“Hey,” a beer-laced voice interjects from my left. Its owner is a ruddy-cheeked man in faded flannel. He’s holding a Bud Lite that I very much doubt is his first. Or fifth. “You look familiar, kid. I know you from somewhere?”
Here we go.
“Doubtful,” I say flatly.
“No, no, I’m sure of it.” The man peers closer at my face, trying to get a better look at me. “Wait, I know! You’re that hotshot pitcher, aren’t you? From Exeter Academy.”
“You’re mistaken,” I mutter around a mouthful of whiskey.
The man is undeterred. “My son plays for Gloucester High. He’s total shit — boy can barely catch a ball — but I try to make it to all his games. Boring, mostly. Not that Exeter-Gloucester game last season, though. The way you threw… Never seen anything like it! Thought I was watching the next Roger Clemens.”
Something is beginning to bubble up inside me, fierce enough to disturb the deep waters of indifference I’ve been drowning in for the past year. Something that makes my pulse pick up speed, the breath catch in my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything at all, it takes me a moment to name the emotion.
Rage.
Pure, undiluted. It ripples outward from my chest into my limbs. My fingers tighten around my glass, clenching so hard I’m worried it might shatter as I lift it to my lips and drain the rest of its contents in one large gulp.
“So what happened, huh?” The man is still peering at me, oblivious to the sudden anger stirring my blood. “You playing college ball, now?”
I cough as the alcohol slams into my stomach, eyes stinging. Setting the empty glass on the bar, I push back my stool and lurch to my feet. With a farewell nod to Harvey, I toss down a few bills and turn for the door.
“Hey! Where are you going, kid?”
I ignore the man’s slurred calls as I step outside, into the alley. Warm early evening air envelops me, thick with humidity. Squinting against the sudden brightness, I make my way down the docks toward town, trying to calm the storm inside me with each step. But the rage will not quiet — not as I climb the stairs to my crappy harborside apartment. Not as I flop down onto a creaky metal frame and listen to the sound of my neighbors screaming through the floorboards. Not as I stare at the ugly mess of my right wrist, angry red scars crisscrossing the flesh like the outlets of a river delta.
I press my eyes closed to shut out the sight. But the damage lingers even in the darkness. It swims beneath my skin, poison in my bloodstream. Some nights, I find myself wishing that poison was strong enough to put me out of my misery; to release me from the pathetic existence I eke out day after day after day.
I’m not suicidal.
I don’t seek out death with any sort of real intention.
But that’s not to say I wouldn’t welcome it with open arms.
What use is living on when all your dreams have died?
THREE
josephine
The buzzof the outer gate wakes me with a start.
Blinking, I groan as midday sunshine slants straight into my eyes through the window of my childhood bedroom. After a night of tossing and turning, I feel as if I slept only seconds before my rude awakening. Not nearly enough to stave off the jet-lag still infusing my limbs with lead. My bodily clock is six hours out of sync.
The gate alarm sounds again — an insistent buzz, demanding entry.
Who the hell is at my door?I can’t help wondering as I push back my duvet with a frustrated shove.No one even knows I’m back on this continent.
Yawning wide, I slide out of bed and make my way downstairs. The dust is so thick on the floors, I leave a trail of footprints all the way to the atrium, like bare feet in fresh snow. I’ll have to do something about the filthy state of this place once I’m thoroughly caffeinated.
When I reach the front door, I toggle on the exterior gate camera. An unfamiliar woman with gray hair pulled back in a neat bun is staring at me through the fisheye lens. I know she can’t see me, but her shrewd gaze makes my spine straighten regardless. I tug the bottom hem of my oversized sleep shirt a bit more firmly over my exposed butt-cheeks before I activate the intercom.
“Um. Yes?”
Her throat clears. “Miss Valentine, I presume?”
“Can I help you with something?”
“My name is Mrs. Agatha Weatherby Granger. I’ve been hired on by your parents as the new housekeeper at Cormorant House.”