He lost the battle against his tears. They streaked down his cheeks in a torrent, relentless. I got out of my chair, moved around the table to his side, and yanked him into a tight hug.
“Shhh.” I breathed against the messy brown curls at the top of his head. “It’s all going to be okay, honey. But I need you to be brave. I need you to tell me the truth about what happened that night. I know you’re scared of getting in trouble. But wherever Rory is right now, he’s scared too. He wants to come home. And you can help him do that.”
“O-okay.” He hiccupped violently. His whole body jerked with the force of it. “Okay, Imogen. I’ll tell you.”
* * *
Three hours later, Gigi and I sat side-by-side on stools at Gwen’s kitchen island, watching intently as Sally demonstrated the crucial twelfth step in her raspberry cheesecake recipe. (Steps one through eleven had also been crucial, for the record.)
At Gwen’s insistence, we’d driven over an hour ago in Georgia’s sporty hatchback for lunch with “the girls.” I was expecting Florence. I was not expecting Sally and Agatha. Yet, there they were — Sally at the stove, Agatha embroiled in a marathon round of canasta with Flo in the living room.
I was on edge. I’d been on edge since my vision and only grown edgier afterward, when I talked to Cade about what I’d seen. His mouth was no more than a flat line by the time I finished speaking.
“If Rory followed the older kids to the woods that night,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “We’ve been looking in the wrong fucking place.”
He’d left soon after, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before he strode through the door. I’d kept Gigi company for a while in the reception area. Technically, she wasn’t on the clock, but she said sitting at her desk was the only thing in her life that felt remotely normal, anymore. Her mother and sister were there too, staying in rooms on the third floor. Like Gigi, they were kind and welcoming, with foxlike features and shiny brown hair. (Unlike Gigi, they did not have a goofy sense of humor or a proclivity for homemade limoncello.) When Gwen called, they’d happily taken over the front desk duties, rushing Gigi out the door with promises to look after Declan and any guests who wandered in.
I’d said goodbye to Declan before I left, barely getting a response. He’d descended again into a pit of grief and guilt. I feared he’d be stuck there forever if we didn’t bring his brother home soon.
Even after we got in the car and drove away, my thoughts had returned again and again to the vision. Something about the scene in the woods was nagging at me, like a loose thread that begged to be tugged and tugged until the whole sweater unraveled. I had the strangest sense that I was missing something, here.
Something huge.
Something important.
I just couldn’t put my finger on what.
“Imogen, sugar, you’re not listening to me,” Sally chastised, calling me back to the present. “You’ll end up with lumpy preserve if you don’t whisk it right.”
“Sorry.” I exhaled sharply, then shifted my focus to her. “I’m just distracted.”
“What’s on your mind?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure this was the right topic of conversation. Georgia was sitting right beside me. Then again, Sally was a practicing Wiccan. And she’d lived in Salem for decades. If anyone would know about the legend…
“Spit it out,” Sally said, pointing her wooden spoon at me. The tip was stained red with raspberries. “No point teaching you my secret recipe if you aren’t able to learn it. The sooner you unload, the sooner we’re back to the truly important matters. Cheesecake, for instance.”
“Of course,” Gigi said, snorting softly. “Life’s one true purpose.”
I shot her a quick smile, then went for it. “It’s kind of an odd question.”
“My favorite kind.” Sally’s eyes twinkled. “Go on.”
“I was wondering if you’d ever heard of a local legend about a witch…”
“Lots of witches in Salem’s history,” she said wryly. “You’ll have to be a wee bit more specific, dear.”
“Right.” Color hit my cheeks. “Um… well, the one I’m referring to is called The Witch of Salem Wood. Have you heard of her?”
Sally scoffed and set down her spoon. “I certainly have. But she’s not a real witch. She’s just a local legend the kids made up decades ago.”
“It’s an old ghost story. Everyone who grew up around here knows it,” Gwen chimed in, eyes narrowed in thought. The swelling on her cheek had gone down, but she was still sporting a bruise. “Every year, kids go into the woods and try to freak each other out, telling it under the moonlight. It’s sort of a local tradition, like Bloody Mary in the Mirror. Florence and I used to recite the rhyme to each other at midnight during sleepovers. We’d scare ourselves silly and wouldn’t sleep a wink all night.”
“What is the legend, exactly?” I asked.
“Pretty standard stuff.” Gwen shrugged. “An old hag wanders the deepest stretches of the woods. If you come across her, you have to stay quiet. No screaming. Otherwise, she steals your voice.”
“And your soul!” Flo called, looking up from her canasta cards.