“CAGE!” MAE HISSED, SHAKING HIM. He was sprawled in the brush, still lying on his side.
Her heart was fast in her chest, and she tried to remember what to do—she’d read about it after her granddad’s stroke. Clear the airway, start compressions, rescue breaths. He couldn’t be dead; she couldn’t have killed him.
She rolled him onto his back and put the heel of her hand on his chest, ready to push, and then all of a sudden she felt his ribs lift. She gasped, her heart thudding hard.
“Can you hear me, Cage?”
His lids were fluttering open. She could see the whites of his eyes, his face in a grimace. “Ro?” he asked. Now he was looking over her shoulder, staring so intently that she felt a chill.
Mae whirled, saw a cluster of trees in the moonlight. When she glanced back, his gaze was on her. “Did you—did you punch me?” He sounded dazed. A welt was swelling above his temple.
“Not exactly.”
He rubbed his head and sat up, slowly, like he might pass out again.
“What happened?” he asked.
She decided to go with the truth, even though she felt embarrassed now, as if she owed him an apology. But it wasn’t all her fault—and she still didn’t know what he’d done. She kept her knife close, staying alert.
“I warned you to keep back, but you didn’t listen.”
“My mother says I have that problem.” He tried to stand and swayed instead. Mae scrambled to her feet, wanting to keep her advantage.
“Well, now you’ve got a lot more.” Her voice came out sharp and she watched for a reaction.
But Cage didn’t seem defensive or on edge, or the least bit concerned about the frayed rope hanging beside them. He leaned against a tree for support and sighed out a breath through his teeth. “Mae, I need to tell you something.”
“Tell me about that.” She pulled the flashlight from her bag and pointed it at the rope.
“What about it?” He glanced at it, and then back at her. A trickle of blood was running down his face. “What’s it for?”
He seemed genuinely confused. She beamed the light at his body and stared at him without saying anything, letting the quiet of the woods grow between them. Still looking dazed, he picked up the edge of his T-shirt and wiped the blood at his temple, the muscles in his arm flickering in the light. Nothing in his stance made him seem guilty. He looked baffled more than anything, and wary of her, and another seed of doubt worked its way into her heart.
She flicked off the flashlight and stuck it into her back pocket, letting her eyes adjust again. Maybe he hadn’t hanged the cat. Maybe she’d guessed wrong. There were so many questions to ask—but it’d be smart to get inside first.
“Barn,” she said. “Now.”
He nodded, and she gestured for him to lead, her hand on the knife in her pocket. A minute later they were walking up the hill, the moon lighting their path. The back of his shirt was dirty, and so were his jeans. She watched a leaf flutter past his arm as he pushed the barn’s side door open and disappeared inside.
She ducked after him. The light inside was dim; she found a couple of large flashlights on the counter near the boat and flicked them on, keeping Cage in sight. He had bruising near his cheek, a cut near his temple. She cringed, tried not to show it. “Are you okay?”
“Been hit worse,” he said. “You must have a killer hook.”
Guilt was creeping in. But she’d made a decision in the moment, thinking it was the best one she had. “It was a hammer,” she admitted, feeling even worse.
His eyebrows shot up. “A what?” He put a hand to his head as if reconsidering his level of pain.
“In my bag. I had a hammer in my bag. Still do.” She wanted to apologize but her throat felt tight. Her mind flashed to the stray—it was still outside, wrapped in her sweatshirt, and now she needed answers.
“The note you left me,” she said, holding her bag close. “Did you remember anything about Ro?”
He stiffened. Then he shook his head, quick, like he had something to say but wasn’t sure it’d come out right. “I was hoping to. Thought maybe the book would be a trigger, but it wasn’t.” His hands went to fists. “Mae, did you ever try the ritual?”
She crossed her arms, her body tense. “You saw it in the book….” She felt spurred, ready for a fight. So it was him—it had to be. He was testing her, seeing what she knew.
He stared at the ground, blinking, as if trying to work something out. “Ro mentioned it before, but I—” His voice cracked. “I told her I wasn’t interested.”
She let the question loose. “And are you now?” He glanced at her, his blue eyes giving her nothing. “Tell me,” she pressed. “Did you try it?” Did you slaughter the cat? Because if he did that, then what else was he capable of?
He looked away, running a hand through his dark hair. The skin along his knuckles was raised, bunched up in a row of scars. “I asked you first.”
“Of course I haven’t.” She was the one who should be asking questions, not him. And the magic wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. She only cared about the book because it belonged to her family—because it had belonged to Ro. And whatever she’d written in it might bring Mae one step closer to knowing what secrets she’d been hiding before she died.
But now Cage had doubt on his face, like she was the one who was lying. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Hear me out,” he added, as if sensing she was about to protest. The flashlight was directly behind him, glowing over his skin, his dark hair. “Please.”
Confusion swirled in her stomach. Every time he was around, she felt like this. There was something she was missing. She walked past him to the small kitchen, needing space to think. The faucet was hooked up to a rainwater tank, and she filled a glass. It tasted metallic, gritty, but she drank it all and filled the glass again before turning back.
Cage was watching her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his dirty jeans, his forearms rigid with tension. “Things have happened that I can’t explain,” he said.
His gaze narrowed on her as he walked forward and took the glass without asking, downed it all in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes still on her. “I was gone nearly a year, Mae. A whole year I can’t remember.”
The water felt like it was roiling in her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said, trying to draw in a breath that wouldn’t come. She knew exactly what he was saying, only there wasn’t enough air in the barn, she wasn’t getting enough oxygen to think. She hadn’t tried the raising ritual. All she’d done was find the book in Ro’s room. “Whatever it is,” she said, “you’re wrong.”
He leaned toward her, the glass tight in his fist. “How do you know for sure?” he asked. “You want me to just give up on her, is that what you’re saying?” He was six feet of fury, Vesuvius in the flesh. “That the best you got? Just forget about her?” His jaw was working, biting something back.
Don’t flinch, don’t look away, don’t blink—she could hear her sister even now. Ro would stare right back at him, hold her ground, so Mae kept her eyes on his, didn’t move.
“How can you do it?” Cage’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “Keep it all inside? Stand there so calm?”
She didn’t feel calm. Her heart was thudding hard, and she wanted to yell and kick something. She wanted Ro alive just as much as he did.
“You told me she’s been dead for almost a year, Mae,” he said. His neck was tense, his shoulders flexing with anger under his thin T-shirt. “That right, or have you forgot already?”
“A year in a week,” she shot back, her anger fueled by his. How could she ever forget? It was always on her mind, burning a hole in her. It was in everything she did every minute of her life.
“Then why,” Cage asked, his voice tight, “why can’t I remember!” He whirled and heaved back his arm, throwing the glass against the wall.
Mae flinched as it shattered, shards skidding across the cement floor. That was the problem—Cage couldn’t remember. She had no reason to trust him. No one did.
She could feel her heart striking her chest—she could hear it. She took a step away from him. And another, and another, until her hip caught something sharp—the kitchen counter. Glass was cutting the thin soles of her shoes; one of the bigger shards had landed by her muddy Converse. It sparkled, winking off the beam from the flashlights on the counter. She looked up and saw that Cage’s jaw was clenched. His blue eyes were intense, glistening with anger or grief, she wasn’t sure which.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s something I have to do.”
She shook her head—this was the confession she’d been waiting for. “No.” She kept her voice steady. “It’s not real, Cage. It’s…a fantasy.”
His eyes dropped from hers at last, and finally she could breathe again. He swayed on his feet, rubbed his head like it was aching. “What if there’s a chance, Mae?”
Could he be right…? She thrust the thought away. There was desperation in him now, that was all it was. She should get what she came for and leave.
“I need the book, Cage.” Her sister could have written something more in it—it was her best lead. And it didn’t belong to him, it was Ro’s, and Mae wanted it back. She made fists with her hands to keep them from trembling. “Now please give it to me.”
Cage leaned against the sailboat. He sighed, his hair dark against the tarp, his face pinched with pain. “I don’t have it.”
It felt like the breath had been knocked from her. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “The kid, that girl, she took it.” He kicked a piece of glass.
“Fern has it?” Mae’s skin was tingling. If Fern had the book, then…She thought back to how the girl had been standing next to the hanging rope. Surely she hadn’t killed the cat, not on her own. She couldn’t have, she—
“No, Lance does,” Cage said. “He grabbed it off her in the woods. I saw him.”
Mae’s skin went prickly again, like she was standing underneath a humming wire. Was he lying?
Cage stepped forward, his boots crunching over glass. “We have to get it back,” he said. “I have to try every…” He trailed off, shook his head. “Christ,” he muttered. “She believed in it.”
Mae’s heart was thudding faster. A thread of a memory tugged at her—Ro dressed up in the woods, a basket in her arms—and then it was gone, the black door in her mind shuddering on its hinges. “If you lost it, then what does it matter?” She felt hopelessness rising in her chest. What could she do for Ro if she didn’t have the book? Lance and Cage were the last two people to see her; they had to know more than they claimed. They must. And if Cage was telling the truth—if he wasn’t trying to smoke-and-mirror her—then for some reason Lance wanted the book too.
Cage turned back toward her, but his gaze was a long way off, staring at something she couldn’t see.
“What if it doesn’t?” he said softly, like he was talking to himself. “What if there’s another way?”