He’d reached out as I was leaving his shop, his hand gliding down my arm to grip my own. The thick pads of his palm were deliciously warm and rough against my skin, but his words were harsh. “I mean it, Judeth. It’s not safe.”
I’d tried to pull away, but he held me there with his eyes, a breath passing between us. “I’ll be careful.”
His face had darkened at that, thick brows scrunching over oceanic eyes. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. It’s not a safe place. Especially for—”
“A woman?” I finished for him, tugging my hand away and crossing my arms.
“A person alone,” he insisted.
But Levi didn’t know me. He didn’t know what I could do. And I bristled at his assumptions, something I’d never done with Roger. Though Roger rarely seemed to care enough to intervene. Even as my anger flared, my heart favored Levi.
“Promise me,” he demanded.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” My voice dipped low, warning.
His jaw clenched. “It’s not worth the risk. For what? Some trinkets in an airtight container?”
The derision in his tone shamed me, and I snapped back, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know me.”
I stepped away and he reached out, his features softening. “If it means that much to you, let me come along. So I know you’re safe.”
But it was too late. Something in me had rolled over into fury. And I couldn’t bring him with me, however much sense it made. Levi didn’t understand. Ihadto come alone. “I’ll be fine,” I said, already pulling away.
He sighed as if weary of me. “Judeth, be reasonable.”
My chin thrust forward. “Forget I asked you about any of it. It’s not your business anymore, Levi.”
“I don’t do this,” he said, a sad glint in his eye. “You should know that. I don’t do secrets. I don’t do drama.”
“Not a problem,” I told him, turning for my car. “I don’t do assholes.”
Now here I am at 11:29P.M.on the third night after the third note card, choking on guilt and fear. I spent all of my weekend researching the hospital and its cemetery, looking up maps and planning out this little unwanted adventure, trying not to think about how I left things with Levi. I’m a bit early because I don’t know how long it will take to find the exact marker or precisely how large the cemetery is, but the hospital grounds total eleven hundred acres, and there are an estimated eighteen hundred people buried there. Before he tried to stop me, Levi had said the stones are small, set flat into the ground, most of them buried, and the few images online confirm this. I wish, in a fit of blind terror, that all I was doing was geocaching like he thought. Which, according to Google, involves tracking precise coordinates to find items left by other cachers—anything from books to coins to old toys. No wonder he thought my drive to come here was absurd, that I was “drama.” I must seem like the world’s biggest red flag after my behavior the last few days.
The worst part is, with distance to cool off, I don’t even understand why I got so upset. Because looking out my window now, Levi was right to tell me not to come out here alone. And he couldn’t possibly have understood why I had to ignore his warning with as little as I’d given him to go on. Roger and I never fought. Even when it was over. He didn’t yell or shout. I didn’t beg him to stay. He simply packed a bag and said he was sorry, then walked out. But Levi strikes me in a deeper, needier place than Roger. And I haven’t been quite myself since the Fathom.
No time like the present,I think. It’s not like it’s getting any earlier or brighter. But the second I kill my engine, it feels as if I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. The night advances in a rush, swallowing me and the car in cavernous darkness. I am struck by the image of Thalassa in the painting I—thoughtlessly, regretfully—bought on the Ave. I took her home and set her on top of the dresser across from my bed, leaning against the wall. But my dreams were haunted by a torrent of spectral images—a woman with broad, dark shoulders rising naked from the sea, the mantel at Solidago weeping a flood of tears onto the floor, my grandmother twirling along the edge of the cliffs until she disappeared over them, the field of flowers moving at night as though someone was wading toward the house.
Thank goodness it was Friday, and I could sleep in the next morning. Last night, I turned her around before bed so it wouldn’t happen again.
I step out of my car, greeted by a gust of frigid, coastal air. It batters my hair and coat as I close the door, find the flashlight app on my phone, and start toward the cemetery. A metal gateway opens in the fence, peaking overhead, strangely modern for this offbeat place. There was a gate at the road to close off the property after hours, but it was open when I pulled up. Stepping onto the thick grass of the cemetery I could almost believe I’m in a park or strolling across someone’s lawn. But the night coils around me as a reminder, and I know the dark cluster of trees at the back of the cemetery hides views of dilapidated buildings with brokenwindows wreathed in jagged glass, lobotomized roofs missing shingles, interiors exposed to the elements. They gape just beyond my view, their ghostly residents spewing into the night air like foul breath, a sluice of bad memories.
I think I’ve come upon a marker in a matter of steps, but it’s simply a grate set into the ground, hidden by encroaching grass. The dark is thick, and my phone can only illuminate a small circle. I can’t imagine what is tunneling under the graves of so many lost souls. It’s probably for drainage, but I’m made uneasy by the notion of the earth opening up beneath me, a mouth hungry for more life. I frown and move away.
I’ve only taken a few steps when the first real marker appears. A small square of concrete set into the earth, corners rounded by dirt and grass, face weather-beaten and smooth. The numbers and letters stand out even in the dark because they are so simply, crudely stamped, as if made with the keys of a vintage typewriter, each a little offset from the next.24, JP. I wonder whoJPwas, how their story began if this is how it ended.
Moving on, I encounter more markers, a couple I accidentally step on, and I’m reminded that there are more graves here than stones for them. At least, that’s what Levi said. So, every step I take is likely at someone’s expense. How many have I violated already?
Each marker I come across, I pause and check the inscription, consider who this person might have been. It shouldn’t be a cold night, but the wind howls mercilessly, causing me to gather the collar of my trench coat in a fist and hold it there. I see something slither away from my boot in the grass, and my breath hitches, caught at the base of my throat.
“Snakes don’t come out at night,” I say to myself as I watch the blades shift away from me, though I’ve no idea if that’s true. But then I remember the cat by the bookstore and the rat in the cathedral, the moth in the shop window, and I follow the trail of motion until I can’t see it anymore. Maybe it will lead me in the right direction.
I try to imagine how my mother might react if she knew I wasdoing this, what she would think of the Fathom and my desperate search for what we had and lost. She wouldn’t be impressed, I’m certain. Not by Arla and her sleek, black-cat attire or her thinly veiled threats. Not by Brennan and his expensive clothes, the mischievous Big Boy gleam in his eye, like the jolly retro mascot for the hamburger chain. And not by me, traipsing about at all hours, stealing more than cigarettes, and letting myself be led by the nose by a bunch of magical misfits.
Growing up, it never occurred to me that there might be others. Other mothers and daughters, other families who could set a fire without a match, or maybe stir a breeze or close a door without using their hands. Who could dance on the cliffs without falling (until they did). Others who burned as we did, who shared the burden of our power, who held lightning in a bottle with their minds. I wonder now what their families are like—Arla’s and Brennan’s and the rest of the circle’s. Were they raised to hold it all in? Pray it doesn’t explode? Or were they trained to use it effectively, responsibly? Did they speak things into being under a silver moon? Did they command the world to their liking?
For a moment, I feel suddenly giddy, about to unwrap a present I have always wanted but never received. And then the sound of a cracking branch to my right peels the skin back from my bones, and I recall where I am, alone in the night. I spin with fear, holding my phone out, its pathetic display barely shining through the air in front of my face.
When nothing shows itself, I glance at the time—11:48. I have roughly ten minutes left and a lot of ground to cover. I need to find this marker before the Fathom slips back into the night, taking everything I’ve recovered with them and leaving me to whatever fate awaits their flunkies.
