“I’m coming too,” Bastian pipes in.
I grit my teeth, desperate to argue, to preserve their innocence just a while longer, but the set of Cadence’s features and the determination in Bastian’s eyes shut me up. The only way those two aren’t coming with me is if I truss them up which I doubt either would appreciate, so I relent.
As we head out, De Morel pulls a set of keys from a drawer and hands them to Cadence. “Don’t dump the sheet with her. And put some rocks in her clothes, so—”
“Enough,” I say. “I know what to do.”
Cadence blanches.
Rainier smirks. “I have no doubt you do, Roland.”
Cadence is sweet, and I’m corrupt to the marrow. One more reason I need to leave this town . . .
I take the elevator down while Cadence and Bastian take the stairs. In the fancy gold-and-glass capsule, I blink like the time Bastian doused me with pepper spray, thinking I was a thief come to rob the apartment.
Hold it together, Slate.
I inhale slowly, sliding much needed oxygen into my lungs.
Cadence has put her coat back on by the time I reach the lobby, and she’s already holding the front door open. She leads us around the house, down the steep, snow-covered lawn visible from Rainier’s office. I don’t look over my shoulder to see if he’s staring at us. Not that I would see him considering how hard it’s snowing.
Again.
Where did the earlier sun go?
Cadence clings to Bastian’s arm while I tighten my hold on Emilie. As we get closer, the fog thickens. Soon, I can barely see more than a couple feet ahead of me.
When we reach De Morel’s private dock, Bastian crouches down to collect stones from the pebbled shore.
“We’re not weighing her down,” I say.
“We’re not?” Cadence’s bare fingers are already red from the biting cold.
“Emilie’s mother deserves closure. She deserves to know her daughter won’t be coming home.”
Cadence’s thick lashes obscure her downturned eyes, but I catch her wiping them on the back of her hand. “I wish I could wake up and find out all of this was a nightmare.”
AndIwish I could make this come true.
Cadence unlocks the gate, and we trudge over the icy wooden boards of the dock. In the mist, the boat is nothing more than a shadowy mass until we’re practically on top of it. After being in themanoir, I was expecting the boat to be a goliath navigational showcase. But, for once, Rainier seems to have reined in his ostentatious taste. A midsized walkaround bobs at the end of the dock, between a deicer and a specially-made ramp for wheelchair access.
I hug Emilie’s body to my chest as I straddle the gunwale. Cadence is already unlocking the cabin door, and Bastian starts to lift the buoys and unlatch the ropes hooking the vessel to the dock. Above us, a crow stains the mist like an inkblot, dipping so low I swear I can feel the flap of its wings against my forehead. Its caws are loud and abrasive and raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Bastian swears and waves his arms at it. It carves back into the mist but leaves me with a fist of dread clenching my gut.
The motor starts, discharging a jet of exhaust. Cadence is at the helm, brows furrowed in concentration. Any other time, I’d be going on about how sexy she looks in control. But right now, the only thing on my mind is the horror of the situation.
We cut through the fog, Cadence guided by the glowing screen of the GPS.
The din of the motor is muffled by the pounding of my heart. I remind myself to breathe, but when I take a breath, I smell Emilie.
“We’re really doing this, huh?” Bastian asks.
“Have another suggestion?” It comes out sharper than necessary.
Bastian looks away and into the white cloud surrounding us. I should apologize but don’t.
The boat shudders to a standstill, and Cadence turns her red-rimmed eyes to us. “This is the deepest part of the lake.”
With the motor off and the mist suffocating us like a pillow, the only sound is our strained breaths. I’ve only been to church a few times in my life—foster mom number two dragged us there on Sundays to atone for her religious use of illegal substances—but kneeling on the cold floor of the stern throws me straight back to those wooden pews and silent stretches of prayer. No matter how many times I swallow, I can’t get rid of the prickling in my throat.
