“And she had to look out there every day and see where her friend died and it was just a—a reminder, every day, and she couldn’t even tell anybody and . . .”
And Sorrow had tracked her down in a café and asked her about it without warning. It was never only one conversation. That was what Sheriff Reyes had said, and Sorrow knew if she asked, Dr. Silva would say the same. But it must have been painful for Julie, and that was an awful feeling, knowing in retrospect that she might have helped rather than hurt, if only she had known.
“Our families are so fucking stupid,” Ethan said.
“Yeah.”
In the kitchen the water was running, and there was a soft clatter as Grandma searched through utensils in a drawer.
“I remember talking to her,” Ethan said.
“Julie?”
“Patience.”
Sorrow looked at him. “You do?”
“A little. There was this one Christmas. I was like six or seven. Young enough that my parents were still trying to make the whole happy-family holidays thing happen. We were over at my aunt and uncle’s for presents and food and everything, and of course everybody started fighting about . . .” Ethan let out a long sigh. “Something. I don’t know what. They always did. Cass was crying. I decided I’d rather go outside and just . . . get out. Away from all the shouting. It was getting dark and it was snowing, but I went anyway. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go over to your place. That was like the number one rule, right? But if you tell a dumb kid to stay away from the scary ladies in the haunted orchard next door, what’s the first thing he’s going to do when he gets a chance?”
Sorrow imagined a tiny towheaded Ethan tramping away from the noise of a family argument under a dark gray December sky, and the forbidden orchard next door his only escape.
“I’m guessing you didn’t get caught,” she said.
“Not by anybody in my family,” Ethan said. “Your sister caught me, though. Or, not caught me, she just found me and asked me if I was lost.”
Patience would have smiled through the falling snow, soft and kind and just a little bit teasing, her cheeks pink beneath her green wool hat, her hazel eyes warm.
“I said I wasn’t. I don’t think she believed me. She asked me if I wanted her to show me the way home and I said no, so she asked me if I wanted to climb a tree instead,” Ethan said. “That sounded way better than going home, so we went up to that huge oak on the hill, and she helped me up onto one of the low branches—not that high or anything—and climbed up there too. She asked me if I ever stopped and listened to the snow falling.”
Patience had asked Sorrow the exact same thing once, and Sorrow had laughed, told her she was being stupid, told her there was nothing to hear. Patience had laughed right back at her and said she didn’t know how to listen. She was always so sure she knew better. Sorrow didn’t know where that certainty had come from. She couldn’t imagine ever being that sure about anything.
“She said if I listened hard enough,” Ethan went on, “I could hear the orchard whispering. Not like it was creepy or anything. She said it like it was . . . just the way it was.” He was quiet for a moment. “When it got dark she walked me back to the fence, and she told me I could come back anytime I wanted to get away.”
Sorrow took a sip of her tea. The clouds didn’t seem to be lifting as the morning crept along. If anything they were hunkering down, sinking over the mountain peaks, threading a mist as fine as cobwebs between the trees. It wasn’t chilly enough to be uncomfortable, but still she could feel the cool air on her arms and legs, a light touch on her skin.
“Is it cloudy like this in town?” Sorrow asked.
If the question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Yeah. It might rain later.”
“That would be good.”
Sorrow scraped the heel of her shoe over the packed dirt at the base of the porch steps. She wondered if locals were looking at the sky with suspicious eyes, whispering about witch weather, wondering when it would break. It hadn’t stayed cold, not like in the old stories where the unnatural weather lasted weeks or months, but the sun remained stubbornly hidden.
A minute or so of quiet, then Ethan exhaled tiredly, slumped against the porch post, and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t even imagine what this must be like for Cassie.”
Sorrow felt a pang in her chest. “Have you talked to her?”
“No. I tried to go over there, but my aunt told me . . .” His lips twisted, nothing like a smile. “Well, she said to come back later, and shut the door in my face. Cassie hasn’t answered my texts. I think they took her phone away.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea what they’re doing. It’s not like she would even want to talk to me, but . . .” A shrug, and Ethan put his hands down to push himself off the step. “We should probably help Miss P with breakfast.”
There wasn’t much to help with. Grandma had made muffins, and Sorrow fixed more tea while Ethan set out plates. They sat at the table together, but nobody launched into the usual morning conversation about what projects they would work on around the farm that day.
After a couple of minutes of silence, Ethan asked, “Where’s Verity?”
Grandma and Sorrow looked up at the same time, casting their eyes toward the ceiling. When Sorrow dropped her gaze again, she saw that Ethan had noticed.
“She’ll be down,” she said.
He said, “Okay,” and didn’t ask for an explanation, but after a minute he was doing it too: looking up at the ceiling, listening, waiting.
They had finished eating and were cleaning up the dishes before there were footsteps overhead. Sorrow was tense from her neck all the way down her back. She only wanted Verity to come downstairs. Just come downstairs and stop making them worry.
Verity’s bedroom door opened. Footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom door closed. Sorrow told herself to relax. The bathroom door opened again—strange how she had learned so long ago to recognize every sound in the house without even thinking about it, the squeak of every board and hinge loud in her memory even when everything else had faded. Verity was walking, but it shouldn’t be taking her that long to reach the stairs. It was only ten or twelve steps.
Sorrow draped a dish towel over the edge of the sink. She was stepping toward the doorway when she heard the top stair creak, then a pause, and what sounded like the slap of a hand on the wall, a startled curse—“shit”—followed by a series of loud thumps.
Sorrow ran out of the kitchen to find Verity sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Her limbs were splayed awkwardly, her hair over her face.
“Oh my god.” Sorrow dropped to her knees and touched Verity’s shoulder, reached for her face. “Are you okay? Holy shit, did you fall? Are you okay?”
Verity moved her head, let out a groan.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Verity brushed Sorrow’s hand away. “Stop poking. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Can you move? Can you sit up?”
Verity lifted her head and gave Sorrow a baleful glare. “I’m fine. I just lost my balance.”