I know you won’t get this. I know I won’t send it.
I know that even if I did it would be too late.
Love you anyway.
Hope
28
PAGE
I STARTED THE MOVIE EARLIERthan usual tonight as a distraction. It’sGravity, and Sandra Bullock is washed out on-screen because the sun isn’t all the way down. Still, the cars are packed full and so are the bleachers behind them.
It’s good for the guests to have things to do.
Everyone knows about the tragedy in the Underground, of course. A few left quietly, handing over their keys and checking out with minimal fuss. Some threw fits and demanded full refunds, even though nothing bad had happened tothem. I stood at the reception desk and used the lines I’ve learned from Colby: “Weather and natural disasters are not under our control, and so I can’t offer you a full refund or reschedule your stay.” I also adapted his tone: polite and firm.
I miss him. I thought I could handle this week. But I didn’t know that we’d have all ofthisgoing down. I miss his cheerfulness, the way his curly blond hair sticks out from under a hat when he wears one. The way he has to go into his office and take a break after he’s been public-facing—a term I learned from him—for too long. I’m not in love with Colby. I don’t have a crush on him. But if I could pick an older brother, he’s the one I’d choose. I wonder when—if, my mind says, always thinking of the darkest possibilities—he’ll be back.
I understood why he had to leave. But it’s been a hell of a time for him to be gone.
I think I’m doing a pretty good job—an astonishingly good job, actually—at keeping my crap together. But the moment Mal comes to relieve me at the reception desk for my break, I feel a spinning inside me, fear and stress and uncertainty darkening the corners of my vision. I pull off my name tag and leave it behind the counter. Once outside, I stop and take a few deep breaths on the path, looking up at the movie screen. The soundtrack—dramatic, epic—sings tinnily from the speakers inside the cars and in the viewing area.
I pull my hair out of its ponytail and unbutton my official Sonnet uniform shirt. I ball it up in my hand. In my tank top, with my hair loose, in the dusky light, I hope I look like any other young guest at the resort. I hope no one will ask me for anything.
The gravel crunches underfoot as I make my way down the path, past kids running in the direction of the movie, a couple having an argument, the food truck, the firepits. Smoke rises, people lean closer to the fire to see how the marshmallows on their skewers are coming along. Humans are gathering to socialize, in spite of or because of the tragedy. Some get lost and die. The rest live, eat, burn, laugh, scream, go quiet.
When I get to my destination, I pause to make sure no one’s watching me. This isn’t the smartest thing to be doing, especially when the police might already be on their way. But it’s quiet. The music is distant. No one’s here, not right now.
These aren’t my lodgings, but I go inside.
When I come back out, the sky has darkened. The screen is visible above the scrubby juniper trees. The movie’s clearer since the light has gone. Sandra Bullock has washed up on the sandy shore of Lake Powell, not far from here. It was an unusually wet year when they filmed the movie, and the typically red hills are covered in green. It looks like Hawaii. It’s not.Sandra claws a hand through the mud, kneads it in her fingers. She’s gasping for air. She’s been gone for so long.
Skye finds me when I’m almost back to the main tent. I’m breathing almost normally, and there are only a couple of buttons left to button on my uniform shirt. “Hey,” she says, and I can’t quite make out what’s in her voice. Curiosity? Triumph? “Where have you been?”
“I still have five minutes left on my break,” I say.
“The police are here,” Skye says. “They’ve been looking for you.”
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel when I heard these words, but the emotion that floods me isfury. Not the worst option, given what I still have left to do. I clench my fist, wishing I could grip the anger like Sandra gripped the sand. Hold on to it until I’m ready to let it drip through my fingers. “Okay,” I say. Inside, I think,What took so long?
29
ASH
THEY’RE GOING TO DIE.
Ash is sure of it.
Caro’s driving the truck over a spiny ridge at the literal top of a mountain. And there’s the name of the road on a sign, flashing briefly before them as they pass it—DEVIL’SBACKBONE.
Caro’s driving like a batoutof one. Hell, that is, not out of a backbone. Though the moment she has the thought, Ash imagines a spine—bones like the ones they saw in the canyon—with bats flying out from between the vertebrae, from under the rib cage, shrieking. She shudders.
Caro glances over. “You okay?”
“Eyes on the road!” Ash says. She’s in the middle, between Caro in the driver’s seat on Ash’s left and Spencer to the right. On either side of the road—which is only wide enough for a single vehicle—sheer drops fall below them. There are jags of rock, trees in precarious places, hairpin turns, astonishing almost-sunset views of the valleys and plateaus below them that Ash absolutely cannot appreciate.
They got to Spring Creek too late. Everything was closed. And then, instead of turning back and driving into St. John, they headed this way, into another tiny town called Story where Spencer has a friend who he’s sure can pick the lock for them.It’s faster, he and Caro agreed.Plus,Spencer said,I know he’ll be open. We can get back to Sonnet quicker this way. And how long has it been since you’ve driven Devil’s Backbone?
