Dark Water: A Siren Novel (28 page)

“The restaurant’s security cameras caught the guy who delivered the necklace. It’s not a clear shot, but Paige has a guess that she thinks you can confirm.”

As this sunk in, I crossed my arms over my stomach and turned away.

“Vanessa, this is good news.” Simon stood next to me. “It’s
not an ideal way to spend the afternoon, and believe me, I’d like nothing more than to pick up right where we left off a few minutes ago. But if we know who delivered the necklace, we probably know who’s sending the e-mails—and doing everything else. The sooner we have that information, the sooner we can stop them and move on. Forever.”

He was right, of course. About everything, minus the very last part.

Regardless of what happened after we watched the security footage, or if we found out who killed Carla and Erica and stopped them tonight, I’d never move on. Simon and I … would
never
move on. Charlotte had confirmed that last night.

But I couldn’t feel sorry for myself now. There wasn’t enough time for much else, but there’d be plenty of time for that later.

“Okay,” I said, my eyes fixed on the harbor in the distance. “Let’s go.”

Simon took the lead down the mountain. I wasn’t in as big a hurry to get to the bottom as I’d been to get to the top, and I was also moving slower. My body felt sluggish, like my sneakers were weighted down with some of the rocks we’d just left. If Simon were someone else, someone who hadn’t fallen in love with me before I’d transformed, our latest make-out session would energize me so much I could fly down the trail. Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

The thought was so upsetting, I forced it from my mind and tried to focus on the task ahead.

When Simon offered to drive as we neared the Jeep parked
on the side of the road, I assured him I was fine and got behind the wheel. We didn’t talk as we headed back to town, but the trip passed too quickly anyway. Before long, we were pulling into the Chowder House parking lot—which was nearly full.

“In that sense, I guess the night was a success,” Simon said, as I found an empty spot in the staff parking area.

He reached for my hand when we got out of the Jeep. We’d just started up the steps leading to the kitchen door when Paige leaned over the railing of the employee break deck and called down to us.

“Sorry to break up the lovefest … but you guys definitely want to see this.”

Simon and I exchanged looks. He released my hand to hold open the door.

“We know him,” Paige said, as we stepped onto the deck. She sat in front of a laptop, Caleb on one side, Natalie on the other. “I couldn’t tell you how, exactly … but I know we know him.”

Natalie smiled at us, then leaned closer to the computer screen. I glanced at Simon, whose brows were furrowed, his eyes narrowed in confusion. I knew he wondered the same thing I did.

What was she doing here?

Paige turned the laptop around so it faced us. “What do you think?”

We’d have to worry about Natalie later. Now we hurried to the table and studied the black-and-white footage. It was from
the camera located above the restaurant’s main entrance and showed various fishermen on the porch, talking, smoking, and laughing. Ten seconds in, a guy emerged from the shadows the camera didn’t reach. He wore jeans, a cargo jacket, and a baseball cap. His head was lowered and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. A lumpy package was tucked under one arm. His stride was quick, purposeful.

“How can you tell that we know him?” I asked. “His face is hidden.”

But then he bumped into one of the other men on the porch, who appeared to bark something in response. Our stalker turned toward the man, and for a split second, the camera caught his side profile.

“Let’s go back.” Simon leaned forward and ran his thumb across the computer’s track pad. “We can freeze the frame for a better look.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We don’t have to.”

Because Paige was right. We knew the stalker.
I
knew the stalker. And I’d spent enough time with him that a split second was all I needed to identify him.

He was Colin. The realtor’s son.

I opened my mouth to share this just as my cell phone rang. It was a long, old-fashioned ring, like the kind Dad’s office phone back in Boston still made. The sound was comforting, familiar—which was why I’d assigned it to our new beach-house number.

“Sorry,” I said, taking my phone from shorts pocket, where
I’d stowed it for easy access before hiking back down the mountain. “That’s my parents. I better take it.”

Grateful for the excuse to process what I’d just seen, I turned away and walked to the balcony railing.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Vanessa, it’s me.” Mom’s voice was tight with worry. “You need to come home now. Please.”

Before I could ask why, Charlotte’s voice filled my head.

Take care, my dear, sweet Vanessa
.

I know you’re strong … now you just need to decide what it really means to be brave
.

C
HAPTER 21
 

“H
ONEY, TRUST ME,”
Mom said. “You don’t want to go in there.”

She stood before the guest room door, clutching a crumpled tissue. I stepped to one side, then the other. She copied my movement as if her body were a wall I couldn’t break through.

“Yes, I do.” My voice was calm. Even.

“Vanessa,” Dad said quietly, touching my arm. “She doesn’t … that is, she’s not … you don’t know how …”

His voice wavered, then trailed off. His head dropped and he pushed up his glasses with his pointer finger and thumb. He pressed into the corners of his eyes, but the tears managed to slip through anyway.

“She looks different from what you remember.” Mom’s eyes watered, too, but she gave Dad her tissue.

“I just saw her last night,” I said. “And I don’t care how bad it is. I’m sure I’ve seen worse over the past year.”

Mom blinked, sending a fresh stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. “That’s all the more reason not to go inside.”

“You called me fifteen minutes ago and said I needed to come home right away. I assume so I could see her. What changed between then and now?”

Dad released a long, shaky breath and looked up. “A lot.”

Mom reached forward and brushed my hair off my face. “Why don’t you go lie down for a while? Your father and I will handle the situation.”

I looked away. I hadn’t seen her this sad since last summer and thought I might start crying, too. And if I was going to convince them I was emotionally sound enough to see whatever lay on the other side of that door, I had to hold it together.

The doorbell rang. Mom sniffed, stood up straight, and tugged on the hem of her blouse. I didn’t watch it happen, but I knew her eyes told Dad that he’d better restrain me in her absence.

“Charlotte asked that you not see her like this,” he said, when Mom was gone.

“Charlotte had her way for eighteen years.” I looked up. Our eyes locked. “I think that’s long enough.”

“You’re upset. Don’t let your emotions make you do something you’ll regret later.”

And with that, I’d had enough of other people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.

“I’m going in.” I stepped toward the door. “When I’m ready to come out, I will.”

He held my gaze for a second more. A sharp pang pierced my chest—I knew he was in pain, too—and I worried I might lose my nerve. But then he nodded and shuffled toward an armchair down the hall.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

I waited until he was seated and then faced the door. I put one hand carefully on the knob, expecting the metal to be either so hot or cold, it scalded my skin … but it felt cool. Normal. Strangely reassured, I gripped it tighter, turned, and pushed.

The stench engulfed me instantly. It was a mixture of salt, rotting fish, and decaying flesh, and it was so thick, I could feel it weaving around my limbs, entering my pores.

Gagging, I covered my mouth with one hand and clutched my stomach with the other. If Dad wasn’t sitting ten feet away, I’d yank the door shut and bolt for the nearest exit. Since he was, I stifled my shock and forced my feet across the threshold, closing the door behind me.

The air inside the room was still. Heavy. Warm. Perhaps in an unconscious effort to avoid the bed, I looked to the windows, which were closed. Keeping one hand clamped over my nose and mouth, I hurried across the room. When I needed both hands to throw up the glass, I reluctantly released my face. I held my breath until I felt the cool ocean breeze on my face, then I closed my eyes, pressed both palms to the screen above the same window seat I’d sat on while talking to Charlotte only hours before, and inhaled.

The nausea passed a moment later. I opened my eyes and
watched the waves rolling onshore. I didn’t realize it right away, but I wasn’t simply stalling; I was listening. For Charlotte to tell me that everything was okay, that
she
was okay.

But she didn’t. I heard only the rush of water.

I turned slowly, keeping my gaze averted until I faced the bed. From here, everything looked fine. The wood floor shone. Charlotte’s fuzzy white slippers sat before the nightstand, as they had last night. The sheet hung at an angle, crisp and new.

Maybe there’s been a mistake
, I thought, as I raised my eyes.
Maybe she’s just sleeping, or too weak to communicate. If I bring her some water, or soak her blankets in salt water, maybe …

My mind fell silent. There was no mistake. The sheet was pulled over a long, thin, unmoving figure. Her chest didn’t rise and fall. The cotton didn’t lift where it covered her mouth as she breathed. When I stepped toward the bed, her head didn’t turn toward me.

My last hope was that it was someone else—and not the woman who’d given me life—lying there. Because the figure seemed too slender to be Charlotte.

There was only one way to know for sure. Remembering what she’d said about being brave, I took another step toward the bed. And another, and another. Then, careful not to nudge her slippers with my feet, I leaned forward, pressed the corner of the sheet between two fingers, and pulled.

A blizzard of white flakes filled the room.

“No.” I fell back. Reached for the sheet and missed. “No, no, no!”

Despite the floating white flecks clouding my vision, I could tell immediately that it was Charlotte. She had the same long white hair, the same blue-green eyes. She wore dark jeans, a short-sleeved blouse, and jewelry, like she’d been getting ready to go out when she fell suddenly ill. And given how she’d planned to leave today despite being so sick last night, maybe she had.

But her skin was gray. It cracked and peeled, exposing dried flesh, muscle, and in some places, bone. Her lips were gone, her nose sunken. Her right foot was bare and split across the middle so that the top of her foot flapped over, and the backs of her toes pressed against her heel.

There was no blood, though. Her body was completely dry. She looked like she’d been lying there, dead and unattended, for months. Maybe years.

Except she’d still been alive when Mom called. Which meant she hadn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes.

The breeze shifted. As the air streamed through the open windows, it spun the white flakes. They swirled around me, coating my hair, my clothes, my face.

It wasn’t until I brushed them off my mouth that I realized what they were.

They were pieces of Charlotte. And they were everywhere.

I cried out, ran for the bathroom, threw the door shut. I ran to the sink, turned on the water, and scrubbed my face. I jumped up and down and shook out my clothes and hair. Still feeling her on me, I kept scrubbing and moving long after
the last flakes had settled on the tile floor. Finally, exhausted, I lowered myself to the edge of the tub.

You’re not alone, Vanessa.…

I looked up. The voice was familiar. Too shaken to know if I’d heard it out loud or inside my head, I held my breath as I waited for more. A soft scraping sound came from the other room; I stood and walked slowly to the door.

“Betty?”

She sat in a chair in the corner of the room, her hands folded in her lap, her lightly clouded eyes aimed at me. Oliver stood between the bed and window seat, sweeping the fallen death dust into a neat pile. When I stepped into the room, he paused to give me a sad smile before continuing.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” Betty said.

I nodded. Then, remembering she might not be able to see me, I said, “Thank you.” As I leaned against the dresser, I noticed that the sheet had been pulled back over Charlotte’s face. “Did my parents call you?”

“Yes, but I was already on my way. Charlotte had reached out earlier and asked me to check on you.”

“Did she say she was … did you know that she …?”

“Was dying?” Betty frowned. “Yes.”

“Do you know why? I mean, she seemed pretty weak when she got here a few weeks ago, but not to the point that … this … seemed possible.”

Betty’s head turned toward Oliver. He glanced up when she didn’t respond, saw her looking at him, and rested the broom
against the wall. He squeezed my arm on his way to the bedroom door, which he opened and closed gently behind him.