Breaking Glass (25 page)

I glare at her and snap, losing patience. I’m not backing down this time. “Please tell me, Mrs. Durban, what on earth Susannah’s disappearance has to do with Patrick Morgan. You want to help me find her, don’t you?”

But Mrs. Durban doesn’t answer. Instead, she fingers her crosses, her gaze distant again, then turns and walks away.

“Don’t you, Mrs. Durban?” I call out, and try to follow, but Marisa has a firm grip on the wheelchair. I’m stuck.

I consider Susannah’s drawing with the tiny tree on a massive pile of roots, skeletons, and body parts, with the little leaf that says
truth
, and realize it’s a portrait of the town. Gnarled roots that twist deep into the rock, binding their occupants to each other and to the past. Roots that, when ripped out, cling to things you wish you never knew.

“
God
,” I murmur, finally. “I think Trudy Durban really has finally lost it.”

“See? Compared to her, you’re a saint,” Marisa says, still tugging on the wheelchair. I lift my foot and we hurtle backward.

“Jeremy! Really!” She shoves me lightly on the shoulder. “Cut that the hell out.”

“But it’s just for the money, right?” I say, swiveling around. “It has nothing to do with my wit and dashing smile.”

Marisa’s cheeks flush. She tosses her river of black hair behind her shoulders and I shiver a little. “Nothing at all. You’re a huge pain in the ass. And if you ever want to take me to a movie, that will cost you a king’s ransom.”

“Is that an offer?”

Marisa’s eyes shimmer. “It was a joke. But I’d do it, Jeremy. I’d go to a movie with you. It would be good for you to get out more.”

“So would you be on the payroll or would it be…”

She tilts her head and smiles. “…two friends enjoying a night out.”

“Wait,” I said. “You just said we’re friends.”

She nods. “Yeah. Crazy me. I did.”

I smile back at her, but dark presses at the edge of my vision, the light sliding away. It’s as if I’m being drawn into a cosmic meat grinder. I cling furiously to the arms of the wheelchair. Solid reality. I’m breathing hard, sweat popping out on my forehead. The dark skitters away, leaving me weak. I slump in the chair.

Marisa has her cell phone out.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Calling your father. Did you hear me calling your name? Two times in one hour, you snapped totally out of it.”

“It was a dizzy spell. The room started spinning.”

She slants her head and eyes me skeptically. “You were staring straight ahead like a statue. I waved my hand in front of your eyes and you didn’t even blink. Your head injury may be worse than they thought.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Santiago.”

But my head is pounding and I can’t help but wonder—is this a medical problem, a mental problem, or a metaphysical one?

And if you summon someone from beyond the grave, can you send them back?

C H A P T E R
t w e n t y - t w o

Then

The morning after the fire, to celebrate Ryan and Susannah’s reconciliation, we were all treated to a feast of a breakfast in the dining room. Celia Morgan had gone all out, heaping our formal place settings with pancakes, sausages, and hash browns. I wolfed it all down. I don’t remember a meal ever tasting better.

Susannah ate her sausage in small nibbles, her coppery cheeks lit by a rosy glow. The name of Reingold Sheehan never came up again. I vowed never to set foot in the Riverton Arms.

We were a threesome again. It was the best that I could hope for, and it was time I finally accepted my position—the base of the triangle. I would never rock our shaky boat. I’d set a course on calm waters as the first mate, the deckhand.

“Let’s make a pact,” Susannah said, eyes glittering. She raised her glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “To never hurt each other again.”

“Hear, hear.” Ryan raised his glass.

I was tempted to throw my juice in his face and ask him if he really could keep that promise. Instead, I raised my glass, too. “To triangles, the strongest form in geometry.”

We gulped down our juice with Celia Morgan looking on, smiling. “The Three Musketeers,” she said, “Together again. As it should be.”

“Forever and for always,” Susannah said.

After we’d helped Celia clear the table, Susannah pulled the two of us into a huddle with her. “After the reservoir thaws, I have a surprise for you guys.”

“What?” asked Ryan, as excited as a child. “An adventure?”

“I’m not telling.” Susannah put her finger to her lips. “It’s top secret.”

I smiled vaguely, trying to think of something clever to say, but Celia Morgan cut in, her brow furrowed. “Never go skating on the reservoir. You can’t tell where the ice is thin.”

“Mom,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes. “No one said anything about skating or doing anything on the frozen reservoir. Relax. Susannah’s talking about—”

“Taking out a rowboat, Mrs. Morgan. Don’t you guys have one?”

“Yes,” said Celia, her face still tense. “In fact, we do. Patrick uses it for fishing sometimes. But you have to wait until it’s
completely
thawed because…”

“Because why, Mom?” Ryan asked, draping an arm around her shoulder. At nearly sixteen, he already towered over her.

“Just, well. Let’s say people weren’t always so careful. Things happened.”

“Like what?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“Nothing. I have to get ready for a luncheon now, kids. I hope you enjoyed your reunion breakfast!” Celia added brightly and walked out of the kitchen.

“Wonder what that was about?” I asked.

“Who cares?” Susannah gazed up into Ryan’s blue eyes and I resumed my position as third wheel. “Everyone who grew up here is crazy anyway.”

“Maybe it’s in the water.” Ryan said.

“Once we’re done with high school, we should all leave, so we don’t go crazy, too,” Susannah glanced at me. “We should put it in writing. Make a pact. A Three Pirates Manifesto.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I wondered if, by then, I’d have mastered the art of making myself go numb. Ryan leaned over and kissed Susannah on the mouth as the full weight of what I’d signed on for truly hit home.

Many nights of hard drinking lay ahead.

Now (December 28th)

They run a battery of tests on my brain to see if there’s some residual bleeding or damage from my fall or the accident, but I come up clean.

On the car ride back from the hospital, Dad is ashen. He’s aged years in the three days since he’s bothered to be in the same space with me. I consider showing him the locket but I’m afraid he might accuse me of engraving those words myself. He flips on the classical music station, the absurdly sweeping notes of Vivaldi filling the silence between us.

In his mind, he’s probably watching my future slip down the drain.

“Dad, I know what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t,” he says after a lengthy pause.

“I’m not crazy.”

Dad glances at me, eyes rimmed with red. “I love you, Jeremy, and we’ll face whatever we need to face together.”

“I swear I’m not crazy. Yes, I have a drinking problem. Yes, I have one leg. You have to trust me.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. Your mother’s doctors said there was a one in ten chance you would inherit her illness.”

“Who were Mom’s doctors? Are you totally sure Mom was crazy?”

Dad screeches the car to a stop and shouts, his face a mask of rage. “Why are you doing this, Jeremy? Please!” He breathes rapidly in little shuddering gulps. I’m afraid he may have a heart attack. Finally, his breaths slow and he manages to speak in a more controlled lawyerly tone. “I’m sorry. Jeremy, your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic. You know what that is? Someone who imagines everyone is out to get them. Your mother was consumed with the notion that someone was trying to kill her.”

An icy chill climbs up my neck. My hands shake. “What if she was right?”

Dad glares at me with such fierceness I fully expect fire to shoot from his nostrils. “Please be quiet now, Jeremy. I need to think.”

“Okay. But first answer my question. Who was her doctor, the one who made the diagnosis?”

Dad shoots me a puzzled glance. “Dr. Kopeck, of course. She has the best credentials in the area.”

Out the window, the bare branches grope the air like skeletal hands. “If I find someone else, will you promise not to send me back to her?”

Back in my room, my heart won’t slow. The walls have eyes and ears. On top of everything else, my dad I’m thinks I’m a paranoid schizophrenic. I can’t decide. Am I? Or have I actually begun to untangle the poisoned roots that twist beneath the underbelly of Riverton?

The savage need for a drink ambushes me and coils itself around my throat like a boa constrictor. There’s no chance I’ll find even a drop in this house. To calm the pulsing ache in my throat, I throw myself into practicing the gait exercises Chaz prescribed and that Lyle Hoffmann has urged me to do. Chaz promised that I can park the wheelchair for good if I get my balance back. It will also help prepare me for walking with my new leg. It’s a goal. If I can run again, I can control the panic.

I go at the exercise with grim determination, hoping to either exhaust or outpace the dark waters that lap at my ankle.

But the reptile mind doesn’t understand logic. Whether my mother tried to kill herself and take me with her, or someone else drove her off the road, I’m still going to be forced to relive the day she died. Until I die, too.

And I can’t get Trudy Durban’s voice out of my head. What was she getting at—that Susannah’s disappearance is somehow linked to my mother’s death?

To a rational mind, it seems unlikely. And Trudy Durban is not rational.

But I’m probably not either, which gives me the perfect excuse to see what other dirt I can dig up.

I thrust the crutches forward and kick out my leg in the smoothest approximation of a walk I can manage. It feels weird. Unnatural. But, over and over, back and forth, I walk, trying to keep a heartbeat ahead of the water that has started to rush in. If I sweat it out, maybe the nightmare will recede.

Finally, exhausted, I collapse in the wheelchair. I never knew walking could be such hard work, but at least I’ve chased the panic away.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, that bitch Kopeck called it. The reason I drink. The reason I run. All to avoid the terrifying loop of our car plunging into the Gorge over and over again.

But this is the same Dr. Kopeck who diagnosed my mother as a paranoid schizophrenic. I have no doubt my mother drank. Too much. But was she crazy? Was there more to it than that? Maybe she had her reasons, too.

I have to wonder what mangled roots my mother might have unearthed. A brief internet search pulls up some interesting intersections. Both Dr. Kopeck and Patrick Morgan serve on the board of directors of the same pharmaceutical company. Over the years, Morgan Associates has helped her make huge land investments in upstate New York.

Nothing damning. But enough to confirm my suspicions. She’s an affiliate of Patrick Morgan’s, and though I’m not precisely sure what that implies, it makes me trust her even less.

Just as I’m about to click on another link, the screen goes black along with everything else. Darkness steals away my vision. Sensitive fingers work their way up my back, exquisite shivers rushing to my nerve endings. My mouth falls open. The taste of her lips floods my senses with longing.

I shudder with desire and naked fear.

Susannah visits whenever she wants these days.

In the dark void, tiny sparks soar and cluster. An outline materializes in the form of a shimmery, girl-shaped constellation.

I blink. It’s Susannah, or at least an outline of Susannah made of stars.

I gasp as she leans over me, the soft curls I can’t see brushing my forehead. Barely visible lips kiss the tip of my nose and I moan, a riptide of urgent want dragging me out beyond the waves.

I can’t stop kissing her long enough to ask her why she invades my senses without permission. By now, I don’t know. I ravage her, my searching mouth desperate to quench the fire she’s lit inside me.

Susannah traces the entire length of my body with deadly slow kisses, burning me with her touch. By the time she presses her lips to the stump, I’m ablaze, close to a core meltdown. The sensation is indescribable, a witch’s brew of pain and ecstasy. I arch my back as the violent spasms of release sweep over me.