“Jesus,” I say. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Holden gives an apologetic smile. “That’s my bad, kiddo,” he says. He looks around, gaze skating over Sloane and Aisha on the steps.
Because he can’t see them, I force myself to act like I don’t either. It feels cruel, ignoring them, but the last thing I need is Holden going to my aunt and mom with concerns. “Who were you talking to?” he asks.
I frown, stiffening. “What?”
“You were talking to someone,” he says. Gestures to the yard around us. “Something about tomatoes?”
I clear my throat. Heat snakes up my neck and across my cheeks. I pray the sweat and flushed skin from the last hour’s work hides the blush. “Oh.” I flick a glance toward Aisha and Sloane. “Myself, I guess.”
Holden says nothing for a long moment. I’m sure he’s going to call my bluff or, worse, tell my mom and aunt I was out here talking to no one. But he simply shifts his weight, and says, “Is your aunt here?”
Relief flushes like a cold current through my veins. I nod quickly, jerking my chin toward the house. “Kitchen,” I say. The word comes out harsher and more stilted than I mean, but I don’t take it back, don’t soften it up once it’s in the air.
Holden doesn’t notice. “Thanks,” he says. “Good luck with the weeds.”
I nod, letting my chin fall, pretending to be interested in the growing pile of discarded plants at my knees.
“He lives across the street, right?” Aisha asks. Her gaze sticks to Holden as he heads up the porch. The girls slide out of his way so he doesn’t step on—or through—them.
Once I’m sure he’s far enough into the house not to hear, I answer. “He went to high school with my mom and Paige,” I say. “I’m pretty sure he has a big crush on Paige. You’ve probably seen him around.”
“Yeah. That makes sense,” she says. And it does. It’s a small town, where everyone knows everyone—or, at the very least, has heard of everyone or seen them in passing. But Aisha isn’t from town. According to her missing poster in the store, she’s from Albuquerque. Her family was here on vacation when she vanished.
If she’s like Finn, Aisha has been stuck here since then. She’s bound to get to know the neighbors. Even if none of them will ever get to know her.
Eleven
The Stacks is always quietin the evenings. It’s unlike the bookstores back home, which always filled up as the days drew on. But Blackridge doesn’t operate like my hometown or any town I’ve been in. Whereas most places are open later in the summer and close earlier in the fall and winter, the Stacks is the opposite. Most of the business are. Their hours extend in the spring, fall, and winter, but the summer curfew—instated after Ingrid Halstead’s disappearance after a huge push from her family, according to Paige—cuts them back. It’s backward to me, but I guess the suspicions run deep. The missing kids all disappeared during the summer, and even if the belief in some elusive shadow creature isn’t widespread, the paranoia is.
The last few hours are mostly for checking stock or fixing any displays that curious children knocked over throughout the day. Despite the signs that urge no food or drinks, I’ve lost track of the time I’ve spent vacuuming Goldfish crumbs out of the carpet.
The store is empty when Paige drops me off. The overheadlights are dimmed, but the store is lit by dozens upon dozens of fairy lights strung across the ceiling and up and down the shelves. There are a handful of antique lamps, each more unique than the last, only matching in their individuality. Nora is convinced one of the shades is made of human skin. Paige swore if she hears Nora say that to a customer, she’ll make a lampshade out of her.
“Nora?” I call. The silence leaves an uneasy churn in my belly. I’m about to hightail it out when Nora’s voice sounds from my right, past one of the long shelves. I make my way toward the noise and find Nora squished into the lumpy purple love seat that sits between the young adult and thriller sections. She has a novel spread open on her lap. She smiles when she sees me.
“Sorry,” she says. She gestures to the book. “I may have accidentally opened one of our new-release boxes. And accidentally started reading.”
“You know we get an employee discount,” I say.
“I’m a fast reader. I’ll be done with it in like a day. Without a dent in my wallet.”
I can’t help but smile at that.
Growing up, if I wasn’t on an instrument or penning music notes, I had a book in my hands. There was a magic in escaping without ever walking out the door. Like when I played music, reading didn’t leave any room in my brain for the sad, hard, real things. Even after I closed the book, that fuzzy feeling lingered.
The accident, though, left me with a concussion that made focusing on anything excruciating, especially hundreds of teeny letters on a page. It left me frustrated, my head swimming and pulsing.
Then the concussion healed, and I tried to pick up an old favorite. The first in a YA series I’d read so many times I could practically recite it from memory. But the familiar tale, with itshappy ending and victorious hero, left a sour taste on my tongue. It hurt to read about hope and perseverance and survival.
I can count on one hand the number of books I’ve read in the last months. All horror or thriller stories, where the stone living in my gut has a reason to be there. No happy endings in sight, which is good because I’m not sure I believe in them anymore.
“It’s been dead since dinnertime,” Nora says, gesturing to the store. “I can’t wait for fall. At least there’ll be something to do.”
“Don’t tourists usually roll in during the summer?”
“They used to, I guess. But we get a decent winter crowd. Cheaper motels than the resorts, and it’s only an hour or two to the nearest ski slopes.”
