Thankfully, Isobel’s psychologist, Dr. Robinson, had instructed her parents to stop the barrage of questions, to carry on with day-to-day life and wait for the memories to resurface on their own.
In truth, Isobel would never forget what had happened. Ever.
Bloodred rose petals, falling ash, broken shards. Destruction and ruin—everything reversed. A beautiful monster and a monstrous beauty. Voices in the corridor. Varen. The cliff . . .
Her ribbon floating up and away, a fluttering line of pale pink blotted with her own blood.
“Pretty bad if you’re trying to cheer up a cheerleader, huh?” Gwen asked.
Isobel blinked from her reverie. “I’m not a cheerleader anymore.”
“Ehh.” Gwen waved her off. “You’re just on sabbatical. You and I both know your feet won’t stay fixed to the ground for long.”
Isobel winced but tried to hide it by glancing at Mikey, who had since started to mime walking up and down an imaginary flight of stairs, his lower body hidden by the school’s brick siding. He switched to mimicking rowing a boat just as Mr. Nott appeared behind him, his lined face fixed in a glower.
“So . . . you two are going to the Valentine’s Day dance tomorrow, right?” Isobel asked.
Shifting her weight, Gwen gave her a hooded glare. “Like you weren’t standing right there when he asked me. Hey, how about I see your obnoxious bid for a subject change and raise you one swift kick in the spankies?”
Isobel tried for a smile, but it didn’t stick.
Frowning, Gwen tucked her good hand inside her patchwork purse and withdrew a folded newspaper, holding it out to her. “Listen, I know you said you wanted to be alone or whatever, but I saw this in today’s paper and thought you should know.”
Isobel took the paper. Reading the first line of the short block of text circled in red, she felt her heart stammer a beat.
Nobit, Bruce Albert, 69, passed away Monday, February ninth, at his residence.
* * *
She looked up, dumbstruck, a sharp pit-of-the-stomach pang shattering her numbness.
“He said March,” she breathed, her voice catching as she recalled the ominous warning Bruce had given her the last time she’d been inside Nobit’s Nook, the bookshop he’d owned—the same place where she and Varen had once met to work on their Poe project.
Assuming she’d know where Varen had gone—that she was still in contact with him—Bruce had wanted Isobel to tell Varen how long he had to collect his vintage black Cougar, which he’d left parked outside the bookshop. That’s what the doctors said, Bruce had added, betraying the fact that the March deadline had little to do with the car.
Along with so much else she’d wanted to say to Varen, she’d never gotten the chance.
Isobel scanned the obituary, searching for an answer to Bruce’s death. It mentioned his military service as a Green Beret and the two local businesses he’d owned. Below that, Isobel skimmed over the names of a deceased wife and son and a surviving nephew who lived in New York. There were no other details.
Isobel shook her head, still not comprehending. “It says the funeral is tomorrow morning.”
Gwen shrugged her good shoulder. “Yeah. I, uh, didn’t know if you . . . I dunno . . . wanted to go or something.”
Go? To the funeral?
“You mean skip school,” Isobel said.
“I can take us.”
“I can’t.” Isobel held the paper out to Gwen.
How could she risk it? One more step beyond her parents’ boundaries, one more instance of sneaking off, and her mom and dad would have her shipped off to reform school for sure. Or more likely, locked away in some mental facility.
Besides that, Bruce had never been shy about letting Isobel know he blamed her for everything that had happened to Varen, including his disappearance. Especially his disappearance. She doubted he would have even wanted her there.
Still, the old man had been Varen’s best friend. Quite possibly his only true friend.
“So,” Gwen said with a sigh, “I know you’re out here to get away and process and all that. I just figured this was important. I know I’m not supposed to call your house or cell, so if there’s a possibility you might change your mind, you should let me know before last bell. Or if you want, I can just leave.”
Isobel looked down at the paper again, which Gwen had yet to take back. Tomorrow would be Friday the thirteenth. Ironic, she thought.
Then she had a new thought—one that drove the ache for Bruce’s passing straight out of her, replacing it with a sickening stab of hope-laced fear.