“I don’t think anything,” Melanie says, quick, shaking her head. “All I know is that Kennedy Claire loves her daughter, and that the SD card is missing.”
Melanie’s eyes bore into mine. I’m thinking of that scaffolding falling down, of the broken heel, and the message I never got, of how Kennedy Claire would do anything to protect her reputation, her image.
But before either of us can say another word, a teenage girl’s high-pitched scream of terror slices through the building.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHTMELANIE
I run down the dark hallway, toward the sound of the screaming girl, hoping it isn’t Hannah.Please, don’t be Hannah.
There is a crush of bodies pressing toward the sliding doors that lead out to the pool, and I shoulder my way between people until I’m at the front.
It isn’t Hannah. It’s Sabrina, who’s white as a sheet and pointing toward the glass. “He was right there. I swear.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” another girl says.
“I saw him,” Sabrina insists. “There was a man outside.”
Then Dad’s voice, calm and authoritative. “Let’s stay calm,” he says, and people step aside for him. “Maybe someone was going to their car. Who’s missing?”
People shift, craning their necks to scan the room.
“It might have just been someone’s reflection, sweetie,” Sabrina’s mother says. “Or shadows in the snow.”
Sabrina shakes her head. “No. He had his hands cupped around the glass—like this.” She mimes the shape, fingers pressed to her face. “He was staring right at me.”
I look out. The storm has smeared the world to charcoal and white. The pool is frozen over, ice glazed across the water in uneven patches. Drifts of snow pile in the corners, cabana curtains whipping like frantic flags, sharp icicles dangling from the swim-up bar. The whole deck looks eerie, like a carnival left to rot in winter.
Sabrina’s voice wavers. “I think it was that man. The one who came to orientation.”
A hush drops. The name passes through the crowd like a shiver.
Abel Sherman.
“Oh, honey,” Sabrina’s mom says, folding her into her arms, but then over Sabrina’s head, in a kind of stage whisper to the room, she says, “Sabrina’s been having nightmares about Abel since orientation.”
“Mom,” Sabrina whines, drawing out the word while she shoves her mother away. “I saw someone.” She crosses her arms, and this time when she says it, she sounds a little petulant. “I swear.”
Behind my shoulder, Beverly Jean leans in to gossip. “Sabrina’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“How could Abel be out there?” a man says. “The ambulance couldn’t even get through.”
“Unless he’s been here since before the storm started,” Lindsey offers.
Outside, the snow moves in ragged curtains. Things blink into view, then vanish again: a roofline, a dark frame, an empty porch. For a moment a vacant home, nearly completed, shows itself, then the wind erases it.
“All right, that’s enough,” Dad says. “Keep your heads, folks.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, a course of whispers, as people disperse back out into the room, but more than a few eyes flick once more to the glass, as if expecting to catch sight of a phantom in the snow.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINEINGRID
Snow clutches at my ankles, soaking through my shoes, my pants heavy and wet halfway up my calves. The wind cuts sharply across my face, burning my skin raw. I hunch forward and push through it, teeth gritted, as I cross the parking lot.
I look up to search for my car and for a moment, I’m disoriented, blind in the cloud of swirling snow all around me. Panic claws at my chest. I know I’m only a few feet from the Amenity Center, but I suddenly feel I could get lost out here. The veil parts. At the tree line, a dark shape stands, then it’s gone.
I shake the thought from my mind. Abel isn’t out here. He couldn’t be. And, besides, I’ve never been afraid of Abel.
Finally, I spot my car, and hurry to it. Inside, I slam the door, a flurry of snow following me in, and I punch the ignition. The engine coughs, then catches, the promise of heat sputtering from the vents. I cup my hands in front of them, my skin stinging as the air slowly begins to warm. Outside, the storm buffets the car, snow sliding across the windshield like wind trails over a jet wing.