The old woman looks like Mary May, and I know instantly that it’s her mother, the only member of her family other than Mary May not to be branded. Mary May must have had a soft spot for her mother. The old woman picks up a watering can by the back door and proceeds to water the hanging baskets. No water comes out.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She sighs. She looks out to the lake and makes her way down the garden.
“Okay. I run into the house, you keep a lookout,” Carrick says, getting ready to run.
“Wait.” I grab him. It takes my two hands around his biceps to hold him back. “We can’t just leave her. She’s dangerously close to the water. She’ll fall in.”
“What is it with you helping old people?” he asks, but his voice is soft and his touch on my hand is warm.
She’s lying on the grass, leaning over the edge, trying to reach down to the lake with her watering can. I make my way over to her. I take the can from her, and without saying a word, I scoop it full with water and hand it back to her.
She eyes me warily, not coldly but curiously, as if trying to place me.
“Is he coming for me tonight?” she asks with a sweet voice, almost childlike.
I don’t say a word, unsure as to what she means.
“Our Lord. He’s sent you to take me. It’s all right.” She straightens up. “I’m ready. I’ll see my Andy again.” She looks back at the house. “I should make my peace with her. I hope the Lord will be kind to her.” She looks at me hopefully. “She has done things for reasons she thinks are right. I’m her mother, I’ll go before him and speak for her. But the others … they’ll never forgive her. I hope they forgive me. It’s because of her they’re Flawed.” She hardens again. “I know that I don’t remember much but I remember that. She’s looking for something. Do you know what it is she’s looking for?”
I nod.
“Every night, she goes to the garage. Does he know where it is? If he does, I think she’d find peace. It’s driving her…” A light goes on in the cottage and we both look up.
“She’s coming,” she whispers. “How much time do I have before he takes me?”
My heart is banging in my chest at the sight of Mary May stepping outside and breaking out into a run across the grass.
“Mother!” she screams angrily.
I hold my finger over my lips, hoping Carrick’s frantic waving won’t catch her eye. Mary May’s mother nods. “You’ll come for me?”
I nod.
At peace with that, she takes the watering can and I quickly duck out of view in the darkness, behind a bush. Carrick throws me a warning look, but we don’t move, there’s nowhere for us to move to now, except into the lake. If we have to, we will. He places a protective arm around my waist, he holds me tightly.
Mary May’s mother is looking out over the lake like it’s for the last time, drinking it in with an air of finality, not sadness. Contentment, satisfaction, acceptance. I feel guilty for this misunderstanding, but she does seem happy with it.
“Mother!” Mary May’s voice has an edge to it, a growl. She’s in her nightdress, too, and unhappily traipses across the grass to her mother.
“I was collecting water for the flowers,” her mother says distantly. “There has been no rain for days.”
“How many times have I told you not to lean over the edge? It’s dangerous! You could fall in. How did you … Mother, where did this water come from?”
“The angel, the kind angel. She’s here for me.”
“Angel?” Carrick whispers, covering his face with his hands.
I don’t want to explain myself out of fear Mary May will hear me speak. With her supersonic Whistleblower senses, I’m surprised she hasn’t sniffed us out already. She takes the watering can from her mother. “No more angel nonsense, Mother. It’s after eleven; you should be in bed. I’m going to have to get an alarm system if you keep this up.”
Carrick and I look at each other. No alarm system.
“Andy likes to have the flowers watered, he insists.”
“Daddy is gone, Mommy, remember?”
“Alice likes to pick the petals and use them for her art.”
Mary May sucks in air. “Don’t you dare say her name in my company,” she hisses. She empties the water back into the lake, takes her mother’s elbow, and guides her back to the house.
“Where are they all?” her mother asks, in a desperate childish way. “Why won’t you ever tell me? I want to see my children. I want to know that they’re all safe. I want to say good-bye.”
“You don’t need to say good-bye, you’re safe here with me, remember? Just you and me, Mother, we don’t need the others.”
Carrick and I watch them go back inside the house.
“She’s even more messed up than I thought,” he whispers.
She’s training the future Whistleblowers. I think of Art and of how much she’s poisoning his mind. Who knows what she has told him about me. She could tell him any lie and he’d probably believe it. And am I trying to make excuses for Art again? I shake him out of my head.
A light goes on in the front room.
“Mother’s bedroom,” Carrick says. “Where the hell do we find this snow globe? It could be anywhere.”
“The garage,” I say, looking to the connected building.
“How do you know?”
“Her mother said she’s looking for something in the garage. It must be in there.”
We see Mary May pass by the back door again, then another light goes on and reveals the kitchen. She keeps walking and goes into the connected garage. A light goes on in the two high windows. The only way into the garage is through the house, or through the car entrance at the other side.
We hear thrashing sounds, boxes being moved, crashing, then screaming, demented screeching. It’s disturbing, like a witch being burned at the stake, a tortured scream of anguish and frustration.
It sounds as though she’s trashing the place, and I’m afraid she will smash the globe and find the footage hidden inside, or damage it. It’s chilly outside, the breeze coming from the lake. I shudder in my thin T-shirt; Carrick takes me in his arms and kisses my neck, and I’m warmed instantly by his body heat.
Mary May searches for twenty minutes, then there’s silence. She’s exhausted from her frenzy. The light goes out in the garage. She appears in the kitchen, haggard, her hair standing up crazily, loose from its usual pristine bun. She goes to the sink, takes a drink of water, stares outside almost as if she’s seeing us. I shiver again and Carrick tightens his grip on me.
The light goes out and she disappears. Her bedroom is in the front of the cottage, her mother’s facing us in the back.
“I say give her forty-five minutes, then we’ll move,” Carrick says. “It’s going to take her a while to settle after that frustration.”
I sigh impatiently. So close yet so very far.
“We can’t wait that long, Carrick. If Crevan discovers that I’m free, who do you think he’ll call? She’ll be the first one.”