“Yeah, beautiful.” Cade’s voice was warm. “We’re home.”
Thank god for that.
The vision I’d had back at the hospital hadn’t killed me, but it came pretty damn close. Rory had been fast asleep when Cade led me into his room. There were deep circles under his eyes and a hydrating IV was hooked into his arm, but otherwise, he looked fine.
He looked like Rory.
I’d lowered myself gently onto the chair at his bedside and taken his frail hand within both of mine. I wasn’t sure if my exhaustion or Rory’s unconscious state was to blame but, in any case, my vision was brief and, despite my highest hopes, offered precious little in the way of explanations.
The witch never speaks.
Not with words, anyway. The boy does not think she knows how. Or maybe she’s forgotten, after all this time alone in the marsh. He wonders how many years she has been out here.
Too many.
She is old. Older than his mom. Not quite as old as his grandmother.
He wants to ask her to take him home, but he does not say a word. He does not risk it, remembering the legend.
She’ll steal your soul, drink your blood…
Somehow, the boy does not believe that is true. He was scared at first, but as the hours pass, his fear slips away. The rhyme is wrong, he decides. The witch is not evil, like everyone says. She doesn’t seem to want anything from him, least of all his voice.
She is taking care of him. Helping him. He does not know why, but he can see she is trying her best. She brings him a dusty blanket to warm up and smears something gooey all over his swollen ankle when she props him up in bed. It’s thick like mud, sticky as sap. And it smells strange as it dries. After a while, though, the throbbing isn’t so bad anymore.
He wonders why she stays in a place like this. There’s some furniture – a bed, a dresser, a few wax candles on the table. Moth-eaten curtains on the windows. A potbelly woodstove, crackling in the corner beside a stack of logs.
But nothing else. And no one else.
Doesn’t she get lonely?
Doesn’t she get bored?
No television, no Nintendo games, no phone, no electricity. No running water, even. She brings him a cup from the well-pump in the backyard, passing it to him and gesturing for him to sip when he hesitates. His hands shake as he lifts it to his lips. He is thirsty enough to down the whole thing in two gulps.
After, she retreats to her side of the small cabin and watches him from the shadows. He watches her back from the corner of his eye, too curious to keep his gaze averted. Eventually, his eyelids droop closed with exhaustion. The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that, maybe, shedoesget lonely all by herself.
Maybe that’s why she’s brought him here.
Maybe she wants a friend.
Ultimately, the vision had given me nothing – not about the so-called witch’s identity or her motives in taking Rory. The only thing it did confirm was that he had been telling the truth. She hadn’t hurt him. She’d done what she could with the rudimentary supplies at her disposal to keep him healthy, hydrated, and healing.
For Georgia, that was enough.
For the investigators on the case, however…
It didn’t even come close to assuaging their need for answers.
Cade set me down on the front porch so he could open the door. I swayed on my feet, dizzy with exhaustion, until he steered me gently inside. Socks hurried in after us, making a beeline for his water bowl. He trailed dirty paw prints through the whole house on his way there. He was a muddy mess, but doggie-bath-time was a problem for tomorrow. (Imogen-bath-time took precedence.)
Cade led me straight to his bathroom and turned on the shower. While the water got hot, he helped me strip out of my mud-caked clothes, piece by piece. Off went my disgusting sneakers, straight into the garbage bin, followed by my still-damp socks. He peeled the jeans down my legs, the denim stiff with dried marsh water, followed by my undies. They, too, sailed toward the trash bin. Same with my ruined gloves — which he removed with such painstaking care, a lump formed in my throat as I watched him do it.
My sweatshirt was the last clothing item to go. He reached for the hem and stilled for a moment, studying the front. The Baltimore Ravens logo was faded from a million wears. I’d had it forever. Years and years. I couldn’t even remember where I’d gotten it, if I was being honest. But I’d never throw it out. It was cozy and warm and oversized in the best sort of way. Even if it took ten washes to get the muck out of the fabric, I was keeping it.
“Don’t throw that out,” I whispered as Cade whooshed it up over my head. “It’s my all-time favorite article of clothing.”
“Yeah?” His lips curved in a smile. The sweatshirt was still in his hands. His thumb absently traced the lettering.