Chapter Sixteen

The sisters and I have finally reached the area of Wolfwood where I think we’ll find that shelter I spotted. It was a much longer journey than we anticipated—the landscape messed with us even more than usual, shifting around like pieces in a slide puzzle. No matter how vigilant we all were, and how closely we followed my hunches, we were attacked over and over. I’ve reluctantly accepted the fact that I can see glimpses of the future but can’t change it. What I see is what’s meant to happen. And there’s also a lot that I don’t see.

The fact I can’t use my powers to spare the sisters from pain is a constant pulse of guilt in my veins.

The area we’ve reached now is an expanse of mangroves, with turquoise water holes the size of small ponds scattered throughout. One wrong step and you’re in the water, at the mercy of vines that can drag you under and drown you.

“If things haven’t changed too much,” I whisper, “the little hut should be right on the other side of that.” I point out a shimmer of blue through the foliage ahead of us. “If you want to wait here, I can scout it out.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Scarlet says. I know she says this because she thinks it would be safer for someone to come with me, but underneath that, I can hear it’s also coming from suspicion. Ever since that big attack, she’s been wary. Like it’s somehow a problem that I saved them, instead of proof of my loyalty.

No wonder I feel guilty all the time, constantly aware of her mistrustful gaze.

“I’ll go with you,” Lila says. She turns to Scarlet. “Don’t try to stop me.”

For once, no one argues. Lila and I head out, creeping lightly, holding on to safe branches and stems when we can, knowing that the ground might give way into a deep pit of water at any moment. A tingle in my limbs tells me we’re getting closer. The air around here is dead, which is a surprise. I’d think he’d shelter among monsters, for protection. Then again, the shelter did look old.

“Do you think there’s a chance it’s a portal home?” Lila asks me. “Like Azul said?”

I consider whether there’s any reason to lie and decide not to. “No, I don’t.”

She nods, seemingly having had the same thought.

“Tell me again what he looks like.” She’s whispering, but there’s a thrill in her voice.

“Long blond hair. Sharp cheekbones. Intense blue eyes.”

“Like a wolf.”

I don’t bother telling her that wolves usually have golden eyes, not blue. Lila has a fascination with him that’s more romantic than the others. Probably because of the way I’ve described him. But I’d be lying if I didn’t describe him as handsome.

“There,” I whisper, pointing. Ahead, an area of thick swamp grass is woven together to cover the side of the small shack. Thin branches bend to form an arch over it, adding to the camouflage. Hard to believe I saw it from so far away, when I was up in that tree. Like I knew to look for it. Maybe I did, in a way similar to my premonitions.

“Wait here for now,” I tell her.

Lila hesitates, then gives a slight nod. “Be careful.”

I high-step over a crisscross of roots, hanging on to branches, knowing how close the water is. I come up on the shelter from the side, my breath shallow as I ease my way around the circular structure. When I’m right next to the entrance, I raise my blade. I peer around the doorway, step inside. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The air is almost water itself, it’s so heavy, so thick. Musky. It smells like animal, not plant. Webs of thin rope hang from the walls onto the floor, a pile of filthy netting next to them. A small object sticks out from under the ratty fabric. It glints. Metallic. I reach out tentatively, touch the metal with my bare foot.

Something in the air shifts.

All of a sudden, it’s like a veil is lifted. I see the ropes as they used to be: two hammocks, surrounded by a pristine, gauzy netting that hangs from the ceiling. I see shoes on the floor, sandals. Cold bottles of beer. And someone in one of the hammocks. Him. He’s talking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I turn my gaze—someone is in the other hammock, too. A girl with long dark hair, long thin limbs. Familiar. She reaches out to him. They touch hands. They’re in love—I can feel it. Their desire is as thick as the heat.

I smell her happiness—round, sweet.

He tilts his head and looks at me. Our eyes lock.

I startle, blink, and it’s gone, all of it, except what’s here now. The old rotting ropes. The dirty fabric. I hook the tip of my blade on the netting and lift it an inch, revealing the object underneath. Curved silver. A bracelet. I bend down to pick it up, and as I do I notice something else under the netting. I lift it a little higher.

Two blue eyes stare at me.

His head. Decapitated. Blood pouring out of his neck. I drop the fabric, suck in a breath, stumble back. Blood floods the shelter, covering my feet. Thick, warm, deep red blood. His head floats on top, still staring at me, eyes glowing through the thin netting.

Terrified, I turn and run. Grab Lila’s hand. Keep running.

“What happened?” she says, stumbling a bit as she’s pulled along. “What’s wrong?”

Even if I wasn’t breathing too hard to answer, I have no idea what I would say.

Sitting on the edge of her hammock, bare feet on sand floor, Zoe can’t stop shaking. The thin light blue airmail paper trembles in her hand. Words wobble in front of her eyes:

Dear Colin,

I hope you get this, what with the shoddy mail system down there. Not much to report from here. Your mother and I are well. The reason I’m writing is to let you know we’re not going to wire you this quarter’s allowance. We’ve decided it’s time for you to come home to Chicago, finish school, and join the firm.

You’re almost 24 and have been given every advantage. All those studio visits we set up, all the favors we called in. The rent we’ve paid. None of it has led anywhere, except running away to Mexico, alone. I’m a collector and I know what it takes for an artist to make it. Art is a product, like anything else. (Just ask Koons.) Simply put, no one wants your product. I’m sorry for being so blunt, especially because I know you’ve tried hard. Probably too hard. I talked to J. Deitch after the studio visit, and he said you were a competent painter, but it takes more than that. You can throw a rock and hit a “competent painter” in SoHo.

We’ll get you into a good business program after your BA. You can settle down, meet somebody, and build that part of your future. (Needless to say, your mother has ideas for that side of things.) Hopefully, you haven’t fallen back into any bad habits. Your sister says you didn’t look healthy the last time she saw you in New York. We’ve already been through that with you.

See you soon,

Dad

Zoe doesn’t know which part of the letter is the most upsetting. Finding out he lied about his age (almost twenty-four!) . . . lied about the gallery people and how he was supporting himself . . . that his parents don’t even know about her! Here she was, thinking he might propose, and his family doesn’t even know she exists. And then there’s how reading this must have affected Colin. God, it makes Zoe feel like her own insides are being torn out. Of course he got so upset when she was mean about his mural idea, after getting this letter. Why, why, why did she say all that?

Worst of all, what if he listened to his parents? What if he’s flying to Chicago right now?

Zoe is still shaking when Lila finds her for dinner. She can’t tell the sisters about the letter. This isn’t the Colin she wants them to know. And she doesn’t want them to know that he’s been lying to her, either. She’s humiliated. Humiliated that she knew so little about him. And she can’t begin to admit that he might have abandoned her. Saying it out loud might make it true.

She tells Lila she’s not feeling well, that she maybe ate something bad. She says she’ll see them later. In a bit, Itzel comes down and offers her plain rice, but she’s not hungry at all.

Hours pass. She stays in the sweltering, airless cabana, waiting for him to come home. Praying that he will.