“Or gives them reason to hang us,” Aurora added.
Marguerite sauntered to the center of the store, winking back at her sisters. “The boys all seem to like it,” she replied with a sway of her hips.
Both Hazel and Aurora laughed. Marguerite had always been unabashed and they admired this quality in her, even if at times it got her into trouble. The three sisters were close, devoted to one another. Their lives interwoven as tightly as a sailor’s knot.
They didn’t yet know the things that would divide them.
For in a place like Sparrow, rumors spread quickly, like small pox or cholera, confusing the mind, rooting itself into the fabric of a town until there’s no telling truth from speculation.
TWELVE
I dial Rose’s cell when I get back to the house, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message: “Call me when you get this.”
I don’t know why she went to see Gigi at the boathouse, but whatever the reason, I need to tell her to stay away.
Through the kitchen window, I see Mom standing out on the cliff, her black robe billowing around her legs with an updraft of wind. She didn’t stay in bed all day after all.
I wait by the phone for most of the day, but Rose never calls. I dial her number three more times, but she doesn’t answer. Where is she?
When the sun starts to settle over the ocean, I curl up in bed, knees to chest. I fall asleep with the wind rattling the glass in the windows, the sea air driving against the house.
Just after dawn it starts raining, gently pattering against the roof. The sky is painted in brushstroke ribbons of violet and coral pink. I stay in my room, but still no word from Rose. The rain keeps everyone inside. Mom locks herself in her bedroom, and I don’t see Bo leave the cottage all day. There are things I should say to him—confessions buried inside me. The way my heart feels unmoored when I’m with him. My head loose with thoughts I can’t explain. I should say I’m sorry. I should walk down through the rain and beat my fist against his door. I should touch his skin with my fingertips and tell him there are things I want, I crave. But how do you let yourself unravel in front of someone, knowing your armor is the only thing keeping you safe?
So I don’t say anything. I keep my heart hidden deep and dark in my chest.
Evening eventually presses down and I slump in the chair beside my bedroom window, watching the sky peel apart and the rainclouds fade. Stars illuminate the dark. But I feel anxious, wishing Rose would just call, explain why she went to the boathouse. She’s acting suspicious—making herself seem like one of them. Why?
And then I see something through the window.
Movement down on the path, a silhouette passing beneath the cascade of blue moonlight. It’s Bo, and he’s heading toward the dock.
And in my gut, I sense that something isn’t right.
I pull on a long black sweater over my cotton shorts and tank top and hurry down the stairs to the front door. The air hits me as soon as I step outside, a blast of cold that cuts straight down to my marrow.
I lose sight of him for a moment, the darkness absorbing him, but when I reach the point in the path where it slopes down toward the water, I see him again. And he’s almost to the dock.
The evening wind has stirred up from the west, and it pushes waves against the shore in intervals, spilling up over the rocks and leaving behind a layer of foam. Everything smells soggy from the rain. My bare feet are slapping against the wood walkway, but I still catch up to him just as he stops at the far end of the dock.
“Bo?” I ask. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to look at me. Like he can’t even hear me. And I already know. Under the dark sky and the pale, swollen moon, I can tell he’s not himself.
I take two careful steps toward him. “Bo,” I say again, trying to get his attention. But in one swift motion, he steps forward and falls straight off the edge of the dock and down into the water. “No!” I yell, scrambling forward.
The harbor heaves and churns. He’s already gone under, sunk beneath the waves. I hold my breath, counting the seconds—how long does he have until there’s no more air left in his lungs? I scan the water, afraid to blink. Then, ten yards out, he appears, sucking in a breath of air as he breaks through the surface. But he doesn’t turn back for shore. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder. He keeps going, swimming farther out into the harbor.
No, no, no. This is bad.
I strip out of my black sweater and drop it onto the dock. I draw in a deep breath, reach my arms over my head, and dive in after him.
The cold water cuts through my skin like needles, and when I gulp in the night air, it stings the inner walls of my lungs. But I start swimming.
He is already a good distance ahead of me, determined, being beckoned deeper into the bay. But my arms and legs find a fluid rhythm that is faster than his. His feet, still in his shoes, kick little explosions of water out behind him. When I’m finally within reach, I grab on to his T-shirt and pull hard. His arms stop circling overhead, and his legs pause their kicking. He lifts his head, hair slicked sideways over his forehead, lips parted, and looks at me.
“Bo,” I say, meeting his stony eyes. His eyelashes drip with seawater, his expression slack, unaware of where he is or what he’s doing. “We need to go back,” I yell over the wind.
He doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t protest, but he also doesn’t seem to register anything I’ve said, because he drops his gaze and roughly pulls away, resuming his swim across the harbor. I suck in a few quick breaths. The beam of light from the lighthouse circles around, sweeping over the harbor and illuminating the masts of sunken ships. He’s being summoned to the wreckage, by her.
“Shit.” My skin is chilled and weighted from my clothes. But I push my legs out behind me and swim after him, through the dark, knowing that a boat passing through the harbor likely wouldn’t see us in time. We’d be forced under by the bow, churned up by the prop, and might never come back up again. But if I let him go, I know what will happen. I will lose him for good.
I kick hard, my arms cutting through the water, the cold starting to slow my heartbeat and the blood pumping out to my extremities. But after several more rotations of the lighthouse—the only thing marking time—I manage to catch up to him again. I wrap my fist around the hem of his shirt and yank him back toward me. He turns to look at me, the same expression etched permanently on his face.
“You need to wake up,” I scream at him. “You can’t do this!”
His eyebrows pucker a fraction of an inch. He hears me, but he’s also lost to Marguerite—her voice cycling through his mind, calling to him, begging him to find her somewhere out there.