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They haven’t softened. Not even a fraction.
Shame and heat color my cheeks as I find the open desk. Bumping into umbrellas and apologizing all the way to my seat, “Sorry, sorry…sorry, I’m really sorry.”
I finally sit, take a breath, and manage to easily open my umbrella. Droplets ping and slip off, and I can barely think about drama as Mr. Owens hands out the syllabus and starts class.
My mind spins with other things.
October.
My dad.
Amelia’s words still puncture me. The daughter of a murderer.
My dad’s curse feels like a part of mine. But that’s not how this town works. Technically, I can’t be cursed until I’m over eighteen. To protect the children, I think the town made that ridiculous rule. Like they can control the meaning of misfortune.
To anyone that asks, I’ll never stop repeating the truth. Nicholas Durand is not a murderer. His curse is just morbid.
His first wife died in childbirth. Brian’s mom. Dead.
His second wife died giving birth to Colt.
And then there was my mother. She died during my labor.
After I was born, the town decided it was too much of a coincidence that three different women died all the same way. They think my dad had a hand in it.
It’s a cruel rumor, not based on fact. And for a town that loves legends and the unexplainable, they’ve decided our family needed to have an explanation.
Really though, having a murderer lurking around town just adds to the “cursed” allure. It’s a game to a lot of people here.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. I take my time gathering my things. Avoiding eye contact. Avoiding everyone.
Even the one and only October.
The rest of the school day goes by according to plan. Blend. It nearly lifts my spirits, but the residual embarrassment from this morning still lingers. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop replaying the events in my head. I effing bowed to October Brambilla.
In front of an entire classroom.
God, could I be more pathetic?
The end-of-day bell rings and students crowd and loiter in the wet hallways, chatting with friends before heading out to the parking lot.
Shuffling my way into the hall, I reach my locker without much notice. Success, I think. Until I perch my umbrella handle on my shoulder and open my locker.
A pastel pink paper bag rests on a stack of textbooks.
Looking around, I try to spot the girls or guys giggling in the corner. This has to be some practical joke.
Right?
Carefully, I open the paper bag and pull out a homemade fruit tart. Little blueberries and raspberries center the pastry. I skipped lunch today. Hid out in the library to avoid having to choose a table, not that I suspect many people would’ve wanted me to join theirs. My stomach grumbles at the sight of the tart.
Why would someone give this to me? Is it poisoned or something?
I take a second look into the bag. There’s a note.
I slip out the pretty stationary paper—woodland creatures like birds, wolves, rabbits decorate the border—and I stare at the neat, beautiful handwriting.
Chin up. – OB
OB.
October Brambilla.
CHAPTER 5
Zoey Durand
Present Day
Twilight settles into town. Oranges and pinks bathe the lake, the colors reminding me of my dad.
He used to warn Brian, Colt, and me about the most dangerous time to be outside. Twilight is the time between dog and wolf. When it’s too difficult to distinguish which animal you face, and it’s easy to mistake a dog for a wolf. Or a wolf for a dog.
“Inter canem et lupum.” Our dad would say the idiom in its original Latin form. He’d always end with, “Return home before then.”
A distant howl echoes across the winds and sends a shiver over my arms. Dog or wolf, I don’t want to come upon either right now. I have enough going on than facing any kind of creature.
I wheel my broken, wobbly mess of a suitcase down the boardwalk. Unruly wind rocks and sways the docked boats at the harbor.
I find the familiar, orange-painted house nestled behind Fisherman’s Wharf. October and I kept in touch mostly through texts and the occasional phone call. I cared too much about her not to check in, and I think she felt the same way about me.
But we had rules.
Rule #1: Never discuss family.
Rule #2: Never talk about relationships.
Rule #3: Never ask about the curse.
Rule #4: Never meet again. Never ask for it.
That last rule was always the hardest, but we never did break it. Hell, we never broke a single one.
Until now.
I pull out my cellphone and dial her number. The wind howls…or is that a dog? A wolf? I check over my shoulder, a chill creeping in.
Strange noises lurk within the empty town. Old wooden docks are creaking, and beach glass windchimes clink on front porches while skeletal tree limbs scrape against houses.
