I followed her slowly, resolved to run at the first sign of trouble. We had to stay in the town long enough to find a Withered; we had to lay low and arouse as little suspicion as possible, and I’d already threatened three guys with a knife. We needed to contact the locals, but how much contact could we afford?
The church sat on a corner lot, fronting onto the main street, which we were on, and a small cross street ran alongside it. The parking lot was on the far side from us, by the cross street, and I felt my heart rate speed up as we came around the near fence and saw a handful of people moving from their cars to the building.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
“Trust me,” said Marci.
“I wish you’d let me do this my way,” I said. “Brooke did things my way.”
“No wonder you fell in love with me instead.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, stopping at the corner of the fence.
She looked back at me. “Didn’t you?”
I didn’t want her to assume it, I wanted to say it. I wanted it to be a moment. But I’d only ever said it to her corpse, and saying it to someone who could hear me was something I totally wasn’t ready for.
“I have a system worked out,” I said, changing the subject again. “Exposing ourselves like this feels wrong.”
“That’s because it hurts,” said Marci. “You’re not used to it. It’s risky and that hurts. But sometimes the thing that hurts most is the right thing to do.”
I sighed. “Fine.”
“So relax,” said Marci. “Talking is what I do. I haven’t done it in two years, and I’m dying to get … Sorry.” She grinned sadly. “Poor choice of words.”
I expected her to take us straight up the front walk to the main door, but instead she pulled me along the fence, across the lawn, and down the narrow passage between the side wall and the fence. We reached the back and came around the corner, bypassing another door and reaching the rear corner of the parking lot without running into anyone. Marci put a hand on my chest, holding me back, and whispered.
“Wait.”
More people arrived in trucks and small cars: men in cowboy hats and bolo ties; women in bright blouses and floral skirts; little kids in dresses and collared shirts, their hair slicked and combed. I didn’t know what Brooke was waiting for, so I watched the crowd and the way they moved, the way people smiled at neighbors or snapped at an unruly child.
“What if there’s no Withered at all?” she asked softly.
“This town is where Brooke said to go.”
“And is there always a Withered everywhere she says?”
I shook my head. “Her information is old. Some of them haven’t had contact with each other in decades. Even if Attina was here once, he might have left.”
“So then what do we do?”
I watched the people walking into church. Was it one of them?
“We leave,” I whispered.
“And go where?”
“I don’t know.”
Soon the crowd thinned out, and I figured the meeting was either starting soon or had already started and these were the last few stragglers. An old woman pulled up in a wide sedan, her head tilted up so she could see over the dashboard. Marci pulled me out of the shadows.
“Here we go,” she said. “Don’t do anything creepy.”
“Give me a little credit.”
“I’m teasing.” She walked toward the old woman, reaching her just as she was getting out of her car. “Let me help you.” Marci held out her hand, and the old woman smiled and grasped it delicately, pulling herself out of the seat with a grunt.
“Thank you, young lady.” The woman was short and plump, her hair mostly white, flecked here and there with gray. She turned back to reach for her purse, and Marci held the car door open.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” said Marci, “but we just got into town, and we don’t really know anybody.”
The woman smiled. “Well, dear, you’ve come at a beautiful time. Dillon in June is absolutely lovely.” She closed the car door and faced us directly, getting her first really good look at our faces and clothes. I braced myself for a judgmental stare followed by a lecture or a curt dismissal, but instead she smiled again. “My,” she said, “you’re so young! It’s nice to meet you, dear, what’s your name?”
“Marci,” said Marci, smiling back.
“Everyone in there will call me Mrs. Potter,” said the woman, “but please just call me Ingrid. It’s not my name, but I like it so much.”
“I … okay,” said Marci, apparently as surprised as I was by the comment. The old woman laughed.