And then smoke wafts from his skin and envelops him and Gaëlle until their shapes are barely distinguishable in the thick grayness. A funnel of wind appears over the cloud and sucks up the smoke. Gaëlle crawls off her husband’s corpse, her long spirals whipping around. The wind rips apart Matthias’s skin, flesh, and bones, disintegrating the man until nothing remains but the moldy shroud and snake-like, curse-defeating scarf.
When the wind stops blowing, the gold leaf twinkles atop the yellow yarn.
She did it. She fucking did it.
I let out a gigantic breath, feeling suddenly warmer.
That’s two pieces.
We’re halfway there. And we’ve still got twelve days.
I might not die after all.
28
Cadence
As Gaëlle’s leaf clinks into the box Papa brought, Slate picks up her scarf with the shovel.
“Shouldn’t leave evidence at a crime scene.” His reasoning reminds me that he’s a man accustomed to infringing the law and not some happy-go-lucky kid with a mane of wild corkscrews.
“We should set it on fire,” I suggest.
“Gaëlle?” Papa slides the locked box back into one of the pockets of the snowmobile. “What would you like to do with the scarf?”
“What Cadence said. Burn it.”
Slate drops it back over the grimy shroud, and Adrien flicks a match.
As I watch the flames devour the fibers, it dawns on me that Papa helped her bury Matthias, which makes him an accessory to murder. If anyone finds out . . .
I can’t think like that. No one knows outside of the five of us. Gaëlle won’t talk since she has more to lose than he does. Adrien won’t either, since he’s almost family. And Slate . . . I study his sharp profile outlined by Matthias’s funeral pyre, watch him toast his hands over the flames. He hates Papa and blames him for everything bad that’s happened in his life, so he might just lord this over my father. I might need leverage to keep him quiet.
Oh, God. I hate these thoughts. I try hard to beat them out of my mind as Adrien, Slate, and I bury the ashes under thick layers of soil and snow.
Slate’s a part of this now. I have to trust him. There’s no other choice.
“You okay?” he asks as I upturn a bucket of fresh snow.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen someone die, so . . . not really.”
“That wasn’t someone, Cadence. That was a ghost.”
“Have you ever seen . . . a real person . . . die?”
He nods. It’s a slow nod. A careful one.
I swallow. “I know I didn’t kill him, but I feel like I did. Did you ever kill anyone?”
His dark eyes take on a dangerous gleam. “No. But I’ve been close.”
“Who?”
His stubble-coated chin dips toward his neck. “Monsters. And not the magical kind.”
The bucket swings from my numb fingers. In spite of my gloves, the air got to me. All of my joints feel distended and the inside of my ears ache.
He pries the bucket from my hands. “You should get yourself home. Your lips are purple, and you have ice crystals on your lashes.”
