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Instead, it was to these people.
And it felt more substantial, more real, than she could ever have dreamed.
Early in the predawn hours of the next morning, Oliver parked near the boardwalk at Wildman Beach, where the souvenir shop and the New Sea Food Paradise restaurant were located. He turned off the engine, but he could still feel the buzz of the road fluttering along his skin like the tiny wings of insects. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He’d run out of money for motel stays a few days ago. At his last stop, which had been over twenty-four hours ago, he’d had to scour his car for change for gas, finding quarters under seats and in an old coffee mug he’d kept in his dorm room to use for the school washing machines.
And now he was here, finally back on Mallow Island.
He stared out over the water. The white foam from the waves, visible in the darkness, glowed like long strands of blurry Christmas lights.
He was so damn tired. His eyes felt grainy every time he blinked. It was too early to wake Frasier, but even if he’d had enough fuel to do so, he couldn’t keep driving around until daylight. He was an accident waiting to happen. He wondered if the Mallow Island police still did their overzealous patrols canvassing for the homeless sleeping in public places, or if he could get away with sleeping here.
His eyes had just begun to close when he caught the headlights of a patrol car as it entered the far end of the parking lot. He reluctantly started the engine again and reversed, giving a wave of acknowledgment to the patrol car as he pulled back out onto the coastal highway. He considered going to I Hate Mondays, if it was still open all night. But then he ruled that out because he didn’t have the money for even a cup of coffee.
He could think of only one other place to go.
And, really, there was no use putting it off.
He would have to face it sooner or later.
Trade Street was still like a fairy tale at night, with its old-fashioned streetlamps shining like lemon lollipops in front of the candy-colored businesses. He was so short on sleep that he was on autopilot, less anxious about seeing the Dellawisp than he would have been if he were going on full steam. He turned by Sugar and Scribble Bakery, drove down the bumpy alley until it opened into a parking lot, and then there it was.
The glow of the garden lights through the foliage behind the gate gave the impression of crackled mercury glass. There were only two cars in the lot—a gray Honda and a big SUV he remembered belonged to a man named Mac. He backed into a space next to the Honda, then turned on the overhead light in his car so he could root through the glove compartment, where he’d tossed his old house key years ago. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time. It had hung on his key chain for months after he’d left, until he hadn’t been able to look at it any longer.
He finally found it, turned off the light, and got out.
His shoulder muscles began to bunch the closer he got to the gate. He’d felt this way every day coming home from school when he was younger. Talking with his therapist at college had helped himunderstand that it hadn’t actually been dread he’d been feeling—dread at facing all those boxes, or the walls that were literally closing in on him, or another argument with his mother, which he would sometimes pick on purpose to try to get her to say something other than “You think I had achoice?” when he demanded to know why she’d had him in the first place.
No, it hadn’t been dread at all.
It had been hope. Hope that, somehow, things would be different.
Every single day that hope had buoyed him, and then sunk him.
When he got to the gate, he pulled on it, but found that it wouldn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. He looked down and saw that it now had a keypad lock.
He leaned forward and put his forehead against the bars in defeat.
Back to sleeping in his car. At least no one would see him or notice a strange car here until morning. He turned and took a step, but stopped abruptly when he heard a tinny, muffled thud. It sounded like a knock against one of the dumpsters, as if his sudden turning had startled someone and they had backed away.
His first thought was, alarmingly, that it was his mother going through the dumpster as she often did. That maybe she wasn’t really dead and he’d been somehow tricked into coming back here just to have his hopes dashed again.
Or, worse, shewasdead but her ghost was still here, which meant he would never be free of her.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice low and dry from too many convenience-store corn chips and too little water.
There was no answer.
He took out his key fob and turned on his car lights by remote.It was a particularly genius move, because the lights were facing him and away from the dumpsters, so he was temporarily blinded.
He immediately clicked them off and waited, listening.
Maybe it had just been a cat.
He jogged to the car and got in and locked it. There was too much stuff in the back to recline, so he rested his head against the upright seat and closed his eyes, but kept opening them again to focus on the dumpsters. He thought he saw a shadow moving around the back of one of them.
He couldn’t take it any longer. He needed sleep or he was going to turn to cinder.
He started the car and drove to Julep Row. There, he parked outside Frasier’s house and stared at the imposing gates before taking out his phone.
