Siren

by Tricia Rayburn

  When the rowboat knocked against the dock, he took a rope and wrapped it around one of the boat’s metal holds. He gathered the notebooks, dishes, and vials and put them in a backpack. He seemed to be stalling, as if a few extra seconds would be enough time to figure out the right thing to say.

  My pulse quickened as he stepped out of the boat. He didn’t look at me as he wiped his hands on the front of his shorts, then lowered himself to the dock next to me.

  “Please don’t hate me,” he said after a minute.

  “Hate you?”

  “I wanted to come,” he said, keeping his eyes on the water below us. “I can’t tell you how much I wanted to be there for … your family. I just didn’t know if I should. I didn’t know if it was appropriate.”

  The funeral. I’d been surprised when the Carmichaels didn’t show. Our parents often went out to dinner during the summer, and since the Carmichaels were year-round Winter Harbor residents, they kept an eye on our lake house and checked in with my parents periodically throughout the winter. I hadn’t asked Mom or Dad about their absence, figuring it was a sensitive topic due to Caleb’s involvement that night.

  “It’s okay,” I said, touched by his concern. “But thank you.”

  His eyes narrowed and his lips turned in, like there was more he wanted to say.

  “I thought you were done with school.”

  He looked at me, and then at his overstuffed backpack when I gestured toward it.

  “Summer science project for extra credit?” I tried to keep my voice light.

  “Sort of.” He attempted a smile. “I’m helping one of my professors at school with his climate-change research. The weather’s been kind of weird lately, so I’ve been keeping track.”

  I nodded and waited for more. Simon could talk about cloud formations and tidal pools and native plant species for hours—and usually did, unprompted. But when he didn’t offer anything else, I hugged my knees tighter to my chest and looked out at the lake. Down the shore, happy vacationers swam, rowed, and floated on inner tubes. My body yearned to join them while my brain scrambled for distractions. Two years ago, I would’ve given in to the physical urge to leap from the dock and dive underwater. Now, I could only hope it didn’t last long.

  “I’m looking for Caleb,” I said.

  Simon looked away, toward a group of kids diving off rafts in the middle of the lake.

  “He was with her that night, and I need to talk to him. I need to find out why she did it.”

  “Vanessa … Caleb’s not here.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “He came back here after talking to the police, grabbed some food and clothes, and left.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “We don’t know. He didn’t say … and he hasn’t called since.”

  I followed his gaze toward the kids. They laughed as they splashed and dunked one another. I wondered if Simon thought the same thing I did: that just a year ago, they could’ve been us.

  “When will he be back?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything as his eyes met mine. He simply looked at me like he was sorry—and like it was all he could do to keep his arms at his sides instead of reaching forward and pulling me toward him.

  CHAPTER 4

  “BIG POPPA, the lake house is haunted.”

  Somewhere in our brownstone three hundred miles away, Dad sipped his coffee.

  “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I didn’t even come close to that fuzzy state where things can still go either way.”

  “You were overly tired from traveling. Your body will give in eventually.”

  “Doubtful.” I tightened the thick fleece blanket around me. “At least not while Casper and Beetlejuice and all their fun-loving friends are here, making the floors squeak and ceilings creak all hours of the night.”

  I paused, suddenly realizing the strangeness of this conversation. If there were ghosts in the lake house, they weren’t of the cartoon variety.

  “Well,” Dad finally said, “it’s morning. You made it through the night.”

  “I did,” I said. “And I’m fine. You could fit a week’s worth of groceries in the bags under my eyes, but besides that, I’m great.”

  “Great, huh?”

  I nodded, my eyes following the Jet Skiers on the water below. “Maybe not great. But okay. I’m definitely, solidly okay.”

  “You know you can come home anytime. Your mother and I are here for you.”

  I looked down at my fleece-wrapped feet. “How is she?”

  “Your mother’s your mother, kiddo. She’s hanging in there.”

  “Working like a machine?”

  “With an endless power supply.” He paused. “You’ll call later?”

  “Promise.”

  After we hung up, I watched happy vacationers play on the water until my stomach started rumbling, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten much in almost two days. I went inside, turned on the TV in the living room and the radio in the kitchen, and headed for the shower.

  Hurrying down the driveway ten minutes later, I glanced next door. Simon had left yesterday evening and returned at some point late in the night, but the Subaru was gone again. He’d said his parents were so upset by what had happened that they were staying with friends in Vermont for a while, and since no early-morning sounds wafted from the open windows, I assumed they were still gone.

  My stomach rumbled all the way into town. In attempts to cater to urbanized tourists who were used to eating good food in a hurry, Winter Harbor offered a variety of convenient, in-and-out breakfast choices. Thankfully, big chains like Starbucks and McDonald’s hadn’t yet found their way to the secluded hamlet, but there were several places that could give them solid competition if ever they did. You could get coffee and doughnuts at Java Shack, smoothies and Frappuccino knockoffs at Squeezed, and egg sandwiches at Harbor Homefries. All made to order and in minutes flat, so you could be on the lake and trails in no time.

  I craved a watermelon-guava smoothie and scrambled eggs, cheese, and sausage on a fat kaiser roll. That was my requested combo whenever Mom and Dad went into town to pick up breakfast. But I definitely wasn’t in the mood for pick-up-and-go today, and I also wanted to avoid as many of the family friends we’d made over the years as possible. So I drove down Main Street, past all the cute, convenient eateries, and kept going until the pavement ended at a big gravel parking lot.

  The lot sat next to Betty’s Chowder House, a Winter Harbor institution and popular tourist destination that would give me everything I needed: food, company, and anonymity among strangers. Anyone who’d been coming to Winter Harbor longer than a single summer usually avoided Betty’s, so as to miss noisy crowds of newcomers. Chances were slim that anyone here would know my family, so even if people were talking about Justine, at least they wouldn’t be talking about her to me.

  I slowed down a few feet before the parking-lot entrance. A guy about my age in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt jumped up from a folding chair.

  “Morning!” He smiled and stepped toward the driver’s-side door. “Name?”

  “Vanessa,” I said as he consulted a clipboard. “But I don’t have a reservation.”

  “That’s too bad. We’re totally booked this morning.”

  I looked through the windshield at the two-story gray house with Betty’s signature dark mermaid silhouette swimming over the top of the front entrance. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but I could see through the wide windows that the place was packed.

  “You here for the Sea Witch?”

  Boo.

  I blinked away the image of Justine, her dark hair shining and blue eyes glowing. “Sorry—the Sea what?”

  “Witch.” He nodded knowingly. “Scrambled eggs and lobster patty with hollandaise sauce wrapped up in a buttermilk pancake and topped with cinnamon seaweed. A Chowder House favorite and guaranteed hangover cure.”

  The Sea Witch was clearly to this kid what my watermelon-guava smoot
hie and egg sandwich were to me, so I did my best to hide my disgust. “You’re right.” I returned his nod, then tilted my head toward him through the window and lowered my voice. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Sorry to say. Big night?”

  “You have no idea.”

  He glanced around. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  I watched him walk away and say something into a walkie-talkie. I could have found another sit-down-breakfast place, but on top of wanting to hide out in the Betty’s crowd, I was now also curious to see what all the fuss was about. Plus, my stomach felt like it was about ready to start munching on my ribs if I didn’t fill it with something fast.

  “Good news,” the guy said, jogging back. He bent forward, rested his hands on the tops of his thighs, and looked at me through the open window. “My buddy Louis is the chef. He said he’ll set you up in the break room and make you whatever you want.”

  “Really?” I returned the smile. “Thanks. That was really nice of you.”

  “No problem. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

  It took me a second to remember that I was supposed to be nursing the unfortunate effects of too much nighttime fun.

  “So just head around the back, near the Dumpster. You’ll see the staff cars.”

  “Great.” I sat up straight and put the car in drive.

  “I’m Garrett, by the way,” he added quickly. “Let me know when you want to make a reservation—maybe I’ll meet you.”

  I waited until I was around the back of the house and out of sight before I let my mouth drop open. I was pretty sure that guy had been flirting with me, and the thought made me happier than I’d been in days—and not just because, as bad as I must have looked for him to think I needed the Sea Witch to nurse me back to health, I couldn’t have looked that bad if he wanted to see me again.

  No, what really made me happy was that if he was flirting with me—and not looking sad or uncomfortable, or saying he was sorry, or asking if I was okay—then he had no idea who I was. And that meant I was exactly where I should be.

  I parked the car and headed for the back door.

  “Can I help you?”

  I’d just reached the cement steps and turned toward the voice behind me.

  “You look lost.”

  I opened my mouth to respond as a girl in a black Betty’s apron appeared from behind the Dumpster, but as she walked toward me, a high-pitched note shot sharply through my head. It traveled from the top of my nose to the base of my ponytail and back again. The closer the girl got, the stronger the noise seemed to grow, until my head felt like a small bell being hit with a very large mallet.

  “Not lost,” I managed, pressing my fingers against my temples. “Just hungry. Garrett said his friend was going to help me out?”

  A man’s voice said, “There’s the cutie in the ponytail.”

  I released my temples. The sound had faded as quickly as it’d hit.

  “How bad is it? Headache? Nausea? Is everything around you spinning at a thousand miles an hour even though you’re standing still?”

  I looked behind me to see a middle-aged guy in a white cooking jacket and black-and-white houndstooth-check pants smiling sympathetically. Garrett’s friend. “All of the above,” I said meekly.

  He winked. “No problem. I’ll have you feeling brand-new in no time.”

  I followed him up the steps, glancing over my shoulder just in time to see the girl toss a bag of garbage into the Dumpster and disappear around the side of the house.

  “So, what’ll it be? French toast? Eggs? You name it, I’ll make it.”

  “Anything would be great,” I said as we made our way through the crowded kitchen.

  “You should know that, as New England magazine’s top-rated brunch chef for seven years running, I don’t do this for just anyone.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and handed it to me. “I do this for Garrett.”

  “Does Garrett do this often?” I took the water.

  “Not before today.” He nodded across the kitchen. “Paige, darling, will you please escort Miss Vanessa to the rear dining room?”

  I turned to see a pretty girl with two long, dark braids smiling and waiting for me near a doorway.

  “Welcome to Betty’s,” she said over her shoulder as I followed her down a narrow hallway. “First time here?”

  “Yes.” It’d been so long it felt like the first time. “I’ve heard so many good things I had to see for myself.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.” She stopped at a door at the end of the hallway and carefully shifted the plate, juice glass, and silverware she held.

  I lunged forward and grabbed the plate as it started to slip from her grip.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ve been here two hours, and I’ve already broken three coffee cups and a water pitcher. Not exactly the way to graduate from bus girl to waitress.”

  “Probably not.”

  She opened the door with her free hand and headed up a steep staircase. “But who knew waiting tables was so complicated? I mean, you carry plates of food and glasses of water every day at home, right? No big deal.”

  “Right.”

  “Wrong.” She stepped to the side when she reached the landing. “It’s hard. Especially when you’re supposed to carry five plates at a time, all weighed down by Betty’s famous mammoth portions, and your arms are as skinny as shoelaces.”

  I smiled when she raised the empty juice glass and flexed.

  “Seriously. That’s as big as it gets.” She looked wistfully at her flat biceps.

  “Maybe you can do push-ups when it’s not so busy,” I offered. “Build up your strength.”

  “I wish. Betty’s is never not busy.”

  I looked around when I joined her on the landing. The break room was a screened-in balcony that jutted out over the pier and offered unobstructed views of the harbor and mountains.

  “Best seat in the house,” she said, leading me to a plastic table in the middle of the room. “The staff inherited it because it’s right above the bar and not as romantic when the tourists get rowdy.” She smiled. “Speaking of, where are you from?”

  I started to respond just as a door slammed somewhere below.

  “The dirty dishes don’t clear themselves!” An annoyed voice carried up the stairwell.

  “That’s for me.” Paige hurried across the balcony. “Z says my inability to stop talking is even worse than my inability to carry three dishes at once without breaking two of them.”

  “Z?”

  “Zara,” Paige shot over her shoulder. “God’s gift to hungry diners everywhere. And my older sister.”

  As Zara lectured her from the bottom of the stairs and Paige nodded, I thought again about how nice she seemed. Genuine. In fact, I hadn’t noticed it happen while we were talking, but my head felt clearer now, my hunger less painful.

  “I’m so sorry, Vanessa,” she called from the landing. “I’m about a dish away from peeling oranges at Squeezed, so I need to get down there. But enjoy your first Betty’s breakfast! I’ll try to get back up before you go.”

  She flashed me a smile, and I noticed that her eyes were the most interesting shade of light blue; as she talked, they glinted like polished silver.

  After she flew down the stairs, I watched the activity in the harbor. Commercial fishermen cast lines from the backs of small motorboats, and a half-dozen yachts bobbed in the water at the far end of the harbor. The yachts were so big, whoever owned them could probably sail from port to port, harbor to harbor, forever, stepping on land only when they needed to stretch or load up on paper towels and toilet paper.

  The thought made me think of Caleb. Where was he calling home now? Why was he hiding—or running? How did no one know where he was? How long could he keep it up without anyone’s help?

  I wasn’t sure why his parents weren’t searching the state for him, but since they weren’t, then I would. I had to. Not only because he was the only person who had th
e answers I needed, but also because Justine wouldn’t have wanted him wandering around, miserable and alone.

  But first … breakfast.

  “Here you are, my dear,” Louis said, coming onto the balcony with a round tray piled with plates and bowls. “French toast with triple-berry compote, oatmeal with honey, eggs Florentine, maple bacon, and fresh watermelon cubes.”

  I followed his finger as he pointed out each dish. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just enjoy.” He pulled a bud vase with a single daisy from his jacket pocket, placed it on the tray, and headed toward the stairs. “And try not to have quite as much fun tonight.”

  Despite wanting to eat slowly so that I could savor every bite while delaying my departure, the food was gone before I was even aware that my hunger pains had started to subside. It wasn’t until I was using my finger to wipe up the extra maple syrup pooled in the middle of the bacon plate that I realized I was no longer alone on the balcony. Three guys in black pants and white T-shirts sat in chairs facing the north side of the harbor, drinking coffee and talking.

  “I’m telling you,” said the blond on the end. “It’s just like that girl.”

  That girl. They could’ve been talking about anyone, but I knew immediately who he meant. Just by his tone, and the way he said “that girl,” like she wasn’t a real person but some nameless, faceless character regurgitated in evening news clips.

  Justine.

  “No way,” said the guy in the middle. “Totally different situation.”

  “How?” demanded the third guy. “How is it different?”

  “For starters, he was an old rich guy, and she was a young, gorgeous model type.”

  I stared at the pool of maple syrup, my face growing warm. He was. She was.

  “For another, he suffocated, and she suffered a blunt trauma to the head.”

  I swallowed. Blunt trauma to the head was the medical examiner’s official cause of Justine’s death.

  “But most obviously, he washed ashore after his boat capsized, and she jumped off a cliff.”