PRESSING MY forehead into the cool wood grain of the door, I whisper, “You’re fine, Clay. Just pull it together.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Desperate for a distraction, I step into the living room. It’s just a text from Dale. “Not too late to change your mind. I could really use a wingman.” There’s a picture of him photobombing two girls at the Quick Trip. No doubt Laura Dixon’s cousins. They look bored out of their minds.
Jesus, Dale, not now. I put my phone away.
Pacing the room, I notice how sparse the furnishings are. No knickknacks or personal items. Just an old brown couch covered in another one of those doily things, a couple of pillows, two hardback chairs, and a coffee table, all situated around a wall where the TV should be.
The wall has a crisp sheet tacked to it, like it’s covering something up. I peek underneath. I’m expecting a weird painting or crumbling plaster, but not this.
I pull out the tacks, letting the fabric sink to the floor. The wall is covered with photos, articles, aerial maps, weather reports, and sticky notes. At first glance, it looks like a random collage, but slowly, a pattern begins to emerge. The documents seem to be arranged in six columns. One for each family of the Preservation Society. At the top of each column is a picture—Tyler, Jimmy, Tammy, Ben, Ali, and me.
“Can you give me a hand?” Miss Granger calls from the bathroom.
I pry myself away from the wall and tentatively open the bathroom door. Ali’s still unconscious in the now-dry tub, wearing the nightgown.
My heart stutters. It looks like the same slip she was wearing in my nightmare … the one where I was pushing her on the swing. How can that be?
“Clay?” Miss Granger’s voice snaps me back. “Can you carry her to the couch for me? I’ll go make some tea.”
I pick Ali up and try not to think about how close she is to me. Setting her down on the couch, I drape the doily quilt thing over her. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with me, but I need to get this under control.
With a soft sigh, she rolls onto her side, turning away from me.
I’m reaching out to brush her hair back from her cheek when Miss Granger comes back in the room carrying a tray. Quickly, I sit down in one of the chairs, pulling a throw pillow across my lap.
She glances down at me … at the pillow. God, this is humiliating.
I clear my throat. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’ll need her rest.” Miss Granger pours the tea. “Being marked for the Devil takes a lot out of you.”
I let out a burst of nervous laughter, but Miss Granger stares at me, unflinching.
“You’re being serious?”
“I’m afraid so.” She reaches out to hand me a cup.
I want to storm out, tell her she’s fucking crazy, but when I look over at Ali and think about what’s happened over the past couple of days, I take the tea. Whatever Miss Granger’s wacko theories are, it’s a hell of a lot better than me just being a total nut job.
I take a sip, letting it scald my mouth, hoping it’ll burn away the desire I feel twisting up inside of me. But I can’t stop staring at Ali’s legs, her tan skin peeking through the holes in the quilt.
Emma pulls an old Polaroid camera from the drawer of the side table. “Can you hold her hair back for me?”
A prickling heat rushes to my face.
“I just need to document the mark.”
I set the pillow aside. But as soon as I gather Ali’s long silky hair in my hands, the feelings stir up in me again—stronger than ever.
The flash goes off.
I twist her hair in my hands.
I have to force myself to let go. I take a deep breath. Whatever this is, whatever’s going on with me, it’s carnal … like a bomb has been detonated inside of me.
Miss Granger shakes the photo a few times. I settle back in the chair, watching it develop from a dark-gray mass into the soft muted colors of Ali’s skin.
Miss Granger pins the photo under the Miller column.
“What is all this?” My voice hitches in my throat.
“Research.” She looks back at me with a weary smile. “I’ve been watching all of you for some time now.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Emily Granger, but people call me Emma. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m from Milton, Mass—”
“No … I mean who are you, really? What’s your deal, because I know you’re not just some guidance counselor.”
She purses her lips. “I work for the church.”
“What? All Saints?”
“No. The Vatican.”
“Wait…” I lean forward, my elbows digging into my knees. “That photo on your dresser … is that … is that the pope?”
A tiny smile lights her gray eyes. “We’ve known something was coming for a long time, we just didn’t know how he would present himself.”
“Who?”
“The Devil.”
I choke on the tea and set my cup back down. I want to laugh it off, but deep down I know she really believes it. “And you think this has something to do with the marks, the symbol you were telling me about … the invitation?”
“Yes, but the invitation is only the beginning.” She twists the cross around her neck. “According to the prophecy, six will be chosen.”