sense except his hearing dimmed. “Ivy?” he cried out. “Ivy! Where are you?”
Tristan awoke, his clothes damp, a trickle of water on his cheek. He sat up quickly and was relieved to find himself in a familiar place, the church tower, and grateful that he heard only the wind high above him. Realizing that rain-water was coming through the open trapdoor, he climbed the ladder.
Quietly, so quietly that at first he thought it was the whine of the wind, the voices began to murmur again. He hurried to the top, reached through the opening, and pulled down the heavy door, slamming it closed. The sound stopped. Taking a deep breath, steadying himself, he backed down the ladder, feeling for each rung, having no light to guide him.
When he reached the bottom, he searched for his flashlight. He thought it was in his backpack, but he couldn’t find it in the darkness. Ivy had left him a wristwatch with a face that glowed. Where was it? As his mind darted fromthought to thought, the sound of the voices came again. They were barely audible, rising between the words of his thoughts. But they grew loud, as loud as his thoughts, then louder still.
Tristan held his hands to his ears, but he couldn’t muffle the voices. Scrabbling over the rough wood floor on hands and knees, searching for his backpack, he found the edge of the trapdoor and pulled it up. He climbed down the ladder to the church.
For a moment he thought he had escaped the voices. All he heard was the wind rattling the leaded-glass windows. The rain had eased and the sky had lightened. It was almost dawn, he realized, then froze. In the gray light a shadow shaped like a dark wing swooped past a window. A tree branch , he told himself, a branch dragging leaves, nothing more.
Then the voices started again. He knew this wasn’t a dream. He was fully awake and he could hear them, though not the words. It was maddening the way they grew increasingly loud but no more clear.
“Leave me alone!” Tristan cried out.
They seemed to draw energy from his anger, but he couldn’t help himself, and cried out again. “Leave me!” A tide of voices rushed toward him. He dropped to his knees. “Help me, God. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Lacey, Lacey I need you.”
Fourteen
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, WITH THE CAPE WASHED TO A sparkle from the previous night’s storms and her work done at the inn, Ivy set out for a farm stand on a road that ran between 6A and the highway.
Last night, after being spooked by the unexpected image of Gregory’s face gazing at her from her laptop screen, Ivy had figured out how the “haunting” had occurred. Someone—Beth—had connected Ivy’s screen saver to a file that contained only photographs of Gregory. When Ivy saw that the new file had been created from her familyphotos, carefully cropped and enlarged, it felt as personal and creepy as having things in her bureau drawer rooted through.
Doing her best to shake off that feeling, she’d done a search for Alicia Crowley and discovered that Luke’s old friend was spending her summer working at her grandparents’ farm stand on Cape Cod. Alicia’s Facebook page had a link to the business’s website.
Arriving at Crowleys’ Farm Stand at three thirty on Sunday afternoon, Ivy squeezed onto its sandy lot next to cars packed for a return to the mainland. The white building had an overhanging roof that invited you into its coolness. Risers across the building’s front supported buckets of bright flowers, baskets brimming with colorful vegetables and fruit, and bunches of herbs. A chalkboard next to the building’s screen door promised breads, pies, jams, cheeses, and comb honey inside. Bread was crossed out, the words more tomorrow scrawled next to it; Ivy guessed that it would be worth coming back for.
A white-haired man with sunglasses looped around his neck helped customers outside. Ivy found Alicia inside, working a cashbox. A woman with silver hair was standing with hands
Tristan awoke, his clothes damp, a trickle of water on his cheek. He sat up quickly and was relieved to find himself in a familiar place, the church tower, and grateful that he heard only the wind high above him. Realizing that rain-water was coming through the open trapdoor, he climbed the ladder.
Quietly, so quietly that at first he thought it was the whine of the wind, the voices began to murmur again. He hurried to the top, reached through the opening, and pulled down the heavy door, slamming it closed. The sound stopped. Taking a deep breath, steadying himself, he backed down the ladder, feeling for each rung, having no light to guide him.
When he reached the bottom, he searched for his flashlight. He thought it was in his backpack, but he couldn’t find it in the darkness. Ivy had left him a wristwatch with a face that glowed. Where was it? As his mind darted fromthought to thought, the sound of the voices came again. They were barely audible, rising between the words of his thoughts. But they grew loud, as loud as his thoughts, then louder still.
Tristan held his hands to his ears, but he couldn’t muffle the voices. Scrabbling over the rough wood floor on hands and knees, searching for his backpack, he found the edge of the trapdoor and pulled it up. He climbed down the ladder to the church.
For a moment he thought he had escaped the voices. All he heard was the wind rattling the leaded-glass windows. The rain had eased and the sky had lightened. It was almost dawn, he realized, then froze. In the gray light a shadow shaped like a dark wing swooped past a window. A tree branch , he told himself, a branch dragging leaves, nothing more.
Then the voices started again. He knew this wasn’t a dream. He was fully awake and he could hear them, though not the words. It was maddening the way they grew increasingly loud but no more clear.
“Leave me alone!” Tristan cried out.
They seemed to draw energy from his anger, but he couldn’t help himself, and cried out again. “Leave me!” A tide of voices rushed toward him. He dropped to his knees. “Help me, God. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Lacey, Lacey I need you.”
Fourteen
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, WITH THE CAPE WASHED TO A sparkle from the previous night’s storms and her work done at the inn, Ivy set out for a farm stand on a road that ran between 6A and the highway.
Last night, after being spooked by the unexpected image of Gregory’s face gazing at her from her laptop screen, Ivy had figured out how the “haunting” had occurred. Someone—Beth—had connected Ivy’s screen saver to a file that contained only photographs of Gregory. When Ivy saw that the new file had been created from her familyphotos, carefully cropped and enlarged, it felt as personal and creepy as having things in her bureau drawer rooted through.
Doing her best to shake off that feeling, she’d done a search for Alicia Crowley and discovered that Luke’s old friend was spending her summer working at her grandparents’ farm stand on Cape Cod. Alicia’s Facebook page had a link to the business’s website.
Arriving at Crowleys’ Farm Stand at three thirty on Sunday afternoon, Ivy squeezed onto its sandy lot next to cars packed for a return to the mainland. The white building had an overhanging roof that invited you into its coolness. Risers across the building’s front supported buckets of bright flowers, baskets brimming with colorful vegetables and fruit, and bunches of herbs. A chalkboard next to the building’s screen door promised breads, pies, jams, cheeses, and comb honey inside. Bread was crossed out, the words more tomorrow scrawled next to it; Ivy guessed that it would be worth coming back for.
A white-haired man with sunglasses looped around his neck helped customers outside. Ivy found Alicia inside, working a cashbox. A woman with silver hair was standing with hands
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