll through. It’s all pics of old documents, newspaper clippings, photographs, that kind of thing. But the first one I zoom in on is a diagram showing my family tree, more or less, with dates and abbreviated notes next to some of the names.
Next is a faded architect’s blueprint titled Thorn House, 1856. The outline of the building is a lot smaller than it is today, without the east and west wings or the orangery, which I know were added a few decades after the original house was built. That’s probably when they started calling it a “manor” instead of a “house.” Not that my ancestors were pretentious, of course.
The Thorns are an apple-seed family—my great-great-whoever Thorn planted the orchard so it circled the land where the manor now sits, and got to claim it once the trees were established and bearing fruit. I wonder grimly if the death of the orchard is why we lost it, as though some cosmic force thought we were no longer worthy.
I study the faded lines on the drawing. It shows the three floors of the house—two rectangles for the first and second stories, divided into miniature cube rooms (my bedroom didn’t exist back then, meh), and an additional square showing the wine cellar. Although I guess it was just a regular cellar back then. I still get a shiver looking at it.
In one corner of the cellar, there’s a circle with a line extending from it past the outline of the house, like someone meant to add a label but forgot. The circle’s too small to be noteworthy, really, except that I know what it is.
The pit.
My breath comes out a little shaky, and I tell myself not to be such a tool. The pit is a round stone hole beneath the cellar, which you can only get to by a trapdoor and a ladder. When I was six years old, and Uncle Ty was still an asshole teenager, he took me to the cellar and told me that a witch lived down there in the dark. Then he opened the trapdoor and acted like he was going to shove me in, only pulling me back at the last second.
I absolutely lost. My. Shit.
Grandpa came running downstairs, summoned by my screams, and managed to calm me down. He made Uncle Ty go down into the pit to show me it was perfectly safe. Then, when Uncle Ty climbed out, Grandpa slapped him right on the back of the neck, leaving a bright red handprint.
“You ever scare her like that again, I’ll send you down there and lock the door,” he told Uncle Ty, low enough that I knew to act like I hadn’t heard.
Once Grandpa went back upstairs, Uncle Ty said he was sorry for freaking me out.
“Did you see the witch down there?” I asked. But he just shook his head and said there was no witch. I didn’t believe him, though . . . not entirely. The idea had grown in me like a seed. He was just lying so I wouldn’t see the witch coming for me.
It took a long time
for me to shake off the idea that Sadie was real. And it took Uncle Ty a lot of turns on his Xbox to get me to trust him again.
I skip to the next image, and see other news articles and pictures Dominic’s included. They’re an odd mix of topics, but all connected to the manor, our family, or Burden Falls.
Tragedy strikes at Thorn Manor. This article is decades old; about how my great-grandmother died when she slipped on the riverbank and got swept over the waterfall.
Bumper harvest yields windfall for ailing distillery—from ten years ago, right after Dad started running the family business.
I can’t read the most recent article. A glance at the grainy photo of our mangled car surrounded by emergency responders is enough to tell me what it’s about.
I put away my phone. Still, I eye the private door. What else might be back there?
I sidle over to it and test the handle. Locked. Of course it is. I’m not lucky enough to just find it lying open. Although maybe they started locking it after realizing someone had been sneaking in there . . .
When I step outside the library, a shot of frigid air hits me right at the back of the throat. I cough my way across the road to where my car still waits in the cemetery lot. I almost get in and just drive away, but I know I can’t. I need to see if Dominic’s still there and check that he’s okay.
Before I can chicken out again, I push open the cemetery gate and follow the path back to the bench where I saw him.
It’s empty now.
I’m halfway home before I realize that Dominic probably saw Bessie parked in the cemetery lot. Probably guessed I’d seen him and said nothing. No matter how he feels about me or my family, that can’t have felt good.
SEVENTEEN
When I arrive at the cottage, Carolyn presents me with a color-coded study plan.
“One hour, every day after school, and I know we can get your grades back up where they need to be in no time,” she says cheerily. I’m really not in the mood for her trademark optimism, and have to remind myself that she’s doing this to help me. But there’s no denying Carolyn when she sets her mind to a task. So I drink one of the chilled coffees and knuckle down.
