The door squeaks open, and Gordon walks through. He heads up the aisle, stopping at my table. I fake-smile a greeting.
He cocks his head. “You’ve parted your hair on the other side today.”
I nod, vaguely creeped out, still unsure whether he’s the one who’s been following me.
“I hear you found your sister?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She’s in good spirits,” I admit.
His gaze flicks to my barely touched cereal. “Once you finish eating, we’ll make the return trip.”
“Kit said something about a bad storm.”
“Not for another day or two. We’ll leave today.”
Why is he in such a hurry to get rid of me? “Kit said—”
“Ms. Collins is hardly a meteorologist,” Gordon interrupts. “Nor is she a sailor. We’ll leave this morning.”
I’m tempted to take him up on it, to ditch this island of misfit toys and forget about confessing altogether. So many times I’ve wondered whether Kit would actually want to know. She’s happy here, doesn’t want me interfering. I have plenty of work back home.
But something about the island is off. Someone e-mailed me for a reason. I assume the e-mailer is also the one following me around and messing with my clothes, but where do I go from there? There’s no shortage of cagey weirdos here: Gordon and the big guy who yelled at him, the bald woman babbling about new blood, our boat guide Sanderson. Any of them could be the e-mailer.
The more I think about it, the more I think it probably wasn’t Sanderson. I’m pretty sure he was trying to escape this place; if all he wanted yesterday was a daylong bar crawl, why pack such a huge bag?
A few more days at Wisewood won’t kill me. The extra time will give me a chance to convince Kit to come home. And as much as I’d like to fantasize otherwise, I can’t leave without telling her about Mom. I nod to myself, resolved. I’ll e-mail my boss to let him know I’ll be out of touch for the rest of the week. I could message Jamie too, although she probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone, what with the baby and all. I think of who else I need to notify and am mortified when I can’t come up with anyone.
“Nah,” I say, “I’m not going anywhere until the storm blows over.”
Gordon’s nostrils flare.
I pick up my spoon, take a bite of cereal. “Do I need to tell Rebecca?”
He stands there for so long that I assume he’s dreaming up creative ways to murder me in my sleep.
“I’ll tell her.” He turns on his heel.
My whole body relaxes once he leaves the building. I dawdle over the cereal, waiting for my sister. After forty-five minutes she still hasn’t shown, so I clear my spot and head out.
I weave around the cabins. Guests chat in groups of twos and threes. They all wave to me before turning back to their conversations. No Kit. I’m about to give up and return to my room when I spot her outside the trailer, holding an open cardboard box. “Kit,” I call as I race over, heart throbbing. “Can we talk?”
“I only have a minute.” She gestures with her head at the trailer. “I’m free after my class, though.” Maybe I’m hearing only what I want to, but I swear I detect a trace of hope in her voice. “What’s up?”
The timing’s not right. I’ll have to wait until the class lets out. Instead I ask, “Does Wisewood have housekeeping?”
“Just a laundry crew on Sundays.”
I suck in a breath. “Then someone broke into my room while I was searching for you yesterday. They moved my sweater from a shelf to a hanger.”
Kit stares. “So? The laundry group was probably trying to be nice, cleaning up after you.”
“I thought you said they only work Sundays.”
She shrugs. “Someone might’ve been doing a last-minute check that the room was cleaned and ready. Your arrival wasn’t exactly planned.”
“It’s not only that.” I lower my voice. “Someone is following me around the island. Peeking in my cabin windows.”
“Nat, come on. You can’t be serious.” She shifts the cardboard box to her other hip, shuffling the contents.
I peer into the box. Inside are thousands of thumbtacks. I glare at her. “What are these for?”
“If you want to find out, you’ll have to sit in. I’ve got to go.”
I glance at one of the trailer windows. A familiar-looking man with a beard is watching us, rubbernecking to hear better. When my eyes meet his, he jolts out of the frame.