Read Page 84

Isobel nodded. “I’m awake,” she said.

Her mother walked away but stopped at the door and turned to look back, her nose crinkled. “What’s that smell?” she asked. “Have you been leaving food up here?”Advertisement

Isobel rolled over onto her side, feigning grogginess. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll get it in a sec.”

“You do that,” her mom said. “I don’t know how you can stand it. And no more snacks in the bedroom, please. You know better.”

With that, her mom bustled out. Isobel waited half a beat and then sat up, kicking back the covers. She was about to make a beeline for the bathroom when her brother’s voice broke from the hall.

“Shower dibs!” he shouted, his words punctuated by the slamming of the bathroom door.

GWEN SET HER TRAY ON the table in front of Isobel’s. Hiking her skirts, she threaded legs, clad in black spandex and gray legwarmers, through the picnic-table-style bench and sat with a sigh that seemed to say at last. Her hands fluttered over her tray, fingers twiddling as she searched for her fork and knife, as though she were a magician about to perform her first trick.

Locating her fork, Gwen prepared to stab her salad. She paused, though, and glanced up slowly.

“You know,” she said, “if you wanted to sit by yourself today, all you had to do was ask.”

Isobel leaned an elbow against the table. She put a hand to her forehead, her shoulders sagging. Her eyelids fell closed as though weighted by sandbags, and it felt good to block out the stinging glare of the fluorescents, even if only for a moment.

“Is it that bad?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

-- Advertisement --

pqdm.comads300x250--

“It’s bad,” Gwen said. “What happened? Been spending quality time with your brother?”

Isobel kneaded the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. “Long story.”

“Mm,” Gwen said. “Would have been better, I think, if you hadn’t spritzed the body spray over it. You know when somebody tries to cover up a fart by lighting a candle?”

“Gwen?”

“Eh?” she said, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.

“Not today, please.”

“You don’t look so good. Didn’t sleep much, I’m guessing,” Gwen said. “Can I ask why, or is that another thing stuffed in the ever-thickening ‘no share’ file?”

Isobel frowned. Opening one eye, she uttered the question her brain had been drawing circles around all morning long.

“Why do you think he does it, Gwen?” Isobel asked. “Every year he comes back, and every year he leaves the roses. It’s been going on for decades now, and why? What’s the point?”

“You know,” Gwen said as she unfolded her paper napkin and laid it in her lap, “corpses are notorious for playing hard to get.”

Isobel dropped her hand, letting her arm flop against the table. She shot Gwen a scathing glare. “I’m being serious,” she said.

“Well,” Gwen started, thinking. “Obviously, he gets the flowers from the rose garden. The one I saw in my dream.”

“But why?” Isobel pressed, her frustration growing even though she knew full well that Gwen would be unable to answer her questions, especially since she did not know half of what Isobel did. Ever since Pinfeathers had shown her the scene from the hospital, Isobel couldn’t stop turning the events over and over in her mind. It had become like a sore she couldn’t stop worrying and picking at. Or more like a nightmare she couldn’t forget.

Gwen shrugged and bit into her roll. She chewed thoughtfully, her foot tapping against the checkered linoleum floor beneath their table, a clear sign that Isobel had once again said something to ramp up her nerves. “I dunno,” she said. “Paying respects? That’s a given. I don’t think anyone really knows just why he does it. From what I understand, that’s part of the mystery. Call me clueless—which, remember, I pretty much am—but I would have thought that if anyone knew why, you might.”

“I . . . I thought I did,” Isobel said. “But . . . I don’t. Not anymore.”

Isobel looked down at her chicken patty. A moment of silence passed between them while the surrounding sounds of talking and laughing swelled louder. Then Gwen reached her fork across the table and stabbed one of Isobel’s Tater Tots. “FYI,” she said. “Dunno about you, but I’m all set for the trip. Even got a gas card the other day so my parents can’t track my debit when I refill.”

“Gwen. I’m . . . I’m really scared.” pqdm.com