When Darkness Falls

by Chanda Stafford

  “Hi,” he says. “My name’s Ezra Montgomery. I was wondering if your manager was here so I could drop off my résumé.”

  I fumble for the paper he hands to me. “Um, sure. I’ll go get my mom.”

  “Your mom owns this place?”

  “Yeah.”

  As if hearing my voice, Mom hurries out of the kitchen. When she spies Ezra, her eyes light up, relief chasing a little of her worries away. “Hey, I’m so glad you came back. I’m down two people, and since I can’t clone my daughter,” she pats me on the shoulder, “I could use the help.”

  “Awesome,” he says. “Because I could definitely use the job.” A self-conscious grin flits across his face.

  My mom takes the résumé and scans it. “You just moved here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Almost a week ago, actually.”

  Her gaze grows unfocused. “Montgomery. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Ezra’s easy smile becomes forced. “My family used to live here, but we moved away a few years ago.”

  She snaps her fingers. “That must be it. Why did you move back? Misery Bay isn’t exactly a hopping place for young kids.”

  He shrugs, and his eyes remain shuttered. “I guess I couldn’t stay away. I love this town.”

  She nods, seemingly satisfied. “We need more young people like you. When can you start?”

  The tension drains from his shoulders. “Just like that?”

  My mom eyes the parking lot as three more cars pull in. “Just like that. I wasn’t kidding when I said I need all the help I can get.”

  “I can start as soon as you need me,” he says.

  They chat for a few more minutes about him coming in at ten thirty so he can get some training before the lunch rush starts. He agrees and leaves to go change and get ready for his first day at work.

  “He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?” my mother murmurs into my ear. She must be trying to get my mind off of Dad.

  “Mom!” Heat streaks up my neck, blooming across my cheeks.

  She chuckles, the sound lighter and more relieved than I expect. Maybe opening the diner today is exactly the kind of brief respite she needed to escape the worry haunting her.

  “It’s all right, kiddo. Hang in there. You’ll get to see him in just a little while.”

  I answer her with a scowl, even though I catch myself watching the minute hand tick by.

  At about a quarter to ten, the bell above the door chimes, but it’s not Ezra. Instead, it’s a pair of Misery Bay’s finest: Officers Jonie Clark and Dennis Mildrew.

  “Is your mother here?” Officer Clark takes the coffee I offer her. She blows on the cup to cool it and perches on one of the stools.

  I nod. “She’s in the back.” I call out for her while Officer Mildrew takes his drink and joins his partner at the counter.

  Mildrew sets down his visor and rubs his tired blue eyes. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  Nerves twist in my stomach. What could they possibly ask me that I hadn’t already answered? “Sure.”

  Mildrew sets down his visor and rubs his tired blue eyes. “Mind if we ask you a few more questions?”

  Nerves twist in my stomach. What could they possibly ask me that I hadn’t already answered? “Sure.”

  “Do you know anyone named Hilary Crum?”

  It takes a few seconds for his question to sink in. “Is that who she was?”

  In my head, I see the perky blue-eyed TV reporter, her brown bob always sleek and professional. She normally covered the local lifestyle section of the news, like the annual county fair or a fish fry at the senior citizen center. Covered. Past tense, like she won’t be covering anything anymore.

  “We haven’t positively identified the victim, yet. So you didn’t know her?”

  I shake my head. “No. I saw her on TV, like everyone else, but that’s it.”

  “Would she have any reason to be with your father?”

  “Maybe she was buying or selling a house.”

  Mildrew jots down a few more notes. “Does your family own any guns?”

  My hand flies to my mouth as the underlying meaning behind his question hits me. “Oh God. She was shot, wasn’t she?”

  Officer Mildrew purses his lips and doesn’t answer my question, which is answer enough in itself.

  My mom hurries up from the back, her shoes tapping on the worn linoleum. “Sorry about that. I was in the middle of slicing meat and—” She glances from me to our visitors. “Is something wrong?” She plants her palms on the counter, steadying herself. “Did you find Greg?”

  “No, ma’am. We just have a few more questions.”

  “Anything that’ll help you find my husband,” Mom says.

  Officer Clark asks her if she knew the reporter.

  A confused expression crosses her face. “I didn’t know her, sorry.”

  The police officer scribbles something on her little notepad. “Did your husband ever talk about his past?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No. He said it wasn’t relevant, that… that our present and our family were the only things that mattered.”

  The officer looks at me as a sliver of memory takes hold.

  “I told you, Maria, I don’t want to talk about it.” Dad paces the living room in long, angry strides. I duck around the corner to the kitchen, peeking out with wide eyes at my father’s tirade. “What happened in the past doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Mom holds up her hands, pleading with him. “It’s just a family tree assignment for school. It’s not like Austen’s teacher is running a background check.”

  My bottom lip trembles. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t brought home that stupid assignment, Dad wouldn’t be mad at me.

  “Why does she even need to know about my past?”

  “She’s a kid. Teachers do these kinds of activities to teach them about themselves. I remember doing one in school, and surely you do, too.”

  His shoulders stiffen, and I shrink around the corner so he can’t see me. “No, I never made one. Besides, it’s not important where you came from, only where you’re going.”

  “Fine.” I imagine Mom throwing her hands up in the air, but I’m too afraid to look. “Do whatever you want. I’m going to bed.”

  I scurry to my bedroom before either of them catches me, and hide under my covers until I finally fall asleep.

  Clark holds out her cup for a refill, which I take automatically.

  “We ran a background check on him and found nothing,” Mildrew says.

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I ask, even though something in the police officer’s voice makes my stomach plummet.

  “Nothing prior to thirty years ago,” Mildrew amends. He taps blunt, square-tipped fingernails on the counter. “We ran a cursory national search, too, and put feelers out internationally, but it looks like your father and his family appeared out of thin air.”

  Mom’s shoulders sag. “Austen, why don’t you go check on that table in section four?”

  Relieved to get away from the cops and all their probing questions, I push away from the counter. “Sure, no problem.”

  Ezra walks in twenty minutes later as the police officers leave. His shoulders stiffen, and he gives them a wide berth. By the time he reaches the counter, Ezra’s smile is back. “Hi.” He smooths his hands on his jeans. “So, um, what do you want me to do first?” His dimples draw me.

  Seriously, Austen. Control yourself. Stop acting like some angst-driven, hormonal teenager. You’ve worked with cute guys before.

  “Okay, follow me.” I lead him through the stainless steel kitchen to a small row of lockers in the break room. “Here.” I hand him a red Rosie’s T-shirt. “I’ll grab you an apron.”

  I turn around to find Ezra stretching the bright-red fabric over his torso. His broad back ripples with muscles, and my stomach tingles. He turns around, a slow grin stretching his face. “Am I putting it on wrong?”

  I mentally give myself a shake. “No. I, uh,
I’ll show you around and then get you started. Mom’s in her office, but she’ll come up front when it starts to pick up.”

  “I’m all yours.”

  I ignore the butterflies flitting around my stomach. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  With Ezra trailing me, I show him the cramped, stainless steel kitchen, the janitor’s closet, and the coolers. “I think my mom probably wants you to start out washing dishes.” I give him a sympathetic frown. “But eventually you might be able to move up to waiting tables.”

  He pumps his fist in the air. “I can’t wait. To be honest, I’m glad I was able to get a job so quickly.”

  “Yeah, there aren’t that many jobs around here.”

  He shrugs into an apron. “The truth is, I got in a fight with my folks and remembered my Uncle Tony had an old farmhouse here. I asked him if I could crash for a while, and he said sure. He even promised not to tell my parents.”

  “Oh yeah?” I arch my eyebrows. “My mom would kill me if I did something like that.”

  His gaze hits the ground, unable to meet my eyes. “My parents and I haven’t gotten along for quite a while. My uncle isn’t on the best terms with my dad, either. If they ask, and they might, he’ll tell them I’m safe, but that’s about it. I don’t want them to think I’m dead in a ditch somewhere, but I needed to get away.”

  “That makes sense. At least you have the summer to get used to everything before school starts.”

  The corner of his lips twitch. “If I’m here that long. I’m kind of playing it by ear. I only need a couple of credits anyway, so I might do it all online and save myself the hassle.”

  That would be nice. My parents would never let me take online school. Around here, online classes are usually reserved for troublemakers and those who can’t handle the public school system. Mom and Dad would laugh if I even suggested it.

  I show him the dishwasher and how to use it. “Won’t your parents figure out where you are eventually?”

  His lips purse. “Maybe, but I’ll deal with that when it happens. Until then,” he says, gesturing to the messy kitchen, “I need to work.”

  The front door chimes. “I’ll be back to check on you later, but if you need something ahead of time,” I say, pointing to Dante, our cook, who also just arrived for the lunch rush, “let either of us know. Dante can run this place with both hands tied behind his back.”

  The Gulf War vet chuckles and stuffs his long graying hair under a hairnet. “You know it.” The two guys chat with each other as I walk away. The bell above the door chimes again. It’s going to be a long day.

  By the time seven o’clock rolls around, the dinner rush has turned into a trickle. “You can head on out,” Mom tells Ezra. “Austen and I can handle it until closing.”

  “Thanks,” Ezra says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” After saying good-bye, I watch him leave, but instead of walking over to his obnoxious yellow VW Beetle, he crosses the street and hurries around the corner.

  Where is he going? I fish around for a reason to leave so I can follow him.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  She jerks her head around the corner. “Hmm?”

  “I think Ezra forgot his keys.”

  “Uh huh.” Mom gives me a knowing smirk.

  I flush, embarrassed. “He did, I swear.”

  “Then you better go give them to him. He can’t have gone very far.”

  My face grows even hotter, and I barely take the time to wrench off my apron before sprinting out the door.

  Once outside, I follow Ezra deeper into town, running through possible excuses should he catch me. I could say my mom wanted me to go to the market and pick up some eggs, or some mayo, or something else that we could plausibly have out of stock. But all the possible reasons sound fake.

  Ezra strides quickly down Huron Street, which is the main drag running through town. Lined with cozy little shops, Huron Street is about three blocks long before it transforms into sprawling houses and farms.

  He doesn’t make it that far though. After the first block, Ezra takes a sharp right and disappears through our library’s sliding glass doors.

  I pause in front of the crumbling brick building. I’ve never seen anyone in the library except for elementary school kids on a field trip and old people surfing the Internet or doing community stuff. With a mental shrug, I sneak in after him.

  The icy library air conditioning immediately makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I look around rubbing my arms, but the main floor is open, and I can tell he’s not here. That leaves upstairs, the reference section. With a half wave to Mrs. Torch, our librarian, I grab a children’s book, which happens to be Curious George, off the nearest cart and trot up the stairs.

  I find Ezra in the local history room, poring through a big, dark blue binder. Losing my nerve, I turn to leave.

  The creak of the door as I open it makes him spin around. “What are you doing here?” A cold, assessing gaze replaces his welcoming grin.

  I wave the book in the air. “I wanted to pick something up for my brother to read.” God, Brett would kill me if he knew I was claiming he’d read a Curious George book. No self-respecting preteen would read those books.

  “Up in the reference section?”

  My cheeks burn. “I thought I saw you up here,” I blurt. “So I wanted to say hi. Never mind, it was a stupid idea.” I turn to go. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

  “Wait. This might actually be a good thing.” He gestures for me to come closer. “You’ve lived here most of your life, right?”

  I take a tentative step closer. “Yeah. We moved here when I was six or seven, I think.”

  “Maybe you can help me research, then.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  He turns the book so I can look at the pages. “Stuff on shipwrecks, the lighthouse, that sort of thing.”

  Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. “The lighthouse? Why do you want to know about that?”

  Embarrassment tinges his cheeks. “Haven’t you heard of all the weird things that happen around there and out in the bay? What about the huge fence that surrounds the lighthouse? That’s pretty strange.”

  I arch one eyebrow. “This is a small town and small towns are known for being strange. I’ve heard the people who own the property like their privacy.”

  A fevered light enters his eyes. “But what if it’s more than that? It could be a secret government base, or an underground lab. It could be the headquarters for a drug cartel for all we know.”

  I laugh. “I think we’d know that by now, if that was it. But, hey, I guess it’s possible.”

  “Fine.” He scowls at me. “If you’re not going to help, you can just leave.”

  His brusque tone tells me I’ve struck a nerve. “Is that the real reason you moved here?”

  He fidgets in his seat. “I’ve always been interested in weird stuff. We came here a lot when I was growing up, and I always wanted to come back.”

  I set the Curious George book on a cart of books that need to be reshelved and take the seat across from him. “What can I do to help?”

  “Don’t you need to get back to the diner?”

  I pull out my phone and text my mom. Are you busy? If not, can I go to the library? “I doubt it. We don’t usually get that busy this late.”

  My phone beeps. Knock yourself out.

  “There,” I say, and stuff the phone back in my pocket. “All set.”

  Ezra intrigues me, and if I’m honest with myself, there are worse ways to spend an evening. At least it gets my mind off Dad.

  A real grin transforms his face. “Did you know before they made this room part of the general reference section, it was set aside as a place to commemorate those who’ve died in shipwrecks in the Great Lakes?”

  “No, I guess I never paid that much attention. I’ve only been up here once in middle school.” Like all the other kids, this stuff bores the hell out of me.

  “Check this out.
” He thumbs through the plastic-covered pages until he finds one labeled Misery Bay. It’s under the Lake Huron tab and written in old-fashioned news script. Names and dates stretch down the side of the page until 1915, after which there are only a few shipwrecks listed.

  “Wow.” My fingers hover over the faded ink.

  “That’s when they built the lighthouse.” Ezra taps the list. “I guess it was pretty dangerous to sail these waters before that.”

  I scan the page again. There’re so many dates, it must be a mistake. “I never would have thought they had that much trouble out there.”

  Ezra thumbs through the pages until he stops and carefully turns the book toward me. “Take a look. This is one of the wrecks.”

  I lean over and peer at the grainy black-and-white picture. A boat of some sort juts halfway out of the water, its mast snapped in half. Pieces of wood float around the hull, and an oily coating has turned the water black. “How’d it sink?”

  He shrugs. “No one knows. The bay isn’t particularly shallow. Some sailors compared it to the Bermuda Triangle. A place that defies explanation. Boats tend to sink here. It’s weird. Misery Bay isn’t on any shipping routes. Several of the survivors said that when they got close to the mouth of the bay, all their navigational equipment malfunctioned.” He flips the page to another picture. This one has a trio of bedraggled men standing before what looks like the wreckage of a ship. “One account even mentioned the sailors heard singing.”

  “Crazy. They must have been out on the water for too long.” I remember the voices I used to hear out in the woods. Mom always used to say I had an overactive imagination; maybe the sailors had that, too.

  “This one’s the Good Mother Mary. She was carrying food and other supplies to a trading post when she sunk. That was all they could salvage.” Ezra’s fingers graze the photograph.

  “They never found out why it sunk?”

  “No.” He flips the page. “It didn’t stop until Isaac Stanford commissioned the lighthouse to be built.” He taps another picture. In this one, a cluster of people stand in front of a new lighthouse. The men are all smiling and have their arms thrown around one another’s shoulders. Most of the image is grainy but clear enough to see the happy exhaustion on their faces.