Page 32 of On Edge

This is a lot for me.

The lawn, uneven and clover-strewn, pitted with rocks and scattered dandelions, stretches out to a low stone wall with steps that vanish into a dark line of trees. Two stone swans sit on either side of them, watching me like sentinels.

Quickly, I check my phone, but it doesn’t have any reception, even out here. Tugging my cardigan tighter, I shove my phone into my dress pocket and then take a walk. My dress isn’t warm enough to be out here for long, but this is all I have.

At least, it’s not raining.

The stone staircase is hidden behind thick ivy, just as Mundel said it would be, but the climb is daunting, with steps that are mossy and worn. One wrong move might send me to my death.Be careful,the birds seem to chirp happily at me.

At the top, the parapet narrows to a crumbling terrace, one side dropping sheer to the rocks below. This is so very dangerous, but all is forgotten when the view steals my breath. Below, the glades stretch for miles, sky blazing purple and white, clouds reflecting off the lake like spun sugar. The remaining tower stands at the far end of the terrace along a narrow catwalk. I edge along the slippery stone, gripping the wall, forcing myself not to look down. But the door is locked when I get there, its padlock rusted, with a heavy chain around it.

The lock has a swan burnt into it. I thumb the etching, and then look through the barred window. I glimpse a spiral staircase winding up into darkness. Something moves in the shadow.

I jerk back.

It’s just a bird.

But my stomach twists as if it’s remembering something my mind refuses to. Just standing here on the catwalk, with the wind buffeting me, makes me anxious. Immediately, I want to run back down the steps to have solid ground beneath me. But that would feel too much like giving up. I came up here for answers. Not to run from ghosts.

I rattle the lock a few times too, for good measure, but it holds firm. No. This is as far as I go. Next time I come here, I need to bring bolt cutters.

Sighing, I pull out my phone. There’s one flickering bar of signal. Moving to the highest point near the tower, I stand on tiptoes, angling toward the sky until the signal strengthens. Then I dial Laine’s number, my hands trembling…either from cold or desperation to hear her voice, I’m not sure.

“Sage! Thank god, where are you?” she exclaims when she hears my voice.

“I’m at Grayfleet.”

“Where?”

The wind is loud, so I try to be louder, placing a hand over my other ear. “Severin’s house!”

“Severin, your fiancé? Are you okay? Did you…”

She’s asking if I’ve killed him yet. “I’m fine. And no, he’s still very much upright.” And brooding at me.

“Oh, right. We haven’t…heard from you…weeks. Nola’s…worried sick.” Her voice crackles down the line.

I doubt Nola is worried about me. She’d much rather I grow a backbone. But still, I’ve really missed Laine’s easy supportandNola telling me constantly that I’m in over my head.

It’s hard to believe that I only met them both over a year ago, right after I was discharged from the clinic, when it felt like my life was falling apart. Losing Nell was like losing half my mind. I needed an anchor then, still do, something that felt safe and mine alone. That’s when I found a trauma group online, Stronger Together, and then later convinced my mum to let me go in person, to their church meetings.

Laine and Nola, who had both lost people they loved and parts of themselves, too, had just joined. We instantly connected. It felt like finding my family. And for the first time, after telling them my deepest and darkest secrets, I didn’t look in the mirror and see cracks and broken parts of myself staring back. I saw a tiny spark of hope.

And when Nola asked what I would do to make it all better, if it were legal, I didn’t hesitate. I would kill Troy Severin, the man who took my sister from me. She didn’t look at me funny like I expected her to. All she said was that if I really wanted to go through with it, I should, and then handed me her address.

Instead of going to the church the week after, I went to Nola’s mismatched house to plot.

Laine came the next week, and our murder pact was born.

Only…

I’ve yet to kill anyone.

There’s line static, and then—“Sage?”

“I’m here, sorry. I just…needed to hear your voice.” Desperation stings the back of my throat.

“Oh, Sage, of course. We’re here. Always. Hell, we’ll even hand you the knife. Just say the word.”