JOSEPHINE
I can’t sleep.
My thoughts roar too loudly to ignore, clanging around inside my head like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. For hours, I toss and turn in my bed, agonizing over my fight with Archer. Wondering if he’s staring up at his own ceiling right now, going over it a million times inside his head.
Wondering if he even cares at all.
It’s late — past midnight — when I’m forced to concede that no matter how long I lie here, I’ll never be able to quiet my mind enough to sleep. Shoving back the thick duvet, I slip out of bed. I don’t bother turning on any lights as I slide my feet into flip flops. Moving into the hallway, I make sure to grab my favorite hoodie off its hook by the door.
My lips twist in amusement at the words printed across the front in all-caps.GREEN MONSTAH— an homage to Fenway Park’s most notorious feature. I pilfered the ridiculous garment from the box of old clothes Flora sorted together for donation last summer. A reject from Archer’s closet. I figured nobody would notice if it suddenly appeared in mine.
When I tug the sweatshirt on over my pajama set, it falls past the hem of my shorts, midway down my bare thighs. It doesn’t smell like Archer anymore, but the feeling of my arms inside his sleeves somehow makes me feel closer to him.
This time of night, Cormorant House is dark and totally silent. With my parents in Zambia and the Reyeses sleeping soundly a whole acre away, I am completely alone in the drafty mansion. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I move along the hallway, down the grand staircase, across the vaulted atrium.
When I slip silently out the side door onto the stone terrace, I shiver as the crisp night air wraps me in its dark embrace. I’m glad I grabbed the sweatshirt. It may be almost June, but Massachusetts has not yet yielded fully to summer heat.
The manicured lawn is lit by moonlight as I make my way down the sloping gravel path. The sound of lapping waves grows louder with each step. I round a bend and the stone boathouse comes into view, silhouetted against a backdrop of ocean. Beside it, the dock juts out into the inky waters of the cove. Cupid is a mere shadow at the far end, bobbing against her lines, her mast swaying slightly with each swell.
The boathouse is my favorite spot on the property. An architectural feat, half its foundation is embedded in the rocky shore while the other half hangs out over the water. The arched entryway is just high enough to drive a small boat beneath. My father’s 29-foot Hinkley fits perfectly at the interior slip, sheltered from the elements in his absence.
The boathouse was built back in the 1800s, along with the rest of the estate. Not much about it has changed in all the years since. Except for a few necessary modern upgrades — lights to illuminate the dock, some electrical outlets — it looks like a relic straight out of some Newport high society period piece. No furniture, no running water. No heat or air conditioning. Just stone walls and exposed wood beams.
And the rafters, of course.
Archer and I discovered the lofted space by accident, ages ago. Accessible via a rickety ladder bolted to the back wall, it’s used mainly for storage — a set of Cupid’s extra sails, seat cushions for the Hinckley, spare engine parts, a few cans of paint. Between the boxes of tools and various equipment, there’s just enough space for two people to sit, legs dangling over the edge, and watch the sun set slowly over the cove, turning blue shallows to an orange-pink masterpiece.
It’s become our secret spot. A hidden clubhouse of sorts. As we got older, on the rare occasions my parents were home or visiting relatives required my full attention, we’d leave messages for each other there, staying in touch even when we couldn’t hang out in person. As the years passed by, small items found their way up into the rafters, an eclectic accumulation of items stolen from the main house.
An old camping lantern to light the dark. A wool blanket for cold nights. A stack of books. A set of perfectly good pillows my parents put out to the curb approximately six minutes after purchase, convinced they didn’t match their new sofa.
I step into the stone boathouse, moving almost on autopilot. It’s pitch black inside, but my feet know the way. Past the Hinkley, floating in its slip. Along the interior wall. Grope until I find the ladder rungs.
Up.
Up.
Up.
One foot after another.
At the top, I heave myself through the gap and scamper into the loft on all fours. I don’t bother getting to my feet — the sloped roof is quite low in this section. Hands extended in front of me, I crawl my way toward the front of the rafters, where I know the lantern waits.
All around me, boxes of boat supplies are shadowy outlines in the darkness. If you stare at them long enough, your eyes start to trick you into thinking they look a bit like someone standing there, watching you. They don’t freak me out anymore. I’ve spent so many nights up here, I know every square inch of the place. The precise location of each humanlike coatrack and imposter mop handle. Which is probably why it’s such a goddamned shock when I move forward and my palm lands not on wood flooring, but something soft.
Squishy.
Alive.
The monster grunts as my hand slams into it. I scream and reel backward, but there’s nowhere to go. My back bumps into a crate, sending loose tools rattling in all directions. My heart, suddenly pounding twice its normal speed, is lodged so firmly inside my throat, I can’t even scream.
Panicked, I try to stand. To run. To get away from this horrid creature, at any cost. Instead, as I find my feet, my head bonks against something harder than a rock. I think it might be a skull.
The monster lets out another painful grunt as we collide. I’m not sure how it happens — I can’t see a freaking thing — but one of us trips over something and we both go down, our limbs tangled together like wisteria vines. I end up on top, the full brunt of my body landing hard enough to knock the wind out of my own lungs. Probably his as well, given the way he wheezes.
When I try to wriggle away, two arms wrap around my body like bands of iron, pinning me in place. Instantly, I’m rendered immobile. Pressed so close against him, I can feel every angry exhale of his chest, every furious pant against my lips. His features are still in shadow, impossible to make out clearly.
“What the hell!” the monster growls beneath me, sounding pissed as hell… and, it must be said, remarkably familiar.