NINETEEN
Puddles have collected in the overly saturated soil, and my feet slap against the bent and warped wood boards of the walkway. I hurry up to the main house and fumble out of my boots.
I feel rattled after seeing Marguerite, after returning from the graveyard, knowing what I’m about to do. I need to settle my nerves before I go back to Bo’s cottage.
I pace across the kitchen floor in my bare feet, weaving my hands into knots. My head pounds, crackling like Penny’s body is trying to rid itself of me already. Trying to reclaim control. And there’s another sensation building inside me: like a string being pulled from the very center of my chest. It’s starting already, the gnawing beneath my fingernails, the desire weaving up my spine—the sea is calling to me. It wants me back. It beckons me; it begs.
But I’m not going back, not tonight, not ever.
The phone rings from the wall, clattering the bones down every limb of my body.
I pick it up without even registering the motion.
“They’re coming!” Rose barks from the other end.
“Who?” My mind careens back into focus.
“Everyone—they’re all coming to the island.” Her voice is panicked, on the edge of breaking. “Olivia and Davis and Lon and everyone who got the text.”
“What text?”
“Olivia said the summer solstice party is happening on the island this year. She texted everyone.” Rose is flustered, and her S ’s slur into Th’s. An old habit sneaking back in.
“Shit.” My eyes dart around the kitchen, settling on nothing. Why would Olivia do this? What does she have to gain by bringing everyone to the island . . . and risking Gigi being found?
“We can’t let them find Gigi,” Rose says, echoing my thoughts.
“I know.”
“I’m coming to the island right now. Heath will bring me.”
“Okay.” And she hangs up the phone.
I hold the receiver in my hand, squeezing it until my knuckles turn white.
* * *
I hear the back door bang shut, and I nearly drop the phone. There’s the sound of feet shuffling slowly across the hardwood floor, and then Mom appears on the other side of the kitchen doorway, her robe hanging loose over her silt-gray pajamas, the belt dragging across the floor behind her. “People are coming,” she says, her right thumb and index finger tapping together at her side. “They’re all coming.”
“Yeah, they are,” I agree.
“I’m going up to my room until it’s over.” She won’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her . . . for more than I can explain.
Memories of my real mother—Fiona Swan—shiver through me. A quick burst of images. She was beautiful but vicious. Captivating and cunning and deceitful. She flitted through New York City in the early 1800s with an infectious attraction that men could not resist. She used them for money and status and power. My sisters and I were born to three different fathers who we never knew. And when I was only nine, she abandoned us for a man who promised to whisk her off to Paris—the city she had always envisioned would be her home someday. Where she would be adored. I don’t know what happened to her after that: if she did cross the Atlantic to France, when she died, or if she had other children. My sisters and I have lived long enough to forget about her almost entirely. And I close my eyes briefly to squeeze back the memories of her.
Penny’s mom pauses in the doorway, her fingers trembling where her left hand is holding tightly to the collar of her robe. Her voice comes out shaky but exact, a pinprick of words that have resided in her chest for too long. “I know you’re not my Penny.”
My eyes snap to hers, my heart drops down into my kneecaps. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve known all along.”
I start to clear my throat but can’t; my entire body has dried up and petrified. “I . . . ,” I begin, but nothing else comes out.
“She’s my daughter,” she adds, her voice settling into a cool pace that wavers against the threat of tears. “I knew the moment she became something else . . . when she became you.”
She’s known the whole time. I find myself struggling for air.
But of course she’s known. This is her talent—her gift. She’s always sensed when people are on the island—strangers who’ve come unannounced—so she must have sensed when I arrived. Yet she’s allowed me to pretend to be her daughter, to live on this island with her, knowing that at the end of this month, upon the summer solstice, I would leave.
“She’s all I have left.” Her blue-green eyes lift, penetrating mine, more lucid than I’ve ever seen them before, like she’s just woken from a thousand-year dream. “Please don’t take her from me.”
She must sense that I have no intention of leaving. That I plan to steal this body permanently and make it my own. I’m not going back into the sea. “I can’t promise that,” I answer truthfully, a cloud of guilt growing inside me. She has been the closest thing to a real mom I’ve ever had—even with her madness. And maybe it’s foolish to feel this way, desperate even, but I’ve allowed myself to think that this is my home, my bedroom up those stairs, my life. And that she could be my mom.
I recognize in her a part of myself: the sadness that darkens her eyes, the heartbreak that has unraveled the loose threads woven inside her mind. I could be her. I could slip into madness and let it overtake me just like she has. Turn into a shadow.
She and I are the same. We’ve both lost people we love. Both crushed by this town. Both know that the ocean takes more than it gives.
I wish I could undo her misery, the pain skittering behind her eyes. But I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her now. “I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. You deserved a better life, far away from here. This town destroys everyone eventually. Like it destroyed my sisters and me. We weren’t always this way,” I say, wanting her to understand that I was good once, decent and kind. “But this place destroys hearts and throws them into the sea. We are all at the mercy of that ocean out there—we’ll never escape it.”
We stare at each other, a streak of broken sunlight falling in through the kitchen window, the truth sliding like a crisp winter breeze between us.
“Go back into the water tonight,” she pleads, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Let her have her life back.”
I cross my arms, rubbing my hands down the sleeves of my coat. “But I deserve a life too,” I counter, hardening my gaze on her.
“You’ve already had a life. You’ve had the longest life of anyone. Please.”
I have stolen her daughter, the last thing she has left in this entire world—even her sanity has slipped away from her—but I can’t release this body. It’s my only chance at a real life. Surely she can understand that. Surely she knows what it is to be trapped, to be willing to do anything to escape, to crave normalcy in this tormented, messed-up town. To finally feel settled.
This is my second chance. And I’m not going to let it get away.
“I’m sorry.” I back step through the kitchen, knowing she isn’t strong enough to stop me, and I dart through the doorway into the hall, nearly bumping into a side table, then out the front door.
* * *
I pause on the front porch, hoping that Rose was wrong. A wall of black clouds has materialized several miles out at sea, dense and wide, laden with rain and maybe lightning.
But still no sign of boats converging toward the island.
I hurry down the porch steps, my heartbeat thudding against my ribs, and I move toward Old Fisherman’s Cottage, where Gigi is still locked up. When I reach the door, I yank the board out of the way and step inside. Gigi’s standing at the window, staring down toward the dock.
“People are coming to the island,” I tell her, breathing heavily. “The summer solstice party is happening here. Olivia invited everyone. You need to stay inside and lock the door.”
“First I was locked in, now you want me to lock you out? This is a very confusing situation for a prisoner.”
“If any of them find you in here . . .”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “They want me dead. I get it.”
“I’m serious.”
She lifts her palms in the air. “You think I want to be hanged or strangled or shot? Trust me, I don’t want them to find me either. I’ll stay put like a good evil sister.”
I tilt my head at her—I don’t find her funny right now—but she smirks. I open the door a crack, letting in a sliver of wind that brushes my dark hair off my shoulders, and I’m about to step back outside when she asks, “Why are you helping me?”
“You’re my sister.” I gulp down the word, knowing that no matter what she and Marguerite have done, they will always be my sisters. “I don’t want you dead . . . at least not like this.”
She crosses her arms and looks back to the window. “Thank you,” she answers, and then, in a voice that reminds me of Aurora when she was younger, tiny and sweet, “Will you be back before midnight to let me out?”
I nod, meeting her stony blue eyes—like snow under moonlight—sister to sister, letting her know that I won’t abandon her. And I only hope I can keep my promise.
* * *
Once you’ve experienced death, living never feels quite the same.
The divide between the dark wretched sea and the bright places above the waterline begin to saturate your mind, until all you can think about is clawing your way to the surface, where you’ll suck in deep, choking breaths of air. Feel the sun on your cheekbones. The breeze against your eyelashes. And never suffocate again.
I head straight for Bo’s cottage, open the door, and step inside. But he’s not here.
I start to turn back for the door and then a hand is on my shoulder. I whip around, nearly clocking him in the face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, standing just outside the doorway, recognizing the panic in my eyes.
“They’re coming,” I say.
“Who?”
“Olivia and . . . everyone.”
“They’re coming here?”
“Olivia told them the summer solstice party is on the island. I don’t think we have much time until they get here.” Bo glances up the path to Old Fisherman’s Cottage. “I already told Gigi to lock herself inside.”
“If they find out she’s here, they’ll think you’re protecting her . . . that you’re one of them.” Hearing him say this—knowing that he’s so certain I couldn’t possibly be a Swan sister—sends sharp pangs straight into my heart. He would defend me if he had to; he would probably bet his life that I am not one of them. And he would be wrong.
“They won’t find her,” I say to assure him, but I have no reason to think they won’t. I can only hope she stays holed up in the cottage. Keeps quiet. And doesn’t do anything stupid. But it’s Aurora, and she’s always taken risks—like drowning two boys in the harbor at once.
“We have to do it now,” Bo says, his temples pulsing. “Before they get here.”
I shake my head out of reflex and grab his arm, holding him in place. “No,” I say.
“Penny, we might not have another chance. Tonight she’ll go back into the ocean; then it’ll be too late.”
“We can’t do it,” I say weakly. “We can’t kill her.” She’s my sister, and even after everything she’s done, I can’t let him take her life.
“We have to. She’s drowned innocent people,” he says like I’ve forgotten. “And she’ll keep doing it unless we stop her.” And then the worst crime, the one that nags at him for revenge. “My brother is dead, Penny. I need to end this.”
The echo of quick footsteps rattles the air, and Bo and I turn at the same time. Rose is scrambling up the walkway, Heath a few paces behind. “There’s still time,” I say in a hush to Bo. “We’ll figure something out before midnight.” But it’s only to stall him.
Rose is out of breath when she reaches us, her cheeks a fevered pink and her hair sticking out from under the hood of her raincoat, ruddy-red curls bursting to be set free. “They’re coming,” she says, the very same two words she told me on the phone, but this time she points out over the water. “They’re piling into boats back at the marina. And there’s a lot of them.”
Heath reaches us and nods at Bo, a quick hello. His dusty blond hair is plastered to his forehead, but he doesn’t make a move to brush it away.
“What are we going to do?” Rose asks, still sucking in air between each word.
“Keep Gigi hidden and act normal, whatever happens.” I look straight at Rose. “And you can’t tell anyone that you brought her here. If they find out you’re responsible, they’ll suspect you of being one of them.”
She nods, but her lips start to tremble, like she’s just now realizing the seriousness of what she’s done by freeing Gigi from the boathouse and bringing her here.
The sun is coasting low over the water, forming dazzling slivers of light that play against the choppy sea, and then I spot them: a parade of boats sputtering across the harbor, making their way to the island.
The boats thump against the dock and some anchor just off shore, casting their lines down to the stony bottom.
And then there are voices. Dozens. Excited and pitched as they file up the boardwalk. Many of them have never been to the island before, and there is a sense of curiosity that permeates the air. And leading the mob, raven-black hair whipping out behind her, is Olivia Greene.
* * *
They carry cases of cheap beer and bottles of wine stolen from their parents’ cellars. Without permission, they construct a bonfire just outside the old greenhouse, and under Olivia’s command they take over the glassed-in structure, removing potted plants and replacing them with stacks and stacks of beer. Music begins to thump from inside, and as the sun begins to vanish past the horizon, a string of lights illuminates the interior—Christmas lights that someone brought and strung along the eaves. The bonfire sparks and grows larger as more and more people converge on the island.
We watch from Bo’s cottage, keeping our distance, wary of anyone who strays away from the party.
Luckily, Gigi’s cottage is tucked away on the north side of the island, the farthest structure from the main house and the dock and the greenhouse. Someone would have to go investigating to stumble across it. But from Bo’s cottage we can see everything. And as Olivia waves her arms in the air, instructing a group of boys where to place several logs, which were taken from he woodshed, around the bonfire, I can’t handle it anymore.
“What are you doing?” Bo asks when I open the cottage door.
“I have to talk to Olivia.”
Rose stands up. “I can’t stay in here anymore either. I’m going to check on Gigi.”
I want to tell her it’s better if she doesn’t, that she should keep her distance, not draw attention to Gigi’s cottage, but she and Heath are already out the door and hurrying up the path to Old Fisherman’s Cottage.
Bo eyes me, then follows me outside and up to the bonfire.
Olivia spots us as we approach, and she saunters over. “Bo,” she says in a singsong, reaching out to touch him, but I smack her hand away. She rubs it with her other hand and makes a pouty face. “Very protective, aren’t you, Penny?” she says. “And perhaps a little jealous, too.” She winks at Bo, like she’s trying to give me something to really be jealous of. But Bo’s gaze remains stiff and unwavering. He doesn’t find her amusing—not after what she did to him. In fact, he looks like he wants to murder her right here, in front of everyone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Decorating,” she says with a flourish, sweeping an arm over her head. “I’ve always loved throwing parties—you know this.” I do know, but I don’t acknowledge it.
Behind her, Lola Arthurs and two of her friends are making cocktails in red plastic cups using a makeshift table constructed of plywood set on top of two empty flowerpots. They generously slosh vodka into each cup, followed by a splash of club soda. They’ve set up a full bar, and people are going to get drunk fast.
“Why here—why did you bring everyone to the island?” I ask her, making sure to stare through Olivia and down to Marguerite, her real eyes unblinking as they keep sliding over to settle on Bo. This is the last night, her last chance. But I won’t let her have him.
“It’s just a party,” she says with an air of superiority, her bright blue eyes shimmering like she is taunting fate to bring our secret crashing down around us. With so many people here, how will she slip into the sea unnoticed? How can she be sure Gigi won’t be discovered? “You used to love parties.” She winks then puckers her lips together, a sly, furtive gesture. She wants Bo to figure out the truth, she wants him to know what I really am. She won’t say it out loud, yet she’ll gladly sprinkle hints along the razor’s edge.
“This isn’t going to end well,” I whisper to Olivia, my eyes meeting hers, then penetrating deep to focus on the wispy mirage of my sister nestled down beneath Olivia’s skin.
“We’ll see,” she counters.
A wind slides over the surface of the island, seeming to push a new group of uninvited guests up the gentle slope to the greenhouse.