Dead River

Chapter Eleven



The early sunlight glows orange through the trees. When I wake, the house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the open-floor-plan space. It’s still quite dark outside; the trees are a single black-green mass against the orange background. I sit up and pry Justin’s heavy arm off my body, but he doesn’t stir, just pushes the side of his face deeper into the pillow.

Downstairs, Hugo and Angela are still sleeping, their bodies wrapped together in such a way that I’m almost ashamed to look, even though they’re fully clothed. I shudder. Angela, Angela, Angela. I may be going crazy, but I’d never be so insane as to think that Hugo was someone I’d want to be that close to.

I check through the kitchen cabinets and find some whole coffee beans, but I have no clue how to grind them. Then I remember that the Outfitters had some coffee. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me bumming a cup. After all, I’m the miracle girl. I’ll just have to avoid any reporters.

Reporters and … unsavory and possibly imaginary characters, I think as I step out into the chilly morning. It’s actually warmer than yesterday, and now the sun is starting to peek through the trees more. I jog down the driveway and across the highway, avoiding the river. The sound of my running shoes on the gravel effectively drowns out the gentle hum of the current. I don’t stop until I’m in the Outfitters. But as I’m pulling open the door, I catch sight of that photo in the glass case, and I hear it.

What the devil is that?

“Don’t you start, Uncle Robert,” I mutter as I step inside.

It’s just as busy as yesterday. A new group of adventurers is suiting up for the river. Some faces look familiar, but most are strange. They don’t know that I’m the one. That’s a good thing. A guy who is standing at the door looks at me growling to nobody and assumes I’m talking to him. He scoots aside, apologizing so effusively for being in my way that I feel bad. I blush and try to explain that I wasn’t talking to him, but stop. Maybe it’s for the best that he think I was talking to him. Better to be a bitch than a nutcase.

“Hey! Ice Girl!” a voice calls. It’s Spiffy. He’s wearing what I think is the same outfit he had on yesterday, and looking like he slept in a tree. “How are you? Ready for Round Two?”

I blush more, embarrassed. So they really are calling me that. “Um, not in a million years, thanks. I came for the coffee.”

He laughs and points to the kitchenette. “Just made a fresh pot.”

I inhale the heavenly scent of the beans as I start to cross the room, but freeze when I see who is there, pouring himself a cup. He has his back to me but the thick strap of his camera is wrapped around his neck, so I know it’s him. I curse and turn around quickly. Spiffy notices, so I say, “I don’t want that guy to see me. He wants to do a story on me for the Herald.”

Spiffy watches him. “Don’t worry. You’re old news. He has a better scoop.”

“Really?” I exhale and loosen, wondering how that could’ve happened so quickly. I know news moves fast, but this is kind of ridiculous. “Which is?”

“When they were combing the river looking for you, they found another body.”

I put my hands over my mouth. They must have found Uncle Robert. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs, a bewildered look on his face. “They just found some bones. That’s all they know right now.”

“Oh! I thought … I mean, I thought it was your uncle.”

He stares at me. “No. He’s hiking the Trail.” Then he eyes me with mock suspicion. “Unless you know something we all don’t.”

“No, I just … um, nothing,” I say, hurrying to the kitchenette. By the time I get there, my cheeks and the back of my neck are burning. I pour the coffee and immediately try to take a sip, but it scalds my tongue. I stand there, inhaling the aroma, trying to wake up so I can spare myself any more awkward exchanges like that. Spiffy must think I’m insane enough already. And he’ll think it all the more when they discover that those bones are his uncle Robert. This I know, just as well as I know my own name. But they don’t need to hear it from me. I’m already Ice Girl. I don’t need to be Oracle Girl, too.

It’s getting pretty crowded and the room is buzzing with adrenaline-pumped adventure seekers, so I quickly make my exit, wrapping my hands around the Styrofoam cup to keep them warm. Immediately the waves start to whisper.

“Why can I hear you, Uncle Robert?” I mutter in the general direction of the river.

“The river only talks to people worth talking to.”

As I whirl around, hot coffee froths from the top of the cup, spraying my hands. I wince at the pain, steady the cup, and bite my sore tongue.

Because standing in front of me is Jack McCabe.