MOTHER NATURE FINALLY TOOK PITY ON THEM.
The rain had diminished as Meg and T.J. started down the stone steps of White Rock House. All that remained of the raging storm was a steady, light drizzle that soaked Meg’s ponytail within minutes, but it was so much better than the relentless, abusive hammering they’d received the last two times they were outside that Meg was grateful for the break.
There was no mystical parting of the clouds to allow sunshine to break through. No such luck. A thick cloud cover still blanketed the island, and mixed with the rapidly setting sun, there was barely enough light to see by.
The wind had also diminished. Instead of gales that might register on the Fujita Scale, it was more of a playful breeze that whipped damp strands of Meg’s hair across her face. The waves that had pummeled the isthmus and washed away the footbridge now merely lapped at its western shore, and though the sand was waterlogged and strewn with debris, at least Meg and T.J. could get across without fear of being washed out to sea.
Shorebirds hopped along the sand, pecking at dinner, and larger seagulls circled above, reemerged from wherever they had weathered the storm. There was life to the island, which made Meg smile despite herself, and a kind of prettiness to the gray, sodden world around her. A crispness to the air as it filled Meg’s lungs that she found energizing. A delight in the way the sand and stone crunched beneath her feet. She could see why people like the Taylors and Lawrences had built houses out in the relative wilderness. In the aftermath of the storm, it was peaceful in a sort of untamed way, where nature reminded you she was boss and could kick your ass any time she wanted.
Under difference circumstances Meg might have enjoyed it.
She wanted to talk to T.J., to tell him about Claire’s journal and how she might somehow be related to White Rock House, but he seemed distant, locked up in his head. He hardly even looked at her as they picked their way over the enormous trunks of Douglas firs the storm had washed ashore. So she waited. Maybe they’d find Nathan and Kenny at the Taylors’ house, waiting patiently for the police to arrive, and Meg could turn the diary over to the authorities and be done with it.
They kept to the high ground, just at the center of the isthmus. It was slow going, but Meg was happy to be doing, instead of sitting around waiting for something to happen. That was a change, but somehow the idea of staying at White Rock House with the bodies, and Minnie’s oscillating moods, and Kumiko’s finger-pointing … well, anything seemed better than that.
As T.J. helped Meg navigate a slick pile of seaweed-covered logs, he cleared his throat. “Is she always like that?”
“Who?”
“Minnie.”
Meg’s mind was so far away it took her a minute to realize T.J. wasn’t talking about Mother Nature. “Oh, right.”
“I mean, Gunner said she could be a little … erratic. But she was kinda psycho back there.”
Meg bristled. As true as the statement was, she didn’t like her best friend referred to as a “psycho.” Besides, it wasn’t Minnie’s fault that she was bipolar. It’s not like she chose to be that way. And even though Minnie’s mom tried to ignore the fact that something was wrong with her daughter, Minnie’s dad had made sure she saw a therapist and got the right prescriptions. He’d even had a private talk with Meg about it, asking her to look out for Minnie and make sure she was taking her medications.
No one else knew about it. Just Meg. And she was fiercely protective of Minnie’s secret.
“It’s not her fault,” she said firmly.
T.J. stopped and turned around. “Not her fault she treats you like crap? Like you’re her sidekick or something?”
Meg winced. That hit a little too close to home.
If T.J. noticed, it didn’t deter him. “Not her fault that she clearly has no respect for you? That she only thinks of herself?”
Meg sighed. “She’s not always like that.”
“That’s not an excuse. Not for you or for her.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that she expects you to always be there for her yet can’t or won’t return the favor. But what I don’t understand is why you put up with it.”
“Look, I can’t …” Meg’s face grew hot. I can’t tell you. It was more embarrassing than anything. Meg thought she was the only one who noticed the way Minnie had been treating her lately. Apparently not.
“You can’t what?” he asked.
Meg opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. He was right, at least on some counts. It wasn’t that Minnie was a bad friend, only that most days she couldn’t really see past her own pain and her own needs. And that was partly Meg’s fault, because she’d been enabling Minnie for so long she didn’t know what other kind of friend to be.
“You deserve”—T.J. took a step toward her—“better.”
Meg looked up, straight into T.J.’s eyes. All she saw was sadness.
T.J. felt sorry for her. The idea turned her stomach. It was so pathetic. She was so pathetic.
“You don’t understand,” she repeated. It was true on so many levels.
“Then explain it to me.”
Meg pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. The pressure felt good, a relief from the throbbing stress-headache that was beginning to form at her temples. She wanted to explain Minnie’s illness and her struggles with medication and treatment, and how it had changed her over the past year or two. She wanted to tell T.J. how she’d gotten thrust into this position as Minnie’s caretaker, how Minnie’s parents relied on her to keep an eye on their daughter, and how she was running away to college to break free of the cycle.
“What?” T.J. said. His voice was sharp. “Come on. Explain to me what I don’t understand.”
Meg dropped her eyes. It wasn’t her secret to tell. “I can’t.”
“Dammit!” T.J. yelled. He stepped away from her and kicked a baseball-sized rock with his foot. It skipped across the muddy path and bounced off a dead log. “Why are you always protecting her?”
Meg squared her shoulders. “That’s none of your business.” She didn’t owe T.J. an explanation. She didn’t own him anything.
“I care about you. That makes it my business.”
Now it was Meg’s turned to be pissed off. And for once the words weren’t locked up in her head. “You care about me? Really? Then how come I haven’t heard from you in months? How come you’ve never noticed until now how Minnie treats me? How come the only news I hear about you is how you’ve been dating every cheerleader from here to the Canadian border?” Meg couldn’t believe the words came out so easily. Fear and fatigue were catching up with her.
T.J. turned his back on her. “I was angry.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I canceled on you that night.”
“Are you?”
“Of course!”
T.J. whirled around and stormed up to her. “Then why did you do it? Why wouldn’t you go out with me?”
“Because Minnie—” Meg stopped herself.
The muscles around T.J.’s jawline bulged. “Minnie. Really? Again? What the hell does this have to do with her?”
“She’s in love with you,” Meg blurted out. Ugh. She wasn’t making things better.
Meg expected T.J. to be shocked or surprised. Instead, he laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The only person Minnie’s in love with,” T.J. said, calming down, “is herself.”
Meg was so used to defending Minnie she couldn’t stop herself. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“She doesn’t even know what love is, Meg. It’s just a game with her. Just a way to get attention.”
“And you know so much about love? You and your forty ex-girlfriends?”
All the sadness and sympathy melted away from T.J.’s face, replaced by a hardened mask of anger. She’d done it again. Dammit, what was wrong with her? Every time she said exactly what was on her mind, someone ended up pissed off.
“We’d better hurry,” he said flatly. “It’s getting dark.”
“Yeah,” Meg said. She turned away from him. “It is.”
They continued in silence.
The Taylors’ vacation home was built on a raised wooden deck in a clearing on the other side of the isthmus. It was as different from White Rock House as was architecturally possible. A modern home with a wall of windows facing the ocean, it had sparkled and shone the night before when Meg had passed it from the beach. Less than twenty-four hours ago there had been life in that house. A light in every window. Music blaring. The sounds of laughter and tinkling glass drifting on the wind. Now everything looked completely …
“Dead.” T.J. paused at the bottom of the wooden stairs that led to the front door. “This place looks dead.”
“Awesome choice of words.”
Despite the strain between them, T.J. laughed, short and dry. “Sorry.”
“Maybe they’re in the back.” Meg tried to sound hopeful. There had to be someone in the house, otherwise Nathan and Kenny would have returned.
T.J. forced a smile. “Let’s find out.” He marched up the steps and rang the bell.
Good news. Whatever the power situation was at the house, at least something worked.
Bad news, they waited what seemed like forever and the only answer they received was silence.
Ever the optimist, T.J. rang the bell again. Through the closed doors, Meg could hear the electronic ding echo through the house.
Her stomach did a backflip. Nothing. Not a voice, not a cry, not even the sound of feet moving across the floor of the house. The only sound Meg heard was the pounding of her own heart. This couldn’t be good.
T.J. grabbed the door handle and pressed down on the latch.
It clicked and he pushed the door open. He waited a few moments, then called out. “Hello?”
No response.
Without looking at each other, both Meg and T.J. reached out and grasped hands. The anger and resentment she’d felt toward him a few moments earlier vanished in an instant. There was something very wrong about the house, and whatever they were about to find, they’d discover it together. With a deep breath they stepped inside.
The house was deathly quiet. And dark. Other than the ambient light of the rapidly descending sun, there wasn’t a single bit of luminescence, man-made or otherwise. Not only that, but it smelled musty and damp, like an old, abandoned warehouse. Meg shivered. The house was even colder than White Rock House. It didn’t feel like the kind of place that had hosted a raging party the night before. It was more like a mausoleum.
They tiptoed from the entryway into the living room and Meg realized right away why the house was so cold. Every window was open. The gauze curtains were soaked through and billowed heavily in the breeze. Beneath her feet, the carpet squished with water, and every piece of furniture within ten feet of an open window was sopping wet.
“What’s going on?” she whispered. She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like there was anyone within earshot to hear her, apparently.
T.J. gripped her hand tighter and whispered too. “I don’t get it. Where is everyone?”
There was a flash of light, a whirl of movement and sound. Suddenly the whole room sprang to life. Every light in the living room illuminated—overheads, standing torches, wall sconces. Even faux flickering “candles” around the fireplace. The room danced in warm, yellow light. The ceiling fans whirled to life, spinning at breakneck speed, dangerously close to ripping free of their moorings and catapulting across the room.
The speakers kicked in at full volume with a thump of sound that almost knocked the breath out of Meg. She screamed but could barely hear herself above the noise. The volume was maxed out, the bass was cranked up, and Meg could feel the beats of the music ricocheting through her body. There seemed to be two tracks playing at the same time: one was a ’40s-esque big band track with pulsating conga drums and a screaming brass section that made her ears bleed; the other was like canned party music complete with unintelligible conversation and chinking crystal. A lady giggled on the soundtrack, high and piercing. It was meant to sound cheerful, but in that lifeless room it chilled Meg to the bone.
She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the soggy carpet.
T.J. released her hand and covered his ears as he scanned the room. After a moment, he dashed to the entertainment unit on the far side of the living room and dialed down the volume.
Instantly both the music and the sound of ambient party chatter dissipated.
“What the fuck was that?” T.J. panted. He was out of breath, like he’d just run a mile.
Meg was shaking from head to toe. “I … I don’t …” She couldn’t even put a coherent thought together, let alone verbalize it.
T.J. looked at his watch. “It’s exactly five o’clock.”
“Exactly?”
“Exactly.”
Meg’s head cleared as she realized what was happening. The lights, the music, the party. It was all fake. All of it.
“Oh my God.” She felt the warmth drain out of her body. “It’s on a timer.”
“That means …” T.J. paused and looked her straight in the eye, his face reflecting the terror building inside. “That means there’s no one here.”