by Kit Frick
“Anna, right?”
“Good memory. You got a sec?”
We take the table in the shop’s front window, which is far enough away from the counter to keep the blond girl out of earshot as long as we keep our voices down. I pull out the card and original flash drive and set them on the table between us.
“Zoe?” she whispers, reading the envelope’s inscription.
“I know we don’t really know each other,” I whisper back, “but I’ve been listening to your podcast. And you’re the only person I know around here who might be able to help me.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve filled Martina in on everything I can think to tell her about how I got the job with the Bellamys, my budding friendship with Caden, finding the card and flash drive, and the fire last night. She’s heard about the fire already; I’m sure the whole town knows by now.
“Mrs. Talbot would let Zoe take the horses out sometimes,” I add. “So she must have been pretty familiar with the Windermere stable. It makes sense that Caden would leave a message for Zoe there.”
“How do you know that?” Martina asks. “About Zoe and the horses?”
“It was in your podcast,” I say. “Wasn’t it?”
Martina gives me a funny look. “I don’t think so.”
I shrug. “Or maybe I read it online.” But I really can’t remember. I touch my fingertips to my temples. It’s like it just arrived in my brain, sourceless. Or like it’s been stored there for months.
“I need to get back to work,” Martina says when the blond girl gives us the hairy eyeball for the third time. “No special privileges for the owner’s kid.”
“Right, sure. Do you think you can do anything with these? I made copies, but it’s not like I can return the originals now.” A part of me says I should take what I found to the police, but I was trespassing. I stole this stuff. Can they do anything with illegally obtained evidence? Even if they could, I’m not sure I want them to. Not until I know more, not until I’m sure Caden had something to do with Zoe’s disappearance. Because if he didn’t, whatever happens to him next will be on me. And that’s not a mistake I could live with.
She slips them into her apron pocket and stands, pushing back her chair. “I’m not exactly CSI, but I’ll check them out. I might recognize the girl, or be able to figure out who she is. Give me your number; I’ll text you.”
We exchange numbers, and I slip my phone back into my pocket. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“We keep this between the two of us. No podcast, no throwing shade at Caden unless we uncover something real. And if we do, we go to the police.”
Martina nods. “Agreed. This stays between us.”
“And just avoid Caden for now,” I repeat. “No matter what you find. Either he already knows his stuff is missing and burned down the stable to send a message …”
“… or he has no idea it ever went missing and thinks his stuff burned in the fire.” Martina’s eyes flash as she finishes my sentence.
“Exactly. I really want to believe he’s innocent. But if he did burn the stable down, he might be … dangerous.” The word sounds weird in my ears, but I know it could be true.
“Yeah, I doubt Caden Talbot’s villainous capabilities, but I agree, safety first. And what I don’t doubt is that boy’s ability to harbor secrets. I knew he was hiding something.” She narrows her eyes and reaches back to tighten her long brown ponytail. “I’ll text you. Soon as I find something.”
“Are you going to buy anything?” the blond girl asks when Martina has vanished again into the back and I’m still standing at our window table. It’s not like they’ve had a flood of customers in the twenty minutes I’ve been here; I’d feel worse if she’d been doing anything aside from standing behind the counter and flipping through her phone while Martina and I were talking, but I do probably owe them a sale.
“Coffee,” I say. “With sugar.”
* * *
On Tuesday morning, it’s like the holiday weekend never happened at Clovelly Cottage. Tom is already en route to the city by the time I wake up, and Emilia’s usual breakfast spread is laid out on the soapstone countertop. The Paulson-Gosses got back with Paisley late last night, and this morning she’s bright eyed, tanner than ever, and ready for the beach.
We post up at our usual spot, me underneath the Bellamys’ red-and-white striped umbrella—layered in aloe, then sunscreen, then a T-shirt—and Paisley splashing around in the water.
“You’re burned,” she comments when she comes into the shade for a snack break. I pass her the bag of pretzels.
“Red like a lobster,” I agree. “I spent too long in the sun on Saturday.”
“What were you doing?”
“My friend Kaylee came to visit from Brooklyn, and we went to a party.”
“Where?”
I smile. It’s like twenty questions with this kid. “Out on Montauk. Remember Max the penguin expert?”
The corners of Paisley’s lips tug down in a frown. “Yeah?”
“Well, he invited us. And you were right, he’s not very nice.”
“You went to a party with Max?”
“And a bunch of his friends. It wasn’t very fun. I’d rather be here with you.”
Wordlessly, Paisley hands the pretzels back to me and retrieves Emilia’s iPad from our beach bag. I don’t know how she can use it through the pink waterproof casing, but she doesn’t seem to have any trouble. She opens up a game and starts playing.
“Hey, Paisley?”
The iPad makes a series of pings and whirrs. She doesn’t respond.
“Paisley?”
“I’m playing Fruit Ninja.”
“I can see that. Paisley?”
“Mmm?”
“Why don’t you like Max Adler?”
Paisley keeps slicing pineapples and watermelons. Without looking up from her game, she says, “There was a fire at Windermere.”
I sigh. Not what I asked, but if she needs to talk about the fire, I’m here for that.
“Yeah, there was.”
“Mom said the stable burned down, but the horses are okay.”
“That’s right. The horses got out, they’re fine. Fortunately, the fire didn’t spread. It was scary, but no one was hurt.”
“Did you see it?” she asks.
“I just saw some smoke over the trees. The firefighters were already working to put it out by the time I woke up.”
Paisley nods. “It’s creepy over there. I’m glad the stable is gone.”
I try to get her to open up, say more, but after that, she shuts down entirely. I stretch out on the beach towel and close my eyes. With Paisley not talking to me, my mind kicks into motion. I try to imagine why Caden hid the flash drive in the stable in the first place. Zoe must have already seen what was on it, or found out about the girl from the photos. That’s why he wrote that apology card. Maybe they fought last December. Maybe Zoe ran after discovering her fiancé wanted to be with someone else. Or maybe Caden did something to Zoe. …
I push that thought away, turn to the mystery girl from the pictures. “IdaBeWise.” She must have known all about Zoe, resented Zoe for keeping her and Caden apart. Caden was scared to end things with Zoe, but he loved this other girl. Maybe enough to protect her.
“Anna?”
My head jerks up from the beach towel. Paisley is looking at me like this isn’t the first time she’s said my name.
“We’re supposed to meet Mom in the pickup area in five minutes.”
I wince and push myself up. “Don’t tell your mom I lost track of time, okay?”
Paisley nods solemnly.
By the time we’re waiting for Emilia to pick us up, neither Paisley or I have much to say. Her fear of Windermere seems to have started when the place fell into disrepair. I can’t really blame her; it does resemble a haunted mansion. But I wonder also if it’s grounded in something more real, more menacing. Caden lied to me abou
t his relationship with Zoe. He lied to everyone, including the police. What else is Windermere keeping buried?
20 THEN
July
Herron Mills, NY
Find anything?
Hello to you too.
She can’t actually be pissed. Martina doesn’t strike me as the pleasantries type. Before I can type anything back, another text pops up on my screen.
Haha. Find anything?
Ran all sixteen photos through a reverse Google Image search. No luck.
So what does that mean?
None of these photos have been posted online, so there’s nothing for Google to match them to.
Crap. Of course not. If Caden and “IdaBeWise” were doing even the bare minimum to keep things on the down low, they definitely wouldn’t have been posting their personal photos on Facebook.
OK, now what?
Now I keep digging.
I manage to avoid Caden for most of the week. I send him a few texts, deciding it would be much weirder if I didn’t check in after the fire, make sure he and his mom are doing okay, but in the evenings I tell him I’m tired, or that Emilia has me doing some extra stuff around Clovelly Cottage. I can’t tell if he’s buying it or not. Every so often, as Paisley and I are exploring the Working Waterfront at the Children’s Maritime Museum or escaping into the air-conditioning for two frosty hours at the Herron Mills movie theater, I start to miss him.
Maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation for what I found in the stable.
Maybe he had nothing to do with the fire.
But probably not.
By Saturday night, I’m going a little stir-crazy. Kaylee hasn’t responded to any of my texts since the Fourth, I’m about to give up on ever hearing back from Starr, I’ve already talked to my mom twice in three days, and there’s nothing new to sketch. Would it be weird to text Martina just to see if she wants to hang out?
I’m holding my phone, composing a totally non-desperate-sounding message in my head, when the screen lights up.
Have you seen the windmills yet?
Caden. I press my lips between my teeth.
Only in passing.
Come with me on a little stroll?
It’s eight fifteen. I’ve never seen him leave Windermere this late. Much as I’m sure walking off with Caden into the night is a bad idea, I’m also a little curious and a lot bored. And the illogical part of my brain doesn’t want to believe he’s a bad person, despite the photo evidence.
Your mom won’t mind?
Doreen’s here with her tonight. She’ll be okay.
I don’t ask who Doreen is. A nurse or a friend. Either way, my boredom has already gotten the better of me, as has the voice that says I need to put in some face time with Caden sooner or later, otherwise he’ll definitely know something’s up. I’m going.
Ten minutes later, we’re leaving Linden Lane, walking toward town. The sun is rapidly sinking, the warm summer dark settling in. When we’ve walked a ways down Main Street, he motions for us to turn right, just past the marina. Then we take a left onto a street I haven’t explored before with Paisley.
“This way. We’ll cut through Parrish Park.”
“Parrish Park?”
“I’m surprised Paisley hasn’t taken you there yet. Part of the lake’s roped off for swimming, and there’s a lot more shade than at the beach.” I catch him casting a wayward glance at my arms, which are still noticeably red under the yellow streetlamp light, and starting to peel.
“Little brat,” I laugh. “She’s been holding out on me.”
“The Arling Windmill’s right on the other side of the park. Technically I think it’s on park grounds. If you’re on foot, you can cut straight through.”
As we walk, he gives me the post-fire updates. Mrs. Talbot has been upset all week, the trauma aggravating what Caden refers to as her positive symptoms, which involve scattered thoughts and the occasional hallucination. There doesn’t seem to be anything positive about either of those things, but Caden explains that the psychotic behaviors associated with schizophrenia are classified in this way. Hence, the presence of Doreen—who turns out to be the childhood friend they’d been visiting in the city over the Fourth—for the weekend.
Again, I wonder if Caden could have really set the fire. He would have to have anticipated its impact on his mom’s health, likewise the absence of her horses, who Caden says are being temporarily boarded at a stable fifteen minutes north. I wonder fleetingly if Mrs. Talbot could have set the fire herself during a hallucinatory break from reality, then feel immediately guilty for assuming things about her illness I can’t possibly know.
But if I rule out the Talbots, that doesn’t leave much of a suspect pool.
Caden’s acting remarkably normal around me. He’s not holding anything back in his description of the fire’s aftermath, nor is he asking me leading questions or doing anything to signal he suspects me of snooping or theft. Either he didn’t set the fire, or he’s a very good liar. Either he doesn’t have any idea I found the flash drive, or he’s a very good liar.
Which he must be. Considering he had this whole town—and maybe even Zoe herself—fooled about his devotion.
True, he wasn’t technically cheating if I trust the emails; he cared enough for Zoe to tell the mystery girl they had to wait until he figured things out. That’s respectable, to a point. But if he finally got up the nerve to break up with Zoe over winter break, and things went badly … I cast a sideways glance at Caden. I wonder where the girl from the photos is now. Maybe she’s just collateral damage in this whole mess. Or maybe when Caden wouldn’t step up and end things with Zoe, “Ida” took matters into her own hands. …
Both scenarios make my stomach twist.
“Honestly,” Caden says as we enter the park, both of us willfully ignoring the parrish park closed after sundown sign, “I know this might sound a little strange, but it’s a bit of a relief.”
“What is?” I ask, digging my flashlight out of my bag and shining it on the walkway in front of our feet. Caden opens the flashlight app on his phone.
“The fire. It’s a giant inconvenience, having to board the horses and contract someone to rebuild, but Mom’s already doing better with Doreen here. Things will get back to normal.”
“Sure. But how is that a relief?” I shine the beam around, trying to get a sense of my surroundings. To our right is a tall row of trees; beyond them, the road outside the park. To our left is a grassy bank leading down to a lake so huge I’m shocked I didn’t know it was here. There’s a lifeguard stand, and a roped-off swimming area with a sandy strip of beach, and beyond that, what looks like miles and miles of inky water and sky.
“I was keeping some bad memories inside those walls,” Caden says. “With the stable gone, it feels like a clean slate.”
I swallow. Caden thinks the card and flash drive burned with the stable. That must be what he means by “bad memories” and “clean slate.” He has no idea that I—or anyone—took them from his hiding spot. Unless he’s testing me, trying to gauge my reaction.
The path takes us away from the lake and through a stretch of leafy bushes. If it’s the former, he’s probably not an arsonist, but it doesn’t answer my questions about why those things were hidden there in the first place. I keep my face neutral.
“I present to you,” he says, voice suddenly light, “the Arling Windmill.” The path has spit us out on the other side of the bushes, and the windmill stands suddenly before us. “We’ll have to come back in the daytime if you want to look inside, but considering it’s haunted, the best way to see it is really at night.”
“Haunted?” I squeak, voice pitching up in spite of myself.
“Oh yeah, you haven’t heard the local legend?”
I shine my flashlight beam across the front of the windmill. Its base is stone, but most of its body is shrouded in the same wooden shingles that cover Windermere and a lot of the older buildings in Herron Mills. Several windows are cu
t into the sides. At its top, of course, are four windmill blades. They’re completely still in the windless night.
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me,” I say.
Caden’s face breaks into a mischievous grin, and I mentally slap myself. Off-limits, Anna. Probably still in love with someone else. Possibly dangerous. Why can’t you wrap your head around that?
“Well, the Arling Windmill was built sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds. I’m sure Google can give you an exact date. But for the first hundred-ish years of its existence, it was located about twenty miles from here, on the Arling estate. The windmill was restored and relocated to Herron Mills in the nineteen fifties or sixties, after the death of the last surviving Long Island Arling.”
“And that makes it haunted? That’s not a very good ghost story.”
“Patience, young Anna. That’s just the history. I’m getting to the ghost.”
I cross my arms over my chest and try to look tough. I’m failing miserably, judging by the amused expression on Caden’s face.
“This windmill used to be the playhouse for young Dorothea Arling, known to her family as Dot. When Dot was a wee child of six, she tripped on the windmill steps and broke her neck. Now”—Caden raises his phone for dramatic effect, shining the flashlight beam on the windmill’s uppermost window—“passersby report seeing the sallow face of a little towheaded lass in the windows at night, especially in July, the month Dot died.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I can’t take my eyes off the window glass.
“Fine, I don’t know what month she died, but the rest is true. People have been saying they’ve seen her face in the window for years.” He drops the beam back to the ground.
“Have you ever seen her?” I ask.
“Nah, I don’t believe any of that stuff.”