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I shrug. Her views are tainted by all these human emotions, the sentimentality… the exact things I need to keep as far away from as possible. “I’ve never seen him as a parent. That would be a huge disrespect to his position. Feelings and emotions… they’re human distractions my kind can’t indulge in, especially not at my rank. Our utility is our value.”
“That sounds very lonely. So you don’t really feel anything?”
My lips pucker. I should just say yes, and put an end to this conversation and some much needed distance between us. But I don’t. “That’s not what I said.”
Esme spins the ring between her fingers for what feels like minutes, her eyebrows low on her forehead. It feels like she’s looking for a retort, or maybe questioning if this conversation is worth having. Either way, relief floods me when she chooses to change the subject instead.
“So this represents your rank, basically.” She smacks her lips together a couple of times as she continues to inspect the trinket. “If that’s the case, my theory still holds.”
For a while, she’s quiet, her head bowed down to stare at her lap, her curls creating a curtain between us. Then, she throws her head back in laughter.
“Esme?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t —“
She reaches a hand for mine, squeezing it, and that quiets me. The touch is friendly at best, hardly intimate, and yet it brews a storm in my chest all the same.
“Tei… I might actually do this.”
She squeezes my hand again, in a way that feels almost involuntary. The gesture is far too familiar, something I shouldn’t like… and yet I do. The same way I enjoy the sound of my nickname on her lips. I place my other hand atop our joined ones and squeeze back. “I never doubted you. You have the power to wreck this thing.”
The more time I spend with her, the more I feel like she could also wreck me, in the process. And I’m not so certain anymore I’m in a position to stop it.
chapter 26
laying the
gravedigger to rest
esmeralda
It’s been days since I’ve made any progress on the puzzle. The last revelation felt so massive, I figured it’d unlock all the other answers, but the meaning of the last two trinkets still escapes me, and it’s become the cause of great frustration. I’m constantly distracted, on edge, and snappy. Last night, I could barely catch any sleep, which is why I’m currently laying in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling of my childhood bedroom. Dawn colors the horizon, but with the Pacific Northwest’s signature fog shrouding the town, the warmth of the sun is filtered until it’s barely a hint of greenish light.
Sitting around here isn’t doing me any good; I need a change of scene. I hop off the bed too fast, making my head spin, and have to sit back down and try again, more slowly. When I feel stable on my feet, I fish a long-sleeved bodysuit from my closet. My first instinct is to go for the black one with the turtleneck, but I force my hand back. There’s a ribbed one, in a deep emerald color with a v-neckline, that I bought and literally never worn, feeling like it drew too much attention to me. With a deep breath, I reach for it instead and match it to a chocolate brown silk skirt with a high slit, and a chunky cardigan for warmth. October is at the door and brings with it a bone-deep chill, especially at this morning hour. With the jewelry box secured in my tote bag, I leave the house.
I eye the car parked in the driveway, but in the end, decide against getting behind the wheel. I’ve always been able to think better when my legs are in motion, so I head up the side road behind Àvia’s house, the one that winds behind the trailer park to reach the beach.
Really, calling it a beach is a major overstatement, as it’s just a thin stretch of grayish sand, no more than six feet wide and twenty long, separating the cliffside from the punishing waves of the ocean. In high tide, said beach disappears completely. Fortunately, the ocean is giving us a break today. A few smaller boulders scatter from the cliffside into the ocean, and large, gnarly pieces of dark driftwood lay across the sand like an obstacle course. The fog is thick enough that even the sea is colorless, and the two blend into a blurred horizon; even the lighthouse, on the far end of the northern peninsula, is invisible, the only sign of its presence the intermittent light fighting to permeate the mist.
Using the driftwood as stepping stones, I walk over the lapping water and reach for one of the smaller boulders. The stone is cold and slippery, coated in morning dew, but after a few attempts, I manage to climb its side and perch myself atop it. Wetness seeps into my skirt, sending a chill through my body. I should’ve brought a towel.
The quiet out here is like a balm to the soul, though, water crashing against rock the only noise. It’s peaceful and solitary in a way few other places in Hazel Creek manage to be. I hug my legs to my chest and take in the briny scent of the ocean. The lulling melody of waves helps to soothe the churning feeling in my gut, and I feel like, if not answers, I’m at least finding some perspective.
I have time. Not in the grand scheme of things, but as far as the game goes, I’ve barely used up two weeks and have managed to make some serious headway. Progress isn’t linear, and I just need to accept it.
When a chill runs down my spine, I freeze. It’s not the cold ocean water spraying my ankles that’s causing the cold; I recognize the feeling of death clung to it. In the distance, under the arched rock formation, stands a shadowy figure. The fog is still too thick for me to tell any details about them, but as we’re the only two souls on this beach, I don’t doubt they’re the source of the chill.
That thing deep in my core, the darkness Àvia always told me to conceal, swirls. Every instinct I’ve built through the years tells me to ignore the shadow, or even better, leave the beach altogether. Pretend I’m normal, pretend death can’t touch me.
I swallow those instincts down. Instead, I listen to the dark voice buried deep in a corner of my soul, the one I’ve smothered for so long. Ignoring the learned compulsion to flee, I let my true intuition take over. It leads me off the rock, stepping over the driftwood, until I’m back on even ground. My feet feel buoyant as they sink in the sand, taking me toward the figure.
Now only a few feet away, I can tell he’s an old man, dressed in a heavy peacoat and working boots. His snow white hair is sparse, concentrated around his temples in unruly tufts, and despite the sheen typical of ghosts, his hands are clearly stained by dirt and calloused by labor.
I watched those hands bury my grandmother just a few weeks ago.
“Bernie?” I call out.
The ghost looks my way by twisting his head at an unnatural ninety-degree angle. We look at each other for a long moment, then I wave. Bernie’s mouth opens in a perfect circle.
He takes a few steps in my direction, leaving the security of his alcove. “You… can see me?” He tips his head sideway, far enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t fall off his neck. “So it was true all along.”
