Simon and Mrs. MacLeod were both out when I got back to the house, so I showered and spent an hour or so padding through the various rooms. Most on the upper floor were guest rooms, shut up and chilly, their radiators as silent and sheet-shrouded as the rest of the furniture. Some were entirely empty, deep drag marks in the wood floors where heavy objects had been taken away. I hoped they’d gotten to go somewhere a little less moldy and dank.
Only one room, one that looked out over the top of the greenhouse to the ocean, wasn’t a total tomb. It was dusty, but still full of stuff, as if the owner had just stepped out and forgotten to come back for twenty years. Old makeup and perfume were dried to dust on the vanity. Dresses and shoes spilled out of a closet, and I’d left the same mess behind myself enough times to recognize the signs of someone taking off with only what they could carry. I opened and closed drawers, coming across some jeans and tees that smelled like they’d spent the last decade marinating in a damp cave and a small leather book with the cover falling away. Most of it was blank, but yellowing Polaroids were pasted into the first twenty pages or so.
I saw Simon as a teenager, wearing swim trunks, sitting on a rock in the sun and glaring at whoever was taking the picture. He was pale as ever, but with a lot more hair and a lot fewer lines on his face. Same dorky glasses, though. I flipped through the rest of the photos. Most of them were random shots of the beach, the house, and Darkhaven, all featuring peeps in bitchin’ nineties fashion that dated things a few years before I was born. I looked around the room again, at the curious emptiness, even though it had more stuff in it than most. The unmade bed had black sheets, and the faded gilt wallpaper was covered with posters and tear sheets from concerts, rusted thumbtacks spreading brown stains across the plaster. Siouxsie, the Clash, the Pixies, and Nirvana, just to start.
I closed my fist around the book. I never saw the photographer, but it had to be my mother. This was her room, her stuff. Before she got pregnant and decided to run away. And whoever had been left behind—Simon, I guessed—had just left this room like a tiny museum to her deserting the place. I doubted it was sentimentality, but maybe a tiny part of him missed her. They sure seemed happy in the photos. Mom had that effect on people—you couldn’t stand to be around her, but you missed her when she was gone, and she’d bolted on Simon just like every other close relationship she’d had since I’d been around. That kind of behavior could lead to the exact mix of resentment and regret Simon seemed to hold toward his sister.
He hadn’t even bothered to erase the chalkboard hanging on the wall above her desk. The writing reminded my twenty-years-ago mother to BE EXCELLENT TODAY.
All at once, even though it was freezing, the room was too hot and too small. I ran out and slammed the door behind me. I couldn’t reconcile the happy, messy, teenage girl whose bedroom that was with the hateful, bitter, selfish woman I’d known. The fact that I’d never gotten to meet this facet of Mom made me angry, but something else choked the anger out, something heavier and harder to deal with.
It wasn’t just Mom’s room—the whole manor house suddenly felt too small. I needed sound, something to distract me, but there was no TV and my music player’s battery was dead. I’d left my charger in Omaha.
I went to the kitchen and used the ancient wall phone, punching in Doyle’s number. Rain pattered like cat feet against the glass, leaving streaks that gleamed in the last rays of daylight. The phone hummed and buzzed for a good ten seconds before it deigned to actually ring, and I sighed impatiently. Landlines didn’t work any better than anything else on Darkhaven, apparently.
“Yeah?” Doyle said.
I gripped the receiver. I felt stupid for calling him. If there had been anyone else to talk to, I wouldn’t even be doing this. But it was too late now. What would I say—seeing my dead mother’s room had made me not want to be alone in the place where she’d grown up, the last place she’d been happy?
“Ivy, is that you?” Doyle said. “Are you okay?”
“Can, uh . . .” I swallowed and got a hold on myself. Whatever my flaws, I could talk to people. That was one of my few good qualities, even though I’d mostly used it to scam unsuspecting social workers, cops, and anyone else who had something I wanted. “Want to hang out or something? A few days away made me forget how boring this place is.” I held my breath after I said that. Reminded myself he had a girlfriend, and now that I knew that, I had to remember his flirting wasn’t going anywhere.
But I hadn’t called to feel him out romantically, I’d called because he was the only person I’d remotely connected with, or trusted, since I came to Darkhaven. Even if he was off-limits dating-wise, having an actual friend close by would be a big relief. So what if I had liked him a little? I could keep that to myself. I wasn’t interested in stealing anyone’s boyfriend.
There was a second of silence, and I got the feeling it wasn’t because of me. Doyle’s voice was lower when he spoke again, like he was trying not to be overheard. “Meet me on the beach.”
After he hung up, I got my jacket and a heavy wool scarf I’d found in the closet of my bedroom. There was a big steel flashlight hanging by the kitchen door, and I grabbed that too before stepping into the rain.
Doyle was waiting when I finally fell-climbed my way down the rotting steps, wearing a green canvas coat and hiking boots like he was taking a break from a freakin’ L.L.Bean ad. His hair was wet and blown across his forehead in inky streaks, a stark contrast to his skin, which had a faint blue-silver glow in the near night. “Took you long enough,” he called above the muted roar of the waves.
“The stairs from the manor are a compound fracture waiting to happen. You want me breaking my damn ankle?” I said.
“Shouldn’t worry you.” Doyle grinned. “You can just fly down here on your broomstick, right?”
I stuck my tongue out at him. “Screw you.”
Doyle shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching against the wind. “So what’s up?”
I looked down, kicking a trough in the rocky beach with my feet. “I don’t know. Nobody’s home and I just . . . I’m not used to living somewhere that big. Back in Nebraska or wherever, I was lucky if I got my own bed.”
Doyle glanced up at the house, then at me. “Come here,” he said, stretching out his hand. I took it, finding his grip still callused and strong. It surprised me again. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be into manual labor.
He led me back toward the small cave I’d visited. I felt my stomach flip in panic as I glimpsed the spot where I’d buried the shirt, but we moved past it, deeper into the dark. The tide was low now, and Doyle ducked and took a sharp left. I saw what I hadn’t before—a set of steps carved into the rock, covered in seaweed and clusters of mussel shells, waiting for the tide to return.
“Bootlegger cave,” Doyle said. “We just have to make sure we go back before the tide comes in.” I followed him up the steps, using his hand for balance, and found myself on a dry rock shelf in the shape of a half shell, evidence of some ancient lava flow that had carved through the rock. A sort of arch, braced up with railroad ties so rotted they were green with algae, led away into blackness.
“Supposedly the tunnels go all the way to the other side of the island,” Doyle said. “Drop the booze off on the ocean side, roll it over to a lobster boat moored on the bay side, take it to the mainland.”
“Was that your family or mine?” I said. Doyle felt around in the dark and came up with a pack of matches.
“Mine, of course,” he said with a grin. “The Bloodgoods were way too prissy to be criminals.”
“Yeah, I think my uncle would literally faint if he knew some of the stuff I’ve done,” I muttered.
Doyle lit an old Coleman lantern, the squat red body pitted with rust from the salt in the air, and frowned. “He’s not as wimpy as he looks.”
I saw a couple of old footlockers stacked to one side in the light of the lantern, and Doyle flipped one open. “My brother and my cousins stored some stuff here. They used to sneak onto the beach and go drinking and partying. We’re not supposed to be on this side, but that never stopped them.”
He spread out a sleeping bag that was mildewed around the edges and patted the spot next to him. I sat cross-legged, watching Doyle’s profile in the harsh silver light of the lantern.
“This is so bizarre,” I murmured. “I spend my entire life thinking it’s just me and Mom, and now there’s all of this . . .” I held out my arms to encompass the cave, my uncle, everything. Doyle cracked a half smile.
“Honestly, if I were in your position, I’d be losing my head. I don’t know how you’re so calm.”
“Trust me,” I said. “Almost taking the plunge off that lighthouse was not the worst moment of my life. Far from it.”
The waves hissed on the rocks, and I tried to leave everything else outside the mouth of the cave. I wanted to just let it be Doyle and me for a while. I didn’t want to think about how before I came here, spending any time near the ocean made me sick to my stomach. How I could hear the water rushing into my ears and the slow, ebbing throb of my own heartbeat getting slower and slower if I watched the waves for too long.
Doyle sighed. “I’m glad I met you, but I wish to hell you hadn’t come here.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Come on, Doyle. You keep harassing me about it, I’m gonna find it creepy.”
He snorted, stretching his arms above his head and lying back on his elbows. “You want creepy, talk to that uncle of yours.”
“Simon isn’t any creepier than your relatives,” I said. “I saw your dad talking to him out in the woods. He didn’t seem all that happy.”
Doyle went quiet for a minute, and I wondered if I’d ticked him off. Then he sighed. “He’s upset and on edge. We all are. My cousin was killed a few nights ago. Dad spent most of today planning his funeral.”
“Killed like murdered?” I already knew the answer, but figured playing dumb wouldn’t hurt for now. Did Doyle think Simon was somehow responsible? My uncle had made the feud sound like a simmering, passive thing just below the surface of his relations with the Ramseys, but maybe it wasn’t.
I watched Doyle closely as he sat up again, leaning on the damp rock of the cave. Aware for the first time how utterly isolated I was, if some of the other Ramseys did show up to take out Neil’s death on a Bloodgood.
I was pretty sure Doyle wouldn’t let them hurt me, but I didn’t want to find out for sure.
“Let’s just say he didn’t accidentally walk in front of a bus,” he said. “He was out hunting, and someone killed him.”
My heart started to beat faster. If I hadn’t hurt Doyle’s cousin, then whose blood was it? Why couldn’t I remember? Simon had said the signs of the Bloodgood sickness started showing up in my mother around now. And she’d definitely been violent. I wished now I’d thought to ask, Hey, Mom, are you prone to blackouts? I’ve had two and one may have ended in a man’s death, so, what’s the 411?
“You never said anything,” I murmured. “Your cousin dies and you just . . .”
“Look, no offense,” Doyle said. “But it’s family business, and we don’t generally share it with outsiders. Any outsiders. And . . .” He frowned. “This is just my family being idiots, and mainlanders being petty, but there have always been rumors about the Bloodgoods. To hear some of the locals talk, your family mansion is a real-life murder house. I’ve heard that crap my whole life, and I still catch myself thinking, Don’t tell her anything; she’s a Bloodgood, and she might use it against you.”
My heartbeat picked up, but I didn’t know if it was from Doyle’s words or my anxiety at knowing I was sitting so close to my buried secret. “If there were bodies stacked like cordwood in my house, I think I’d know about it, Doyle.”
“Me too,” he said. “Neil owed a lot of people money, and he had a bad habit of getting drunk and sleeping with their women, so I’m thinking somebody from the mainland came on over to settle a score. But I also think you owe it to yourself to be aware of what kind of danger you’re in, staying in his house.”
I got up, pulling my jacket around me. Water was starting to swish across the sand below us, leaving lacy patterns that looked like the shredded hem of an old dress. Whatever Doyle held against my uncle, Simon had made an effort with me. He’d been up front about my mother’s mental state. He’d tried, albeit poorly, to comfort me. That counted for more than Doyle’s vague insinuations right now. “Tide’s coming in. I should go.”
Doyle brushed his fingers lightly over mine. “You sure you’re going to be all right?”
I shrugged. I was still shivering uncontrollably, even inside my jacket. “I always have been before.” I started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “Do you really think my uncle is a murderer, or are you just trying to get at me?”
“I don’t know,” Doyle said. “But I’d be careful of Simon. My dad’s known him a long time. Nothing I can prove, but to hear him talk, your uncle is not a nice guy. You can’t trust him. He’s dangerous. I don’t know what he wants from you but it can’t be good.”
“I thought all that was just locals gossiping,” I said, words coming out louder than I meant and echoing off the cave walls. “So it’s not? You really do think I’m related to killers and psychopaths?” I knew I was being reactionary, but Doyle was hitting a nerve without knowing it.
“I’m trying not to take sides here, Ivy,” Doyle said, his voice holding a snarl that made the skin all up and down my back prickle. “But I’m a Ramsey, and you’re a Bloodgood. Family is family, and you better hope you’re right in trusting Simon. Because if we find out your uncle did do something to Neil, my family will kill him.”
I got so cold then I couldn’t feel my hands anymore. The tide rushed around me, the water bubbling until it turned to white foam. “I have to go,” I whispered, and ran, my shoes digging into the wet sand. I heard Doyle shout after me, but I kept running until I was up the cliff face and back in the kitchen. I shut and locked the door behind me and sank down on the muddy linoleum floor. It took me a long time to stop shaking.