Nine Years Ago
“Here you go.” Mr. Kincaid handed me a pack of college brochures, secured with a rubber band. “When you apply, though, your acceptance letters will come to your house.”
He winked at me, and I gave him a tight smile.
Reaching over his desk, I took the booklets. “Thanks.”
Believe me. I knew I’d have to deal with this sooner or later.
I left his office and walked through the main office, heading out to the hallway. My brother expected me to go to college. It was one of the only areas we agreed and where I didn’t experience resistance from him, but that might change if he learned my choices. I wasn’t ready for his opinion on the matter, so I asked the dean to request the brochures for me for now. I still had a year to apply and face the fights.
I pushed through the doors, opening the top booklet as a few students made their way down the hall.
“Ooooh, Berkeley.” Someone snatched the booklet out of my hands.
I turned my head to see Elle flipping through the brochure. “Hey,” I scolded, reaching for the brochure.
She pulled away, looking at it. “You couldn’t get any farther away from here,” she said. “But I guess that’s what you want.”
I stole the booklet back. “Yep.”
Berkeley was at the other end of the country, and I could afford maybe two years with the college fund my parents had put in a trust for me.
I wasn’t planning to use any of it, though.
I’d barely slept last night after Will left, spending much of the night replaying him in my head, part of me sure I should’ve just let him leave when he tried the first time, and the other half of me sorry that I let him go the second time.
But I did decide on one thing that had been troubling me. If my grandmother were still alive when I left for college, my trust would be more than enough to pay for a year at the best convalescent home in Meridian City.
That would get her out of my brother’s house, and I’d be able to go to school without worry.
All I had to do was earn a scholarship—or ten—to pay for my education.
I looked ahead, hearing a group of students laughing.
Will stood against the lockers, surrounded by his friends, his arms wrapped around Davinia Paley as he lifted her off the ground and stared into her eyes. She smiled at him.
My heart sank, and my mouth went dry.
I faltered for a moment, blinking and looking quickly away. Looks like he found his Homecoming date. What a prick.
Elle stopped at my side, following my eyes as I looked up at him again. He held Davinia like she weighed nothing, talking to her and looking playful and happy, while everyone around them, with their clothes and their cars and their friends, looked like a Teen Vogue ad I’d never belong in.
He looked over at me, and I dropped my eyes, turning away. It was just as well.
I continued down the hall, feeling his eyes on me as I passed, and Elle and I rounded the corner, stopping at my locker.
“Will I see you in class?” she asked.
“Ugh.”
She snorted, because she was well-aware I hated literature class. Touching my arm, she continued on. “Maybe see you at lunch then.”
“See you.”
I stuck the brochures into my locker, hiding them at school for now, and pulled out my notebook, The Grapes of Wrath, and the rest of my materials for the morning, stuffing everything into my bag.
The bag grew heavier, though, as Will and his friends’ laughter escalated around the corner, my patience and silence spent. I couldn’t sit in class right now.
I wish I could. Show him that he didn’t bother me. That Davinia didn’t bother me.
He should see me tough and unaware of all of it.
It was a game I knew well.
But I slammed my locker door shut and walked down the hall, passing lit class and taking one flight up to the art room.
It was always empty first period, and Mr. Gaines didn’t arrive until he absolutely had to. I’d have the room for another hour.
Dropping my bag at my usual drafting table, I pulled my rolls of paper out of my cubby and slid onto my stool, spreading everything out and getting to work.
The bell rang, students raced down the halls outside the doors, but soon everything quieted, and all I could hear were the teachers beginning their lessons beyond the dark, quiet walls of my little hideaway.
Using my rulers, I continued the redesign of the Bell Tower, the one near the cemetery that had fallen to ruins when St. Killian’s was abandoned so many years ago. I measured the gables, as well as drew lines for each of the small decorative dormers I was adding. It was an assignment, but I’d love to see it come to fruition someday.
Despite my hatred of this town, I loved this place. It’s history. The allure of its secrets and traditions. The mysteries that survived the years and the architecture. So many nooks and crannies to get lost in, not only with places like the catacombs or the Torrance garden maze that used to be open to the public once a year when I was a kid, but the way every avenue and piece of coastline seemed to have a story.
A building out in the world was a building out in the world. Designing something in Thunder Bay wouldn’t just stand on its own. It was being a part of something bigger.
I worked on my design, getting close to finishing, even though we still had weeks left. I wanted to raise the Bell Tower again, make it taller, so you could climb it and take in more of the sea, and I wanted to add more bells.
And maybe a light. A flickering light at the top.
“Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch,” I recited as I sketched. “One, if by land, and two, if by sea…”
But it wasn’t “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” poem that popped into my head next. I stopped, thinking.
Or maybe…like a candle—albeit electric—perpetually lit for Reverie Cross up at the top.
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head clear of the idea and dropping my pencil down.
Stupid.
I looked down at my school bag, reaching down and taking the strap.
I lifted it up, digging in the pocket and finding that shiny, bronze bauble someone left tied to my tree last night.
Pulling it out, I dropped the bag and leaned my elbows on the table, inspecting it.
Studying the skeleton key, rusty and worn, I looked again for any markings that might give me a clue as to what it was for, and then I threaded the chain through my fingers, taking a look at the keychain attached.
It was some kind of pot. Or incense burner, maybe?
I turned it over in my hand, confused. Why would someone give me this and then not tell me what it was for? I didn’t think it was Will who’d left it. He would’ve just given it to me when he saw me last night.
And that car parked outside my house…
The only other thing I could think of was that this was evidence and someone was planting it on me, but that was reaching.
Then I noticed it.
The slits on the keychain. In the incense burner.
Like vents.
This was a thurible. They were used in churches.
The cathedral in town had one. A big one that swung like the clapper of a bell.
I rolled up my blueprints, stuffed them into my cubby, and grabbed my bag, running out of the classroom.
• • •
I stepped into the cathedral, my eyes going up every time I entered this place. I always liked coming here. It was peaceful, and you didn’t feel weird about being alone in a public place here. It was expected.
Of course, I’d love it if Thunder Bay had a temple on the rare occasion Martin, my grandmother, and I attended, but no such luck. We had to drive to Meridian City for that.
It worked for me, though. If I needed to hide for a while, Martin would never look for me in a Catholic church.
“Emory?” someone said behind me.
I turned, seeing Father Behr. Everyone knew him.
“Here for confession?” he teased. “I’ll need to baptize you first.”
I chuckled, gripping the strap of the bag over my chest. “I’m still working out how to be an agnostic Jew, Father. Let’s not complicate things.” I smiled at him. “Good to see you, though.”
He came to stand beside me. Some devotees were kneeling in the pews, while a couple of others sat in thought, the candles lit in devotion flickering at my side.
The stations of Christ lined the walls around us, and I tipped my head back, admiring how the columns seemed to split into the ribbed vaulting and flying buttresses the way a tree trunk spread into branches. A fantastic mural adorned the ceiling.
“You’re in here a lot,” he told me.
“It’s the architecture.” I kept my eyes on the ceiling. “And it’s quiet.”
He sighed. “Sadly, yes.”
He sounded unhappy about that, and I realized it would be better for him—and the church—if it were busier.
He patted my shoulder. “Roam,” he said. “And take your time.”
“Thanks.”
He left, and I took out the key again, studying the kind of lock I was looking for. Rolling the miniature thurible between my fingers, I looked up and took stock of the big one, probably half as tall as me and twice as wide. It hung from a rope and was secured to the side of the church, near a pointed arch above the chancel.
Then I lifted my gaze, seeing the gallery above it. There was a door up there.
I clutched the key in my hand, looking around me to make sure no one was paying any attention.
Then I headed across the nave to the side aisle, past the bay, and turned left at the transept.
Climbing the steps, I wound around the spiral staircase and came to the balcony landing, overlooking the nave.
To my right, an arched wooden door sat as buckets and tarps laid on the floor, repairs looking like they’d been abandoned long ago, and the gallery no longer used for seating since Father Behr barely filled the pews downstairs anymore.
No one and nothing was up here, except the light streaming in through the stained-glass windows, glimmering red and blue on the old carpet.
Opening my palm, I looked from the key to the lock on the door.
My pulse rate kicked up a notch, worry and excitement coursing through me.
But in a way that made me sick.
I walked over to the door and slipped the key in, but when I grabbed the handle and twisted, it opened without me unlocking anything.
I pulled out the key and shoved it in my school jacket, opening the door wide and wincing at the screech of the old hinges.
Shit. I cast a nervous glance around me, still seeing no one around.
Finally, I peeked inside the door, spotting another spiral staircase.
I narrowed my eyes. This might lead to a spire.
Taking out my phone, I turned on the flashlight and stepped up the stairs, the stone under my shoes gritty with dirt. I rose more and more, seeing a door on the right.
I took out the key again, the tunnel vision in the small, tight space making my hands shake.
I coughed, the dust tickling my throat.
This was probably stupid. I didn’t know who the key came from, and I didn’t know what was on the other side of that door. Whoever gave it to me played hard-to-get just enough by not explaining, so I would be intrigued.
I stuck the key in and twisted it, but the door wouldn’t give. I jiggled it some more, turning the handle, but it wouldn’t open. I spun around, looking left and then right, spotting one more door at the top of the stairs.
Holding up my flashlight, I climbed to the top, felt for the lock and stuck the key in, the click giving way as soon as I turned the key.
Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I hesitated for a moment, smiling.
I’d found it.
There could be someone in there, but I pressed forward, opening the door and finding my way with the flashlight. But as soon as I opened it, light swarmed me immediately. I stepped into a room, rafters coming up through the floor and stretching all the way to the ceiling, and I looked around at the windows and the sunshine falling across the floor.
What was this?
I turned off my phone, dropped that and the key into my pocket, and softly closed the door behind me.
Trunks and boxes laid about the perimeter of the room, underneath the windows, and I saw old church paraphernalia strewn here and there—altar cloths, candle holders, and those things that hold holy water… There was even a set of doors that looked like the ones downstairs for the confessionals.
I walked farther into the room, but I stopped, my eyes locking on the bed.
White comforter, white sheets on the pillows—everything looking clean and crisp and big enough for ten.
What the hell?
Then I dropped my gaze, seeing a scrap of paper on the comforter. I walked over and picked it up, the fresh scent of the linens making my nostrils tingle.
I read the note, the paper yellowed and nearly falling apart at the creases where it had been folded a thousand times.
It’s yours now. Use it well.
No one else knows, do not tell.
When you’re done, pass it on.
The Carfax Room hides us
from what we want gone.
I read it again, but I still didn’t get it.
“The Carfax Room?” I said to myself.
The writing was in black cursive, a little faded, and I folded it up, sticking it in my pocket.
This was silly. Someone gave me a key to a room, didn’t explain why, and I had no idea if I was the only one who had access to it.
I got some of the message. Keep the room a secret, but how did it hide me exactly? And obviously someone else knew about it, because someone gave me the key.
And if it was something I passed on to someone else, then the person who gave it to me got it from someone else too, right?
Why me?
I drifted around the room, picking through boxes that contained everything from lamps and tools to clothes, costumes, and theater makeup. I stepped slowly and then spotted something that caught my eye. Hesitating, I moved toward a trunk on the floor and pulled out a pink dress, strapless and fluffy with a tulle skirt underneath.
I smiled, loving the fifties style of it. Trim waist, little roses in the pattern, the kind of Pepto Bismol pink that was in fashion decades ago… Why was this here?
I guess it wasn’t so odd. There was also a top hat and a waffle iron in one of the crates.
Oh, the stories this room could probably tell.
I laid it back in the trunk, folding it gently and closing the lid before walking to the bed and lifting a pillow to my nose.
It smelled clean, like detergent and spring. There was a record player with some records nearby and candles on the nightstand.
There was no way I’d stay here, not knowing anything about this place or whether or not anyone else had a key, but it was kind of cool. Another nook. Another cranny.
Another story.
Taking one last look around, I left, locking the room again and leaving so as not to press my luck. For all I knew, this was Father Behr’s secret place to be the real him and that dress was his.
Clutching my bag, I jogged down the stairwell, slipped the key into my pocket, and stepped into the gallery, closing the door behind me.
I’d missed three classes, but if I hurried, I’d make the fourth.
Taking the stairs, I walked through the church and out the doors, taking the path to the street and turning right. Leaves rustled in the trees, yellows, oranges, and reds fluttering to the ground, and a drop of cool rain hit my cheek. I breathed in the autumn breeze, the key light in my pocket.
Do not tell.
Part of me thought this was a prank. Otherwise, I would’ve gotten some real instructions.
But I wanted it to be real. Having my own hideaway made me feel like I was finally part of a town I’d lived in my whole life.
Like I belonged here now.
Walking down the sidewalk, lost in my head, I barely noticed the car pulling slowly up next to me on the street.
I did a double-take, seeing the cruiser. My chest tightened.
Shit.
“It’s starting to rain,” Martin said through the open passenger side window as he drove. “Get in.”
“I’m getting back to class,” I assured him, inching down the sidewalk. “I said I would help with the decorations for Homecoming after school.”
I started to walk again.
But he called out behind me. “Emory, I want to show you something. Now.”
I stopped, hesitating.
It was no use. He’d tracked my phone. I was out of class during school hours. He came for me.
Knots coiling inside me, I stepped off the curb and opened the car door.
I slid into the front seat and shut the door, my body tense and ready.
“Music?” he asked.
But he didn’t wait for an answer. Turning on the radio, he tuned to some oldies station with the volume almost too low to hear.
Turning the car around, he headed away from school and took me up into the hills, past the mansions, St. Killian’s, and the Bell Tower. I kept my bag on my body, just needing to hold it.
Martin pulled into the cemetery, slowing as we descended the drive and wound around the path to a sea of headstones plotting the landscape on the right and left. Rain hit the windshield, and he pulled off to the side, stopping the car.
I let my eyes drift around the grounds, fisting my hands to keep them from shaking. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
All my excuses came to mind. Which tone of voice might work best? Or maybe I just needed to be quiet. Sometimes if I just let him talk, the yelling would relieve him.
He lifted his arm, and I flinched, but then I noticed he was reaching into the back seat for something.
Setting a white bag down next to me, he reached into the cup holder and pulled out a soda with the straw already in it.
“Eat,” he said. “It’s lunchtime soon.”
An ounce of relief hit me, but I knew it meant nothing. He liked to toy with me.
“Edward McClanahan,” he said, gesturing out the window ahead of us. “They’re moving his body, Em.”
I saw the small digger and that the excavation had already begun, but there were no workers with the rain right now. Just a pile of dirt and a blue tarp over the hole.
“Family wants him safe and sound inside their new tomb,” he told me. “They’re hoping the town will forget the dead girl, and in all likelihood, it probably will. Out of sight, out of mind.”
I clasped my hands in my lap, only half-listening.
“Every year, those arrogant little losers make their pilgrimage here like they’re going to fucking church,” he continued, “but next year, it won’t be Edward in the grave. I bought it today. For Grand-Mère.”
For my grandmother. Not his. He never gave a shit about her. She wasn’t his. He did what he had to do for appearances, and he bought a woman who wasn’t even dead a used grave.
A Catholic grave. Did they even allow that?
I wouldn’t. It wasn’t happening. I—
“Eat!” he barked.
I jumped, sticking my hand in the bag and pulling out the burger as I turned my head out my window and away from him.
I took a bite, chewing about a hundred times until I could swallow it.
“I got a deal on it,” he said. “Since the plot had been used, of course. Get to keep the headstone, too. It’ll be shaved down. They’ll start working on her name in the next week.”
My chin trembled, and I felt the bile rise.
“One down,” he whispered. “And one embarrassment to go.”
I sat there, the burger with one bite taken out of it lying in my lap.
“I have plans, Emory.”
He unfastened his seatbelt, and I closed my eyes.
“And you would fit in nicely if you stayed in school and stopped troubling me.”
His hand whipped against my face, and my head hit the window. I let out a small cry, fire and pain spreading across my cheek and skull.
No… My body started to shake.
No matter how I read the signs and braced myself, it was always so much harder than I thought it would be.
“I didn’t ask for this!” he screamed, grabbing my collar and slamming me into the door again. “I didn’t want it! Why can’t you help me out? Why can’t you be better?”
I opened my mouth to scream, but I gritted my teeth and bared down instead as he slapped me.
“Goddammit!” he yelled, gripping my collar so tightly the skin on my neck burned.
“Just…” He sucked in a breath, and I saw tears fill his eyes. “Just be fucking normal! Why do you do that, huh? Why?”
“Martin, stop…” I gasped.
I turned and opened the door, but he grabbed the handle and shut it again. Gripping my arm, he threw another hand across my cheek.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Not the face!” I cried out.
But he didn’t listen—no longer able to think or care about who saw or knew. He’d lost his mind.
The rain pummeled the car, drowning out the sounds of his fists and curses as I dug my nails into the seat and the taste of blood filled my mouth.
Will’s truck flashed in my memory—the smell and the feel of him next to me.
But after a few moments, I couldn’t think of anything. I couldn’t remember anything.
No green eyes. No beautiful smile. No warm arms around me.
My glasses spilled to the floor and then…something wet dripped into my eye.
After a few moments, I couldn’t even remember his face.
• • •
I sat there, staring through the windshield and the wipers, barely mustering the motivation to breathe.
Martin sat back in his seat, lighting a cigarette as blood spilled off my eyebrow and the cuts stung in my mouth.
“It’s Devil’s Night tomorrow,” he said as we sat at the stoplight near the village on the way home. “The little devils fancy themselves dangerous, but no one is more of a threat than the person willing to do what everyone else won’t.”
I cast my eyes to the side, seeing his shotgun in its holder. Sobs lodged in my chest.
I could take it. It would all be over.
I could sleep at night.
“This is my town, Em.” He didn’t look at me, the blessed exhaustion calming his voice now. “It will be someday. This will all seem like a dream compared to the nightmare that awaits everyone who stands in my way.”
I could sleep forever.
I looked out at the rain, my vision blurry through the tears that wouldn’t stop.
I was tired. And sad.
And if he didn’t die, I would, and it had to be tonight. My insides screamed. I couldn’t take it anymore.
My fingers balled into fists, every muscle in my body tightening, and my legs were moving before I’d even made the decision. Pushing the door open, I leapt out in the rain, hearing him bellow my name and telling me to come back, but I just ran.
I was at the edge, and I didn’t want to stop.
Digging in my heels and splashing through the puddles, I ran as hard as I could, up the sidewalk and through the grass, back to the cathedral.
My hair coated my face, and I didn’t look behind me, because I knew he wouldn’t leave the car to chase me, and he might suspect I went into the church, but he wouldn’t be able to find me.
I dashed into the church, slowing my steps to not bring attention, and made my way through the nave to the stairs again. I escaped up to the gallery, behind the door, up the steps, and back inside The Carfax Room, locking the door behind me.
Safe.
Hidden.
I walked to the trunks by the windows, found the dress, and pulled it out.
Emmy Scott was tired and sad.
But Reverie Cross was going to Homecoming.
