IT WAS A TRAP. HAD to be. Cage leaned against the cemetery’s iron fence, hiding where it was darkest. No way Mae would show tonight. If what she said was true, Ro was dead and they thought he’d done it. This is bigger than both of us, Cage. That small memory of Ro shouting at him, that’s what scared him the most. Just back off! Because if he’d lost his temper…
But he would never hit her. Never.
And her sister would never show tonight. She was probably calling the police right now. It’d be an ambush, with that big hulk of a man—Childers, that was his name. Asking Mae to come here had been a mistake, but he wanted to know for sure.
A footfall sounded and Cage turned toward the dark path, his fists tight. He’d go down fighting.
Another footstep and then Mae was ducking out from the trail. He scanned the woods behind her, but as far as he could tell, she’d come alone. A shred of luck.
She stood in front of him in the moonlight. Pine needles at her feet, Ro’s thin red sweatshirt hanging over her torn jeans. Her hair was tangled-looking, long and thick, like there was more of it than her.
He was about to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and then pointed at the gate, toward the caretaker’s hut, the reason they’d waited for dark. Cage nodded and went to the fence, heard her following with light steps. When he held his palms up to hoist her over, she looked at him with wary eyes. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a knife. Tried to flick open the blade, but it didn’t work, so she just pointed the hilt at him.
“Don’t try anything.” The knife was trembling. It was the worst threat he’d ever seen.
“I’m trying to help you over.”
“I’m just saying, don’t try anything.”
“You’re not gonna pull out a rifle next, are you?” He was mostly joking, but she didn’t see the humor, and then he thought of Ro and pain racked his chest. Mae’s gaze stayed on him as she slipped the knife into her pocket and stepped onto his palms.
It was like she weighed nothing at all. He lifted her up and she grabbed the highest part of the fence, climbed to the top and hovered, half clinging, half standing, before she jumped to the other side. Not bad; graceful, even. He followed her over, feeling slow. His jaw bore down as he made it across, his head still feeling heavy from the accident.
When he straightened, he caught her watching him with a frown on her face, like she was trying to decide something. At least the knife wasn’t still out, though bringing a weapon showed she had sense. After a long minute when neither of them moved, she held a finger to her lips again and then gestured for him to follow her.
There were headstones all around them, statues scattered among the clipped grass. Pain tore through his head, and he tried not to think about why they were here. One, two, three, he counted, keeping himself calm.
Mae took off along a path that crossed through the graves, and he followed. Along the way she stopped at the statue of an angel, with wings so large they were blocking the path. Moss had grown between its fingers, outstretched and beckoning. The statue reminded him of a figurehead, a mermaid on the prow of a boat. He’d seen one like that while working at the wharf…but none of that mattered anymore. Not if Ro was here, in this place. He had to know for sure.
“This way,” Mae whispered, nodding toward the back of the cemetery.
He kept following her. Having her here with him made it easier to imagine Ro. If her sister was here, then Ro would appear soon too. She’d shout out his name, say it was all a joke. Her worst, most god-awful prank of all. Mae would turn to him and admit she’d been put up to it. Ro was manipulative, but she always let you know you were being manipulated, which made the difference. It made it okay—somehow you wanted to do what she asked no matter what.
His shin scraped against a headstone and he glanced up, getting his bearings. He’d wandered off the path. Mae was far ahead now; he could see her messenger bag at her hip, the strap pulled tight across her chest. She moved quick and quiet, as if used to walking around at night, and he picked up his pace.
The moon was half full and the sky was cloudless, easy enough to see by. Around them the earth was sunken and wet and dipped in small valleys. Cherubs and curled serpents were perched on gravestones; unmarked crosses from the Civil War jutted up next to pauper stones. Then came the newer graves of polished granite. Cage’s heart revved and he braced himself.
Mae stopped at the back fence. A tree was in the corner, dead and bent. It was blackened by lightning and its branches hung over a pair of graves.
Cage took another step and then he saw it: her name, etched onto the headstone beside her mother’s. His chest seized and he couldn’t breathe. He collapsed onto the ground with his back to the rows and rows of graves—the two rectangular blocks of granite and the tree in front of him. Mae stayed beside him. Standing so still she could have been another statue.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his knees going wet in the grass.
Nothing.
“You’re here.”
Nothing.
He wanted to feel her—her presence, her touch, anything—but all he felt was sharp heartache, pain that was filling him so much there wasn’t room for anything else. No room to breathe, to think. He looked away from the gravestone, took in a deep gulp of air, another.
He sensed movement beside him and quickly turned. On the trunk of the bent tree was an eye, staring at him. He thought of Ro’s book, of the things she’d told him. But when he reached out to touch the eye, he felt only a rough knob, a scab of bark. For shit’s sake. It was just the moon with its tricky light.
He stepped back from the tree to read the name on the grave again. ROXANNE ELIZABETH COLE.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He heard nothing in return, but Mae was stock-still, like she was terrified. He imagined Ro standing beside him—telling him to remember what he’d done.
He needed to keep his hands busy, keep moving. Earlier he’d found a candle and some matches in the barn, and now he pulled them from the pocket of his jeans.
The match flared when he struck it, and its light fell over her name. ROXANNE ELIZABETH COLE. BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER. REST IN PEACE. It couldn’t be her grave. Ro would have laughed at something that dull. Rest in peace. The rest of the engraving was covered by weeds, and he held his fists tight until he could get the words out.
“You saw them?” he finally said.
Mae’s voice was hushed, tight. “Saw what?”
“You saw them bury her.”
She nodded. Her eyes were wet and her face laid it all bare and then it hit him with a force. Ro in the ground. No more grin, no more pranks, no more swimming, no more laughter. Ro in a coffin. All her light shut under the dirt. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d do anything. Please, she couldn’t be dead, she couldn’t—
“Stop. Stop!” The yell snapped loud into the night, and hands were on his shoulders, pulling him back. He struggled and then realized it was Mae; she was breathing heavy. His knuckles were bloody, and the trunk of the dead tree looked as though it’d been mauled. He’d been hitting it.
One, two, three, four. Christ, stay calm, don’t think about her. Five, six, seven. Start over. One, two, three, four.
“Hear that?” Mae whispered.
The sound of a twig snapping, something shuffling through the undergrowth. She was right—something was out there. And he was in here, crouched over Ro’s grave. And they thought he did it.
“Get down.” Mae was tugging at his shirt, and then his legs sprang into action. He ducked down with her, hiding behind the bent tree. Flat on their bellies, her bag between them.
They waited—tensed and listening. He didn’t know how long they lay there, the damp ground soaking through their shirts. His knuckles stung; he’d shredded them up pretty bad. His arm was at a funny angle, falling asleep. Pinpricks in his right elbow, moving up to his neck. The woods seemed quiet now, but he stayed down, making sure. After a while he dared to talk. “It was probably just—”
“A deer or something,” Mae finished, her voice soft. She sat up, but slow, cautious. Her brown eyes found his. “I want to know what happened that day.”
“You and me both.” He leaned back against the tree, his hand beside her grave. “I’d never do this,” he said. “Don’t care what they say.”
She took a breath and the moonlight caught her hair just the right way and for a minute it looked like Ro’s hair. He imagined how it used to feel in his hands, the scent good enough to breathe in deep.
Mae was quiet. Her gaze was flicking back and forth between Ro’s headstone and their mother’s. “You know my middle name’s Eliza, for my mom,” she said, nodding toward the grave next to Ro’s. “Ro was the one who brought us up.” She smiled, but it looked like she was trying not to cry. “I used to feel sorry for myself, not having a mom. But you know the quickest way to get over something?” She touched her throat like it was hard for her to speak. “Having something worse happen.”
The other way was to have something good happen—like meeting Ro. But he didn’t say that.
Mae watched him, her eyes dark in the night. Her hair was in her face, and she held her shoulders tucked in, like the sadness was all the way in her bones, and then he felt bad for making her come here. It would’ve been hard for her to meet him, but she’d done it anyway.
“My middle name is Lucky,” he said, not sure why he was telling her. But maybe the talking would help. “I know, it’s an awful name.” He shrugged, and all of a sudden it hurt to swallow. “Thing is, I felt the opposite my whole life. Until the day I met her.”
He wanted to talk about Ro, so he kept going. “When I met her, I thought, wow. What’d I do to deserve this? I thought, my luck’s finally turned.” His whole body felt bruised inside when he looked at the grave. “And now here we are.”
“Lucky,” Mae said. “Why’d your mom name you that?”
“Must have been her sense of humor.”
Mae opened her mouth and then closed it with a little sigh. He thought of talking about the first time he’d met them in Gulf Shores, how Ro pretended to drown to see what he’d do. Or about the night she made a bonfire and how the barn nearly went up while she roasted the perfect marshmallow. Or the time she left a trail of riddles to his birthday present—a pair of mittens that sent them both laughing because it was sweltering and because she’d knitted what looked like an extra thumb. All of those moments rushed over him, and yet he couldn’t remember the one day he needed to.
“Tell me something,” he said to Mae. It’d been bothering him since yesterday when he’d shown up at Blue Gate. “How come you asked where I’d been?”
“What do you mean?”
“Back at your house. You said everyone thought I did it, because I ran. And Elle said something about me hiding out all this time.”
She bit her lip, like she wasn’t sure what to say. “Where were you?” she asked.
“I told you, I crashed my bike. Must have been…” He wanted to say right after it happened, but he didn’t know for sure. “I woke up—” He skipped the details, didn’t need to tell her everything. “I woke up and hitched a ride to your house.”
“But—”
“The last thing I remember is taking the boat out with her,” he said. “I must have been out a couple of days, or…”
Mae shook her head, her eyes wide, and confusion shot through him. “What? Tell me.”
“You’ve been gone almost a year, Cage.”
No. No, that wasn’t right. Think. Think, Cage. He’d gone sailing with Ro a couple of days ago and they’d had a fight, and then he must have ridden off and crashed. He’d wound up in the hospital, had stumbled in from the street, like the nurse told him. Out cold for a few days at the most. Not a year. No way he’d been in there for a year.
Mae shook her head. “I don’t know where you’ve been. If you’ve been hiding, or—”
“I wasn’t hiding,” he broke in. The anger came sudden and swift and he could feel it pulsing through him.
She looked at him, wary. “Everyone else thinks you were.”
“And what do you think?” he said, his hands going to fists as he waited for her to answer. He didn’t know why, but it felt like whatever came out of her mouth next could mean everything.
“I don’t know yet.” The way she said it, like a sigh, made all the fight leak from him. “But you were gone a year,” she told him, her eyes still on his. “How do you think she has a gravestone already? That took time.”
His throat felt hot. Why couldn’t he remember? The guy in his room, the other patient. He’d been hooked up on life support, seemed he’d been there awhile. So maybe it was possible? Whatever happened…he wouldn’t have hurt her.
Cage ran a hand through his hair—it felt longer than he usually kept it. The bruise across his chest was aching, everything was. He couldn’t think straight. The way he saw it, he only had two options. Get away from Blue Gate before daylight, make sure no one recognized him. The other choice was harder, but it was the right one.
“I’ll turn myself in. Tell them everything I know.”
Mae went quiet for a minute. He wasn’t sure she’d even heard him. “You told me you didn’t do it,” she finally said.
“Mae, I’d never touch her.” But he couldn’t remember, could he? All he remembered was them taking out the sailboat. And Ro shouting at him. Just back off! He glanced down at his raw knuckles and then something else came. Just like that, like a light switch flicking on in his head, he remembered the ring. Christ, had he really done it?
“I wanted to…” He couldn’t say it out loud, not now. “I had a ring for her.”
Mae turned to him. Looked as shocked as his uncle had been when he’d told him his plan. You’re seventeen, his uncle said. He’d been pulling in a net of live bait. You got all the time in the world.
But the world hadn’t given them shit, and now Mae was eyeing him and he didn’t want her asking questions that might piss him off, so he kept talking. “It was my grandmother’s,” he said. “It was nice, real nice.” Best thing he owned, and he wanted to give it to Ro. “Only…”
Only he wished he remembered more. What if he’d asked and she told him no? His temper, it was something he had to breathe through, it was always there, waiting for him to slip up.
“Only you don’t remember,” Mae said, and paused. She looked like she took her time with words, really turned them over before she spoke. “You’re telling me you don’t remember what happened that day. That you don’t remember—an entire year.” She shook her head. “And you want to give yourself up?”
He wanted to do the right thing. His jaw clenched tight, and he started counting in his head to keep calm.
Mae lifted her hair from her neck, coiled it into a knot. She was staring at Ro’s grave like maybe it had answers. “Doesn’t seem smart,” she said after a minute. “Not when they’re saying all those things about you. Not when they think you did it and you can’t remember.”
“What do you care, anyway?” His voice was sharp, but he couldn’t hold it back. Here she was, helping him, only person in the world helping him, and he was practically shouting at her.
“I—” Mae started, and then shut her mouth.
They both went quiet, and an old poem wormed its way into his head. One Ro used to recite, every time they docked. Home is the sailor, home from sea. Here he was, back at Blue Gate. Only this time he’d come alone. Home is the sailor, home from sea. And the hunter home from the hill.
“Why are you helping me?” he said.
Mae brought her knees up to her chest and shivered. Her jeans were smeared with mud from lying on the ground.
“I’m not. I came here to ask you what happened.” She spoke so softly he had to strain to hear. “And even if you don’t remember, I don’t think you did it.”
It didn’t sound like she believed what she said. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself. But she was here—she’d met him after dark like she’d promised, and that meant something.
“She loved you, and you loved her,” she said.
It wasn’t that simple. He’d seen a lot of shitty things done by people who loved each other. He needed to remember what happened. He needed to know for sure. If it was his fault—if he’d done something, lost his temper, hit her—then he deserved to suffer. But what if someone else had done it?
Sitting here all night in the mud and the moonlight wasn’t going to help. He stood and held out his hand.
Mae didn’t take it, just scrambled to her feet. They made their way to the gate in silence. She was quick to climb over and then he was up after her, dropping to the ground, a dull ache still in his head.
Out here in the woods, past the wrought-iron fence, the trees loomed tall and dark. He didn’t know what to do. If there were records of his stay at the hospital, then he could prove to the cops that he hadn’t just been hiding out for a year. But what if he’d only been in there for a day or two like he thought? Going to the police, especially with his record, was unwise. If he said he didn’t remember what happened, they’d lock him up. But if he didn’t hand himself over, they’d keep looking for him. He couldn’t go to his uncle’s house in Gulf Shores—wouldn’t shame him like that, not after everything his uncle had done for him. Couldn’t go to his mother’s in New Orleans either. The worst thing would be the look on her face, like she’d known all along he’d get in trouble again.
Mae was humming now, really faintly, and the tune reminded him of Ro and then he didn’t want to listen anymore.
“I should leave,” he said. “Try to remember what happened. Come back when I do.” He could go work in Mexico for a while. Or Alaska. Lots of folks hid in Alaska.
Mae didn’t say anything. Only stared up at the moon, just above the tips of the trees. Then she stopped humming, her lips tight, her brown eyes like his uncle’s—hard to read.
“If you don’t remember, don’t come back until you do,” she said. She stood there facing him. Her eyes were watering and the grief hit him too and he clenched his jaw, he couldn’t lose it here in front of her. He needed a better plan than just running away, but he owed her a goodbye first. She’d helped him so far, hadn’t told anyone he was here. She had no reason to help him either, none at all.
He cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry, gritty. “I never told you,” he said, just wanting to get through it, “that I’m sorry. About what happened when we first met. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” Mae said. “Don’t apologize for that. Not now.” Then she turned, started walking away. A few seconds later she started to run. She was heading back toward Blue Gate, where she belonged, and Ro was gone and she wasn’t coming back.
Cage sank to the ground. The earth felt hard and damp and he thought of her grave and wished the motorcycle had killed him. He’d trade places with her. He’d trade if she’d let him.
Count, Cage. He could hear her now, see that playful smile. Her words came back to him, her little sayings. Start with one, because it’s better than nothing. He was woozy—the trees spun around him and his head was aching. Try harder. Get to your feet and lift your chin. Stand up and veni vidi vici your life. He took a step and nearly fell over something. On the ground was Mae’s bag. She’d forgotten it.
He’d take it to her, leave it on the porch where she’d find it. Then he’d get to the highway, hitch a ride before dawn to any place that wasn’t here. He reached down and slung the bag onto his shoulder. It was heavier than he expected. The flap was open, and as he was tucking it back, about to latch it, he stopped.
He recognized it straightaway. That tattooed green leather with the back cover missing. A pair of coffins on the front. It was Ro’s book. He’d never wanted anything to do with it before—he could hear his mother even now, teasing him. But here was the book, which meant…the scratch of some memory came.
He touched the shriveled leather and felt the ground drop away. The sky rushed down on him and his vision went black, he couldn’t see a thing, and then it smelled like smoke. Fire and smoke and wood—the air sharp and thick and he couldn’t breathe, not one breath, and he pitched over in a coughing fit, his chest heaving so hard he saw stars. Blinking, the ground swimming in front of him now. But he could see again. His lungs filled with a deep breath.
When he finally straightened, she was there. He was either dead or she was alive—and she was in front of him.
“Ro?”
She reached toward him. He stared at her wet arm, her blond mess of hair, soaking wet.
Cage.
Her eyes held his gaze. Then she smiled, but her teeth were bloody. She’d bitten through her lower lip.
He blacked out.
He’s checking his uncle’s nets in Gulf Shores and hoping the girl will turn up again when he sees someone else on the beach instead. This girl’s in a red bikini and she’s lying on a towel over wet sand. She’s about his age, seventeen, or maybe a little older, and she’s stunning—the type who’d never go for him. He stands on the deck with his arm up blocking the sun, the water between them.
She’s on her stomach, reading, the towel bunched underneath her. Her hair’s shiny, so bright it’s hard to look at. She licks her fingertips before she turns the page and he wants to be that book.
A small wave rocks into the side of the boat. He’s still watching her, can’t help it. He wishes he was out on the beach instead of working, but he needs the money and at least there’s the view. After a while the girl stands and shakes out her long hair. He hopes she’s the type who likes to fish or hike, camp outdoors, except who’s he kidding? Still, he can’t take his eyes off her.
When it seems she might look in his direction, he turns. He’s making up ways to introduce himself, now wishing he paid more attention in English class. He could ask her what she’s reading, ask whether she prefers the ocean to the mountains, or if she knows how to read the stars, or just anything, like where does she live? But he’ll miss his chance. He already took his break today, and by the time he finishes work she’ll be gone. Probably wouldn’t talk to a guy like him anyway.
He doesn’t want to let his uncle down, so he goes back to work, double time now to make up for all the staring he just did. Like a fool, his mother would say. He spent the morning daydreaming about another girl and here he is again, his head floating on fantasies. Good way to mess up and lose his job like everyone thinks he will. The rope is rough in his hands and that salty smell of fish is strong enough to choke on. He focuses on the sun burning his neck, the sweat running down his back. He tells himself looking at the beach is off-limits, at least until he finishes. When he’s hauling in the last net, the shout comes and he glances up.
She’s in the water, waving her arms, so he drops the net and stumbles for the life preserver. She’s alone in the waves, far from shore like she got caught in a current, and she’s fighting the water and losing. The preserver falls short when he throws it and he curses. He scans the beach but there’s no one in sight so he dives in, bracing at the burst of cold as he swims toward her, that red swimsuit like a warning.
When he’s close enough to shout, he tells her it’s okay. That he won’t leave her. He’s thinking, Don’t pull us down, he’s saying that as he reaches for her, Don’t pull us under. She looks at him with eyes full of tears and coughs up water and then he’s got an arm around her ribs.
“Just relax,” he tells her. The waves aren’t too strong and he thinks he could float her, drag her to the pier that way. He flips her onto her back, keeping hold of her as he treads water. “I won’t let you go.”
She coughs again, doesn’t speak. He kicks hard toward the dock, his hand underneath her, guiding her. She’s got her eyes shut, probably scared or in shock, he’s not sure. Her skin is soft, like she belongs in the water, and he can’t believe he’s touching her.
They make it to the pier and then she wraps her arms around him—she’s in his arms as she whispers her thanks and turns to grab the ledge.
He pulls himself up after her. She’s on her knees now, dripping and coughing and laughing—he can’t believe that she’s laughing, and for a minute he’s angry.
“What’s your name, sailor?” she asks, and coughs again, but now she’s smiling at him as though they might be sharing a joke.
“Cage.” Before he can say more she puts a cold hand over his lips.
“You saved my life,” she tells him. “That makes me bound to you forever.” She smiles again and then says, “Seven for a secret, swear you won’t tell.” Her eyes are green with bits of gold that match the locket she’s wearing. “Eight for a wish and nine for a kiss.” She snaps her fingers and he can’t stop looking at her. “Ten for a bird, you must not miss.”
And he stares at her because he’s not sure what to say and because she’s not like any girl he’s ever met before, not if she talks like this. The tide is lapping against the dock and the sun is hot over them and he doesn’t want to leave her side.
“Life is good, isn’t it?” she says, and she leans back on her elbows as if she’s not going anywhere either. She laughs again. “Isn’t that right, Cage? Caaaaaaaaaaaa…”