We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(9)

Lugging my duffel and backpack, I walk the shoulder of the road. Dirt driveways stretch off here and there, winding south, toward the ocean, or north, into the center of the island. Some are labeled with discreet wooden signs: Davenport, Rothstein, Taylor, Robertson. Some have street names: Clamshell Drive, Evergreen Lane.

I pass three mailboxes. Then a fourth.

My back aches. I have hardly slept. But I keep on, up a hill. A single car speeds past me.

My nearly dead phone pings with a text from Holland Terhune: I have family junk to deal with in Edgartown next couple days, but when I get back YOU ARE COMING OVER. Winnie thinks you’re hot. Even though you had just puked! Do you like girls?

I type back: Just as friends, yes to coming over. But I can’t think about Holland and Winnie and their house party. I’m about to meet my father, if I can ever find his place.

When I reach the peak of the hill, I can see the ocean. I can smell it, too, a scent of salt and mystery in the wind. At maybe a quarter mile from the fourth mailbox, there is an unmarked stone driveway that stretches beneath ancient trees toward the sea. Between the stones grow sprigs of grass, but I can tell the stones have been laid carefully. Dark against light form an initial as they go along the curving drive: K.

Then I. N. G.

Kingsley. He has memorialized himself in everlasting stone.

I turn into the driveway, lugging my duffel and still shaky from being sick. The path curves and doubles back on itself, easing down the hill toward the ocean. Then the view becomes obscured by trees that arc over the drive, many of them reaching their arms down close enough for me to touch. Overgrown.

I’ve left South Road far behind when an enormous dog, lean and shaggy, appears in the driveway. She is the same deep gray as the stones beneath her feet.

She stands before me, her head higher than my waist, her legs strangely long. A wolfhound, maybe? She wears no collar.

She growls, then lets out a low bark.

I stop.

The dog barks again. Louder, and this time continuously. Like she doesn’t want me to go any farther.

I hold still. I love dogs. But this one is really, really big. And she’s making a lot of noise.

She takes a step toward me, showing her teeth. Making noise.

I take a step back.

I’m not going to run away, but I don’t want to make her angrier than she already is.

I remember that line from my father’s second email: Don’t be afraid of glum.

“Could you be Glum?” I ask the dog, speaking sweetly.

Her ears perk. The barking stops.

“Glum. Hello, baby. I’m Matilda.”

She steps tentatively toward me.

“You’re very pretty, Glum. So special and huge.”

A wag.

Oh, I love her. “It’s you. Glum, baby. You’re a good protector of your home, aren’t you? So brave and true.”

I set my duffel down so I can kneel and extend my hand. Glum comes forward and sniffs. We are friends now. She lets me pet her ears and the bony ridge of her skull.

When I start walking again, Glum trots ahead of me, looking back now and again to assure herself that I’m still there.

After a turn, the road opens into a clearing, made for parking cars. Beyond the clearing is an archway of graying wood, a garage. In it stands a butter-colored Mercedes convertible, some kind of collector’s item with curving fenders and camel-colored seats. But it’s dotted with dust and pollen, and it’s missing a headlight.

Through the arch of the garage and out the other side is a castle—but not a castle like I’ve seen in Kingsley’s paintings. This one is made of wood, like a beach house, covered with weathered shingles. Many of the ground-floor walls are glass. Four huge, cylindrical towers rise from the ground, broadly windowed. The door is a curved arch that echoes the arch of the garage.

Around the castle, the property extends in unmowed lawns. In the distance to the right is another building, with another deck. A ways away on the left is a chaotic-looking vegetable garden inside a fence of wood and chicken wire.

Beyond all that, the Atlantic Ocean reveals itself, sparkling and menacing.

I have arrived at Hidden Beach.





Part Three


    Hidden Beach





12


“Matilda?” A boy rounds the side of the castle, pushing a lawn mower that looks rusted out. He’s maybe eighteen. Asian heritage, with a round face, sunburned on the nose and cheekbones. His black hair, long and wavy, is tied in a knot on top of his head. He wears no shoes. His T-shirt reads Shirley’s Hardware.

“Yes, I’m Matilda.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. “June is deep in the indigo pot.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have been here all day,” the boy says as he abandons his lawn mower to come toward me. “In case you arrived. And now you’re here. So stoked.”

“I told Kingsley my plane time,” I say.

“Kingsley’s off-island.”

“Really?” Disappointment washes over me.

“He’ll be back tomorrow,” says the boy. “He had to do a thing.”

“He didn’t tell you my details?”

“I might have missed the message. We’re mostly unplugged here—off the grid.” The boy scratches Glum’s ears. “Are you the best dog? You walked Matilda here, didn’t you?” He turns to me, smiling brightly. “Her name is Puddleglum. It’s a Chronicles of Narnia thing. But we just call her Glum. I’m Vermeer Sugawara. Named after the painter, Vermeer. You heard of him?”