“I couldn’t tell you,” Hudson said, talking quickly. “I didn’t think it would have helped anything. But it’s not over, Iris. It wants you. It was always supposed to be you. I was going to explain at the party—”

  “You didn’t tell me shit at the party.”

  “But you found the tree, right? I thought it would be better if you figured it out yourself. You wouldn’t believe it, coming from me, but we’re out of time. You need to get out of—”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But at least go to your cabin. Breakfast is starting soon. My grandpa usually chats with the photographer before we start pictures, so it should give me a short window before I have to be back. Could you meet me in the boathouse? I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just, please, don’t let anyone see you—”

  “My dear, you’re far from the Landings.”

  Bill Clavey stood behind them, hands clasped behind his back. His mouth was turned in an easy smile, but there was no twinkle in his blue eyes.

  You’re far from the Landings. Like she wasn’t allowed here, on the north side. This wasn’t her place. Yet Bill looked at Hudson as he said it. This wasn’t his place either.

  “As much as I’d love to welcome you inside, I’m afraid we have a prior engagement. Hudson, the photographer will be here soon.”

  Right. It was the Fourth of July. Gum was always gone that morning for the Claveys’ annual portrait session. Was Gum here already? She couldn’t see much past the trees. She looked around for signs of others watching them.

  A few feet away, there was a white marble bench. It looked like a cross between a throne and a tombstone. The back had a complicated design carved in it, filled with shiny gold: intersecting lines and curves. It was a grander, more complicated version of the cross symbol she had seen before. Only this wasn’t hastily carved in wood. This one required more time. More effort. More cash. The Claveys wouldn’t allow this to appear here for no reason.

  Iris took her eyes off of it. Suddenly the lake felt safer than this beach.

  Hudson said, “I can drive you.”

  “There’s no need,” his grandfather told him. Bill looked at Iris with a tiny tilt of the head. “I’m sure my son Bruce could give you a lift back.”

  Now they were definitely talking in code, and it spelled, Don’t let Hudson be alone with Iris. Had he heard what they were talking about? Had he spied Hudson lifting her from the water?

  We can’t talk about this here, Hudson had said.

  Iris wasn’t safe in Bad Creek. And judging by how nervous he acted in the presence of his grandfather, Hudson didn’t think he was safe either.

  She had finally figured it out.

  First, she had woken up by the house in the woods. If Savi hadn’t stopped her, she would have kept going to the edge of the yard, right into the lake, in the same spot where Helena had been found. Before Aidan had woken her up two days ago, Iris must have been on her way to Savi’s house, where Glory had drowned. And now she’d woken up here, at the Clavey house. This was where Beth had had her accident.

  Iris wasn’t being led to Hudson. She was on a tragedy tour, waking up where the other girls had drowned.

  But if Beth was supposed to be a victim, wouldn’t her things be secretly buried, marked by a barely noticeable series of quick slashes on wood? Not a marble throne. Not a shrine.

  Bruce was rounding the corner. She needed to get out of there.

  Hudson was breaking the rules—breaking them for her. That had to mean something. Aidan thought Hudson had been demoted because he’d done something bad. What if that was the other way around? What if he had stopped following the rules of bad people?

  Bad people, who wanted Iris to get in their car.

  “That’s fine. I was gonna walk over to a friend’s. I think I left something at Savi’s last night,” Iris said. It was a solid lie, but her delivery was shaky.

  Bill wasn’t falling for it. “I insist. Bruce, mind grabbing the keys for the Cadillac?”

  Iris tried to channel Joanna’s threatening smile.

  “It’s fine,” she said through gritted teeth, the promise she wasn’t afraid to bite a man. When Iris went into the city with her friends, she carried pepper spray. Actually, she carried bear spray. It was stronger—and illegal—but her moms would rather her break a dumb law than be dead. Unfortunately, she didn’t have her bear spray now. She didn’t even have shoes on.

  Bruce looked at his father, awaiting instructions.

  “Well, all right,” Bill said after a moment.

  He let her walk past them, toward the house, because that was where the road was. Where witnesses could be. Iris didn’t run—that would alert them too much. She only checked behind her shoulder.

  Hudson was watching her.

  She couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Her friends had been lying to her. Her mom had been lying to her. And her gut had been lying to her too. She’d been so sure Glory was leading her to answers, when all along she was being led into a trap.

  Iris didn’t know if she could trust Hudson completely, but there was one part she believed wholeheartedly. She needed to get away. Away from this house. Away from these people.

  When she reached the road, she started running, a blur of green whizzing past her. She had spent sixteen summers feeling protected by these trees. She’d never thought to wonder if the woods were on her side. The trees. The lake. The creek. The other regulars here. Big families with big names and big houses.

  The Dollhouse’s yard looked unfamiliar without an armada of teenagers’ vehicles parked around it. Iris knocked on the door, hoping Savi wasn’t too hungover to give her a ride back to the Landings. She wished she could text her, but her phone was still in her bedroom, plugged into the charger.

  Graham answered the door.

  “Iris Garren,” he said. She wasn’t sure if Savi’s brother even knew her name. He would have known Glory’s, sure; she was the one who came over here. Graham looked shocked to see Iris back so soon. Or, shocked to see her alive.

  The Claveys were in on it. Why not the Traxlers? Who was to say last year wasn’t planned? The Traxlers could have signed off on their home being the venue for the next drowning.

  “What’s up?” Graham asked. “Savi’s still asleep. I can wake her up, but—”

  Iris backed away, tripping on the adorable cobblestone sidewalk as she ran toward the road, her bare feet scraped and bloody. Graham might have called her name, but she didn’t turn around. She didn’t know where to go now. She stopped running to catch her breath. The Dollhouse wasn’t far from Wahbee. She could see if Aidan was awake—and then what?

  Paul could still be one of them.

  Iris hadn’t moved for a minute now. She was frozen in the middle of the road, crying and shivering and so, so unsure. She was a stupid deer waiting for a truck to hit her.

  According to Gum and Hudson, Glory wasn’t the one leading Iris in her sleep. It was an imposter. Iris didn’t know the boys like she thought she had. And apparently she didn’t know her own sister either. All this time had worked against her; all this history only blinded her more. But she wasn’t wrong about everything.

  Helena was the victim of a curse.

  So was Beth.

  So was Glory.

  And Iris was supposed to be next.

  Chapter 31 Gum

  Breakfast was red, white, and blue. Blueberries in the pancakes. White, sunny-side-up eggs, and cranberry juice that stained everyone’s teeth. They would have to brush them again before pictures.

  Gum had slept like a dead man on that big comfortable mattress. When he’d woken up, his vision blurred between blinks. He’d found his aunts and uncles at the bottom of the palatial staircase, beaming at Gum. “Happy Fourth,” they’d all said, with the same reverence they would say and with your spirit.

  Fourth of July was big in Bad Creek. It was the summer holiday—meaning, an excuse to get drunk and light things on fire. Paul spent thousands on Bad Creek’s fireworks show, but the Claveys were the most patriotic. What was more American than getting the whole family together, lining your blue-eyed spawn up nice and close, and sending the heavily edited photos out to everyone you know? That was what the day was really made for.

  If Gum had known everyone would be here already, he would have searched for a hairbrush and devised a way to sneak back to his cabin and put on the crisp white outfit hanging in the bedroom. The dress code for the Claveys’ yearly portrait was specific: khakis and button-downs for the men and dresses for the women. Nothing too dark. Nothing too saturated. White and beige and baby-blues preferred. In the first year of her marriage to Uncle Brian, Aunt Jody had the gall to wear bright red false nails. Her husband had recommended she put her hands behind her back, but Grandpa had insisted she remove her nails on the spot.

  She had explained she couldn’t. That had to be done at a salon, apparently. But that wasn’t an excuse for Grandpa. So she tore them off one by one, with her in-laws and the photographer watching. She’d cried—Gum didn’t know if from pain or embarrassment. Either way, she’d learned her lesson. Her nails had been plain for every portrait since then.

  Gum muttered, “Happy Fourth,” back to his aunts and uncles. His dad wasn’t there. He never came to Clavey activities, besides church. But Clarice was wheeling his mother into the foyer. They both wore white dresses. Gum slipped into the living room, where the little girls were giving their dolls haircuts on the rug and Hudson slumped on the couch. He wore a white button-up dress shirt identical to his father’s, but without his trademark perfect posture. He kept his head down as if no one would notice the purple splotch on his cheekbone. His left eye was swollen. His khakis were wet up to the knee. The photographer would have to do a lot of Photoshopping this year.

  Gum wanted to ask, What happened to your face? but words weren’t possible for him at the moment. His mouth felt soft and heavy.

  Five-year-old Annie started crying because her six-year-old cousin Faith had “ruined” her doll with the uneven haircut. She ran up to her brother, as if Hudson had any authority to do anything about it. “She’s a collector’s item,” Annie squealed through tears.

  Uncle Bruce stepped in to the room, and Annie stopped crying. “Breakfast’s ready,” he announced. Everyone gathered at the table, finding their seats with ease. Even the girls went right to their wooden chairs without fighting or pushing or complaining.

  Gum took the last empty spot at the end of the long dining room table. A taxidermy hawk loomed directly above his head, its wings open and talons ready like it was going to snatch up his pancakes.

  The conversation was muffled, all words static, senseless background noise. Gum scarfed down four pancakes, hoping that would make him feel like a person again. He was thirsty but avoided the red juice. Faith dropped her cup on herself, and the stain looked like she’d been shot in the stomach. Aunt Jody scooped her up to change her outfit, promising Grandpa she’d brought a backup. Grandpa gave her a slow nod. He trusted her now.

  And apparently he also trusted Gum. He had won a seat at this table, but he didn’t know if he deserved it. If he even wanted it.

  The duffel bag was still in the closet.

  Gum hadn’t let himself think about it last night. Or maybe “Glory” hadn’t let him think about it. The discovery felt like something from a dream. Gum spent breakfast pushing it away, convinced he had imagined it.

  And then breakfast was over. The aunts collected plates; the girls scattered to play with toys or their iPads or anything that wouldn’t get their dresses and hair bows dirty.

  “Daniel, mind coming to the trophy room?”

  That was Grandpa, his hand on the back of Gum’s chair.

  Gum nodded. It wasn’t like he could go back to the Landings. The Disasters were done, so Gum might as well stay here.

  If he was allowed inside the coveted trophy room, that meant he was moving up another rung. There were places to go with the Claveys. If Aunt Jody could maintain Grandpa’s approval, Gum could keep passing these tests. He could be one of them, especially without his “friends” in the way.

  Grandpa unlocked the heavy-looking wood door with a brass key and invited Gum to enter first. Though the walls were paneled with dark wood, it wasn’t cozy, like the cabins at the Landings. There were too many false eyes staring at them. Two dozen deer heads covered the mostly empty room. There were cushy chairs gathered around a small table, a bookshelf, and a tray with glass bottles of amber liquor. It looked like where Gum imagined men traded land and planned wars back in the olden times.

  He thought Uncle Brian was right behind them, but when the door closed, it was just Grandpa and Bruce. Damn. Like his wife, Brian was desperate to please. That was tacky to the Claveys, but Brian had always been nice to Gum, acknowledging him even when no one else did.

  Bruce gave Gum another unnatural pat on his shoulders. His hands were thick, meaty, callused from golf but not anything that could constitute actual labor. Grandpa lit up a new cigar, to make the room’s stale tobacco smell even worse. Without windows, there was nowhere for the smoke to go but into the red carpet and the hides of the deer heads.

  “So, my boy, how are you feeling about today?” Grandpa said. My boy. Gum had never been called that before.

  “Fine, I’m not hungover or anything,” Gum answered. A lie, sort of. He hadn’t drunk that much last night, but since he’d woken up his thoughts were sloshy and hard to pin down. He probably looked just as awful as he felt.

  Bruce snorted. “Well, that’s a good start.”

  “I have to apologize to you, Daniel. Really,” Grandpa said. “You deserve the same decorum as the rest of us. It’s not fair to spring this on you, but this cycle’s circumstances have been”—he glanced at Bruce, a purposeful side-eye—“interesting. Please, sit.” Grandpa held his palm out, gesturing to the gathering of big plush chairs.

  Gum obeyed, trying to match his posture to Bruce’s. Calm, confident, and unmistakably masculine.

  “I know you’re bursting with questions,” Grandpa continued. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned anything sooner. But it’s understandable; I haven’t been the warmest to you. And for that, I am sincerely sorry.”

  “Uh, okay,” Gum said.

  Grandpa took a big hit of the cigar, closing his eyes as the end of it lit red. Then he leaned back in the big chair. “God created man to serve him. But he gave us free will. We can blame the Devil all we want, but at the end of the day, we are responsible for our shortcomings. Sink or swim, man is to blame. Don’t you think?”

  “Sure.”

  “God can help us find the right path,” Grandpa continued. “But sometimes God needs help. And only the best of us is capable of giving him that extra boost. In return, we share some of his power.” Grandpa cleared his throat, seeming to settle into his story. “Now, God is three. The Father, Son, Holy Spirit. But that Spirit is broken into even smaller pieces. That Spirit can speak to us, through us. And that Spirit speaks to some more than others. Equally, some places are more attractive to the Spirit. More . . . conducive to its needs—are you following?”

  “Yeah,” Gum mumbled. He wasn’t following at all. Saying God loves some people better kind of negated the endless, boundless love Jesus was supposedly all about.

  Grandpa kept going. “The Spirit spoke to our ancestors. My father. My father’s father. His father. Because they listened—because they opened their hearts—we’ve received endless blessings, and there is a special throne in heaven for them now. And there will be for this whole family, because of their sacrifices. Because of mine. Because of yours. You’re part of a legacy. You’ve been chosen.”

  In any other circumstance, Gum would have considered this Chosen One talk to be total nonsense. It was some Manifest Destiny bullshit his family had forced themselves to believe in. If Grandpa thought God was responsible for his privilege, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty when he thought about kids with cancer or refugees or his daughter who would never wake up.

  But something had been speaking to Gum. Grandpa was right about that. Even after a long night’s rest, it was still there, clinging to his back. He’d only gotten more accustomed to the chill in his spine. Confused it with a fever or a hangover.

  “You haven’t been trained to hear its call, but you’ve done well so far. And now it’s time to receive its blessings. How does that sound?” Grandpa said.

  “I don’t know,” Gum admitted. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  He hoped the black duffel bag Bruce was pulling out of the cabinet wasn’t the same one from the bedroom. That he had only imagined Iris’s things in there. He prayed that this was a psychological episode that had some kind of cure.

  Let me be hallucinating, please, God. Let me be seeing shit.

  “Tonight we bury the lures by the water,” Grandpa said. “They will bring the offering right to you.”

  “By offering, you mean . . .”

  Iris. That was who it wanted. Offering was a polite way of saying sacrifice. He could even imagine Grandpa correcting Aunt Jody on it. Sacrifice is so barbaric, he’d say. We are evolved people. We’re civilized.

  Grandpa continued, “You will hold the offering underwater until the Spirit has drunk its fill.”

  Until she was dead. Until she was just like Glory.

  The room was spinning; Gum’s ears were ringing. He looked at the blood-red rug, which must have cost a fortune. He thought the gold details spelled out a word at first, but when he squinted at it, it was that shape carved into the tree. Cross. Slash. Half circle. Half circle. Gum was sitting right in the middle of it. He got up from the chair, and backed away until he hit a set of antlers.

  “It’s not easy. It’s not supposed to be easy,” Grandpa continued. “When the Spirit selected my fiancée as an offering, I wanted to refuse at first. I didn’t think it was fair. But I remained faithful.”

  Helena Crawford. The way she’d glared at Gum from the bathtub. She must have known what family he belonged to.

  “It was hard, very hard. I cared for her,” Grandpa rose slowly. He was talking in a gentle voice, as if soothing a crying infant. “That’s the point. It had to be a true act of devotion. She wouldn’t be a good sacrifice if I didn’t care about her, right? But I obeyed, and the Spirit kept its promise. I found love again with your grandma, and she had a full life. All my investments have done well. All my children and their children are healthy, happy, and successful.”

 

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