What if these men are the ones who e-mailed me?
The driver climbs out of the boat. When Hooded Guy tries to follow, the driver glowers at him. Hooded Guy flinches and sinks back into his chair. The driver ties the boat to a cleat, finger jabs a warning at his partner, then heads toward us at the pace of a man decades younger than himself. My pulse hammers in my throat. When he reaches our circle, the driver puts his hands behind his back and inclines his head.
“Welcome to Wisewood. My colleague and I will be taking you to the island today. I’m Gordon.”
Shit.
Gordon gestures to the boat behind him, which has a black-and-white winged hourglass on its side. “This is the Hourglass. Unless there are questions, now’s the time to say goodbye to your loved ones. Then we’ll get going.”
Gordon taps his foot while Chloe quickly hugs her parents. Once they’ve left, he scans our three faces and frowns. I put a hand on my hip, straighten my spine.
“We’re expecting Cheryl Douglas”—he peers at Cheryl before she raises her hand—“and Chloe Sullivan.” He glances at Chloe, as if he knows who she is too. He turns to me with a thin smile. “Who are you?”
Based on our phone chat, I’m guessing friendliness won’t work here, but I grin at him anyway. “Natalie Collins.”
A flicker of something unpleasant crosses Gordon’s face. “Why don’t you ladies climb aboard?” he says to Cheryl and Chloe. They glance at me curiously but pull their luggage toward the water. Gordon nods at Hooded Guy, who’s been watching us from the boat with a forlorn expression. Hooded Guy takes the women’s bags, then helps them onto the Hourglass. Gordon stares at him until he returns heavily to his seat.
Once the three settle, he shifts back to me. “We offered Kit a staff position.”
My breath hitches. “She works there?”
“For three months now. She’s perfectly fine.”
In three months she never once thought to tell me.
I refuse to let a lump form in my throat. “Then why did I get this e-mail?”
The wind claws at us. It takes all my self-control not to shudder, but the weather doesn’t bother Gordon. He studies me. “You never told me the contents of this supposed e-mail.”
I’ve decided to share what the e-mail says with as few people as possible; it’ll lead only to the question I don’t want to answer.
I drop the treacly shtick. “Nothing supposed about it. I told you on the phone, she asked me to come to Wisewood. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I checked the Sent folder of our company e-mail. There was no message to you in there.”
“I never said she sent it from the company e-mail.”
“That’s the only account our guests and staff have access to.”
I backtrack. “Someone must have deleted it, then.”
“Or you’ve created an excuse to interfere,” he says, losing patience. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I have better things to do with my time.”
“In that case, take my word for it. I saw her at this morning’s staff meeting, and as I’ve already told you, she’s grand.”
If Gordon had something to do with the e-mail, surely he’d want me to come to the island rather than fight tooth and nail to keep me away. “I need to see her myself. In person.”
Gordon glances over his shoulder. On the boat, Hooded Guy makes small talk with Cheryl and Chloe while scanning the parking lot. Gordon turns back to me. “As I told you over the phone, only approved guests can come to Wisewood.”
I clench my cell in my pocket. I could forget the e-mailed threat, take Gordon’s word for it that my sister is flourishing. I’d love nothing more than to head back to Boston; if I leave now, I might make this afternoon’s creative meeting. Nobody’s going to deliver that brief better than I will.
But if the roles were reversed, Kit wouldn’t give up. She would attach herself to Gordon’s back like a koala if that’s what she had to do to get to me. She may struggle to stand up for herself, but she never, ever fails to defend her people.
Kit never would have lied to me in the first place.
With matching composure I say, “Then approve me.”
“The approval process requires—”
“I don’t care. Bend your rules.”
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with her,” he snaps.
The crack in his poise terrifies me. Why is he so insistent? I unleash the stress, the panic, the guilt I’ve been tamping down. “How do I know she’s not hurt or in danger?” I explode. “If you won’t take me to Wisewood, I’m going to the cops.”
He stills. “Wait a minute.”
“I’m not wasting another second with you.”
I turn on my heel. Gordon yanks my wrist so hard that I yelp. “Get your hands off me.” I pull free of his grip, backpedal a few steps. He peeks again at the boat. Hooded Guy is on his feet now, pacing and fidgeting. Gordon stiffens.
“Fine.” He eyes his companion. “You’ll leave Wisewood first thing tomorrow.”
“Gladly.” I rub my wrist, glaring at him.
“You’ll pay the night’s room and board.”
“Not a problem.”
“You’ll follow our rules.”
I make no effort to hide my eye roll but nod anyway.
Gordon steps aside. “Hurry and get on.”
The boat bounces like a toy on the churning water. Cheryl and Chloe watch me with enormous eyes as I walk. Even Hooded Guy snaps out of his reverie to gaze my way. I stop halfway there, my boots glued to the concrete.
Gordon clears his throat. I feel his eyes drilling into the back of my neck and I lurch toward the dueling musks of brine and gasoline. With each step, I try to ignore my gut. Everything will be fine. I have to tell her the truth.
Hooded Guy scrambles to the front of the Hourglass to make room for me. I climb on board and nearly lose my footing. Beneath me, the water thrashes. My stomach twists.
I’m coming, Kit.
4
I WORRIED I might hurl the puffed rice cereal I’d had for breakfast that morning. The swim teacher watched me expectantly. I peered at my classmates, most of them a humiliating foot shorter than I was. They splashed around the pool like sea otters, all of their faces already wet. I held my breath, cupped water in my hands, and splashed it across my face (+1). My heart jerked.
“Very good!”
I wiped my face and opened my eyes. The swim teacher, a teenager at the high school I’d attend someday, patted me on the shoulder.
He grinned. “You’ve come so far these past couple weeks.”
Considering I’d thrown up in the locker room before my first three classes, I supposed he was right. I stood in the chest-high water, wishing I were as carefree as the younger kids. On the one hand, I wanted to move up class levels as soon as possible to get away from the six-year-olds. On the other, I could see the students in the more advanced levels at the deep end of the pool. They were ducking underwater and staying there for way too long. And they were doing it on purpose. I shuddered.
“One last drill,” my teacher called out. “We’re going to practice floating on our backs.”