Dark and Shallow Lies

by Ginny Myers Sain

  Hart is telling the story. But it’s like listening to an audio recording. He isn’t here.

  Not really.

  All that’s left is a stranger with an empty face.

  “Later, he made me help move ’em. Woke me up one night real late and we took ’em out to Dempsey Fontenot’s place. Dumped ’em in the pond there, for everybody to find the next mornin’.”

  “And you never told anybody?”

  Hart shivers, and I remember that he’s sitting there in his boxer shorts. Soaking wet. And bleeding all over. He’s lost so much weight. He’s just skin.

  And bones.

  “I told one person.” He runs his fingers through those perfect curls, and I’m gutted. “I told my mama. But not till a little while later.”

  Blood and brains all over the kitchen wallpaper.

  “But this whole town knows,” he goes on. “Only they all wanna carry on actin’ like it was Dempsey Fontenot. ’Cause of that barrel out on the dock. And that little grave back at Keller’s Island.” Hart shakes his head and rubs at the smeared blood on his arms. “They all know what my daddy did, though. What we did.”

  In the hiding place, nothing is a secret.

  And everything is.

  “You were four years old,” I remind him.

  “He made me help carry their bodies, Greycie. Those little girls I’d played with. Dead. And me not any bigger than them.” Hart starts to look for a cigarette. Force of habit. Then he realizes he doesn’t have one. That he doesn’t even have pockets. “He didn’t need my help. He just wanted to fuck with me. That was part of the fun for him.”

  “You felt them,” I say.

  “I feel them,” he corrects me. “Every single day. What Ember and Orli felt, it’s stuck inside me. And what Dempsey Fontenot felt. And Aeron. What Elora felt.” He’s staring out at the river. “What your mama felt. And my mama.” He turns back to look at me. “What you felt when you thought I was a murderer. And what you’re feeling right now. That’s all part of me. I can’t shake it off.”

  “Hart.” I whisper his name, and I wish I could make myself touch him. I want to. But I can’t. “Is that why you’re so ready to die?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s the water that makes me wanna die.”

  Evie’s wind chimes start to sing again. Real quiet at first. A soft tinkling sound. Gentle.

  Hart gets up and walks out to stand on the boardwalk. And I follow him. The planks are warped. Loose. I feel them shifting under our feet.

  “What about the water?” He won’t look at me now. And those wind chimes ring out louder. And louder. “Hart. What about the water?”

  The air is full of ringing and clanking.

  “What Mackey said.” Hart’s watching the river roll by, just like it’s a regular summer night. “Death in the water. If I’d known that, I never would have put her in the pond.”

  “Oh, God.” My stomach lurches again. “You think maybe she was still alive.”

  He turns back to face me, and I’m not prepared for his eyes. “She was dead, Grey. I swear she was already gone.”

  “But what if she wasn’t, Hart?”

  I imagine Elora. Coming to in that dark trunk as the cold water rushes in. Clawing at the wood. Choking on blood, first, and then on water.

  Hart nods. Those wind chimes are so loud. It’s like they’re screaming at me.

  “But what if she wasn’t.”

  We stare at each other.

  “What do you think happened that night?” It’s the only question left. I think about what Hart said. Elora with her skull bashed in. “Who did that to her?” Maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore. But I can’t let it go. Not even now.

  Suddenly the rain comes again like someone turned on a faucet. It falls in sheets that blow sideways as the wind roars back to life. The worst of Elizabeth will be coming for real now. The storm surge. We don’t have long. I grab Hart’s hands just to keep from being blown away, and he shouts something at me that I can’t understand.

  “What?” I yell, and he tries again.

  “Evie!” he shouts. “Fuckin’ Evie!” But that can’t be right. I must have misunderstood what he was trying to say.

  Hart pulls me hard against his chest so he can shout right in my ear. “I didn’t know! I never felt it from ’er! There was so much other stuff to feel. And I was so mixed-up. But she told me, Grey! She told me the truth tonight! Back at Li’l Pass!”

  I remember that scene in the trees. Hart’s hands around Evie’s neck.

  And that’s when I hear it. Finally. That sound I’ve been wondering about since I heard it that first time in my bedroom, so clear it made me turn my head and look over my shoulder.

  Click.

  The cocking of the gun. Just behind my head. There’s so much noise. Rain and wind and the thumping of my heart. But that single metallic sound echoes louder than any of them. It’s the flipping of a light switch. Click. And everything else fades to black.

  I untangle myself from Hart and turn around slowly. And she’s standing right there pointing one of Victor’s old pistols at me.

  Everyone’s baby.

  Evie.

  That white-blonde hair is plastered to her head, and her painted-on eyes blink against the rain.

  “He was gonna leave, Grey!” Her voice is a high-pitched whine. I can barely hear it above the wind. “She was gonna take him away from here! I overheard them talking about it!”

  “Oh, Evie.” I thought my heart couldn’t break any more. But I was wrong.

  I think about Elora, whispering in Evie’s ear from that dark, wet trunk at the bottom of the gator pond.

  She hasn’t been murmuring warnings.

  She’s been shouting accusations.

  The storm surge is pouring into the bayou, and the water is rising fast. It’s already spilling across the tops of the wooden planks. Huge waves crash against the dock.

  Another few minutes and the boardwalk will be underwater.

  Then the whole town will be underwater.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” Evie whines. “I just needed Hart to stay! He saved me, Grey. He saved my mama!”

  “I know.”

  “And I was so scared after. I was hiding there on the dock, and I didn’t know what to do. And I saw Wrynn come and try to save her. But she couldn’t.” Evie makes a horrible sound, like she’s being torn apart by the storm. “And I was so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I take a step toward her.

  “But then Hart came back. And I saw what he did. For me. How he put her in that trunk and took her away. To protect me. And I thought he loved me. I thought—”

  “We all love you, Evie.” One more step in her direction.

  “No! That’s a lie!” Evie stops me with a shake of her head and a finger on the trigger. Behind me, I hear Hart suck in his breath. “Now you want to take him away with you!”

  “I don’t!” I soothe. “I’m not.”

  “I won’t let you,” she warns me.

  The air around me changes, and another figure appears out of the darkness and the rain at the edge of my vision.

  He promised he’d be here.

  Zale holds out his hand and I start to go toward him, but Evie screams at me to be still. Not to move. She puts the gun against my head and I freeze. She’s shaking hard. Half-blind from the rain. Confused and scared and fighting the wind to stay on her feet.

  I feel the water swirling around my ankles.

  “Let Grey go!” Hart’s shouting at Evie. “Let her go, and I’ll stay here. I’ll stay with you. I swear!”

  There’s an awful splintering, cracking sound as the rotting river dock gives way. It crumbles and collapses and disappears into the raging water rising around us.

  The revenge of the river.

  �
�Let Grey go, Evie!” Hart shouts again. “I won’t leave. I promise. It’ll be just you and me.”

  Evie chews on her lip. She moves back and forth on one foot. In that Evie way she has. And I think maybe I can’t stand this. Maybe it would be better to die with them.

  But then she nods and lowers the gun. And Hart pulls her into his arms.

  “Go!” Hart’s voice is the crack of a whip.

  But I can’t move.

  “Now, Greycie!” He screams at me over the tempest. “Go!”

  I turn and run toward Zale. Bare feet pounding. Splashing. As fast as I can go. The boardwalk tilts at an awkward angle. The pilings on one side are sliding deeper into the muck. I feel it sinking underneath me. A climbing vine grabs me by the ankle. Tries to pull me into the flood. I tear myself loose. But I don’t stop. And I don’t look back. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to remember. I’m waiting for the bullet to split my skull in half. For the force of it to knock me face-first into the water and the mud. But I never feel it. I only hear the shot.

  And then another.

  Zale grabs me by the hand, and that electric touch gives me life. We run together toward the end of the boardwalk. Toward the little flatboat he has waiting there. I freeze at the edge. Standing over the flooded-out gator pond. I’m looking for the black trunk. But it’s already vanished.

  Elora is already gone.

  Taken away from me first by Evie.

  And then again by Hart.

  And finally by Elizabeth.

  Zale squeezes my hand. We’re standing on the boardwalk in fast-moving water up to our knees.

  We’re standing in the middle of the river.

  And, just for a second, I hear a musical laugh carried on the rain like a zydeco waltz. I finally let myself look over my shoulder, but there’s only dark water.

  I know she’s there, though. I can feel her. Right behind me.

  And I know I’m strong enough to face the storm.

  So I let Zale help me into the tiny boat, and then he yells at me to get down. I hunker in the bottom and close my eyes tight. I hear the engine roar to life, and then we’re moving.

  And it takes me a minute to realize.

  I don’t feel the rain anymore.

  And I can’t feel the wind.

  Not even enough wind to move the hair on the top of my head.

  When the boat stops, we’re bobbing on gentle little swells. Everything is peaceful. Quiet. And I start to sit up.

  But then I catch a glimpse of towering waves. Jagged lightning. A dark and violent sky.

  Zale takes my face in his hands.

  “Whatever you do, don’t look at the storm.” He wraps me in his arms, and I feel him surge through me. More powerful than ever. “You’re safe. I promise. Just keep your eyes on mine.”

  But I couldn’t look way from those fire-and-ice blues, even if I wanted to.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Grey.” His ocean-deep voice settles over me like a quilt.

  “You didn’t,” I whisper.

  And the world is perfectly calm when he kisses me.

  After, though . . . somewhere in my mind . . . I see a massive wall of water slam into La Cachette. It finds the hiding place and swallows it whole in one big gulp.

  Like a sea monster.

  And Zale holds me tight as I scream.

  EPILOGUE

  We never went back. After Elizabeth.

  No one did. Except maybe Willie Nelson.

  La Cachette is under thirty feet of water now. It’s a permanent part of the river, and the Summer Children are scattered.

  Six of us alive.

  And six of us dead.

  I never went back up to Little Rock, either. Dad drove my stuff down to Shreveport and Honey and I set up shop in New Orleans. We have a little bookstore on Royal Street. The Grey Rose. I’m a student at Tulane, too, and that keeps me pretty busy, but I help out as much as I can.

  Full-time college student.

  Part-time psychic.

  It’s a strange life, and I love it. But my soul is still wet.

  So tonight, I follow St. Ann Street all the way down to the park, where I can stand above the Mighty Mississippi.

  And I face south.

  Toward La Cachette.

  I touch the blue pearl hanging around my neck. Spin Elora’s ring on my finger.

  Three times.

  Like making a wish.

  And I long for the slow roll of the tides beneath my feet.

  The crackle of electricity in the air.

  But I’m nineteen now. And it’s been two summers.

  I find a spot to sit. An empty bench in a crowded city. If I close my eyes and breathe in the river, I can almost imagine myself home.

  It’s strange to think that the water flowing by below me will eventually make its way down to the hiding place. It will slip over the polished skeleton of the boardwalk. And the bones of the Mystic Rose.

  It will wash over what’s left of Hart.

  And Evie.

  Whatever remains of Elora.

  Dempsey Fontenot.

  And Aeron.

  I murmur their names to the river.

  Spark their memories like a candle.

  Because we were all flames lit from the same match.

  And I’m the only one still burning.

  So much has changed. It’s like Zale said. I’ve had to go on living in a completely different way. But I do know for sure now that there is magic in me. Not the kind my mama had. That beautiful, terrible power. But the kind that comes from walking through a storm.

  And making it out the other side still breathing.

  It’s getting late and the sun is sinking. I should be heading home for dinner. I stand up to go, but something stops me.

  A sudden change in the air.

  It hums and snaps like a living thing. Dances against my skin.

  I hear the echo of my name. Ocean-deep. And, when I turn around, those fire-and-ice eyes stop my heart from beating.

  Zale grins at me. Holds out his hand. And I whisper the words out loud.

  “It’s okay. I’m not scared.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve spent most of my life working in the theatre, so when I first started thinking about writing, it seemed like such a solitary art. It didn’t take me long to realize how wrong I was. So many people have a hand in bringing a book to life that, in the end, it’s just as collaborative an act as putting on a play.

  First and foremost, I need to think my family. My mother and father raised their three children in a house where books and words were a part of our daily lives from the very beginning. My mother, Anna Myers, is the author of many wonderful middle grade novels, and my father, Paul Myers, was a poet. Their examples meant that, when I did decide to start writing, I knew it was actually a thing real people could do. Thanks especially to my mother, whose absolute faith in me prompted me to give this a try. And to my son, Paul, who wasn’t a bit surprised when I told him I was writing a book, because that’s just what people in our family do. Thanks also to my sister, Anna-Maria Lane, for always being up for a phone call or a lunch date when I needed a break, and to my brother, Ben Myers, an exceptional Oklahoma poet whose writing continually inspires me. My whole extended family deserves to be mentioned here, but I want to specifically to list my cousin, Becky Kephart, who is one of the most genuinely enthusiastic cheerleaders anyone could have, and our friend Lela Fox, who isn’t actually related to us but definitely deserves to be counted here among my family. Thanks to all of you for everything!

  Thank you to my agent, Pete Knapp, who first read this book over the Fourth of July weekend, even though I didn’t really believe him when he said he would. Pete, I’m blown away by your passion for great stories, your clarity
of vision, your kindness and generosity, and your absolute dedication to the authors you work with. To everyone else at Park & Fine, thank you! I can’t imagine a better literary home. I especially want to mention the foreign rights team, Abigail Koons and Ema Barnes.

  A huge thank-you to my wonderful editor, Ruta Rimas at Razorbill, who saw from the very beginning what this story could be. Your enthusiasm for this book was unmatched. You made this whole process so easy and seamless, and this nervous debut author is eternally grateful for your guidance, your expertise, and your patience.

  Thank you to so many other wonderful team members at Razorbill and Penguin Young Readers who made this possible, including Casey McIntyre, Felicity Vallence, Kaitlin Kneafsey, Gretchen Durning, James Akinaka, the wonderful marketing and sales teams, and all the rest who work behind the scenes like Jayne Ziemba and Abigail Powers, and Kristie Radwilowicz, who designed the gorgeous cover.

  I owe a huge debt to my critique partners turned best friends and brunch buddies—Tiffany Thomason, Brenda Maier, Catren Lamb, and Valerie Lawson—who have read this book so many times they can quote it by heart now. You are amazing and I love you! Thanks also to the entire Margarita Night gang who have kept me going with the promise of good food, good conversation, and lots of laughter every Wednesday evening; to all the members of SCBWI Oklahoma; and to the other authors in my incredible debut group, The 21ders. I couldn’t wish for more supportive communities to be a part of. Thanks also to everyone at the Philbrook Museum of Art, the most beautiful place in Oklahoma and the best place ever to work!

  Last, I want to send all my love to the STAGES theatre kids who taught me so much over the years about friendship, passion, loyalty, bravery, and found family. I was working on revisions for this book when we lost our beloved Caitie very suddenly and much too soon, and so much of that grief and loss made its way onto these pages. I know she would have had to read this story with all the lights on, but I also know she would have loved it anyway . . . because she loved me. I’m so grateful to Caitlin’s grandmother, whom she called Honey, for dragging a crying seven-year-old into my theatre twenty-four summers ago and changing our lives forever.