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The sun outside was piercing. I held my hand up against it and tripped down the first few white marble steps, grabbing on to the handrail just in time to stop myself from sprawling across the sidewalk.
“Rory, stop!” Tristan shouted behind me.
“Just let me go, Tristan.”
On a grassy stretch of the park, near the burbling swan fountain, a young woman worked her way through a series of yoga poses on a purple mat. An elderly couple strolled by with steaming coffees, whispering to each other and smiling. A middle-aged man jogged toward us, clutching a surfboard under his arm, headed for the beach. I stared at him until he dipped down the hill and out of sight.
Dead. All these people were dead.
Two black crows swooped in, cawing as they grazed perilously close to my ears—so close I felt the soft tip of one wing graze my skin. They swung up and across the street, coming to rest on the wings of the swan at the center of the fountain. The two of them sat there, puffing their chests and glaring at me.
“Not until you hear what I have to say,” Tristan said. He caught up with me and looked down at his feet. “Listen, I really am sorry about having Fisher grab you on the beach. I just—”
“No. I get it. It’s fine.” I paused and took in a sharp breath. “I mean, it’s not fine, but I get why you did it. You were trying to help me…my family.” My eyes welled up all over again as I thought of my dad and Darcy, how blissfully ignorant they were right then. “God. This sucks.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Tristan shoved his hands into his hair, briefly lacing his fingers together behind his head, his biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. “You should know that they won’t remember anything that happened last night, either—that Nell was here, that Darcy was kidnapped, that a search party was formed.”
I balked. “Why not?”
“No visitor who encountered Nell while he was here will remember him, just like all the other visitors who have been moved on,” Tristan explained. “Your sister and dad included.”
I shook my head slowly. “This is insane. This whole place is insane.”
“I know it seems that way,” Tristan said, dropping his arms at his sides. “But listen, you can get through this. Look at what you’ve been through already. You were stalked by a serial killer and you survived.”
I laughed bitterly as one tear spilled over. “No, actually, I didn’t.”
“No, I mean, your soul survived,” he explained, grasping my arms gently. “And it’s beautiful and strong and true. Look at you, Rory. Look what you did last night. You saved your sister. You faced your murderer and won. And now, thanks to you, he’s in the Shadowlands. You did that.”
When I looked into his eyes, I could tell that he meant what he said. That he thought I was beautiful, strong, and true. That he even admired me, and what I’d done. Gradually, my breathing began to slow, and I felt something new sparking up inside me. It felt a bit like pride, a bit like hope. It was small, but it was there.
Tristan turned me gently to look up at his house, the sprawling blue colonial mansion hovering high on the bluff overlooking the ocean to the south, and the town to the north and east.
“You see the weather vane up there?” he asked, lifting his chin.
It was a gleaming gold embellishment atop the tallest turret—another proud swan. The arrow was pointing south, and it was still as stone, even though there was a good breeze coming in off the water.
“Have you ever noticed it never points east or west?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow.
“Yes,” I told him, feeling a little rush of realization. “It never actually moves with the wind.”
“Exactly.” His smile made me blush with an odd sense of accomplishment. “If the person goes to the Light, the weather vane po
ints north. If the person goes to the Shadowlands, it points south. That’s why it’s pointing south now,” he added, watching me carefully. “For Steven Nell.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I said quietly.
Tristan smiled, and so did I. A small, tentative smile. “Come with me,” he said, tilting his head. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the ocean, toward home. A huge part of me wanted to go back, to be with my family, even if I couldn’t tell them anything. But Darcy and my dad—both late sleepers—were probably still in bed, and I had a zillion questions only Tristan could answer. This was his home, his reality, his existence.
We crossed the park and headed down a side street toward the water. The marina was a wide horseshoe shape lined by slatted docks that opened into a large parking lot. A dozen sailboats—some wooden, some fiberglass—were moored in the sapphire-blue water, while a few motorboats were tied in individual slips. One, I noted wryly, was named Eternity.
Out on the choppy bay, I could see the ferry moving slowly toward the dock. I hadn’t laid eyes on the boat since the day my dad, my sister, Darcy, and I had arrived on the island, and I realized now that I’d never really looked at it. The enclosed areas had dozens of windows, all of which gleamed as if this run was the boat’s maiden voyage.
Tristan walked to a weathered wooden guardrail overlooking the dock and the parking lot just below us. We waited in silence as the ferry slid into its berth. There were a few shouts from the dockworkers as they tied the boat off, and then the walkway was lowered. Before long, the first passenger stepped off the boat. He was a short, wiry man with thinning hair and a wide nose. He looked confused but not unhappy. Behind him was a chubby girl about my age, wearing a yellow sundress, her dark hair cut short so that it curled in a pixie-ish fashion around her ears. She was followed by a middle-aged couple holding hands, his ebony skin a stark contrast to her freckled pink complexion.
“So these people…they’re all…”
