I let my eyes travel a slow circle around the graveyard. The decaying smells of approaching autumn, the rich tang of cut grass, the pulse of insect wings rubbing together — none of it illuminated the answer I so desperately wanted. I swallowed against the thickness in my throat, trying hard not to feel defeated. The color black, teasing me for days, had failed me. Shoving my hands inside the pockets of my jeans, I turned to go.
From the edge of my vision, I noticed a smudge on the grass. I picked up a black feather. It was easily the length of my arm, shoulder to wrist. My eyebrows pulled together as I tried to envision what kind of bird could have left it. It was much too big for a crow. Much too big for any bird, as far as I was concerned. I ran my finger over the feather’s vane, each satiny barb snapping back into place.
A memory stirred inside me. Angel, I seemed to hear a smooth voice whisper. You’re mine.
Of all the ridiculous, confusing things, I blushed. I looked around, just to make sure the voice wasn’t real.
I haven’t forgotten you.
With my posture rigid, I waited to hear the voice again, but it faded into the wind. Whatever flicker of memories it left behind dived out of reach before I could grasp them. I felt torn between wanting to fling the feather away, and the frantic impulse to bury it where no one would find it. I had the intense impression that I’d stumbled across something secret, something private, something that could cause a great deal of harm if discovered.
A car revved into the parking lot just up the hill from the cemetery, blaring music. I heard shouts and spurts of laughter, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they belonged to people I went to school with. This part of town was dense with trees, far from the hub of downtown, and made a good place to hang out unsupervised on weekends and nights. Not wanting to stumble across anyone I knew, especially since my sudden reappearance was being splashed across local news, I tucked the feather under my arm and speed-walked along the gravel path leading back to the main road.
Shortly after two thirty a.m. I let myself inside the farmhouse and, after locking up, tiptoed upstairs. I stood, indecisive, in the middle of my bedroom a moment, then hid the feather in my middle dresser drawer, where I also stashed my socks, leggings, and scarves. In hindsight, I didn’t even know why I’d carried it home. It wasn’t like me to collect scrappy items, let alone tuck them inside my drawers. But it had sparked a memory….
Stripping off my clothes and stretching out a yawn, I turned toward bed. I was halfway there when my feet came to a halt. A sheet of paper rested on my pillow. One that hadn’t been there when I left.
I whipped around, expecting to see my mom in the doorway, angry and worked up that I’d sneaked out. But given everything that had happened, did I really think she would simply leave a note upon finding my bed empty?
I picked up the paper, realizing that my hands were shaking. It was lined notebook paper, just like I used in school. The message appeared to have been hastily scribbled in black Sharpie.
JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HOME
DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE SAFE.
CHAPTER 4
I CRUMPLED THE PAPER, FLINGING IT AT THE WALL OUT of fear and frustration. Striding to the window, I rattled the lock to make sure it was secure. I wasn’t feeling gutsy enough to open the window and have a look out, but I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the shadows stretched across the lawn like long, lean daggers. I had no idea who could have left the note, but one thing was certain. I’d locked up before leaving. And earlier, before we’d headed upstairs for the night, I’d watched my mom walk through the house and check every window and door at least three times.
So how had the intruder gotten in?
And what did the note even mean? It was cryptic and cruel. A twisted joke? Right now, that was my best guess.
Down the hall, I pushed on my mom’s bedroom door, opening it just far enough to see inside. “Mom?”
She sat up ramrod straight in the darkness. “Nora? What is it? What happened? A bad dream?” A pause. “Did you remember something?”
I clicked on the bedside lamp, suddenly fearful of the dark and what I couldn’t see. “I found a note in my room. It told me not to fool myself into believing I’m safe.”
She blinked against the sudden brightness, and I watched her eyes absorb my words. Suddenly she was wide awake. “Where did you find the note?” she demanded.
“I—” I was nervous about how she’d react to the truth. In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea. Sneaking out? After I’d been abducted? But it was hard to fear the possibility of a second abduction when I couldn’t even remember the first. And I’d needed to go to the cemetery for my own sanity. The color black had led me there. Stupid, unexplainable, but nonetheless true. “It was under my pillow. I must not have noticed it before bed,” I lied. “It wasn’t until I shifted in my sleep that I heard the paper crinkle.”
She pulled on her bathrobe and jogged to my bedroom. “Where’s the note? I want to read it. Detective Basso needs to know about this right away.” She was already dialing on her phone. She punched in his number from memory, and it occurred to me that they must have worked closely together during the weeks I was missing.
“Does anyone else have a key to the house?” I asked.
She held her finger up, signaling for me to wait. Voice mail, she mouthed. “It’s Blythe,” she told Detective Basso’s message system. “Call me as soon as you get this. Nora found a note in her bedroom tonight.” Her eyes cut briefly to mine. “It may be from the person who took her. I’ve had the doors locked all night, so the note had to have been placed under her pillow before we got home.”
“He’ll call back soon,” she told me, hanging up. “I’m going to give the note to the officer out front. He might want to search the house. Where is the note?”
I pointed at the crumpled paper ball in the corner, but I didn’t move to pick it up. I didn’t want to see the message again. Was it a joke … or was it a threat? Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. The tone suggested a threat.
Mom flattened the paper on the wall, ironing out the wrinkles with her hand. “This paper is blank, Nora,” she said.
“What?” I walked over for a closer look. She was right. The writing had vanished. I hastily flipped the paper over, but the back side was also blank.
“It was right here,” I said, confused. “It was right here.”
“You might have imagined it. A projection of a dream,” Mom said gently, drawing me against her and rubbing my back. The gesture didn’t do anything to comfort me. Was there any way I might have invented the message? Out of what? Paranoia? A panic attack?
“I didn’t imagine it.” But I didn’t sound so sure.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Dr. Howlett said this might happen.”
“Said what might happen?”
“He said there was a very good chance you’d hear things that aren’t real—”
“Like what?”
She regarded me calmly. “Voices and other sounds. He didn’t say anything about seeing things that aren’t real, but anything could happen, Nora. Your body is trying to recover. It’s under a lot of stress, and we have to be patient.”
“He said I might hallucinate?”
“Shh,” she commanded softly, taking my face between her hands. “These things might have to happen before you can recover. Your mind is doing its best to heal, and we have to give it time. Just like any other injury. We’re going to get through this together.”