And ghosts don’t die.
“Where was he living?” I ask, my chest tight.
Sofia hesitates again, the silence thudding on the phone. Then she says, “Rockingstead.”
“That’s only forty-five minutes away!” I’m genuinely shocked; I thought for sure they had taken him to Charlotte or Asheville. One of the cities.
“Yes. Like I said, we were trying to make the transition as smooth as possible.”
I breathe out. That makes sense. Still, my heart is hammering even faster. If he’s only forty-five minutes away, it’s not outside of the realm of possibility that he’s trying to make his way back to Theo.
Or to me.
No, I think numbly. No, it was always Theo he thought would protect him. Theo the ghost.
But god, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not in the snow and the cold.
“If I hear anything,” I say. “I’ll call you right away.”
“I’m going to give you some other numbers, too,” Sofia says. “The police contact. Oliver’s foster parents.”
“Of course.”
She rattles off the numbers, and I scribble them down on a napkin in my kitchen. When I hang up, I stare down at them, terror gnawing at my heart.
Then I wrench away, leaving them on the counter so I can get dressed and make my way to Theo’s peninsula.
I dragOliver’s boat into the water and row as hard as I can. The wind scouring across the lake is the coldest I’ve ever felt, even after living in Boston. It seems to sweep down from the north like it wants to flay my skin from my bones, and I can barely keep a grip on the oars, even with my thick woolen gloves. The waves are choppy, too, and I splash and heave my way across the water until I finally run aground on the snow-covered shore. At least I manage to get out of the boat without falling in the fucking lake.
The woods are another matter. Everything is blanketed with snow, thick and pristine, and it makes the already intimidating woods feel completely unnavigable.
I don’t have much of a choice, though. I trudge parallel to the woods, trying to find some hint of the path that led to the graveyard. That’s when I stumble across indentation in the snow: Footprints. Sled marks.
No. Boat marks.
I suck in my breath. So Theo found a boat to cross the water. I hadn’t really thought about it until now. Part of me thought maybe he swam.
I follow the tracks into the snowy woods, my boots sinking deep enough that the snowmelt seeps in and freezes my feet. I keep going, though, fighting through the burn.
“Theo!” I call out, my voice ringing into the silence. “If you can hear me, please come out here! I need to talk to you.”
The tracks take me to a clearing that it takes me a second to recognize as the graveyard. Everything’s untouched, save for a delicate trail of bird tracks cutting across the open space. The wind shakes the trees around, throwing off old snow that clings to my hair. “Theo!” I shout again, more desperation in my voice. “Please! It’s about Oliver!”
Silence.
I trudge on, weaving through the trees, my breath tight and panting and my feet burning. I have the thought that maybe he isn’t here after all. That maybe I’m the one chasing ghosts.
And then I hear something crunch in the silence of the snow. My skin prickles with heat.
I whirl around and there he is, caged in by the skinny pine trees, wearing the coat he stole his first night back, his hair damp and clinging to his cheeks.
“Theo,” I breathe out, and I’m struck with a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief at seeing him.
I plunge forward, gritting my teeth against the burning freeze in my feet. “Oliver’s missing,” I call out, swiping the tree branches away. “His social worker just called. He’s?—”
Theo catches me, grabbing me by the arms. I blink in surprise at how fast he moved. I thought he was just standing there, watching me suffer.
“You’re in pain,” he says.
