The thought comes to me suddenly. Unless Andre, knowing the cops are getting closer, has covered his tracks.
But almost the instant I think it, my fingers hit something—an irregularity, a minuscule break in the wood. It’s so dark beneath the scaffolding I can barely make out my hands, groping along the surface of the lighthouse, a place that has been patched over and nailed shut, as if long ago a hurricane tore out a chunk of the wall and it was only hastily repaired. I push. The wood gives a quarter of an inch, groaning a little when I lean against it.
There’s a door here: carved deliberately out of the wall, then made to look like it has been boarded up. But no matter how much I push, it won’t release. Could it be locked from inside? I run my fingers against the nearly invisible seam, crying out when I feel the sharp bite of a nail. I suck my finger into my mouth and taste blood. It’s just like I thought. The nails aren’t actually nailed into anything, but simply hammered through the door and then distorted, bent parallel to the wood. Still, it won’t open.
I aim a frustrated kick at the door—I need in—and then spring backward as the door rebounds, groaning, unhinging like a vertical mouth. Of course. Not push. Pull.
Something stirs behind me. I whip around as the wind lifts and another wave crashes to the shore, foaming between the slick dark rocks. I scan the beach but see nothing but the looming shapes of ancient boulders, the wild tangle of beach grass, and the faint lights of Beamer’s twinkling in the distance, turning a portion of the ocean silver.
I slip inside the lighthouse, bending down for a sand-slicked rock I can use to keep the door open. This way, at least a little light breaks up the darkness. Besides, Nick will need in.
If she manages to find me.
Inside, the air smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke. I take a step forward, groping for a light switch, and something—a bottle?—rolls away. I collide with a standing lamp and barely catch it before it crashes to the floor. The lamp, which is cabled to a generator, barely lights up a coiled staircase leading to the lighthouse’s upper levels. The room is bare except for a few empty beer cans and bottles, stubbed-out cigarettes, and, weirdly, a man’s flattened shoe. Dozens of footprints crisscross the room, disturbing the heavy layer of sawdust and plaster. Ants swarm a crushed McDonald’s bag in the corner.
I drag the lamp toward the staircase. In the light, it looks like a serpent. Then I start to climb.
The red sofa has been removed from the room at the top of the stairs. Even before I find another lamp, I can tell that a large object has been recently dragged across the room—tracks are visible in the dust—and worked, somehow, down the staircase.
But the lamps remain—four of them, with huge bulbs exposed, like lights on a movie set—and the old coffee table, ringed with stains from drink glasses. The AC is still squatting in the corner, its grille choked with dust, and cinder blocks and plywood are stacked just to the left of the stairs, probably from the planned renovations that never materialized. Balled into one corner is a girl’s bra—yellow, faded, with bumblebees patterned across the cups.
I stand for a second in the center of the room, fighting the sudden urge to cry. How did I get here? How did any of us get here?
It’s all over now: the lying, the struggling, the sneaking around. I remember when my sister and I used to race on our bikes to get home, the burning in my legs and thighs by the time we rounded the final corner, the desire not just to end but to give up, to stop pedaling, to let momentum carry me those final blocks. That’s what I’m feeling now—not the triumph of a win but the relief of no longer trying.
But there’s one more thing I have to do.
I move around the room, looking for something to tie Andre to Madeline Snow. I’m not sure what, exactly, I’m hoping to find. The truth will out. That phrase keeps running through my head. No. It’s the truth will set you free. Blood will out.
Blood.
Near one wall is a dark stain, maroonish-brown. I squat down, feeling slightly nauseous. The stain is about the size of a child’s palm, and long absorbed into the plank floors. Impossible to tell how old—or new—it is.
Downstairs, the door bangs shut. I stand up quickly, my heart rocketing into my throat. Someone’s here. Nick wouldn’t have slammed the door. She would be moving carefully, quietly.
There’s only one place to hide: behind the stack of plank wood and cinder blocks piled together at the head of the stairs. Moving as quietly as I can, wincing whenever the floor creaks beneath me, I slip into the narrow, dark space between the construction materials and the wall. It smells like must and mouse droppings. I maneuver awkwardly into a crouch, waiting, straining to hear sounds from below—someone moving, walking, breathing.
Nothing. Not a whisper, creak, or breath. I count to thirty and then back down to zero. Finally I shuffle out of my hiding place. The wind must have dislodged the rock from the door.
As I’m straightening up, I catch a glimmer of something silver, half-wedged beneath one of the pieces of plywood. I work it free with my fingers.
The world shrinks down to a narrow point, to a space no wider than a child’s outstretched hand.
It’s Madeline Snow’s charm bracelet—the one we so carefully combed the beach for, back when I joined up with the search party. Her favorite charm bracelet.
I stand up on shaky legs, gripping her bracelet. I edge out into the open.
“What the fuck?”
Andre’s voice takes me completely by surprise. I haven’t heard him approach. He’s standing at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister with white knuckles, his face distorted, monstrous with rage.