Rhys looked me straight in the eyes, like he always did when he was trying to calm me down. “That wasn’t real, Ash. It’s just your imagination.”
I wanted to tell him I was fine . . . like I always did, but nothing was fine. Not anymore. “I’m a conduit, Rhys. The visions . . . the horrible memories . . . the feelings that don’t belong to me—they’re real and they’re only getting worse.” It hurt to say it out loud. “If you believe one thing, believe that. Believe me.” Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I held them back.
“What can I do?” He squeezed my hands before letting go.
“The dead girl.” I snuck a glance at her over my shoulder. “She’s been leading me here all along. She wants to show me something. Maybe through her I can figure out what’s happening to me and find a way to get Mom back . . . and our dad.”
He lowered his eyes as he set his bag down. “I’ll do it, but not because I believe in any of this. I’ll stay because I love you.”
“Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him. I didn’t want to let go.
After a while, he gave me an awkward pat on the back. We weren’t a very huggy family.
“Okay, then,” he said, prying himself away and taking the toiletry bag out of his duffel. “Three days.” He stepped inside the bathroom and shut the door.
Feeling completely spent, I slumped down on the edge of the bed, staring at the dead girl. The downward curve of her mouth, the golden sheen to her hair—“Who are you? What are you trying to tell me?” I whispered. “I’m here. Help me.” But she just stared out with those dead eyes.
I held my head in my hands, as if I could somehow shake the cobwebs free, when I felt the wreath Brennon had placed on my head at the end of the night. I pulled it off, feeling the distinct ridges of the leaves between my fingers. The realization slowly burned from my fingertips all the way to the tips of my ears. I stood up like a shot, eyes glistening with fear, breath dying in my chest. I dropped the wreath to the floor, staring up at the rope binding the dead girl’s ankles.
It was made from corn leaves. Someone at Quivira made that rope.
As Rhys came back into the room, I pretended to look for something in my bag—a sad attempt to hide the terror building inside of me.
“It’s in the bathroom,” Rhys said, giving me a weak smile. “You always forget to pack your toothbrush.”
“Thanks,” I said as I slipped inside the old-fashioned bathroom and shut the door. When I looked down and saw my toothbrush resting on the edge of the sink with a thick line of toothpaste already applied, I lost it.
It wasn’t just the toothpaste, or Rhys, or my mom, or even Quivira—it was me. Rhys was right. Something in me had changed. I could feel my ancestors, their feelings, their memories, swelling up inside me, taking over.
I’d bought myself a little time, but there were only five days until the summer solstice, until my mother was lost to Katia forever. Or Coronado killed us. I had to get a grip for all our sakes.
I splashed cold water over my face until I felt I could look my brother in the eye without bursting into tears.
I dimmed my lantern as I came out of the bathroom so he wouldn’t see my red-splotched face, but Rhys was already curled up on the floor next to the bed with the quilt. I felt guilty for taking the bed, and for a lot of other things, but I knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was always too chivalrous for his own good. Even with the dead girl still hanging there, I was glad he didn’t want to stay in a different room.
I lay back on the bed. The sheets were crisp, like they’d just been dried on the line. There was a hint of rose water, the same thing my mother liked to use in the wash. Surrounded by her belongings, it felt as if her heart had never left this place—that it had been perfectly preserved here among her possessions.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Rhys said softly. “It’s this place. Can you feel it?”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whispered into the dark.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said before drifting off to sleep.
I tried to keep my heavy eyelids open so I could watch the dead girl, study the familiar angles of her face, but my body had a different idea.
20
LET THERE BE LIGHT
THE SICKENING CRACKLE of the corn-husk rope pulls me from sleep, down the hall, up the stairs, and out into the night. The sky is the strangest color, a dusky gray rose. Dark blond hair skims the ground as it disappears into a patch of tall prairie grass.