Page 8

8

D amien and I walk in silence down the path that leads from the cottage to the beach. The sound of our footsteps marks our progress, and the distant music of the ocean lapping onto the beach is leading us to our goal.

“Are you going to tell me?”

Damien’s words are soft, full of genuine concern.

“Tell you what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“You’ve been quiet all morning. Are you feeling okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” My stomach twists at the lie. But how can I tell him the truth? What I saw in the journal last night. The whispers I heard once I’d slid into bed. The scent of an unfamiliar perfume that hung heavy in the air, raw and cloying?

There’s something wrong with me .

And I can’t tell Damien. I can’t say a word.

You can. You have to.

I push the small voice down, telling myself I just need a little more time. I need to figure a few things out. Once I have answers, that’s when I can talk to Damien.

The fingers of my right hand stroke the snake bracelet I’m wearing on my left wrist, the motion calming me. I tense when Damien takes my hand, breaking that connection.

“What?” The word is sharp, almost a snap.

His brow furrows. “I’m worried about you. You don’t seem fine.”

Get it together. Get it together for him.

I draw a breath, then tilt my head and offer him my best smile. "It’s nothing. Really. Just...weird dreams.” I start to tell him about the December 12 journal entry. About how it changed after I read it. About Basil and what I think he did to Vivien. About what maybe he’s doing—

No .

I shake my head, trying to clear the wild thoughts as the bracelet grows warm around my wrist. I’m just tired. That’s all. Strange stories and not enough sleep. A terrible combination.

Damien takes my elbow and tugs me to a stop, his eyes searching mine. “Your dreams. How are they weird?”

I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t even remember. I just didn’t sleep well.”

“No,” he says. “You definitely didn’t.”

I frown, more in response to his concerned tone than his actual words. “What are you talking about?”

“You were sleepwalking last night. Do you remember?”

“I—what? No, I wasn’t.”

“No?” He looks almost amused.

“I’ve never walked in my sleep. Not ever.”

“That you know of.”

“I was awake when I got out of bed, Damien. I couldn’t sleep, so I went into the living room.”

“Maybe so,” he says. “I was asleep when you left the bed. But I saw you come back. I spoke to you. You just slipped into bed, said something about cooking, then rolled on your side and started snoring.”

I bristle, not sure if I’m more annoyed by the allegation of sleepwalking or of snoring.

“What did you do in the living room?”

I frown. “I just read a little.” I don’t mention that I was reading the journal.

“What exactly did you read right before you came back to bed?”

“I—” I cut myself off, toying with the snake bracelet as I try to remember. I’d read the mundane journal entry about the costume fittings. But then it had changed. Then the entry was about Basil.

And try as I might, I don’t remember getting back into bed beside Damien.

Relief floods through me. I’m not crazy.

I laugh out loud. I’m not crazy, and the journal isn’t possessed.

I was dreaming. Of course, I was dreaming. That’s why the words on the page changed—because they only changed in my dream.

I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “Apparently, your wife sleepwalks.”

He cups my cheek. “Apparently, she does.”

“It’s probably because of the house. Unfamiliar. The bogeyman. All that jazz.” I slide his hand from my cheek to my lips, then kiss his palm. “But I have you to look out for me.”

“Always,” he says, the word so full of love I feel tears prick my eyes.

“We should get going.” I nod to indicate that we’ve stopped on the path. “I’m kind of starving. Those late-night walks work up an appetite.”

He laughs, the worry fading a bit from his face. And when it does, something inside me cries out. Screaming that he’s wrong to be soothed. That we both are. Because everything is off—is wrong.

But the words won’t come. Instead, I hear a little mantra in my mind— it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine. And so I force my worries back, then twine my fingers with his as we hurry the rest of the way to the beach and the dock where The Veronica is moored.

Sylvia spots us right away, rising from her seat at the pretty picnic table on the beach. “I was beginning to think you got lost."

“We’re three minutes late,” Damien says, glancing at his watch.

“The great Damien Stark? I thought he was never late for an appointment.” She grins as she hurries toward us, then hugs us both in turn.

“Where’s Jackson?” I don’t have to ask about the kids—I can easily see Ronnie and Jeffery playing in the surf.

“In the galley.” She nods toward the boat. “Playing chef.”

Damien chuckles. “That’s something I want to see,” he says, then kisses my forehead before heading toward the boat.

I take a seat across from Sylvia, who’s already half into a mimosa. She pours one for me, and I take a sip, relishing the bubbles and, frankly, looking forward to getting buzzed. Maybe even drunk.

Anything to forget.

Sylvia props her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands as she leans forward to study me. “Okay, tell. What’s wrong?”

I take a long swallow, downing the mimosa. “It’s just...weird stuff at the house.”

“Oh! So it is haunted!” She leans forward. “Creaky floorboards? Flickering lights? Full-on poltergeist? Tell me everything.”

Despite myself, I laugh. "Nothing so dramatic. Just—it’s hard to explain. Weird vibes,” I say, realizing as I speak that I feel more like myself now. Was it all my imagination last night?

“A house with a vibe. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Yeah, well, I also thought I saw something in the mirror last night.”

“Something?”

I pick up the pitcher and refill my mimosa, then take another long swallow. “Vivien.”

Her brows shoot up. “Wait. What?”

“She was bleeding.” I stifle a shiver. “It was … well, it really freaked me out.”

“Hell, yeah, it did.” She lowers her voice. “What did Damien say?”

I shift my gaze to the boat, then back to Syl. “I don’t think he believes me.”

Saying that out loud is a relief. More than that, I think it explains the weird tightness growing inside me since yesterday. An irritated itchiness. A sense of something not being right.

And no matter what he may think, Damien’s not making it better for me. Anger bubbles up, cold and hard. He’s not making it better at all. Not the way he’s supposed to. Instead, he’s just humoring me. And what the hell does he—

“Nik?”

I jump, then glance around, getting my bearings. The beach. The boat. The picnic table.

“Sorry. Mind wandering.” But I don’t meet Syl’s eyes. Instead, I look into my flute so she won’t see the confusion in mine. Because for a moment, I wasn’t here. I was back in the house. I was standing in that living room. And I was making plans to get what I need from Damien.

To get what I deserve.

The thought spins unanchored in my head, and I stand up, then pace behind my chair, idly stroking the snake bracelet.

“You’re freaking me out.”

“It’s not me,” I say, forcing the words out. “It’s the house.”

“You truly think it’s haunted?”

The words seem to hang on the wind.

Yes , I want to say. Yes, dammit, and help me. I want to tell her about my fears. About the journal and Vivien and Basil. But I only laugh and shake my head. “No, of course not. It’s just…” I trail off, then shrug. “It’s just a good story.”

Sylvia doesn’t laugh. Instead, she leans back, her expression thoughtful. “What if you’re wrong?”

I bristle. But I also lean in, intrigued by both her words and her tone. “How do you mean?”

She shrugs, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “It’s just … I don’t know. But, well, if any house is going to hold onto something, it’s that one. The fame. The violence. It’s like you walked into a Blumhouse script.”

I’d lifted my mimosa, but now I put it down without taking a sip. “So you really do think it’s haunted?” Something unpleasant spins in my gut. That half-sick feeling you get when a secret is accidentally spilled.

“I’m just saying that houses carry energy. And Vivien’s life—and death—had plenty of it.”

I glance toward the beach. I hadn’t seen Damien leave the boat, but he’s with the kids now, helping them build a sandcastle. Their laughter dances on the wind, and I can’t help but smile.

I turn to Syl, realizing I know exactly what to say. “It’s just my imagination,” I tell her. “Don’t let my goofiness make you paranoid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, of course, it’s not really haunted. You’re probably just feeling a little weird since it used to be your favorite star’s home.”

“And she was murdered there,” I add, as fingers of ice seem to tickle my spine. “It’s not haunted…”

“But maybe a little tainted?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s it.” But that’s not it. Because how can I tell her that I feel more than just history in that house?

I should tell her.

I should tell Damien.

I should tell someone.

But the little voice inside me says no. The voice that I think came with me from the house.

“Come fill your plates!” Jackson’s voice booms out from the boat, and I glance toward the water, where Damien waves in acknowledgment before racing his nephew to the boat while Ronnie looks on and laughs.

I start to stand, but Sylvia grabs my hand across the table, keeping me down. “Let them go first,” she says. “I want—well, it’s probably silly, but I want to give you something. Or, well, lend it to you, anyway. At least while we’re on the island.”

“Um, okay.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

She reaches up, then fiddles with something behind her neck. For the first time, I notice the delicate silver chain upon which I assume a pendant is hanging, now hidden beneath her tank top. She pulls the chain free, revealing a small, silver crucifix that I recognize immediately.

“How on earth did you get that?” It was Vivien Lorraine’s crucifix, and Syl had bid on it at the auction, but lost.

Syl casts a sideways glance toward the boat. “Jackson wanted to surprise me with something I wanted, but since it was an auction, he decided to hire someone to bid on whatever I bid on.”

I laugh. “In other words, he paid way more than he needed to.”

Delight dances in her eyes. “He said it was worth it to surprise me. That, and all the money’s going to a good cause.”

“Well, that’s true. But—wait a second,” I say, recoiling as she extends the necklace to me. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not from a movie,” she says. “It was Vivien’s when she was a little girl. The story is that her mother gave it to her on her deathbed and told Vivien it would protect her. She lost it not long after she moved to Catalina—or she thought she did. It was found in Carlton’s safe deposit box after his death.”

I frown. “He took it from her?”

“I don’t know. But everyone says she wore it every day after her mother died until they moved here.” Her eyes meet mine. “Until she moved into that house.”

The house didn’t want it. The house made Carlton take it away.

I push back, shocked by the force of the words in my head.

“Nik?”

I shake my head, fighting the urge to recoil from the thing. “I can’t take that. Jackson got it for you.”

“Just a loan. Just while you’re on the island.” She meets my eyes. “Please. I can’t explain it. I just—I just really want you to wear it.”

I want to wear it, too, but somehow I can’t seem to reach for it.

And that makes me want it all the more.

“Nik?”

“I—” I’m fighting for the words. Wanting the necklace. Hating the necklace.

Needing the necklace.

“I have a terrible time with those kinds of catches.” I swallow, then meet her eyes. “Can you put it on me?”

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Sure.” I watch her walk around the table, a sense of dread building. Fear that she won’t be able to manage. Fear that she’ll drop it. That it will somehow end up in the surf, washed away, never to be found.

But then her fingers touch my neck, and I feel the cool metal on my skin, then the weight of the pendant as it tugs the chain down once she’s fastened it.

Vivien’s crucifix. Her totem. Her protection.

Relief washes. Over me. It’s mine now.

But some small voice inside my head only laughs, and tells me that it’s come too late to do any good at all.