A chair scrapes against the kitchen floor. Sarah flies down the hall and slips back into her room. She locks the door, wincing at the tell-tale click.
She recognizes this part. The honeymoon phase is over. Everything is great until it’s not, and you wonder what you did wrong and how you can get the good feelings back.
You know what you did wrong, a voice says in the back of her head.
It sounds like Ben.
She collapses into the recliner. Her nose wrinkles at the musty scent, but she doesn’t want to get up again. She wants to sink into the upholstery as if it’s quicksand and never come out. Let the spirits of Jacob Vass and Stuart McGee and Joseph Singh lure her into the woods. Then no one will be able to find her, least of all Ben’s ghost. She’ll finally be free.
The wind whistles outside the windows. It sounds less like screaming now, and more like singing. Sarah glances down atBulfinch’s Mythology, splayed open at the page about the Sirens. Odysseus had asked his men to tie him to the ship’s mast so their song wouldn’t tempt him to his doom. Maybe that’s why Caleb and Elijah keep telling her to lock the door and stay inside the house. Otherwise the woods will claim her too.
A rap sounds on the door. “Sarah?” Caleb says. “I’ve got your lunch.”
She doesn’t want to talk to him. She wants to be left alone and let the wind and the woods devour her troubles. “Just leave it outside.”
His leaden sigh penetrates the wall between them. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. Could you please open the door? I’d like to apologize to your face.”
He sounds tired, and that’s what convinces Sarah to slide off the recliner. Ben never sounded tired. His rage drew from a bottomless well. And he certainly never apologized unless he had no options left.
Sarah unlocks the door and lets Caleb in. He crosses the room and sets a tray on the vanity. He hasn’t put a mask on. There doesn’t seem to be any point now. Somewhere, they’ve crossed a line, and the air she breathes is the same he and Elijah breathe.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says.
She doesn’t respond, only waits for him to make excuses, to blame her. It’s always her fault, isn’t it?
But itwasher fault. She phoned Graham when he’d asked her not to.
He’s not like Ben, she reminds herself.
But what if he is?
But what if he isn’t?
Sarah stands rooted to the spot, hands suddenly sweaty, paralyzed by the electricity of attraction and fear.
“And I know what I did with the phone was excessive. But I’m scared for Elijah. You don’t know him like I do. He’s not as good with people as he seems.”
He drags a hand down his face. Lines bracket his downturned mouth, and he resembles his mother more than his father now. “And I’m scared for you, too. Your brother could’ve been killed. That’s not an exaggeration. Old Man Doherty really thinks the virus is a Chinese conspiracy to undermine his way of life. As if China cares about his shitty pool hall.” He snorts.
She can’t help but smile at that. He smiles back.
Make nice. Accept the apology, because otherwise, the storm will break again. And it actually was her fault.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have called Graham.” She’s careful to keep her face contrite. “I’m becoming too much of a nuisance. I should just go.”
“Are you in a hurry to leave?” He smiles again, and her stomach flutters with yearning and dread.
“No, of course not. But there’s no chance of my car getting fixed soon?”
He shakes his head. “Lars is in bad shape, and half of his staff tested positive. Uncle Isaac’s furious.”
“Is there a bus I could take to Timmins?”
“The bus stop’s in the middle of town, across from the Tim Horton’s.”
Where Graham got shot at. The color drains from her face. Caleb adds, “Sarah, if there’s anything you want or need to make your stay here more comfortable, you only have to ask. Let me know what I can do. I want you to be happy.”
There’s only one thing that will make her happy. “Help me get out of Sweetside.”
