The clock’s golden hour hand pointed at the roman numeral nine, the minute hand slightly beyond twelve, making them officially late. But at least the clock’s hands weren’t spinning. At least she knew for sure that she was awake.
“Everybody else seems to think it was the work of a ghost,” Gwen scoffed. “But oh, those sad, silly, superstitious schnooks.”
Refusing to look away from the clock, Isobel watched its hands until the Cadillac crossed the last street, bumping up the short drive that led through the cemetery’s iron gates.
“You and I,” Gwen said, flashing her a tight smile, “weeeee know better.”
To their left, a white-haired cemetery guard sat on an iron bench. Gwen offered him a wave as they drove past. Rising to his feet, he nodded in response, though his expression remained stern; Isobel had no doubt he could tell they were too young to be college kids on a photography excursion.
Gwen stiffened her arms as she maneuvered the car down the long, tree-lined lane, the crooked shadows of twisted limbs skimming the interior of the car, sliding over Isobel’s lap, up her arms and behind her. She envisioned them gathering there, transforming into creatures with clawed hands and jagged-toothed grins.
Impulsively, she grasped the rearview mirror and, tilting it toward her, eyed the backseat.
Empty . . .
“He went inside,” Gwen said.
Isobel froze for an instant, then pushed back the mirror.
“Or wait. Let me guess.” Gwen slapped the dashboard, as if pressing a game-show buzzer. “You weren’t checking for the guard, were you? Please, if we’re about to get pelted with mutilated pigeons, I’d appreciate a warning this time. Given that I forgot to pack my inhaler and that defibrillator stations would be totally beside the point in a place like this—not to mention vaguely insulting to the residents.”
“It’s nothing,” Isobel mumbled. “There’s nothing.”
Reaching up, Gwen fixed the mirror. “Riiiight. Of course it’s nothing. That makes total sense. What else would any of this be adding up to besides a big fat steaming pile of nothing?”
Isobel gripped the seat beneath her. She waited, and as she’d hoped, the quiet quickly settled into place again. Yet the tension radiating from Gwen refused to fade. Anger rolled off her in invisible waves while, outside, the ticking of a rock stuck in the tread of one tire grew louder. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
They rounded the first bend in the road and wound farther into the sprawling and seemingly endless cemetery.
Another stone angel emerged on the right. Draped in flowing robes, the statue stood atop a rectangular gravestone, the first of too many to count. Isobel waited for the moment when the figure would turn its head to look at her. The statue remained a statue, though, and soon it was behind them along with the guard and the tower and the clock hands she’d sworn hadn’t been spinning.
Awake, Isobel told herself, you are awake.
“You know everyone thinks the boot prints are Varen’s, don’t you?”
Isobel’s grip on her seat tightened, fingernails digging into the vinyl.
She hadn’t heard that rumor. Of course, there had been the usual stares and whispers that morning, but she’d gotten out of the habit of paying attention. She had been preoccupied with the dream itself, replaying it again and again in her head. And then she’d been waiting for Detective Scott to appear in the doorway of her first class. He’d never shown up to question her, though, and neither had Mr. Nott or any of the other administrators. And maybe that was because they’d been preoccupied themselves—not with her, she now grasped, but with the possibility that Varen had been in the building.
“I know hearing his name bothers you,” Gwen said. “Actually, I can tell it does worse. I can tell that it rips your heart out and crushes it every time. You know that’s why I don’t talk about him or ask what happened, don’t you? Not because I believe you when you tell me you don’t remember. And it’s not because I think you need space, either. It’s because I can tell it kills—literally kills you to remember. And because until this morning, I thought the truth could wait until you were ready. Because I thought it was all over. Clearly, though, it’s not. Is it?”
Isobel sucked in a sharp breath and held it. Prying one hand free from the seat, she latched onto her door handle and squeezed hard, wishing she’d decided not to come after all. Really, what did she think she was doing? Hurrying the inevitable?
If talking to Varen hadn’t worked before, why had she thought it would do any good now?