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  Yet her feet had started to drag before she’d gotten too far. God, she was a wreck! She couldn’t visit Alex like this. She had to cry it out first. With tears burning in her eyes, she’d raced back to Harvell House.

  She’d snuck back in the front door while Betts was in the kitchen, and John Smith was who-knows-where, and then up the stairs to the attic.

  It was a major operation these days to get up to the attic. She and Brooke each still had their keys, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Harvell House had become a very strict place now. Mrs. Betts saw each of the girls out the door to school in the mornings with a check list in hand. Cell phones were to be left on—no exceptions. Betts had been a wreck this last week, but in some ways, a surprisingly strong one. She’d arranged counseling for the girls who wanted it, and she’d called every parent herself.

  Clearly, Mrs. Betts blamed herself. Anyone could see that, even if Maryanne hadn’t overhead her tell John Smith as much. She’d had a bad feeling about C. W., and she should have listened to it. John Smith had consoled her to the best of his ability.

  Maryanne felt so bad for her.

  Patricia Betts had sworn she’d never let it happen again, and the watch she kept on the girls now was positively stifling. Though, oddly, a little comforting.

  Maryanne and Brooke had dared to cast out only once in the last week since Connie’s body had been unearthed and C. W. had been killed. While most of the police officers left the house at night, one officer sat up with his coffee in the kitchen and another played solitaire in the parlor, just to make sure no one went down to the basement and compromised the crime scene. But on one of those nights, Brooke woke Maryanne from her fitful sleep. “Come up to the attic. We’ll cast out for a bit.”

  It had been risky. It had been wonderful.

  They’d gone to the old oak tree by the river, put on the copper bracelets, and just soared a little ways along the dark river, which had not yet frozen.

  Maryanne had caught Brooke watching her as they soared together.

  “Better?” Brooke asked.

  “Yeah,” she had answered. She’d needed that cast out. That reprieve from it all.

  It had been an awful few days. There was police everywhere, and questioning everyone—especially Maryanne and Brooke. Both girls stuck to their stories. It didn’t hurt that both of their mothers had arranged for lawyers to be present at all but the initial questioning. Though neither Maryanne nor Brooke had really been suspected of anything. And the forensic evidence backed up their story; the bones in the basement had been there for at least half a century. C. W. Stanley was Billy Stanley, who’d left Mansbridge about five decades ago. He had been Connie Harvell’s stepbrother. The police had eventually found a baby’s skeletal remains wrapped up in a tarp. Just as damning, the bite mark on Alex’s shoulder was forensically matched to Billy. And once word of that got out, four other girls had come forward. All former residents of Harvell House. They too had been attacked at the house. Drugged. Three of them bitten. All of them left half-naked, alone on the attic floor.

  “Alex was lucky she wasn’t raped,” Brooke had said to Maryanne one night. It was about ten minutes after lights out when her comment broke the silence.

  Maryanne recognized a leading statement when she heard one, but she’d wet her lips in the dark and answered, “Yeah, she sure was.”

  From what C. W. had said before Brooke and Connie arrived, Maryanne knew C. W. had sexually assaulted Alex, way back in September. But that was Alex’s secret to tell. She’d tell it when she was ready. If she was ready.

  Thankfully, Brooke had seemed satisfied.

  Maryanne swiped her tear-wet face, then pulled a tissue out and blew her nose.

  Her dad had flown down to Fredericton, rented a car and driven to Mansbridge. He’d spent two evenings at a pricey hotel and two days practically begging Maryanne to come home again, but she’d refused, telling him point-blank that she couldn’t bear to go home. It had broken Maryanne’s heart to hurt her father like that, but she really wasn’t ready to go back to Ontario. Nor was she ready to leave what she’d found here. She regretted being so harsh with her father, but if she hadn’t done it, he’d still be here, cajoling her. She’d tried to soften it by telling him she just needed to be with her friends now, but that she’d be ready to come home soon.

  Friends, she’d told her father. Except after today, that would be friend, singular, when Alex’s parents took her home. Maryanne desperately wanted to pound something at the thought, but that would only bring Mrs. Betts.

  Poor Alex.

  She might never come out of her coma.

  Maryanne eased herself down onto the attic’s floor, letting the tears roll down the sides of her temples. She pulled a wad of tissues from the front pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. Then she lay for a few minutes with her swollen eyes closed, one hand flung above her head, the other flat on her belly. She tried to steady her breaths.

  “Snap out of it, Hemlock,” she muttered. “You’re going to stop crying. Then you’re going to step up to the plate and go see Alex one last time. You’re going to go and say good-bye to your friend, and pray it isn’t a final one.”

  She opened her eyes, but didn’t immediately jump up. Instead, she looked up into the dust that danced around in the light coming through the stained glassed window. She looked way up through the haze of it. Way up to the rafters.

  “What the heck?”

  Maryanne wiped her eyes. She blinked a good half dozen times. There was something up there. It looked like yellowed edges of paper—a book! Connie’s diary! It was Connie’s diary, and it was tucked into what looked like a carved-out notch in the wooden beam. She never would have seen it had she not been lying on the floor.

  She had to work quietly. She carried the old rocking chair over to the spot just below the book. Then, bit by bit, she ‘walked’ the heavy dresser over beside it—lifting one side, then the other, and setting it down carefully each time on its sturdy legs. When she had it in place, Maryanne climbed up on the rocker, then onto the dresser. She reached up and dug Connie’s diary free.

  Carefully, soundlessly, she stepped down. Maryanne sat crossed-legged on the attic floor and began flipping through the yellowed pages of Connie’s handwriting, those heartbreaking words. Some familiar, others not. But then as she flipped through further and further, the handwriting changed.

  “This is Alex’s writing!” she realized. Pages and pages of it dating back from early September, before Maryanne had even arrived. From when she’d first woken up in the attic, a victim on the floor looking up to find the diary.

  She closed her swollen eyes a moment, biting down on her bottom lip. “I know I shouldn’t do this. But... what if... what if something in here can help Alex?”

  For once, she didn’t ignore the niggling feeling.

  She began to read.

  Chapter 44

  I Am Legend

  Brooke

  The finger-pointing and whispering started almost before Brooke climbed out of the driver’s seat of her car. Guess the boring gray Intrigue wasn’t invisible anymore.

  Ironically, she wouldn’t mind a little invisibility right now. They were taking Alex away soon—back to Halifax. Brooke was going to miss her more than she’d ever admit to anyone. Certainly not to those in town who watched her so closely. On that thought, she blinked back her tears, put on her best screw-you smile, climbed out of the car and slammed the door.

  Shouldering her bag, she locked the car with her remote and crossed the parking lot to the mall.

  She was headed for the little coffee shop opposite the food court, more to get a sense of public opinion than for the pathetic excuse for coffee she would get there. Their idea of cappuccino involved a sad-looking blob of foam floating on top of poorly extracted espresso. Brooke was no barista, but even she could do a better job with a home espresso machine than these rubes could do with professional equipment.

  By the time she r
eached the mall doors, she had a small following behind her. And by the time she reached the café, she’d collected enough curious onlookers to double the population in the food court.

  Yes! Now we’re talking.

  Concealing her jubilation beneath a bored expression, she ordered her drink—a straight shot of espresso; she’d long ago learned that was the best bet, followed closely by the Americano—and sat down at an empty table.

  “Hey, Brooke!”

  She glanced up to see Danielle Mann, who was hailing her from a nearby table.

  “Come sit,” she invited.

  Perfect. Dani would give her the straight dope on what people were saying. Brooke got up and joined her.

  “Thanks. I feel less like a lab specimen, sitting with someone I actually know.” She indicated the crowd with a tilt of her head. “My money was on the science fair nerd to make the first contact.”

  Dani scanned the crowd. “Oh, yeah, he’s very hot to meet you, but he’s way too inhibited to approach. I was betting on Cathy Wilks, to your right, wearing the Lolita skirt and the thigh-highs. Biggest gossip in town. Well, next to me.”

  Brooke grinned. “Thanks for saving me.”

  Dani grinned right back. “Yeah, like you’re intimidated by this attention.”

  “Okay, you got my number,” Brooke said, laughing. “I really don’t mind. And to tell you the truth, I don’t even care what they’re saying.”

  Dani’s face sobered. “Mostly, they think you’re a hero. I heard that old bastard C. W. assaulted quite a few girls over there at Harvell House, and spied on a bunch more. Not to mention what he did to Alex.” She picked up a spoon and toyed with it. “I hear Alex’s mom is arranging to have her transported back to Halifax.”

  Brooke nodded. “It’s true. Originally, I think they thought she’d come out of the coma within a matter of days, but the longer it drags on, the less hopeful they are. So they’ve decided to move her closer, so her mom can get back to the rest of the family.”

  “That sucks,” Dani said. “She really seemed to be turning it around this year. It was like she’d found some purpose beyond the partying.”

  You have no idea, Brooke thought. She cleared her throat. “So, if I’m mostly a hero, what is the flip side of that coin?”

  Dani laughed. “You would ask, wouldn’t you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I think they’re a little scared of you, actually. Maryanne, too. I mean, you guys dug up a freakin’ body! Most people, once they’d read that diary, would probably have just called the police and let them search for it.”

  “So everyone knows about the diary, then?”

  “Hello? This is Mansbridge. Of course they know. Too bad that creepy short-eyes C. W. destroyed it.”

  “Yeah,” Brooke said. “So, you were saying... folks are a little scared of us?”

  “Awed might be a better word.”

  Awed. That was a good word. A damned good word. Brooke let a small smile curve her lips while Dani continued.

  “Like I said, most people would have called the cops. But no, you guys went down there and literally exhumed a body. That took some serious cojones.”

  Brooke shrugged, then rolled out the message she and Maryanne had agreed to put out there. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. What if the diary we’d read was a fake? Some Reject Row resident’s idea of a practical joke? We’d have been the laughing stock of the town if the cops had dug the shit out of that basement and found nothing. Hell, they probably would have charged us with public mischief. None of us needed that.”

  “So instead, you became the girl who put down a pedophile and a murderer with one swing of a shovel.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I did it on some vigilante bullshit head-rush. It was self-defense. He was waving a gun around.”

  “So I heard.” Dani grinned. “Speaking of which, I guess a nickname change is in order, huh?”

  Brooke frowned. “How’s that?”

  “You’re going to have to retire Miss Gun-to-a-Knife-Fight in favor of—”

  Brooke groaned. “Oh, God, I can see it coming.”

  “—Miss Shovel-to-a-Gun-Fight.”

  The two of them dissolved into giggles. “Do me a favor, okay?” Brooke said after she’d wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Give me an escort to the drug store. I need to buy toothpaste.”

  Dani snorted. “You know, they’re just going to mob me after you leave, demanding to know all the juicy deets.”

  That suited Brooke fine. As appealing as it might be to hold court with a fascinated audience, it really didn’t fit with the legend she wanted to build. Aloof. Untouchable. And yeah, a little scary.

  “And you’ll hate that, right? You being so shy and retiring.”

  Dani laughed delightedly. “Okay, I guess I can overcome my introverted nature to handle that.” She drained her coffee mug. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  As they stood, Brooke caught a glimpse of Seth in the crowd. Well, she spotted Bryce first—he was considerably taller—but her eyes went straight to Seth at his side. And God it hurt. Still. That she’d wanted him so much, loved him so much, and he’d just discarded her like garbage. They both regarded her now with stony, implacable faces. Safe to say they weren’t among her new fans. Would never be fans, no matter what she did for the town.

  Well, that was okay with Brooke. Better than okay. If they weren’t such jerks, she’d feel guilty about continuing to haunt them. And continue she would. The night was hers, and she wasn’t done with Seth Walker. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 45

  Every Rose

  Maryanne

  Maryanne looked at the time on her cell phone. It was nearly 2 a.m. At least the phone wasn’t ringing now. Mrs. Betts’s last call had been at ten p.m.

  Yes, she’d take a taxi home to Harvell House first thing in the morning. Yes, Alex’s doctor was being very kind and understanding in letting Maryanne stay the night with Alex. Absolutely, the nurses had given her one of those roll-in cots and that extra blanket. Thanks, Mrs. Betts, for asking them to.

  A line of light shone underneath Alex’s hospital room door. Green numbers glowed from the equipment, still humming by Alex’s bed. The last nurse who’d been in there, a matronly type, had left the bathroom light on for Maryanne. She’d started to close the room’s curtains, but Maryanne had asked her to leave them open. She found a comfort now in the night beyond. And with Connie’s diary tucked under the blankets with her, Maryanne lay quietly.

  She’d read Alex’s words. Every one of them. She’d read some of the pages over several times, especially the last few. And her own tears had fallen on the paper to join Alex’s that had dried there.

  Talk to her. About big things and little things.

  Those instructions that the nurses had given in the early days of Alex’s coma rang through her thoughts once again. And Maryanne knew she might never get another chance to talk to Alex Robbins, about anything.

  She sat up, tossed aside the blanket, and looked down at the yellowed diary that rested on her thigh. Maryanne touched the drawing of the tiny rose on one of the lower corners.

  Big things it was, then.

  “I... I read the diary, Alex. Most of Connie’s words, and all of yours. It wasn’t just curiosity. I had to.

  “I’m so sorry for what you went through, and that you thought you had to go through it alone. No one should. But I guess I can understand that—keeping it inside like you did. You’re a good writer. I know this is just a journal, but you’re good with putting your thoughts down. No wonder you love English class so much!”

  Maryanne turned to the back of the diary, the very last page that Alex had written on. She got up from her cot to sit on the edge of Alex’s bed. She pulled the chain to snap on the light over Alex’s head, watching her eyes carefully. But Alex didn’t flinch under the sudden glare.

  “This is what you wrote, Alex. Remember?”

>   Oh, please remember.

  Maryanne cleared her throat, twice, before she began reading Alex’s words.

  I’ve got almost all of it now. The memories of that night trickle in bit by bit each time I cast back into my body, until finally it’s about to become clear. The last critical bit. I just have to be brave enough to face it. And I’m ready to. I’ll tuck you away in a minute, dear diary, and then, by myself this time, I’ll cast out and then cast back in. And then... then I’ll know everything.

  Scared? Shitless! But I will remember. And when I do, I’ll go to the police and do what I have to do. And I’ll no doubt scream, and I’ll absolutely cry, but I WILL survive this no matter what. I know I will—I SWEAR I will. If Connie Harvell taught me anything, she taught me this.

  Sometimes survival’s all we have to start with. All we have to build on. But we find our strength in such strange places! Like way down deep inside... or way out in the darkest nights... “Alex,” Maryanne whispered. “Come back to us.”

  She closed the book. Maryanne stared down at Alex and gently pushed the dark bangs back on her forehead. The bandage was gone now; the bruises were subsiding.

  A flash in the periphery of her vision caught her attention. Maryanne’s head snapped toward the wide window. Nothing. Just a flicker of reflection on the glass no doubt, from when she’d moved her hand. She stared into the glass. Alex’s room faced the back of the hospital, toward the woods. There were no street lights to shine against the glass from the outside. The full moon barely glowed in the sky on this cloudy night. But the lights shone bright in the hospital room. And so in the window, Maryanne could see the bed, the monitors, and much of the room dully reflected in the glass. And she could see herself and Alex reflected there too.

  It felt suddenly strange. Yet it was nothing out of the ordinary, just the play of the light on glass she’d seen a million times before. There was always a kind of emptiness there at night when a room was well lit and you peered a certain way through a window into the darkness outside. And so it was tonight. One moment Maryanne could see their pale faces—hers and Alex’s—reflected in the glass, then a moment later, when she looked a different way, she could see through their images to the outside world. It was just a visual shift. But there was a kind of emptiness there, when you looked through. Not pitch black emptiness like a caster emptiness... but maybe one that could be.