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“This way. I’ll take her home.”
Warm air moved past my face. I didn’t open my eyes, because he would be there.
The truck door creaked open. I cracked my eyes open to see Art buckling me into the passenger seat.
“Go back to the party.” Miles climbed in the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
No, Art! Don’t leave me alone with him!
But Art nodded and turned away. Miles started the truck.
“Alex.”
I stared out the window. Where was he?
“Alex, please look at me.”
I didn’t.
“What’s going on?” His voice rose and cracked. “What are you afraid of? Just look at me!”
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I could smell pastries and mint soap, crisp and sharp in the cold air. Miles let out a quick breath, but didn’t relax. His glasses slipped down his nose. A bruise already bloomed across his right cheekbone. His eyes flickered back to the road.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “What did you see? There was no one out there besides you and me and Art.”
I shook my head.
I couldn’t tell him.
He could never know.
Chapter Sixteen
My mother opened the door.
“She just . . .” was all Miles got out before she yanked me from his arms.
“What happened?” She pushed me into the house. “What did you do?”
“He didn’t do anything, Mom.” She pushed me onto the bench in the hall. The room spun, threatened to disappear. I realized she’d been talking to me, not Miles.
“We were at the bonfire, and she said . . . she started talking to someone else,” said Miles. “She fell down screaming, and we got her up and I brought her here.”
My mother stared at him. “What’s that mark? Did she hit you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
She rounded on me, eyes flashing. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder to Miles. “I’m very sorry for your trouble. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
“But wait—is she okay?”
My mother closed the door in his face.
“Mom!”
“Alexandra Victoria Ridgemont. You haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?”
“Mom, I—I thought I was—”
She stormed into the bathroom and returned with my prescription bottle, thrusting it into my hands. “Take them. Now.” She bent down and pulled my shoes off like I was four. “I trusted you to take those on time. I thought, after years of this, I could count on you to do it yourself.” One of her nails scratched my heel. “I can’t believe you hit him. What if his parents decide to press assault charges? I can’t believe you were so irresponsible. Are you still seeing things?”
“How am I supposed to know, Mom?” I had to force the words through the knot in my throat. I wiped tears from my eyes. I clawed open the pill bottle and choked down the medicine.
“Go into the living room. I’m calling Leann.”
Leann Graves, my therapist. The Gravedigger.
My stomach convulsed.
“I’m fine, Mom, really,” I said, voice wavering. “I’m okay now. It snuck up on me.”
But she already had the phone in her hand, her thumbs flying over the buttons. How did she not have the Gravedigger on speed dial? She smashed the phone against her ear.
“I’m calling your father after this,” she said in her most severe, threatening tone.
“Good!” The strength of my voice surprised me. “He listens better than you do!”
She pressed her lips into a thin white line and disappeared into the kitchen.
I stood, hurled the pill bottle on the floor, and ran to my room. The pictures floated from the walls when I threw the door open. I tossed my camera onto the bed and ripped the nearest picture off. In it was a tree with bright red and orange leaves. The problem was, the other trees were all green. Because I’d taken the picture at the end of spring. I tore another snapshot down. This one was my first sighting of the Hannibal’s Rest phoenix. It perched on top of Red Witch Bridge, staring straight into the camera. I took another picture down, and another.
All of them still had their subjects. Nothing had changed.
I sunk down on the rug. Pictures spilled across the floor, leaving new gaps in my photograph-covered walls. The tears came on full force, wet and messy and stupid. I should have known. I should have paid better attention. Now Miles would know, and everyone would—
I stopped myself. That wasn’t why I was upset.
I was upset because I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell that Bloody Miles wasn’t real. I’d gotten—I thought I’d gotten so good at telling the difference. These pictures meant nothing. They told me nothing.
The door creaked open and a tiny body wedged its way inside my room. I opened my arms and Charlie climbed into my lap without hesitation. I buried my face in her hair. She was the only one I let myself cry in front of, because she was the only one who never asked what was wrong, or if I needed anything, or if she could help.
She was just there.
Am I crazy?
Concentrate and ask again
Am I crazy?
Reply hazy try again
Am I crazy?
Cannot predict now
Better not tell you now
Concentrate and ask again
Better not tell you now
Reply hazy try again
Cannot predict now
Ask again later
Ask again later
Ask again later
Part Two: The Lobsters
Chapter Seventeen
I spent the next three weeks in and out of the hospital.
By the end of the second week, I more often haunted my living room, but the Gravedigger rained medication on me like the London Blitz.
Every morning I woke up with the image of Bloody Miles burned into my memory, and every night I dreamed I stood on a gymnasium floor spray-painted red with the word Communists, while McCoy’s scoreboard cackled on the wall behind me.
Nothing felt or tasted or looked good anymore. I didn’t know if it was me or the new medication. Food made me want to throw up, blankets and clothes scratched and twisted, every light blinded me. The world had gone gray. Sometimes I felt like I was dying, or the Earth was breaking apart beneath my feet, or the sky might swallow me whole.
I couldn’t go to work anymore. Not that I cared. Finnegan hated me anyway. This would be the perfect excuse for him to fire me.
I didn’t even sneak out to Red Witch Bridge. I couldn’t risk it. And a dark part of my mind imagined Bloody Miles standing in the trees, waiting for me.
