by Lisa Unger
“Tell me where the safe is.” Brad’s voice sounded gravelly and strange. “There are three houses. Which one has the safe in it?”
Dean wanted to answer, he really did. But he couldn’t. All he could do was look at the shadow standing behind Brad. It was a tall, dark smudge against the night sky, and Dean couldn’t think of who it might be or why the person would be standing there in the rain.
“Can you tell Emily that I’m sorry?” said Dean. Except he didn’t say the words; he spoke them in his mind. Of all the many things he regretted, he regretted the most that he had let her down. He regretted dropping out of school and letting those losers talk him into coming along on the armed robbery. He regretted the first pill he popped into his mouth and every one after that. But more than anything, he had wanted to be a good man for her. It was simply that on some very deep level, he didn’t know what that meant. It had always remained just out of his reach.
“Answer me, asshole,” said Brad. He leaned heavily on the wound, and Dean felt a bottle rocket of pain from his gut to his toes. He let out an inhuman scream, a sound he couldn’t believe came from his own body, and Brad—he smiled. Now Brad pressed the warm muzzle of the gun to Dean’s head.
The black form moved closer to Dean and towered over Brad. Maybe it was Dean’s eyes playing tricks on him, because Brad didn’t seem to notice.
Dean was happy about one thing, though: that he’d brought Emily home. She had always talked about this place like it was some kind of paradise. She’d idolized the father who had abandoned her to her shitty childhood growing up with Martha—a meaner or more morose bitch he had never known. He could admit to himself that his intentions had not been honorable; he’d wanted to come here and take what should have belonged to Emily anyway. He wanted to make those people pay for what they’d taken from her. If he was honest, that had been his intent long before Brad had shown up and made it possible. Even though he had not planned it as a homecoming for her, maybe that’s what it would be. Maybe now that she was here, her father would be forced to accept her and help her. If not for Emily’s sake, then for their baby’s.
He started to cry then, to blubber like a girl. Brad turned his face away in disgust. The dark shadow began spreading like a fog, and Dean felt it settle over him, cool and comforting. He closed his eyes and surrendered to it, thinking it could hardly be worse than other places he’d been.
chapter twenty-eight
Kate crashed into the guesthouse and locked the door behind her. The thin wood frame with glass panes wouldn’t keep anyone out. She peered into the rain, but she had no more than a few feet of visibility. She leaned against the door and then sank to the ground, trying to catch her breath, to calm her mind. Her chest ached, and each breath was painful. Around her, a mass of jackets hung on hooks; a clutter of shoes lined the baseboard. The water from her clothes ran off onto the floor. She tried to notice the details around her in order to expand the moment, to conquer the panic clouding her mind. It wasn’t working.
“Mom?” Chelsea stood looking small and terrified as she appeared at the end of the hall. “What’s happening?”
She dropped beside Kate and climbed into her arms, not seeming to care that her mother was soaking wet. Kate held on tight. Her first instinct was to lie. Nothing. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep. The thought of telling Chelsea what had just happened, what she had seen, went against every desire she had to shelter and protect her child.
“Did you see him?” Chelsea asked. “Did you see the ghost?”
Kate really wished she’d seen a ghost. She told her daughter what had happened, starting with the knock on the door and the stranded couple, whoever they were.
Chelsea sat up and stared at Kate, her face still and calm. “There’s a gun,” she said when Kate was done. It was not what she had expected Chelsea to say. “In the main house.”
“We saw it when we were getting dinner ready.” It was Lulu, who had come to join them.
“Get down,” said Kate. “Come here.” She held out her arm to Lulu, who crawled over to Kate. The three of them huddled together in front of the door. It was then that they heard footsteps on the porch. Chelsea issued a little whimper as they listened to the sound of someone heavily climbing the steps, then walking the length of the house. They saw a shadow pass in front of the window above them, listening as the footfalls continued on and then stopped again.
Kate could hear the sound of the blood rushing in her ears, the girls trying to control their frightened breathing, the rain on the roof. The moment seemed unreal, took on a dreamlike quality. She thought of the flare gun, which she’d left on the table in the main house. She should have kept it with her when she went out to the boat. She was defenseless here with the girls. At least Birdie was armed.
It seemed like days ago that she had been sitting there, telling her mother about Richard Cameron’s affair with Lana. What had seemed grim and serious not an hour ago seemed silly now—luxury worries, as Sean would call them. The kinds of things that people who had no business worrying worried about.
Kate carefully extracted herself from the girls, who both clung a moment and then let her crawl away, keeping herself below the windows that lined the hallway.
“Mom,” Chelsea whispered.
Kate held up a hand. She had to see where he was, what he was doing. She couldn’t sit there and wait for him to come in after them, the three of them helpless and afraid. She peered over the sill in time to see him standing, looking over toward the main house. She could see the soaking strands of his hair, the profile of a broken nose, the large square shoulders. Who was he? What did he want here? He turned back toward her, and she froze. He seemed to be staring right at her, though he stood as still as stone. He seemed oblivious to the rain. Finally, he started moving down the far stairs.
She watched him until he was swallowed by darkness. From the porch, he must have seen the light burning in the main house. That must be where he was headed. She felt a rush of raw adrenaline. “Girls,” she said, “I need you to get to the bunkhouse and call for help on the radio.”
She didn’t want them coming to the main house with her, if that’s where the danger was. She’d send them in the opposite direction, keeping them away from the threat. At least that was her thinking.
“I called Dad on Skype a while ago,” said Chelsea. “I couldn’t hear him. I don’t know if he could hear me, but I told him that I thought someone was on the island, that we might be in trouble.”
“Okay,” Kate said. She thought about Sean, how frantic he must be. What would he do? He’d call the local police if he’d heard Chelsea at all. “Where was he?”
“Home, I think.”
Kate remembered asking him not to get on the road if he was too tired to drive. For once, he must have listened. It figured that this would be the time he took her advice on caution and safety. She bent down in front of the girls. “We have to operate as if he didn’t hear you,” she said. “Can you handle it? Can you make it to the bunkhouse and call for help?”
Lulu looked down at the ground, then up at Kate. Chelsea took Lulu’s hand.
“We can do it,” said Chelsea.
“Yeah,” said Lulu. “We can handle it.”
Kate felt a little shock at the strength, the mettle, she saw in her child’s eyes. There was enough of Birdie in her to get them through this. There was enough of Birdie in Kate, too. Kate stood and fished through the jackets on the hooks and found what she was looking for: two whistles, one red and one silver. She hung one around Lulu’s neck and one around Chelsea’s. “If you get into trouble, blow, scream, make noise,” she told them.
Lulu looked pale and shocked in spite of how confident she’d seemed a moment ago. Kate knew she could trust Chelsea to keep her cool and do what needed to be done. She hoped Lulu was up to the task as well.
“Stay together,” she instructed. “Don’t separate. And once you get to the bunkhouse, lock the door and don’t leave. No matter what you hear
, stay inside.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Chelsea.
“Your grandmother is alone over there,” she said.
It was all she could come up with. She had no idea what she was going to do. She didn’t think it was a good idea to say so. Chelsea and Lulu looked at her uncertainly, as if they knew she was flying blind. The girls pulled on raincoats and shoes, and then they all left the guesthouse together.
My husband always had a soft spot for strays. The words kept ringing in Emily’s ears.
When Emily was small, she used to have nightmares in which she was falling. Not those short, jerky dreams that left her flailing out arms and legs. They were long and slow; at first they felt like flying. But they didn’t end, and she couldn’t control them. She just went down and down and down. That’s how she felt now, staring at Birdie.
“I remember your mother,” said Birdie. “She thought she’d won the jackpot.”
Emily watched her. Birdie sat perfectly erect, her shoulders a straight line, her elbows resting lightly on the table. Her gaze was cool and level, like that of an executive in a boardroom, a judge at her bench.
“Little did she know that everything belonged to me, including this island.”
All of Emily’s words were jammed in her throat.
“Joe earned a good living,” said Birdie, “but the real wealth came from my family. Joe wouldn’t give that up. Not for something as worthless as love.”
There was something about the way she had said it. Now that he’s gone, why don’t you tell me who you are and what’s really going on here. It had sounded to Emily as if Birdie might understand, or maybe she already knew. Emily felt a strong desire to confess, as if in doing so, she might be welcomed here, to take her place among the family. She thought maybe Joe could be called and there would be some way to work it all out. Because if anyone could fix the things that had gone so terribly wrong, surely he could.
When Emily had said nothing at first, Birdie went on. Let me help you, dear.
We’re lost, Emily had said. We’re stranded.
And this was the God’s honest truth, wasn’t it?
Maybe Birdie could see that Emily was in dire straits. Truth be told, it was Dean’s fault. She certainly wouldn’t have been here if not for Dean and the things he’d done and asked her to do. Maybe Birdie could see that. And maybe, even though it was very hard to believe, maybe Birdie, too, had been in a circumstance beyond her control, following a man who was on the wrong path. Maybe once she’d needed a guiding hand, someone to help her out of a terrible mess she’d made. Emily allowed herself to believe that maybe, on some level, Birdie knew who she was and was offering to be that helping hand.
“I’m Emily,” she said. It was almost a whisper. She saw Birdie lean in closer and narrow her eyes. “I’m Emily Burke. Joe Burke’s daughter.”
The other woman had frozen where she sat. Emily swore that when she looked into Birdie’s eyes, she saw an iron gate come down. Her face turned into a blank mask, a shield. And Emily knew she’d made a horrible, horrible mistake. Outside, the rain was pounding on the roof, and the thunder was crashing.
“My husband doesn’t have a child outside of our marriage,” said Birdie. There was no heat, no emotion, in her voice. It was a cool statement of fact.
“He does,” said Emily. She was drawing on a strength she didn’t know she had. “And I would like to call him. I’m in trouble, and I need my father. He owes me that much. A phone call, at least.”
Birdie smiled, but it wasn’t warm. It was mocking. Emily felt a rise of shame, and with it came a lash of anger.
“My dear,” said Birdie, “Joe Burke is not your father. I understand that perhaps your mother told you that—and indeed it seems that she gave you his last name. It would be just like her, considering what she tried to do to us. And I can see that you believe it to be true. But no, the tests were clear. I have no idea who your father might be. But it is not my husband.”
“You’re lying,” said Emily. She felt an unwanted quaver in her center, a welling of tears. “He wrote checks every year, money for my education.”
She saw a flicker of something across the old woman’s face—anger, surprise. That was when Birdie said the thing about her husband having a soft spot for strays. And then she went on.
“Martha tricked him. She might have been another of his dalliances.” Birdie gave a little laugh. “Of which, trust me, there were many. But his believing that her child belonged to him kept him around for a while. Eventually, she wanted more than the secret night out, a couple of weekends away. But by then he was on to the next. She tried a paternity suit. Hence, the tests. And the bitter outcome. I daresay that she believed you were his as well.”
“This is a lie.”
“But Joe is a softy for little girls,” said Birdie. She still wore that unkind smile, offering a sad shake of her head. She either didn’t hear Emily or didn’t care. “I’m not surprised to learn he gave Martha money. Though I would have fought him tooth and nail had I known. Not that he has ever listened to a word I say.”
There was a leaden silence between them. Birdie sniffed. “Joe will have his way. And I have been weak with him. That’s my generation, I suppose.”
“You’re lying.”
It was all Emily could think to say. The sinking, empty feeling threatened to swallow her whole. There had been so many crushing disappointments in her life already. But to lose this—she didn’t even know who she was without this. Without her memories of Joe and this magical place, there was nothing golden, only ash.
“Anyway, the money was enough for your mother,” said Birdie. She played with a heart locket she wore around her neck, moving the clasp between her fingers. “We never heard from her again. So, I suppose, in that way, it was worth it. It spared me further humiliation.”
He doesn’t want us, Emily, Martha had told her. He doesn’t want you. Emily had carried this with her, the idea that her father hadn’t wanted her. It had taken on a shape and a form inside her, a kind of ragged hollow, a valley she had spent her whole life trying to fill. That was why she’d come to Heart Island, for him. She had thought he’d be here to save her from the awful things she’d done.
“Why did you come here?” Birdie asked, reading her mind. “What did you think would happen? That you’d be taken into the fold?”
“I didn’t think anything,” Emily said. She sounded weak and foolish. She was in the principal’s office after cutting, or facing off against the woman whose ring she’d stolen, or trying to explain to her soon-to-be-former boss why she was snooping around the office. She was in the wrong again, trying to make herself understood. There were reasons, good reasons, why she did the things she had done. Or so it seemed in the doing. In the aftermath, under the microscope of judgment, those reasons always seemed so flimsy, so wrong.
Emily stood quickly and saw Birdie lean away from her, a startled look of uncertainty flashing across her face. Emily realized that Birdie was frightened, wasn’t sure what the younger woman might be capable of doing. That thought frightened Emily.
On the table, Emily saw a flare gun. It was big and thick and looked like a toy. It was out of Birdie’s reach where she was sitting. Emily found herself diving for it. The older woman stood and backed away, moving toward the kitchen.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Emily. She looked down at the flare gun in her hand. “I never wanted that.”
“It’s far too late to be making assurances,” said Birdie.
Emily heard something outside, a loud crack, different from the thunder they’d been hearing, something loud enough to be heard over the wind and the rain. The sound sent a shock of fear through Emily. What had he done?
She was running then, away from the frightened stare of that horrible woman and her lies. She was out in the rain, which poured down on her in great sheets. She slipped, her right foot shooting out from underneath her on the slick rock. She came down so hard that it knocked the win
d from her. As she lay there, breathless, a form moved out of the rain.
“What did you do to her?” she yelled. “What have you done now?”
He bent down and yanked her up roughly. She let out a wail of pain and anger, started to struggle against his hands on her. It took her a second to realize that it wasn’t Dean. It was Brad.
In his face, she saw everything ugly and awful in her life. It was almost a relief when he put his hands to the back of her head and started pulling her toward the house. She couldn’t fight him; her pounding fists and kicking legs felt like they were hitting the thick trunk of a tree, rooted and immovable.
“Who’s in the house?” he said into her ear.
“No one,” she yelled. “There’s no one here.”
“Bullshit.”
His grip was tight around her hair, and the crown of her head was screaming with pain. It felt like her hair was going to come out by the roots. Still, she pushed back against him, digging her heels into the ground. Finally, he knocked her down, and the ground rose hard, pushing the wind from her chest, leaving her gasping.
He dropped his weight on top of her. “You know where that safe is,” he said, his voice a deep, threatening rumble. His knees were resting heavily on the crooks of her arms.
She let out an enraged scream: “Get off of me.”
“Just tell me where the goddamn safe is, Emily.” He sounded tired, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “What do you care about these people?”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll show you.” It was a lie. She didn’t know anything about the safe. There it was again, that horrible, ugly smile of his.
“I knew what you were the minute I saw you.”
The words drained the energy from her, and she felt herself go limp. She’d been fighting all her life, swimming against the current that wanted to take her to a place of despair and disappointment. She’d been so sure she could find something better. But no. Here she was, on the island she’d always held in her imagination as a kind of heaven, and it was worse than any nightmare she’d ever had. She’d brought destruction here. She’d wreaked havoc.
