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Santos
“I don’t much feel like company, Caius,” I tell my brother as I pull on the coat.
“That’s too bad. You’re in a state. What’s going on?”
“Christ. Take a hint and leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you alone. You literally walked out of your wedding reception into what is quickly turning into a blizzard without a coat and in fucking dress shoes.”
I stop, look down at his feet, then up at him, eyebrows raised.
“Didn’t have boots handy,” he says, because he, too, is wearing dress shoes. “But I did bring the coats.”
He makes a goofy face. It’s the same one that has always let him get away with murder when it comes to Mom, and I get it, because I can’t help but smile. Caius knows exactly when to be charming.
“Fine. Thank you for the coat.”
“Welcome. Now can we go back inside where it’s warm and it doesn’t look like fucking Armageddon?”
“You go on. I want to see the lighthouse.”
“You can see it tomorrow.”
I don’t answer. I just keep trudging through the snow. It has already penetrated my shoes, so my feet are wet and freezing.
He mutters a curse but follows. When we were little, it was like this too. Caius, my older half-brother, always has my back. I turn my collar up against the blowing wind and snow as we walk side-by-side over the narrowing neck of the land that will lead to the edge of the cliffs where the lighthouse stands.
Angry waves crash against the rocky coast, splashing drops of ice water at us at intervals. In contrast to the soft snowflakes, they’re like little shards of glass. I shove my hands deep into my pockets.
As we approach, I see the graffiti that stains the walls.
“Thought we were having it cleaned up,” I mention as I take the keys from my pocket.
“It’ll be repainted this summer.”
The graffiti is typical bullshit kids spray paint onto walls. It bothers me to no end when something as beautiful as a lighthouse over a century old is desecrated like this—and it is beautiful, even given its terrible history.
“Let’s get it done next week, weather permitting,” I tell him.
“I don’t have my notepad with me, sir.” I glance back at Caius because his tone is off. “We’re at your fucking wedding reception,” he reminds me. “Can we take a break from work for one hot minute?”
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” I put the key into the lock and turn it, but it must be broken because there’s no resistance, no unlocking. Making a mental note to get it looked at, I pocket the key and push the door open. Caius enters first. He flips the switch, but nothing happens.
“Here.” I hand him one of the flashlights standing on a shelf along the wall. “When it storms, it’s not unusual for the lighthouse to lose power, apparently. Or so I’m told.”
“Then how is the beacon working?”
“Generator?” I shrug and pan my flashlight around. Paraphernalia of parties litters the floor. Hence the broken lock.
“You know where it got the name Suicide Rock from, right?” Caius asks me.
I nod once. Oh, I know. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of ghosts,” I say, trying to sound casual even though I feel anything but. I’d rather be alone right now, would rather see this on my own. It feels somehow intimate, this place that’s gruesomely connected to Madelena.
“If ghosts exist, I’m guessing you’re the one who should be worried, but you seem just fine.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, although I know. I stop and turn to look at him. Caius knows the things I’ve done. All those years, I needed a confidante. Or a confessor.
“Nothing. That was in poor taste.” He pats my back. “Let’s go up, brother.”
