The Wicked Deep

by Shea Ernshaw

  “I’m not here to save you, if that’s what you think,” I tell her, keeping my distance back from the white chair that has become her cage.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You killed those two boys they pulled from the harbor, didn’t you?” She eyes me like she’s trying to understand the real motivation behind my question. What purpose I have for asking it.

  “Maybe.” Her lips tug at the edges. She’s holding back a smile—she finds this amusing.

  “I doubt it was Marguerite.” At this her eyes broaden to perfect orbs. “Only you would drown two boys at once.”

  She shifts her jawbone side to side then wriggles her fingers like she’s trying to stretch them, her wrists confined by zip ties. The lime-green polish on her fingernails is starting to chip, and her hands look waterlogged and pale. “You came here just to accuse me of killing those boys?” she asks.

  I stare through her sheer exterior, beyond Gigi, finding the monster inside her—meeting Aurora’s gaze. And she knows it. Knows I’m looking at the real her.

  Her expression changes. She grins, revealing Gigi’s bleached white and perfectly aligned teeth. “You want something,” she says pointedly.

  I take a deep breath. What do I want? I want her to stop. Stop killing. Stop seeking revenge. Stop this vicious game she’s been playing for too long. I’m a fool to believe she would listen to me. Hear my words. But I try anyway. For Bo. For me. “Stop this,” I finally say.

  “Stop?” Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek, and she examines me through lowered eyelashes.

  “Stop drowning boys.”

  “I can’t do much drowning tied up in here, can I?” She sucks in a long breath through her nostrils, and I’m surprised when she doesn’t grimace—the boathouse smells fouler than I remember. Her eyes narrow. “If you untie me, then perhaps we can discuss this little idea of yours.”

  I examine the zip ties around her wrists and ankles. A quick yank, and I might be able to break them free. If I had a knife, I could easily slice through the plastic. But I won’t do that. I won’t set her loose on Sparrow again.

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “You don’t trust me?” She doesn’t even try to hide the wicked curl of her upper lip or the playful arch of her left eyebrow. She knows I don’t trust her—why would I? “ ‘Trust’ is an irrelevant word anyway,” she sneers when I don’t respond. “Merely a lie we tell each other. I’ve learned not to trust anyone—a symptom of two centuries of existence. You have the time to consider such things.” She tilts her head, looking at me from the side. “I wonder who you trust? Who you would trust with your life?”

  I stare at the thing beneath Gigi’s skin, eyes milky white and watching me.

  “Who would you trust with yours?” I counter.

  This forces a laugh from deep within her gut, eyes watering. I take a step back. Then her laughter stops, blond hair sliding forward to cover part of her face. Her arms stiffen against her restraints and her real eyes cut through me. Her mouth twists into a snarl. “No one.”

  The door behind me suddenly bangs open and Lon bursts into the room. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” His eyes are huge.

  I glance from Gigi back to him. “Just asking her a couple questions.”

  “No one’s allowed in here. She’ll trick you into letting her go.”

  “That only works on the weak-minded male specimen,” I tell him.

  His lips stiffen together, and he takes a quick step toward me. “Get the hell out of here. Unless you want to confess to being one of them, then I’ll gladly lock you up too.”

  I glance at Gigi, who sits defiantly blinking back at me, the side of her lip turned upward. She looks like she might even dare to laugh—she finds his threat amusing—but she holds it in. Then I step back out the door into the daylight.

  “You realize the police are looking for Gigi,” I tell Lon when he follows me out, closing the door behind him with a loud clatter.

  “The police in this town are idiots.”

  “Maybe. But it’s only a matter of time before they check the boathouse.”

  He waves a hand in the air dismissively, his floral shirtsleeve flapping with the motion, and returns to his post on the stump, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes, obviously not concerned about Gigi escaping. “And tell your friend Rose not to come back either.”

  I stop midstride. “What?”

  “Rose . . . your friend,” he says mockingly, as if I don’t know who she is. “She was here twenty minutes ago, caught her sneaking through the brush.”

  “Did she talk to Gigi?”

  “My job is to keep people out, so no, I didn’t let her talk to Gigi.”

  “What did she want?” I ask, although I’m certain whatever she told him was a lie.

  “Hell if I know. Said she felt bad for Gigi or some crap, that it was cruel to keep her locked up. But you both had better stay away unless you want to be suspects.” His voice lowers a bit like he’s telling me a secret, like he’s trying to help me. “We’re going to find all the Swan sisters one way or another.”

  I turn and hurry up the road.

  * * *

  Alba’s Forgetful Cakes smells like vanilla bean frosting and lemon cake when I step through the door. A dozen people crowd the small store—some wearing festival costumes, kids with faces painted in glitter and gold—picking out tiny cakes from the glass cases to be boxed up and tied with bubblegum-pink ribbon. Mrs. Alba stands behind one of the deli cases helping a customer, carefully placing petit fours into white boxes. Two other employees are also moving quickly around the shop, ringing people up and answering questions about the effectiveness of the cakes at wiping away old, stagnant memories.

  But Rose is not in the store, and I wait several minutes before Mrs. Alba is free.

  I press my fingertips against a glass case, hoping to get her attention. “Penny,” Mrs. Alba chirps when she sees me, her grin stretching wide across the soft features of her face. “How are you?”

  “I’m looking for Rose,” I say quickly.

  Her expression sags and then her eyes pinch flat. “I thought she was with you.” On the phone, Rose told me that she had lied to her mother, saying that she was meeting me for coffee when she was really meeting Heath. But since she obviously wasn’t meeting Heath, either, unless they went to the boathouse together to see Gigi, I thought Mrs. Alba might actually have seen her.

  “I think I just got the time wrong, or where we were supposed to meet,” I say with an easy smile—I don’t want to get Rose into trouble. “I thought maybe she’d be here.”

  “You can check the apartment,” she says, turning her gaze as several more customers enter the shop.

  “Thank you,” I answer, but she’s already shuffled away to help the new patrons.

  Back outside, I turn right and climb the covered stairs up to the second floor. The gray-shingled walls of the building are protected from the rain under a narrow roof, and at the top of the stairs there is a red door under a white archway. I press my finger against the doorbell, and the ring echoes through the spacious apartment. Their dog, Marco, begins yapping furiously, and I can hear the clatter of his paws as he races to the door, barking from the other side. I wait, but no one comes. And there’s no way Rose could be inside and not know someone was at the door.

  I head back down the stairs and push through the crowds across Ocean Avenue. I start down Shipley Pier toward the Chowder, when I spot Davis McArthurs. He’s standing halfway down the pier among the throngs of people, talking to a girl I recognize from the boathouse when they first caught Gigi. She had argued with Davis about keeping Gigi locked up. His arms are crossed, his eyes surveying the outdoor tables like he’s looking for any girl he’s missed—who he hasn’t yet interrogated for being a Swan sister.

  A burning fury rises inside me at seeing Davis. But there’s nothing I can do.

  Rose wouldn’t be on the pier anyway, not
with Davis strutting around. She’s probably back at Heath’s house, but I don’t know where he lives—and I’m not about to ask around and make myself known. So I hurry back to the marina before Davis sees me, and I motor across the harbor to the island.

  FORETELLING

  A woman stepped through the door of the Swan Perfumery early one morning on a Thursday, a week after the sisters’ night at the tavern.

  Aurora was sweeping the shop floor, Marguerite was leaning against the counter daydreaming about a boy she had seen working the rigging on a ship in the harbor the day before, and Hazel was scribbling notes on a piece of paper for a new scent she had been imagining: myrrh, tansy, and rose hips. A fragrance to ease sadness and clear away mistrust in others.

  When the woman entered, Marguerite straightened and smiled pleasingly as she did whenever a new customer visited the shop. “Good morning,” Marguerite spoke elegantly, as if she were raised by royals, when in fact all three sisters were raised by a woman who’d lewdly dabbed perfume between her thighs to entice her lovers.

  The woman did not respond, but walked to a wall of bottled perfumes all containing hues of citrus and other fruit, meant for daytime wear, often cajoling memories of late summer winds and warm evenings. “A perfume shop seems a tad presumptuous in this town,” the woman finally spoke. “Illicit even.”

  “Women in any town deserve the allure of a good scent,” Marguerite responded, raising an eyebrow. Marguerite did not show it, but she recognized the woman—she was the wife of a man Marguerite had flirted with outside the Collins & Gray General Store three days earlier.

  “Allure,” the woman repeated. “An interesting choice of words. And this allure—” She paused. “It comes from the spells you cast in your scents?”

  Marguerite’s mouth quirked sharply upward on one side. “No spells, madam. Just perfectly arranged fragrances, I assure you.”

  The woman glared at Marguerite then swiftly moved toward the door. “Your devious work will not go unnoticed for long. We see what you really are.” And in a whir of salty sea air, she opened the door and hurried back out to the street, leaving the three sisters staring after her.

  “They really do think we’re witches, don’t they?” Hazel said aloud.

  “Let them think it. It gives us power over them,” Marguerite answered.

  “Or gives them reason to hang us,” Aurora added.

  Marguerite sauntered to the center of the store, winking back at her sisters. “The boys all seem to like it,” she replied with a sway of her hips.

  Both Hazel and Aurora laughed. Marguerite had always been unabashed and they admired this quality in her, even if at times it got her into trouble. The three sisters were close, devoted to one another. Their lives interwoven as tightly as a sailor’s knot.

  They didn’t yet know the things that would divide them.

  For in a place like Sparrow, rumors spread quickly, like small pox or cholera, confusing the mind, rooting itself into the fabric of a town until there’s no telling truth from speculation.

  TWELVE

  I dial Rose’s cell when I get back to the house, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message: “Call me when you get this.”

  I don’t know why she went to see Gigi at the boathouse, but whatever the reason, I need to tell her to stay away.

  Through the kitchen window, I see Mom standing out on the cliff, her black robe billowing around her legs with an updraft of wind. She didn’t stay in bed all day after all.

  I wait by the phone for most of the day, but Rose never calls. I dial her number three more times, but she doesn’t answer. Where is she?

  When the sun starts to settle over the ocean, I curl up in bed, knees to chest. I fall asleep with the wind rattling the glass in the windows, the sea air driving against the house.

  Just after dawn it starts raining, gently pattering against the roof. The sky is painted in brushstroke ribbons of violet and coral pink. I stay in my room, but still no word from Rose. The rain keeps everyone inside. Mom locks herself in her bedroom, and I don’t see Bo leave the cottage all day. There are things I should say to him—confessions buried inside me. The way my heart feels unmoored when I’m with him. My head loose with thoughts I can’t explain. I should say I’m sorry. I should walk down through the rain and beat my fist against his door. I should touch his skin with my fingertips and tell him there are things I want, I crave. But how do you let yourself unravel in front of someone, knowing your armor is the only thing keeping you safe?

  So I don’t say anything. I keep my heart hidden deep and dark in my chest.

  Evening eventually presses down and I slump in the chair beside my bedroom window, watching the sky peel apart and the rainclouds fade. Stars illuminate the dark. But I feel anxious, wishing Rose would just call, explain why she went to the boathouse. She’s acting suspicious—making herself seem like one of them. Why?

  And then I see something through the window.

  Movement down on the path, a silhouette passing beneath the cascade of blue moonlight. It’s Bo, and he’s heading toward the dock.

  And in my gut, I sense that something isn’t right.

  I pull on a long black sweater over my cotton shorts and tank top and hurry down the stairs to the front door. The air hits me as soon as I step outside, a blast of cold that cuts straight down to my marrow.

  I lose sight of him for a moment, the darkness absorbing him, but when I reach the point in the path where it slopes down toward the water, I see him again. And he’s almost to the dock.

  The evening wind has stirred up from the west, and it pushes waves against the shore in intervals, spilling up over the rocks and leaving behind a layer of foam. Everything smells soggy from the rain. My bare feet are slapping against the wood walkway, but I still catch up to him just as he stops at the far end of the dock.

  “Bo?” I ask. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to look at me. Like he can’t even hear me. And I already know. Under the dark sky and the pale, swollen moon, I can tell he’s not himself.

  I take two careful steps toward him. “Bo,” I say again, trying to get his attention. But in one swift motion, he steps forward and falls straight off the edge of the dock and down into the water. “No!” I yell, scrambling forward.

  The harbor heaves and churns. He’s already gone under, sunk beneath the waves. I hold my breath, counting the seconds—how long does he have until there’s no more air left in his lungs? I scan the water, afraid to blink. Then, ten yards out, he appears, sucking in a breath of air as he breaks through the surface. But he doesn’t turn back for shore. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder. He keeps going, swimming farther out into the harbor.

  No, no, no. This is bad.

  I strip out of my black sweater and drop it onto the dock. I draw in a deep breath, reach my arms over my head, and dive in after him.

  The cold water cuts through my skin like needles, and when I gulp in the night air, it stings the inner walls of my lungs. But I start swimming.

  He is already a good distance ahead of me, determined, being beckoned deeper into the bay. But my arms and legs find a fluid rhythm that is faster than his. His feet, still in his shoes, kick little explosions of water out behind him. When I’m finally within reach, I grab on to his T-shirt and pull hard. His arms stop circling overhead, and his legs pause their kicking. He lifts his head, hair slicked sideways over his forehead, lips parted, and looks at me.

  “Bo,” I say, meeting his stony eyes. His eyelashes drip with seawater, his expression slack, unaware of where he is or what he’s doing. “We need to go back,” I yell over the wind.

  He doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t protest, but he also doesn’t seem to register anything I’ve said, because he drops his gaze and roughly pulls away, resuming his swim across the harbor. I suck in a few quick breaths. The beam of light from the lighthouse circles around, sweeping over the harbor and illuminating the masts of sunken ships. He’s being summoned to the wreckage, by her. />
  “Shit.” My skin is chilled and weighted from my clothes. But I push my legs out behind me and swim after him, through the dark, knowing that a boat passing through the harbor likely wouldn’t see us in time. We’d be forced under by the bow, churned up by the prop, and might never come back up again. But if I let him go, I know what will happen. I will lose him for good.

  I kick hard, my arms cutting through the water, the cold starting to slow my heartbeat and the blood pumping out to my extremities. But after several more rotations of the lighthouse—the only thing marking time—I manage to catch up to him again. I wrap my fist around the hem of his shirt and yank him back toward me. He turns to look at me, the same expression etched permanently on his face.

  “You need to wake up,” I scream at him. “You can’t do this!”

  His eyebrows pucker a fraction of an inch. He hears me, but he’s also lost to Marguerite—her voice cycling through his mind, calling to him, begging him to find her somewhere out there.

  “Bo,” I say, harder this time, twisting my other fist around his shirt and pulling him closer to me. My legs kick quickly beneath me to keep from sinking under. “Wake up!”

  He blinks. His lips are ghostly, lost of all color. He opens his mouth, squints slightly, and a word forms softly against his lips. “What?”

  “She’s in your head, making you do this. You need to get her out, ignore what she’s telling you. It’s not real.”

  Several yards ahead, toward the mouth of the harbor, the bell buoy rings against the force of the waves. An eerie sound that rolls across the water.

  “I need to find her,” he says, voice slurred. I know the image she has placed in his mind: of her, swimming in a pearl-white dress, fabric thin and transparent swirling around her body, hair long and silken, her beguiling voice slipping into his ears. Her words promise warmth, the velvet of her kiss and her body pressed to his. He is caught in her spell.