site.
Below a section on the “string-makers,” which George had clearly added recently, someone had been posting about strings, about how they connected everyone, how he could cut them off. Some people had commented, including George Mills—she recognized his handle—and it looked like the posts went back several weeks at least.
“Strings . . .” she muttered, and nearly let out a What the fuck? but didn’t, because it was the library. Still, strings ?He went on and on about them and about the Creator who helped him, which made her stomach clench. He meant her. He acted like he knew her, like she should understand these strings. Fear—something she didn’t deal with well at all—made her palms sweat. She was afraid of him, of his clear obsession, but there was something more. Summer had told her about the string-makers, which seemed weirdly similar to the ones discussed in this blog, but there was also a niggling memory that picked at her as she signed out of the computer and crossed her name off the sign-in sheet. A memory that kicked up her pulse as surely as the words written by a psychotic serial killer. She’d been talking to Summer about the string-makers before they’d walked into the woods, but that wasn’t the one coming to mind.
“’Bye, Mrs. Cooley,” she called out loudly, knowing the old lady hated loud voices, and left the building chewing on her lower lip in thought.
Instead of heading to the yoga studio right away, she found herself crossing over the railroad tracks that ran next to the library and through the rusted gate to the cemetery. The stay-at-home moms and the college students in her ten a.m. yoga class would understand.
Lonely and quiet, the historic cemetery was poorly tended. She’d have to talk to Tavey about it next Sunday. No one she knew was buried here, though she recognized some of the family names. It was a short walk from the gate past some of the crumbling tombstones to the big oak where they’d placed a cross in Summer’s name.
As always when she thought about that moment, the one when she, Raquel, and Tavey had sat beneath this tree and vowed never to stop looking, she felt like something amazing would happen, that somehow Summer would step from behind the tree and laugh and spin around and it would all have been a dream.
Her steps slowed until she was barely moving forward. The air had thickened to the point where she struggled to breathe. She went to her knees in the grass, which was brown and crunchy from lack of water. A slight breeze blew one of the frayed red ribbons that they’d tied around the cross. Her heart lifted just a little as she saw it flutter, and just like that, the memory floated to the surface.
It had been late spring, the same year that Summer disappeared. The four of them had been playing with the puppies at Tavey’s house in a small patch of grass in the rose garden, which Tavey loved because her mother had loved it. Raquel, Tavey, and Chris had been romping, but Summer had been standing still for once, apparently looking at the driveway, but Summer couldn’t see. Curious, Chris had come to stand beside her.
“Summer, you okay?”
She hadn’t answered right away, her head tilted toward Chris, but her eyes remained fixed, if unfocused, on a man getting out of a black car. Tavey’s grandfather was greeting the man; they shook hands and clapped each other on the back the way that men did sometimes, and Summer’s eyes followed them, her mouth grim.
When she did speak, it was softly, as if she didn’t want to call attention to their conversation, as if she wanted to hide it not just from their friends but from the roses, the bees, the wind that blew tendrils of her hair into Chris’s face.
“You know the story we heard in the library, about the red string of fate?”
“The Chinese story about true love?” Chris had liked that one. It was cool.
“I wonder if there are other colors.”
Chris remembered that she had looked
Below a section on the “string-makers,” which George had clearly added recently, someone had been posting about strings, about how they connected everyone, how he could cut them off. Some people had commented, including George Mills—she recognized his handle—and it looked like the posts went back several weeks at least.
“Strings . . .” she muttered, and nearly let out a What the fuck? but didn’t, because it was the library. Still, strings ?He went on and on about them and about the Creator who helped him, which made her stomach clench. He meant her. He acted like he knew her, like she should understand these strings. Fear—something she didn’t deal with well at all—made her palms sweat. She was afraid of him, of his clear obsession, but there was something more. Summer had told her about the string-makers, which seemed weirdly similar to the ones discussed in this blog, but there was also a niggling memory that picked at her as she signed out of the computer and crossed her name off the sign-in sheet. A memory that kicked up her pulse as surely as the words written by a psychotic serial killer. She’d been talking to Summer about the string-makers before they’d walked into the woods, but that wasn’t the one coming to mind.
“’Bye, Mrs. Cooley,” she called out loudly, knowing the old lady hated loud voices, and left the building chewing on her lower lip in thought.
Instead of heading to the yoga studio right away, she found herself crossing over the railroad tracks that ran next to the library and through the rusted gate to the cemetery. The stay-at-home moms and the college students in her ten a.m. yoga class would understand.
Lonely and quiet, the historic cemetery was poorly tended. She’d have to talk to Tavey about it next Sunday. No one she knew was buried here, though she recognized some of the family names. It was a short walk from the gate past some of the crumbling tombstones to the big oak where they’d placed a cross in Summer’s name.
As always when she thought about that moment, the one when she, Raquel, and Tavey had sat beneath this tree and vowed never to stop looking, she felt like something amazing would happen, that somehow Summer would step from behind the tree and laugh and spin around and it would all have been a dream.
Her steps slowed until she was barely moving forward. The air had thickened to the point where she struggled to breathe. She went to her knees in the grass, which was brown and crunchy from lack of water. A slight breeze blew one of the frayed red ribbons that they’d tied around the cross. Her heart lifted just a little as she saw it flutter, and just like that, the memory floated to the surface.
It had been late spring, the same year that Summer disappeared. The four of them had been playing with the puppies at Tavey’s house in a small patch of grass in the rose garden, which Tavey loved because her mother had loved it. Raquel, Tavey, and Chris had been romping, but Summer had been standing still for once, apparently looking at the driveway, but Summer couldn’t see. Curious, Chris had come to stand beside her.
“Summer, you okay?”
She hadn’t answered right away, her head tilted toward Chris, but her eyes remained fixed, if unfocused, on a man getting out of a black car. Tavey’s grandfather was greeting the man; they shook hands and clapped each other on the back the way that men did sometimes, and Summer’s eyes followed them, her mouth grim.
When she did speak, it was softly, as if she didn’t want to call attention to their conversation, as if she wanted to hide it not just from their friends but from the roses, the bees, the wind that blew tendrils of her hair into Chris’s face.
“You know the story we heard in the library, about the red string of fate?”
“The Chinese story about true love?” Chris had liked that one. It was cool.
“I wonder if there are other colors.”
Chris remembered that she had looked
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