MAE WAS SOAKING WET, HER hands covered in silt. She’d cleaned up the muddy hole in the garden, hurrying so her dad wouldn’t wake up and find her outside. The house was quiet and dark when she finally let herself in and pulled off her soaked Cons.
She made her way to the kitchen without turning on any lights—the hallway was a hazy silver path. Water pooled under her feet where she stood on the kitchen tiles; she’d left a trail of wet footprints across the floor. She felt cold to the bone, and her fingers were numb. It was hard to believe that Cage had just run off like that, though part of her hoped he’d leave Blue Gate—it might be better for everyone. She shivered, and the coldness felt like it was coming from inside her heart. Her dad would say that she needed warm milk, but what she really wanted was coffee, something to sharpen her mind, help her think things through.
She set her bag on the counter and went into the pantry for the jar of grounds. As she reached for it, she heard hinges squeak—the door was swinging shut. She bolted toward it and slipped, the pantry going dark as the latch clicked. She felt panic rising as she rattled the knob. It was stuck.
The flashlight was still in her pocket and she pulled it out and turned it on, found the string that was dangling above her and tugged. The bulb flickered and then settled, orangey and dull, casting shadows over the cereal boxes and tin cans on the shelves around her.
Mae tried the door again, but it didn’t budge, no matter how hard she shoved her hip against it. Her heart seized as she realized the problem: the lock was on the other side. She was trapped.
She flicked the flashlight off, wanting to save its battery. The pantry was so deep she couldn’t see how far back it went, and staring into the shadows made her uneasy. She still felt shaken up from finding Cage in the garden, digging in the storm. And now she was locked in here, and soaking wet, her bare feet streaked with mud.
The pantry’s orange bulb dimmed, and Mae shook the doorknob again. If she called out for her dad, he’d want an explanation. But Elle should be sneaking home any minute—she usually slipped into the house just after midnight, when Mae was supposed to meet her at the front door in case their dad was awake, so he’d think they’d gone out together. So far her sister hadn’t told anyone about Cage, and Mae couldn’t risk making her mad by calling out for Sonny and getting her in trouble.
So she’d have to wait for Elle. Mae tucked her wet hair behind her ears, took a deep breath. She hated sitting still. She crossed her arms, trying to stop shivering, and then saw a large cardboard box shoved underneath a shelf. She must have missed it this morning when she dragged the others into the dining room, intent on finding out more about Hanna.
Mae tried the door again. The sound of the rattling knob was the only thing she could hear. She rubbed her face, tried to push from her mind all the ways she’d messed up lately. To distract herself, she went over to the box and pulled off the masking tape on top. Inside were more photo albums, but of recent years. She grabbed one and sat down on the box, her wet jeans leaking onto the cardboard lid.
When she opened the book, she realized what it was. Not a photo album like she’d thought. A scrapbook. Ro’s name was written in bright red ink on the inside cover. Mae knew that she and Elle didn’t have a memory book like this, but their mother had packed this one full.
The first page held a copy of Ro’s birth certificate. She’d been born at the same hospital where their mom died three years later. They’d never been able to talk to Sonny about it, but Ro had explained it in no uncertain terms. They came into existence and their mother died.
Mae turned the page and saw a picture of her mother holding a serene-faced baby Ro in a hospital bed, a slender plastic name tag looped around her wrist and a huge white pillow propped up behind her. She looked as if a light was glowing beneath her skin, like there was a flame held to her green eyes. Even her brown hair shone. She seemed so alive, so radiant—and then she wasn’t, just like that.
Mae knew her dad would always blame her and Elle, even if he didn’t realize it. Her eyes stung and she flicked past more baby pictures, stopping at Ro’s first birthday. Sonny had a party hat on and was laughing so hard he’d thrown his head back, while a gleeful Ro was in a high chair, the red velvet cake missing a huge chunk, her chubby baby fist holding it up in triumph. That man with short hair, the one who was howling to the moon with laughter, looked nothing like the dad she knew. At the table next to Ro was their granddad, a napkin draped across his stomach, a silly grin on his face as he held up a spoonful of icing, toasting the camera. Her mom must have taken the photo—even then she was invisible, forever out of reach.
Mae skipped a few more pages, one of them stapled with Ro’s first drawing of what seemed to be a horse, probably inspired by the Childers’ stables. Next came a report from Ro’s preschool teacher. Ro was described as creative and charming, a pure joy, but the teaching assistant had also made a note: She’s inventive with the truth and likes to get her own way.
Mae shifted on the cardboard lid, felt it bend under her weight as she turned to the end of the scrapbook. Then she stopped, her heart missing a beat.
On one of the last pages was Ro, wearing a white Easter dress, a black ribbon in her hair and a basket in her hands. She was standing near the garden hedge, the green leaves rising behind her. She was about eight or nine years old—which meant someone besides their mother had added the picture to the scrapbook.
Mae stared at Ro, an odd sensation creeping down her spine. She actually remembered her in that dress. She remembered the white lace and black ribbon, and Ro running out to the woods, and something heavy in that Easter basket. She remembered following her through spiky grass, and more snippets of memory that didn’t make sense, stitched together crookedly like the sequence of a dream.
Looking at the photograph brought her back to that day. How she’d hidden while Ro stooped over the basket. How her sister had taken so very long with whatever she’d been doing, her back to her, that white dress sweeping over twigs and leaves. Mae had been watching and hiding, wanting to play a trick like Ro always did. Waiting patiently to spring out and scare her. But when Ro had finally turned, oh, when she’d turned, her dress had been a different color.
The dress was a different color. Mae sucked in a breath and slammed the scrapbook shut, feeling her heart race. The black door in her mind shook on its hinges. She knew there was something important to remember, but it was gone now.
She stood and rattled the knob again, but she couldn’t hear Elle or anything outside, and suddenly it seemed too dark, too dusty. The air felt ominous, weighed down—if she didn’t get out, she knew something terrible would happen. She could pound a can against the wall until someone heard her. But then, who was she hoping would help? If she woke up her dad, he’d see how muddy she was and ask what she’d been doing, and there was no way her granddad would hear her. When she’d checked on him earlier, he’d been slumped at his desk in the attic, a piece of paper spread over his Bible and his head resting on his forearms, already asleep.
Mae glanced around the shelving, growing even more claustrophobic. Maybe there was another door; maybe the back of the pantry linked up with a tunnel or a crawlspace? She’d searched every bedroom in the house today, looking for hidden tunnels, but hadn’t thought to check the kitchen. Maybe there was a way out.
Stepping farther into the gloom, she ducked past cobwebs. The walls narrowed and then turned at a sharp angle. Back here most of the shelves were bare—no one had used this part of the pantry in a long time—but on some of the shelves were jars of preserves. They were packed together, clustered in dusty rows. Food jammed and pickled years ago and stored here, under the staircase, because it was cool and dark and more protected than the basement.
The ceiling slanted downward, and Mae lowered her head and kept walking, surprised that the pantry extended even farther. When she finally reached the end of it, she found an old wooden cabinet in a corner. She ran her hand along the far wall, hoping to feel a latch or a doorknob, but there was nothing.
Just as she turned away, ready to yell for Elle or Sonny, she stopped. The faint stream of orangey light was spilling over the brick to her side, and she noticed something strange: a long, narrow crack behind the row of shelves. Mae stepped close and then gasped.
It wasn’t a crack—it was a line of charcoal. Someone had written on the stonework.
Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.
It was everywhere. The same words over and over again, a hundred times over. She put her finger to one of the marks, felt the dark chalky smudge. How long had it been here? Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.
She shivered, tamping down a sudden feeling of alarm. She traced her finger underneath the cursive as she moved past the bulky shelves, shifting jars to keep the charcoal in sight. Someone had wanted to cover it up, placing the shelves in front of it, lining up the preserves to block it. The lettering snaked all the way to the wooden cabinet in the corner and disappeared behind it.
Mae shoved the edge of the cabinet. It didn’t budge, it was too heavy. An urgency overtook her and she opened its drawers and started emptying them out—there was china, a tablecloth, a pipe. When she was finished, she shoved the edge of the cabinet again, and this time it shifted. It took her another few minutes to push it far enough. Then she grabbed the flashlight from her pocket and beamed it behind the cabinet, on the tiny charcoal scribble.
And there was its origin. A dark looping figure eight. Hanna. When she touched the lettering where it sloped upward, a sliver of the brick fell, dusting her feet. A dent in the wall?
She touched it again, and this time the brick groaned backward, opening. It was a small door, no higher than her hip. She blinked, her pulse quickening as her flashlight cut through the dark haze. Beyond the pantry wall was a cavelike enclosure. Coldness streamed from it, and a smell of mold.
The flashlight trembled in her hand. She let out a breath and crouched down, ducking into the darkness. As she straightened, the bright beam flooded another wall a few feet away. The space was cramped, the ceiling low. The stale smell hit her and she pulled her shirt over her mouth. The flashlight splayed across the floor and her heart nearly stopped in her chest. CHANA 4 CHANA was written in the center of the room, next to a circle drawn in chalk. Inside it were four glass jars of various sizes placed in a row. They had dusty lids and their glass was foggy and full of debris, hazy shadows. Mae gripped the flashlight as she stepped across the cold floorboards, holding the beam steady on the jars.
A greasy residue had collected on the surface of the first one, and chunks of a hairlike substance were at the bottom. Floating inside the jar was a pale cat skull.
Bile rose to Mae’s throat, and her legs felt weak as she pointed the flashlight to the next jar. Behind the debris was a coiled snake, some of its scales still intact. The third jar was as foggy as the first and she stepped closer, already guessing what she’d find. A bird claw was scraping against the glass at the bottom.
That left the last jar, the biggest one. She had to see inside; she couldn’t stop herself.
She squinted at it, the light hitting the glass. She reached out and tilted it and the debris trapped inside spun in circles, shifting and floating. Bits of tissue swirled in the murky water, and long dark hair was layered at the bottom. Her stomach knotted up as she shifted the jar another inch. Then came a tapping sound.
The smear of a hoof smacked the glass through the globs of floating tissue. She gasped, her flashlight jerking back. A hank of what looked like the horse’s dark mane fluttered at the bottom, next to bone.
God, who would do this? She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry and she felt like she might be sick. She wanted to run back to the pantry, get out of the cold and the dark and the smell that was everywhere. Instead she shut her eyes and thought of Ro, and then she opened her eyes and looked straight at the thing that scared her, just like her sister would have done.
Next to the jars was something bright and red. She edged forward, bending down to touch the redness—it was a cloth. Soft, folded into a square, with stains on it and dark embroidery.
Mae stared at the designs around the hem—vines and flowers and herbs. Without thinking, she grabbed the cloth. She backed away, nearly tripping on her own feet, the flashlight lurching across the brick walls as she turned and crawled through the small doorway, closing the thick door behind her.
The pantry bathed her in orange light; she stood in its glow and caught her breath, the spidery handwriting on the walls blurring in front of her. Come back. Come back. Come back.
A wave of dizziness overtook her and she shut her eyes. It felt like the floor was canting, ever so slowly, about to capsize underneath her, as if she was back on the sailboat with Ro. And then she heard…what? Someone breathing next to her.
Her eyes shot open.
There was no one in the pantry, no one hiding beside the cabinet—she was just imagining things. And tonight Cage had said that everything was mixing up in his head. The storm had drenched them both in the garden, and she hadn’t listened to him, hadn’t wanted to listen. She could see him now: crouching over Ro’s tarnished silver box, the raindrops glistening on his face and his dark hair, the gift cherub behind him pale and huddled. Cage had straightened, so tall, water streaming off him the way it streamed off the sides of a house in a storm. His body was tight with anger, but how he held her had been soft. His hands warm, threading through her hair, holding her close.
Mae shoved the cabinet against the wall with a burst of adrenaline and then launched herself forward, wanting out of the pantry. She stumbled past the jars of preserves, feeling disoriented. Instead of fruit or jam inside them, now she saw hair and fur and bone. She blinked—her eyes were playing tricks on her. The shelves were cavernous, dark, closing in on her. Cage had told her not to follow him and she’d let him go, only she shouldn’t have. He’d been half out of his mind, and there was no telling what he’d do. He’d asked for help. He’d asked her for help, and she’d let him go. Her breath rushed from her lungs as she threw all her weight against the pantry door, but it still held strong. She slammed into it again, her shoulder stinging. The door didn’t move.
Just as she was about to yell out, pound against the ceiling, she heard her name. A whisper, just outside the door. The handle started to turn. She was so shocked that she stepped back, knocking her elbow against a shelf.
The orangey haze fanned out across the tiles as the door slowly opened. She glimpsed a face in the darkness ahead, and then the light was flicking on. Elle was standing in the kitchen with the pocketknife raised.
“Jesus,” her sister said, setting down the knife near the bag. “What are you even doing in there? And why are you all muddy?”
Mae blinked back tears, not wanting Elle to see. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, grabbing her hand. “I thought you’d be home earlier,” she choked out.
“Sorry. I stayed to talk with Lance at the party.” Elle blushed and shook her off. “He’s coming over tomorrow for dinner.”
Mae could tell she was excited, and she wanted to say the right thing, but every time she blinked she saw spidery black handwriting crawling under her eyes. She reached for her sister’s hand again, needing to feel something solid, something real.
“You’re filthy,” Elle said, pulling away for the second time. She sighed, crossed her arms over her tight black dress. “So that’s me, but you haven’t told me what you were doing in there. And why do you have a flashlight?”
She wouldn’t even know where to start, so she stepped past Elle and lied. “I was out painting in the garden,” she said at the sink, flipping on the tap to wash her hands. They were shaking under the stream of water. “I came inside and then got locked in the pantry. Accidentally.”
When she turned back, Elle’s gaze was narrowed on her. “You never do anything by accident.”
Mae dried her hands on a towel. “I’m just glad you let me out.” The sigh came from deep inside her before she could hold it back. “Thank you.”
Elle gave her a look and then shrugged. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”
Mae could tell Elle knew she was lying. Her sister’s disappointment on top of everything she’d seen was too much. She thought of telling Elle the truth—it was about to spill from her. How Lance might have Ro’s book, and the secret rooms in the house, and about Cage, how she’d messed up tonight by letting him run off. But instead she bit down on her lip until it stung. She had to stay quiet. It was safer that way.
“You really do need a shower.” Without saying anything more, Elle turned and walked off.
“Night,” Mae whispered, still feeling shaky as she picked up her bag, tucking away the cloth she’d found. She leaned against the counter, watching her sister tiptoe down the hallway. After she heard Elle’s bedroom door click shut upstairs, she went to the foyer and pulled on her damp Cons. She stepped outside onto the porch and sucked in deep gulps of fresh air, trying to get the mold out of her lungs. Trying to forget what she’d seen.
The rain clouds had cleared and the moon lit her path. She started running—she wanted to put space between her and the pantry, and that hidden, cavelike room. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Grady’s words echoed with every step, and she thought of Cage. Come back. Come back. Come back.
The woods were moving around her, the trees swaying, the scent of rain still in the air. Before she knew it there was the small hill and the rise of the barn ahead. The side door had been left open a crack and Mae glanced over her shoulder and then squeezed through.
Inside it smelled musty, and the white tarp was pulled over the boat. The skylight let in just enough light to see.
“Cage?”
Her stomach tensed with worry as she looked around. His boots were gone. The fridge was shut, the cord unplugged. All the cups were back under the sink, and the other flashlights were put away. There wasn’t any garbage on the floor, no fruit peels, no roll of toilet paper. The little raft he’d slept on wasn’t in sight.
All was quiet, undisturbed. As if he’d never been here at all. A cloud passed over the skylight, and dark shapes moved at the edge of her vision. A dog howled somewhere far away.
“Cage?”
She switched on her flashlight, its beam rippling out. She thought he was sitting in the far corner, but it was just a stack of chairs, a rag on top.
What she’d do to see him—the bob of his dark hair, his smile that had to be earned. She wanted him to step out from the dark the way moonlight can break through clouds over the bay. Onyx water, the moon ghost-white. She could see it as a painting, and she could imagine him appearing in front of the boat. But he didn’t.
Because he’d left Blue Gate.
She lowered the flashlight and leaned against the wall, her heart heavy. It felt like she already missed him—how he’d listened to her, how they’d been able to talk about Ro. How around him she felt like maybe, just maybe, anything was possible.
A wave of exhaustion hit her. She thought of everything she’d seen that day, then checked her bag for the cloth. She pulled it out, letting it unfold in her hands. It was an apron, long enough to graze the floor. The embroidery along its edges was intricate, its flowery vines twisting around a large square pocket. Mae traced the thread with her finger and noticed that the inside of the pocket was stained black. She turned it inside out, then nearly dropped the apron.
Grady Cole was staring at her, and so was a girl she’d never seen before.
On the cloth was a sketch in black ink, so perfectly rendered that it almost looked like a photograph. Written at the bottom, a single line: Grady and Hanna, always. Mae’s heart spiked. Hanna! She thought back to the grave in the woods, the confession in the green book. I love Hanna, I love Hanna, I love Hanna. Here she was, finally. And she was with Grady.
Hanna was looking over her shoulder, her mouth unsmiling. She was striking: high cheekbones, guarded eyes. Her forearms looked slim but strong, as strong as her jawline. Her body was facing Grady’s. His chest was blocked by the curve of her shoulder and her long dark hair, and his hat was hiding part of his face. Mae stared at the writing beneath the sketch again. It was a tight cursive—Grady’s handwriting—and she drew in a breath.
It was Grady, all of it was Grady. He’d written in the green book and on the walls of the house over a century and a half ago; he’d sacrificed the animals, trying to raise Hanna. Had he done it? Had she returned?
Mae shoved the cloth into her bag. It was too much, all of it. She fought the urge to sink to the floor, to stay in the barn until she saw Cage again. She wanted him in front of her, that dark hair, that cut near his temple. But he’d left tonight, and she’d let him go.
She forced herself to walk to the door, tug it open, step outside. There was something slender and shadowy beside the nearest tree. She flicked on her flashlight, beamed it at the cowering thing. Then her heart leaped into her throat and she held back a scream.