“I’m not ready,” said Finley. She knew it was selfish, but she didn’t care. “I don’t want to stay here without you.”
“You were born ready, my girl,” said Eloise. “You are electric with power. It comes off you in waves. And you’re smart, and stubborn, and have an iron will like your mother. You were more ready at eight than I have ever been.”
“But I don’t want this,” said Finley. Tears fell, big and wet, an embarrassing flow, impossible to stop. Finley’s shoulders shook with her choking sobs.
The young and pretty Eloise leaned in close and kissed Finley’s tears away, pulled her close and then released her, rising.
“We don’t choose, Finley,” she said, her voice warm with loving kindness, but also somehow distant with resignation and understanding. “We are chosen.”
“Mimi,” cried Finley. “Mimi, please.”
Eloise opened the door to the church, and Finley found herself backing away from the energy that seemed to flow out of it, the same glittering black pull that emanated from the hole in the mine. It wasn’t tugging at her anymore, it was pushing her away, farther and farther until she stood on the other side of the stone wall that surrounded the graveyard. She was just an observer here, allowed to bear witness.
“Why do they need you?” Finley yelled. “Why do you have to be the one?”
“It’s my time,” said Eloise, as if she were talking about an appointment she’d made. She gave a wry smile. “It’s on my way.”
At the door, Eloise opened her arms, and Finley watched them. Abigail, Patience, and Sarah danced and tugged at one another. Faith corralled them toward the doorway, giving a fleeting glance back at Finley. Then The Burning Girl dimmed her fire and she was just Priscilla Miller, another victim of violence and neglect. She skipped through the open door. Abbey and the other Snow Angels, as Finley had come to think of them, moved uncertainly, and Eloise extended her hand. And there were others, faces Finley had never seen, so many others. They, too, moved into the luring darkness. But it was not dark at all, not really. It was the presence of all color, a great twist of all the shades and hues of this life and the next. It was the most beautiful and terrible thing Finley had ever seen.
When the parade had concluded, Eloise stood for a moment in the doorway and glanced back at Finley with the very face of love and compassion. But then she, too, was swallowed.
And then the church was just a church, a quiet little place nestled deep in The Hollows Wood. And there was silence, a blessed, -perfect silence, except for the singing of the rose-breasted grosbeak, its pretty notes filling the warm spring air. Finley dropped to her knees and let out a wail that was the single dark note of all her sadness and anger and loss.
When she came back to herself, she was on the edge of the hole in the mine, her torso hanging over the abyss with Jones Cooper holding on to her ankles, and a pale and shaken Chuck Ferrigno with a gun in his hand, the shot he’d just fired ringing in Finley’s head.
THIRTY-FOUR
The smell of coffee, the hum of the espresso machine woke her. Bacon, cinnamon, eggs, a culinary symphony of aroma enticed Finley to pull the pillow from her head. But then it all came crashing back, as it did every morning since she lost Eloise. And Finley stayed in bed, pulling the covers tight around her, turning away from the idea of breakfast, even though her stomach was growling and she couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. She looked like a ghoul, haunted and wasting.
Then came the pounding on the door. She put the pillow back over her head and clung to it, even as he tried to tug it away from her. He finally succeeded.
“Today’s the day, sis,” said Alfie, loudly snapping the shade open. The light was blinding. What time was it? “You’ve done enough wallowing. This morning, you rejoin the living.”
“Go away, Alfie,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Enough’s enough.”
He gleefully stripped the covers off her bed, leaving her in only a tank top and underpants in the harsh cold of an old house in the morning.
“Go away,” she roared. He ran off laughing, clutching at her blankets. She felt the energy of a laugh, but she tamped it down hard.
“Kids,” said Amanda mildly, walking into the room. Finley’s mother offered the soft chenille robe that was hanging over the chair. Finley took it grudgingly, got up, then sank into the chair by the window, looking out at the oak tree in Eloise’s yard. It was the oldest oak tree in The Hollows. Today, the branches were bare and black, a stark relief against the blue-gray sky.