“This will be the longest she’s ever been away from us,” her father says, putting his arm around Chloe, who’s a cross between Wednesday Addams and Cousin Itt with her colorless skin and bushel of dark hair.
Chloe wriggles out of his grip. “I’ll be fine.”
At the sound of an engine, we all twist toward the harbor. I search for the source of the noise, but fog cloaks the horizon, turning once-cerulean water an icy gray. The haze has stilled the sailboats and engulfed the ferry workers. We are alone in this port. I turn the same question over for the hundredth time: if people at Wisewood have no problem threatening strangers, how have they been treating my sister these past six months? In my pockets my hands clench. We wait, frozen, until a white motorboat with navy trim skulks through the mist. I check the time again: twelve on the dot.
Two men are aboard. The driver is pushing seventy and short, barrel-chested with a shaved head. His companion is around my height, five-nine, wears baggy jeans, an oversized logger coat, and thick work gloves. Underneath the coat is a purple sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. I’d put him in his late twenties, the perfect example of my beer client’s target. The two men are staring straight at me.
What if these men are the ones who e-mailed me?
The driver climbs out of the boat. When Hooded Guy tries to follow, the driver glowers at him. Hooded Guy flinches and sinks back into his chair. The driver ties the boat to a cleat, finger jabs a warning at his partner, then heads toward us at the pace of a man decades younger than himself. My pulse hammers in my throat. When he reaches our circle, the driver puts his hands behind his back and inclines his head.
“Welcome to Wisewood. My colleague and I will be taking you to the island today. I’m Gordon.”
Shit.
Gordon gestures to the boat behind him, which has a black-and-white winged hourglass on its side. “This is the Hourglass. Unless there are questions, now’s the time to say goodbye to your loved ones. Then we’ll get going.”
Gordon taps his foot while Chloe quickly hugs her parents. Once they’ve left, he scans our three faces and frowns. I put a hand on my hip, straighten my spine.
“We’re expecting Cheryl Douglas”—he peers at Cheryl before she raises her hand—“and Chloe Sullivan.” He glances at Chloe, as if he knows who she is too. He turns to me with a thin smile. “Who are you?”
Based on our phone chat, I’m guessing friendliness won’t work here, but I grin at him anyway. “Natalie Collins.”
A flicker of something unpleasant crosses Gordon’s face. “Why don’t you ladies climb aboard?” he says to Cheryl and Chloe. They glance at me curiously but pull their luggage toward the water. Gordon nods at Hooded Guy, who’s been watching us from the boat with a forlorn expression. Hooded Guy takes the women’s bags, then helps them onto the Hourglass. Gordon stares at him until he returns heavily to his seat.
Once the three settle, he shifts back to me. “We offered Kit a staff position.”
My breath hitches. “She works there?”
“For three months now. She’s perfectly fine.”
In three months she never once thought to tell me.
I refuse to let a lump form in my throat. “Then why did I get this e-mail?”
The wind claws at us. It takes all my self-control not to shudder, but the weather doesn’t bother Gordon. He studies me. “You never told me the contents of this supposed e-mail.”
I’ve decided to share what the e-mail says with as few people as possible; it’ll lead only to the question I don’t want to answer.
I drop the treacly shtick. “Nothing supposed about it. I told you on the phone, she asked me to come to Wisewood. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I checked the Sent folder of our company e-mail. There was no message to you in there.”
“I never said she sent it from the company e-mail.”
“That’s the only account our guests and staff have access to.”
I backtrack. “Someone must have deleted it, then.”
“Or you’ve created an excuse to interfere,” he says, losing patience. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I have better things to do with my time.”
“In that case, take my word for it. I saw her at this morning’s staff meeting, and as I’ve already told you, she’s grand.”
If Gordon had something to do with the e-mail, surely he’d want me to come to the island rather than fight tooth and nail to keep me away. “I need to see her myself. In person.”