Page 12 of All These Beautiful Strangers

Still, I started to walk faster. I heard the faint sound of something moving behind me. Ghosts don’t have bodies. Ghosts don’t have footsteps, I told myself.

I stopped abruptly and I both heard and felt something very real and solid stop in the distance behind me. Someone, a very real someone, was following me. I started to run.

The field was mostly barren besides two old oak trees on the far end, and through them, in the distance, I could see Rosewood Hall, with the lights in the kitchen on the ground floor still on. Sometimes Mrs. Wilson, the cook, stayed up late whipping up the batter for the next morning’s biscuits. If I could make it there—to the light that spilled onto the front lawn—then I was sure I would be safe.

But the thing was, I didn’t know if I would make it. I could feel the blood hammering in my ears, the stitch piercing my side as I ran. And whoever was behind me—I could hear their breath, their footsteps, drawing closer. I ripped my keys from the pocket of my hoodie and laced them between my fingers like claws. I stopped and turned around to face the person behind me, my fist ready at my side. I was winded, but I choked out the words nonetheless.

“St-stay where you are,” I said. “Or I’ll scream.”

It was too dark to make out the figure completely, even though he was barely five feet away from me. I could tell that he was male, with a thick beard and big burly shoulders.

He held up his arms in mock surrender. “Don’t scream,” he said, and the gruff voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—I waited, and you never showed up.”

My first thought was that this was all some big misunderstanding. This big burly man stalking me in the darkness had mistaken me for someone else. But then I remembered the note I had found in my mailbox that morning.

“Uncle Hank?” I asked.

He took a step toward me and I took a step backward, my heart still in my throat. I raised my fist of keys. He stopped when he saw that he had startled me. His shoulders sank as if I had offended him.

“Charlotte,” he said, and the way he said my name, with so much tenderness and familiarity, almost disarmed me. “Charlotte, it’s me. It’s okay. I’m not—I would never—hurt you. You have to know that.”

I lowered my fist, unsure.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I had to see you,” he said, a little breathless. “It’s about your mom.”

“I don’t want to hear,” I said.

“You have to,” Uncle Hank said. “You have to listen. I have something you need to see.”

“I’m not interested,” I said, and turned to go. I didn’t want to hear any more of his theories, didn’t want to answer any more of his questions, didn’t want to be sucked back into that tangled web he had woven all those years ago. I couldn’t go back there; I wouldn’t.

“Charlotte,” Uncle Hank said, grabbing my arm to stop me, to hold me there. He was close enough I could smell the whiskey thick on his breath.

I tried not to panic, not to show him how angry I was.

“She’s not dead,” I said firmly. “She left us. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. You have to accept that and move on. The rest of us have.”

I tried to shrug off his grasp, but his fingers only gripped my forearm more tightly. I winced.

“Listen,” Uncle Hank started up again. “I know what you must think of your mom, considering the story you’ve been told—”

“Story?” I said. “I’ve seen the bank tapes, Uncle Hank. The whole damn world has seen the bank tapes.”

I couldn’t help but think that every moment of that last month with her had been a lie. Every time she tucked me in at night or drew my bath or sliced up the strawberries to put on my morning oatmeal, she must have known she was going to leave me.

“That’s not—that’s not what you think,” Uncle Hank said. “Grace would never do that—leave you and Seraphina like that. She loved you more than anything in the world. It’s not what it looks like. It’s not what you’ve been told.”

“Let go of me,” I said. “You’re hurting me.”

Uncle Hank looked down at his hand on my arm and seemed almost shocked to find it there. He let go of me.

“You need to see this,” Uncle Hank said. As he grabbed for the bag that he had slung over his shoulder, I contemplated making a run for it. Now that I had caught my breath, maybe I could make it to the safety of the dormitory. But what if I didn’t make it, and my running away provoked him further? He’d said he wouldn’t hurt me, and maybe he wouldn’t mean to, but he was so much bigger than me, and so desperate, and, frankly, kind of crazy. Who knew what he was capable of?

While I was still debating what to do, Uncle Hank handed me a manila envelope.

“What is that?” I asked.