“You’re delusional.” She eyed the drop below; the cliff plunged into rocks and violent waves. If he were just a yard closer she could grab him and throw them both off the cliff. It would almost be worth it; they both deserved to pay for what had happened to Jim.
Nicholas sighed and rubbed his thumb over the cord in his hands. “So they say. So they say. Enough resting. Let’s go.” “Wait.” She paused, licked her lips, wincing at the memory of his harsh kiss. If she could stall him from executing whatever plan he had in mind, maybe the guards or doctors would find them first. She’d rather be in their hands than his. They had to be out scouring the island; had they seen the explosion?
She turned away from the cliff, abandoning her mad inspiration of tossing Nicholas and herself over it, and instead scanned the trees for any sign of possible aid. But she had to keep Nicholas sitting still for as long as possible.
“Why do you need me?” she asked. “Do you really believe I’ll still help you, after what you just did?”
He studied her flatly, then rose and held out a hand. “You’re trying to stall me. Well, it won’t work. The guards won’t find us, not in this bamboo. Still, it was a nice try.”
She ignored his proffered hand and rose to her feet on her own, her face burning.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
He led her inland, through a grove of dense jungle and then a clearing riddled with rocks, all of them covered in moss and leaning at crazy angles, their shadows deep purple pockets of cool air that made her shiver when she passed through them. After that, more bamboo, and a narrow, lively stream filled with smooth round stones. She nearly lost her balance stepping from one stone to the next, and grabbed an overhanging pine branch to steady herself, startling a bright green gecko that had been sunning itself on the leaves. Moments later they stepped out of the jungle and onto an old concrete pathway that must have led back to the resort. It had been overgrown with vines and grasses, and a rotting fence ran along its length, large portions of it having crumbled away altogether. They went some distance down the path until they began passing buildings lurking in the vegetation: a spa, its windows shattered inward by some past storm, a restaurant with a giant wooden lobster on its roof. More than ever Sophie sensed the ghosts of this place.
“We’re here,” Nicholas finally announced, and pointed at a one-story stucco building with a sagging front porch and terra cotta tiles on the roof. Many of the tiles had slipped off and were smashed on the ground around the building.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“Old salon,” he said. “For the ladies to get their hair done.”
What do you know about salons? she wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue.
“Well?” he said. “Do you want a haircut?” He bounced the light over the wooden steps leading to the door, which had once been made of glass, but she could see shattered fragments of it littering the porch.
Sophie frowned. “Why are we here?”
“Come in and find out.” He regarded her with sudden gravity. “Don’t you want to know the truth, Sophie Crue? The whole truth?”
She studied Nicholas very carefully, trying to imagine what went on inside his head. “What truth?” she asked carefully.
“The one you know is still out there. The piece you know you’re still missing.”
She drew a deep breath and stared through the gaping doorway. It was dark inside. “Do I have a choice?”
He laughed. “Of course not.”
Heart frantically pounding, as if trying to push her in the other direction, Sophie carefully climbed the steps. They creaked and bowed under her feet, but held. The broken glass crunched as she crossed the porch and stepped through the gap it had once filled. Nicholas followed close behind, still keeping a hold of the cord. Inside, Sophie found cobwebbed walls and moldy carpet patterned with faded roses. The building smelled strongly of damp must and mildew. A curling poster on the wall showed a woman with long outdated clothing and a huge perm.
The poster alone attested to the years of disuse this place had seen, as if the dust, wallpaper, and bowed ceiling weren’t testimony enough. With a chill, Sophie wondered what Nicholas planned to do to her in this creepy ruin. She was prepared to fight him tooth and nail. When she found herself contemplating how to wrap the cord around his neck and strangle him from behind, she swallowed a rush of nausea. What am I becoming? He’d not only revealed the evil in himself; he was also revealing the evil in Sophie.
“Through there,” he said, directing her to a doorway at the end of the hall. She went toward it, feeling as though her body temperature were dropping by a degree with each step. The room inside was windowless and completely dark. She froze and nearly retreated. She’d never been scared of the dark before, but was beginning to suspect Skin Island would change that.
“Scared?” Nicholas said. He closed in on her from behind, standing so close she could feel his breath. “Tell me, what does it feel like to be scared, Sophie Crue? I have always wondered.”
“Everyone gets scared,” she breathed.
“Not me.” His hand reached around her, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her, but he only flicked a light switch on the wall. A glass globe in the middle of the ceiling blinked on with a high whine. She felt a flash of terror, as if expecting to see a dead body or some nightmarish monster, but it was just a small studio with three chairs facing three mirrors and a row of hair drying seats. The huge dome dryers were polished clean, which surprised her. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the room had been recently cleaned and redecorated. Rows of pictures hung on the wall. Unlike the posters in the hallway, they were untouched by humidity and age. They looked like magazine clippings, and all showed different shots of New York City. On the floor sat half-used candles, playing cards, a croquet mallet, and boxes of crackers. Nicholas opened a small refrigerator in the corner and took out two grape sodas. He tossed one to Sophie, cracked his open, and fell into one of the dryer seats, taking up the slack in the cord by wrapping it around his wrist.
“That’s New York City,” he said, nodding at the pictures on the wall. “Corpus is based there. We’ll go there, when we leave this place.”
She looked around the room. It looked like a hideout. Maybe this was where Nicholas snuck away to with Mary and the others.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” she said. “We were trying to help you. He was going back to Guam to get help, you know.” She leaned against the wall and stared unseeingly at the calendar from 1994 hanging opposite her with a picture of a half-dressed cowgirl seductively draped over a John Deere tractor. Her eyes slipped shut, releasing the first tears. “Jim was . . . he was my—”
“Jim, Jim, Jim—shut up!” He jumped to his feet and rushed toward her. She pressed against the wall and held her breath, heart lurching, as he stood over her and gripped his soda can so hard the metal dented. “I’m sick of hearing about Jim! You hear me? Sick. He’s gone! Forget about him!”
Nicholas stepped back, drained his soda, and tossed the can into the corner. He drew a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, and then smiled. It wasn’t a cruel smile, but a charming, slightly mischievous one. Sophie didn’t know what to think. It was like looking at a completely different person. He moved from emotion to emotion as if he were changing hats, as if the expressions were mere masks.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not really angry. See?” He spread his hands wide and bowed.
He’s insane, Sophie thought.
“C’mon, Sophie. Sit down. I’m just messing with you, you know. That’s all. Sit down and I’ll tell you about yourself.” But he didn’t let her sit. He kept her pinned to the wall with his body, and as he tilted his face down to look into hers, his hair fell forward, creating a kind of curtain around their conversation. She felt as if he’d sucked her into his own small, dark world.