But I never want to go in. Because being with Zale makes me feel like maybe I’ll be okay. And the whole time I’m with him, I drink up that peaceful, slightly fuzzy feeling like it’s cold, fresh water. And I’m dying of thirst.
More and more often, he’ll hold my hand. Or brush against my arm. On purpose. And I’ll feel that little shock of electric current. That tiny zap. Skin on skin.
One night he’s telling me a story about the first time he ever tasted ice cream, and he puts a gentle hand on my bare thigh. Just for a second.
And I almost pass out from how good it feels. It makes me curious. Maybe even a little excited.
And that’s a bit of a distraction, but it’s not enough. Because as the summer wears on, I can’t ignore this idea that something is coming. It’s not a psychic vision or anything like that, but with every day that passes, I feel it building.
Gathering around us.
Something that nobody can stop.
Something that’s even bigger than Zale’s search for his dead father or our questions about what really happened to Ember and Orli thirteen summers ago.
Bigger than the mystery of Elora’s murder, even.
Something with the power to sweep us all away.
It’s August 6 when I first hear it on the radio. But I know before that. When I wake up that morning, the air is different. Thicker. But also more alive. The bayou has started to breathe.
It’s waiting.
“Storm warning,” Honey says when I walk into the kitchen for breakfast, and she jerks her head toward the radio sitting on the counter. The weather guy tells us that a tropical depression has formed over the Bahamas, 350 miles east of Miami, Florida. But that’s an awful long way from La Cachette, so Honey isn’t paying much attention. She’s too busy rolling out dough for biscuits. It makes me uneasy, though. I’m supposed to have three weeks left, but if it looks like things might get bad, Honey will send me home early.
But then the ten o’clock boat comes, and the weather forecast gets forgotten. It’s a busy Sunday morning, and I spend most of my time ringing up sales. Then I rearrange the shelves of incense and organize the meditation CDs.
Every time I look down at my ring finger, though, or touch the little blue pearl hanging around my neck, I remember that I only have one mission this summer.
Figure out what happened to Elora.
And I know that I’m failing at it. Failing her. And now I might be running out of time.
I think about that latest vision. Strong hands around my throat.
Around Elora’s throat.
The certainty that I’m going to die in the mud.
I feel Elora’s panic rise inside me until I drop the meditation CDs and they scatter across the floor. And I have to start all over.
None of the flashes I’ve seen make sense.
Did Elora drown? Like I did that night on the bathroom floor?
Or was it the cold metal of a gun cocked behind her head that sealed her fate?
Click.
Or did someone steal her life with their bare hands? Fingers tightening around her windpipe?
How many ways are there to die?
Evie scampers across the boardwalk to sit with me on the porch for a little bit that evening after dinner. She’s nervous and fidgety. Paler than usual. Her hair is wet and matted, so I go inside to get a brush, and she crouches on the steps between my feet while I work out the tangles.
It isn’t long before Sera and Sander join us. And then Mackey. Almost like something had pulled us together in the fading light. That used to happen all the time when we were kids. One of us would be outside somewhere. And then another of us would just show up. And another. And another. Until we were all there. Carrying on and horsing around.
But nobody has much to say now. We’re all lost in our own thoughts.
“There’s a storm comin’，” Evie finally announces.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Sera says, and I know her words are meant to reassure us all. Not just Evie. “It probably won’t hit here.”
“I’m not afraid,” Evie answers. “I hope it does come.”
“You okay?” Mackey asks her.
“Everything’s different.” Evie frowns. “I thought things would stay the same.” A breeze stirs, and her wind chimes come to life. There must be close to fifty of them now, made out of everything from seashells and Mardi Gras doubloons to old soup ladles and metal pie plates. The noise is enough to wake the dead, and her house has become kind of a tourist attraction. She chews on a broken fingernail. “I just wanted things to stay the same.”