MAE RAN DOWN THE STAIRS and threw open the front door. No one was in the yard—no man standing in a hat, glaring at Blue Gate. No one was at the tree line either, those dark oaks hemming in the house from all sides. A coldness was at her neck as if she was being watched, and when she went inside, locking the door behind her, the foyer felt airless. She couldn’t hear her dad or Lance and Elle either. The house had emptied out while she’d been in the tunnel, and it seemed like she’d returned to some other place, where her family didn’t exist anymore. But when she passed the dining room, she found her granddad asleep in the window seat, his chin resting on his chest and his Bible on his lap.
He nodded awake and waved her over. She hesitated for a moment, thinking again of the attic. What was he hiding about their past? Everything she’d found in the house so far was odd, but the way he’d acted around the book…That was fear. And even when they’d gone through the album earlier he was spooked, on edge. Now his blue eyes looked clear, calmer. He pulled one of the garden’s pink lantanas out of his pocket, presented it to her, and then fumbled for his notepad and scratched out a line.
NOTHING LIKE BEAUTY SLEEP
She put a smile on her face because it would make him happy. “Keep sleeping, then,” she said, and he grinned. It was their joke. With all that had happened last year, he was the only one who tried to keep a sense of humor, who took the time to remind them that he cared, even though they were all missing Ro.
“May I borrow that Bible?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose, and then he pointed at the bookshelf by the table instead of handing her the one beside him. Another edition was on the bottom shelf, next to the old encyclopedias he used to read aloud when they were younger.
“Just want to check something.” It wasn’t a lie, but her face flushed as she turned the thin pages to the right section. Psalms 3:5.
I laid me down, the verse started, and Mae’s eyes locked on those four words. I laid me down. She didn’t have to read the rest to know what it said. She’d seen it before, on Hanna’s grave in the woods.
I laid me down and slept; I awaked,
for the Lord sustained me.
Whoever had chosen the epitaph had also been the artist in the hidden tunnel. Mae shifted, tried to hide her unease. She slid the Bible back onto the shelf, knowing what she had to do. Her granddad shook his head when she asked if he needed anything—he was always worried about being a burden—but she brought him some sweet tea anyway to drink on the porch. She spent the rest of the afternoon searching the house for more hidden tunnels. Elle and Sonny weren’t around to ask questions, and the search kept her mind off meeting Cage at nightfall. But even after checking every closet, and knocking against walls in every bedroom to see if they were hollow, she didn’t find any more secret passages. Blue Gate was hiding them. Or someone was.
It was almost dark. Clouds were smothering the sky by the time her dad had left the house to go drink with Childers, Elle leaving right after him for a party. Mae steeled herself as she finally made her way toward the woods. Her pocketknife was in her hand, and she’d decided to shove a hammer into her bag, just in case. She turned the knife over, the metal cool on her skin. She wasn’t sure if Cage was innocent, but she knew what she wanted from him—she could feel it all throughout her body, like diving into shocking-cold water. What she wanted from him, what she craved, was the same thing she wanted from Lance. She had to know the truth about what happened with Ro.
The sky seemed even darker when she reached the tree line, and she clenched her bag strap as she started on the trail toward the barn. The woods were thick here, full of tupelo and black gum and cypress. If you didn’t know your way, it was easy to get lost, especially in the fading light, the whole sky moving toward a purplish dusk. It was the color of blood coming to the surface—a bruised color that matched her heart.
As the ground grew softer, wetter, the old cabins came into view. Overhead the leaves blocked the last dregs of light, turning the clay foundations into shadows. There were a few decaying walls, a gap that used to be a window. Mae weaved through the ruins, passing a crumbling chimney and then the old well. Spanish moss hung down from the surrounding branches, grazing the round stone rim. Just as she walked past it, there was movement ahead. She tensed, peering into the woods. But she could only make out the lean trunks of trees, the clotted undergrowth.
Then she heard footsteps behind her, near the cabins. She spun, saw nothing. A moment later the footsteps were on the other side of the well. A tingle shot through her. There was the sound of something dragging across the mud—it was everywhere, moving through the trees. Someone was circling her.
Cage? His name was on her lips, but she stayed still, barely breathing, her eyes straining in the dusk. The woods were a deep gray, full of shadows. If she could hardly see, maybe this other person, or thing, couldn’t either.
Everything went silent, and then all of a sudden the dragging was back—farther away now.
Mae’s feet were riveted to the ground. She clutched her knife, took another long breath. The footsteps waned, but she held still for a few minutes longer, her eyes searching the woods. The trees around her were so thick it was hard to see. As she stepped out from behind a massive oak, her stomach went cold.
What was that, in the distance?
She gripped the knife tighter and stepped forward. There, some yards ahead, was a rope strung from a branch like a noose. The rope was thick, the dark shape at the end of it dangling a few feet above the ground.
It cut in and out of sight as she moved toward it, branches scraping her arms, her face. When the rope came into view again, she gasped at what was hanging from it.
A cat, slowly spinning in the air.
Her heart ratcheted in her chest. She ran up to it and grabbed the rope, started cutting. After a couple of swipes the animal swung loose. It was limp in her arms, and she set it on the ground where it lay still. She couldn’t see anyone nearby as she crouched down and touched the cat’s fur, her hand shaking. It was the little black stray.
Just that morning it had crawled out of her arms and escaped through the attic window. Surely someone hadn’t just killed it, hung it up like this. And then it all clicked into place and she froze.
A cat for nine.
Mae’s chest clamped up. She didn’t want to believe it. She tried to fill her lungs, to breathe, but her ribs felt trapped. She dropped the knife onto the ground and stripped to her tank top, then wrapped the cat in her sweatshirt. If Cage had done this, then he was sick. He was sick in the head and she needed to—
“Mae.”
She stood, grappling for the knife. She thrust it out in front of her, but no one was there.
“Mae, it’s me.”
And then he was stepping out from behind a tree, his hands up.
“It’s just me,” Cage said, his voice soft, almost coaxing. His face was barely visible in the growing dark, but he looked confused by the knife—his head tilted to the side just a fraction. Was that his trick? He pretended he didn’t know anything, like he was innocent, so she’d feel sorry for him?
“Everything okay?” He stepped toward her. “Thought you’d know to meet at the barn.”
“Don’t come any closer,” she said, thrusting the knife higher. Her eyes had adjusted enough in the dimness to see him. His gaze dropped to the knife and then went back to her.
“Come on, Mae,” he said. “This again?” He took another step—like he thought she didn’t mean it. One more and he could almost reach her. He was getting too close.
“Don’t move.” She pointed the blade at him, her other hand grasping for her bag. “Don’t.” But her voice sounded faint now, weak to her own ears. She felt like she’d been tricked, sucker punched. Her dad didn’t trust him, Elle didn’t, neither did Lance. The list was getting longer, and she’d refused to see it.
“Mae, I—”
He took another step forward, and she swung her bag as hard as she could. The canvas collided with his face and the force of the hammer hitting bone traveled up her elbow. Something came from Cage’s lips—a soft wheezing sound—as he sank to his knees and fell over. He lay on his side, one of his arms at an awkward angle, his eyes shut. She felt a surge of panic. There was blood on his temple, on his dark hair.
“Hey!” The shout startled her and she bit back a gasp. It was her dad. “Hey!”
“Over here!” The yell was closer now; this time it was Childers. Bright orbs flashed, winking out when they were blocked by the trees. They’d followed her. “Answer us!”
Mae looked down at Cage, saw how he was slumped. She should call out to them. She should tell them everything she knew, even though it wasn’t enough yet.
Just as she was about to yell, she heard a small sigh, a rustle. Cage? But he was still on the ground.
“Hey, Fern!” Childers shouted. “Fern, get yourself over here!”
Mae crouched down, her breath trapped in her lungs. Why were they looking for Fern? Was she hurt? Did Cage—
And then came the girl’s answering shout, too close. “What!” The men were trudging over a nearby hill, their flashlights pooling on the ground, throwing streams of light across pine needles and mud. Mae heard the pitter-patter of Fern’s footsteps nearby. The girl came into view and stopped a few feet from the shredded rope, and Mae shrank back into the shadows. Fern wasn’t looking at her, but she was close enough to see her. Something wasn’t right.
“Your mom’s worried,” Childers called out. “Now come on home.”
Mae pressed herself against a tree, hoping Cage was shielded by the bush he’d fallen next to. If they saw him…
“Fern, scoot yourself over here,” Sonny said. “I’m tired of walking.”
Her dad was getting closer, near enough to spot the rope. One of the flashlight beams almost grazed its edge and Mae sucked in a breath, the bark digging into her shoulders. She could see it unfold: her dad pulling a gun, shooting Cage as he lay passed out on the ground.
The light fell on the tree beside the one she was hiding against and she flinched. Another tingle flashed down her neck, holding her voice captive. Surely they’d see the rope. Any minute, any minute—
A shadow shot past. It was Fern, running into the beam of light.
“All right, let’s go home, Uncle Chill-chill!” she yelled, trampling her way over the brush, her curls bouncing in the flashlight beam as she sprinted toward the house. Fern was running away from the rope—almost like she hadn’t wanted Childers and Sonny to see it.
The tingle was back at Mae’s neck, her body’s way of saying This is the feeling of having wool pulled over your eyes. Fern knew something, she was deliberately drawing her dad and Childers away from the dead cat on the ground. Away from Cage.
“Your mama’s gonna tan your hide!” Childers called out. He stopped walking toward Mae and turned to watch Fern, his flashlight pointed at her as she ran in the opposite direction.
“Come on now,” Sonny said. “Girl probably just wants attention.”
Mae shivered. It seemed too much of a coincidence that Fern had been in this part of the woods, the same place where she’d found the cat. But Fern wouldn’t have killed the animal. Even if there was some cruel streak in her, the tree limb seemed too high for her to throw the rope around, and yet…Was she wrong to have hit Cage?
Mae couldn’t make sense of it, so she stayed down, keeping small. She waited in the dark until her dad and Childers were gone. By that time her shoes had sunk into the mud and Cage still hadn’t moved from the ground. She stepped closer and then felt a bolt of fear.
He wasn’t breathing.