Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  He’s just talking crap. Trying to lure me back into his bullshit the way he always does.

  And how can I even think about being friends with someone who doesn’t think twice about shoving me into danger if it’ll save his own ass?

  I can’t. And I’m honestly pretty tired of forgiving Ford for the inconsiderate shit he does. I actually think Carla’s right—Ford doesn’t see me as a friend. I was just a convenient place-filler for him until he could weasel his way in with the Millers. More useful friends.

  It’s after midnight when I get home, but I’m still wired after my near-death experience. At least Ford has given up trying to worm his way around me now.

  I sit at my desk, sipping the last of my decaf coffee, and am about to turn off my phone when I get a message from Daphne.

  Daphne: Heads-up: Mateo and Casper are arranging a danse tomorrow at Copper Bell Dam in memory of Freya.

  I pretty much knew this was coming. I’m actually surprised it’s taken this long. But I won’t be going to this danse, obviously. It’d be too weird, considering I hated Freya.

  Ava: Are you going?

  Daphne: Everyone’s going. I think you should too.

  Ava: I’d rather avoid seeing Ford right now.

  Daphne: What did he do this time?

  I consider trying to explain over text, but I know Daphne will be all shades of pissed on my behalf, and I don’t really want to get into it right now. Last time Ford and I had a big bust-up, she went all philosophical on me, explaining what she calls her Dimple Theory.

  Basically, it revolves around the fact that Carla has this one particular smile that brings out her dimples. They’re cute as hell. But they only ever seem to come out when Daphne’s around. Of course, Daphne noticed this. And it spawned her Dimple Theory: that when you’re in a relationship with someone, you bring out something no one else can. Sometimes that can be good—like with Carla’s magnificent dimples. “And sometimes,” Daphne added pointedly, “two people bring out the worst in each other.”

  What I gathered from this theory is that she thinks Ford and I are kind of shitty when we’re around each other. I hate to admit it, but she’s probably right.

  Damn it. I’m so done agonizing over Ford Sutter.

  Searching for a distraction, I skim over those old news articles Dominic sent me. If Uncle Ty had been up when I got home, I’d have asked him if he knew about the possible murder in our family’s past, and how the evil eyes are maybe connected.

  Daphne: Ava? Are you OK?

  Damn. I forgot to reply.

  Ava: I’m fine, just got distracted for a sec. Ford thing was nothing major. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.

  Daphne: OK, if you’re sure. But don’t let him stop you going to the danse. You need to be there.

  Ava: Why?

  Daphne: Because EVERYONE’S going. It’ll look like you’re hiding if you don’t.

  She has a point. I’m sure half the kids at school think I had some part in Freya’s death. Everyone knows I hated her.

  I trace the indentation of one of the eyes carved around my window, wondering if it’ll shoot pain into my fingertip, like a demon walking into a church and getting struck by lightning. There’s no shooting pain, but I do knock over the little weasel skull. It lies on its side. For a weird moment, its empty eye socket seems to blink.

  My phone leaps in my hand—another message. I force a half-laugh, telling myself I’m definitely too sleep-deprived if I’m seeing long-dead rodents winking at me.

  Daphne: Dominic will be there.

  I frown at my phone.

  Ava: So?

  It takes Daphne a while to respond this time. I can just picture her twirling the chain of her necklace while she comes up with the right way to put whatever she’s about to say—which I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like.

  Daphne: So we should all be there to show moral support, no matter how we felt about Freya.

  There it is: the perfect mix of guilt and goading.

  “Whatever,” I murmur, and turn off my phone.

  * * *

  * * *

  I wake up with my face pressed against something hard, and a savage crick in my neck.

  I must’ve fallen asleep sketching at my desk again. My lamp is on, and it’s still dark outside my window. The windowpane is opaque, frost built up into a solid layer on the outside.

  I carefully lift my head, stretching out my fingers over the page of the comic I was working on. Except the page isn’t one from my project. It’s just a piece of scrap with doodles all over it. I blink, trying to wake up my brain.

  Eyes?

  The paper has been torn from my drafting sketchbook. One where I was trying to figure out the right eyes to give the girl from my comic. The entire page is covered in them—nothing but eyes, all staring back up at me.

  I find the sketchbook and tuck the page back inside, my skin feeling prickly. I don’t remember working on that. I’m sure I was working on a panel from the comic where the girl is leaning over the open trapdoor in the cellar, peering down into it.

  No, that page is set neatly to one side at the corner of my desk. I must’ve switched to working on her eyes again, but I don’t remember it. I turn off the lamp, waiting for a moment while my vision adjusts to the dark. But as it clears, and the round window in front of me becomes a frosted silvery disc, I see the hazy outline of someone standing outside it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Right outside.

  My chair tips backward as I leap to my feet, jerking again when it clatters loudly against the stone floor. Outside the window, the figure doesn’t move except to tilt its head slightly, as though responding to the sound.

  “Who’s out there?” I shout, voice high and thin. The voice of a victim, not a Thorn.

  The figure doesn’t react. Stays perfectly still, in fact, and I wonder if they’re listening for the sound of my heartbeat. I’m pretty sure they’ll hear it, it’s pounding so loudly.

  It’s probably just Ford come to bug me in person.

  Steeling myself, I pull my sleeve over my fist and wipe it across the window.

  A face gapes in at me, no more than an inch away from the glass. Pale, surrounded by black, stringy hair, and with twin black holes where her eyes should be. Definitely not Ford.

  I scream.

  Turning, I trip over the fallen chair and land hard on my bedroom floor, but I don’t stop to cry about it. I dive for the door and sprint through the garage, still yelling at full volume. I slam through the door to the kitchen, skidding to a stop when I see Carolyn at the sink.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Sadie! Outside my window! She’s outside!”

  Carolyn’s eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn’t hesitate. “Wait here,” she says, nodding firmly, then strides out the way I just came in.

  “Carolyn, no! Wait!” I go after her because I can’t not, even though my legs are telling me to turn and run the other way. The light is on when I follow her into my bedroom, the chair still lying on its side next to my desk. Carolyn leans over it to peer through the window.

  “Can’t see anyone. I’ll go take a look outside.”

  She returns quickly, shaking her head. “Nope. And there’s actually nothing for anyone to stand on out there—the river runs right under your window. Are you sure you saw someone out there?”

  But I’m looking around the room, at all the sketches of eyeless girls and corpses crawling through graveyards, and I’m not sure about anything anymore.

  “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I think it was just the tail end of a nightmare.” One that followed me into the waking world.

  Carolyn wraps me in a hug, and I breathe in the fresh smell of her shampoo. “Sorry, I bet I woke you with all my yelling,” I say. She pul
ls away, smiling.

  “Don’t be silly, I just came down for some water. And listen, anyone would be having nightmares in your situation. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  When she leaves, I lie in bed, staring at the crack in my ceiling until my eyes finally close, and I sleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  Uncle Ty looks up from the crossword puzzle he’s working on when I walk through the kitchen the next morning. I notice he’s had to scribble over a few of his answers in the grid. Carolyn will probably correct them again later.

  “Hey, cupcake. How did you sleep? Carolyn told me you had another nightmare.”

  I shrug. I’m not sure what I saw last night, but I’m sleeping with my curtains shut from now on.

  I printed out the article Dominic sent me—the one about Sadie, specifically. I lay it in front of Uncle Ty. “Can I ask you about some old Thorn family stuff?”

  He laughs. “Okay. Did you hire a PI or something?”

  “No, just looked through some old records.” It’s not like I can tell him Dominic gave me the article.

  Uncle Ty reads the article. When he nears the end, I’m surprised to see his eyes light up.

  “There really was a witch in the pit!” He smacks a hand on the table, like he just won a bet.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember, when you were little? I told you there was a witch living in the pit beneath the cellar.”

  I do remember. It was one of the scariest moments of my young life. “So you already knew about Sadie Burnett—Dead-Eyed Sadie?”

  “Not exactly. That story about the witch was one your dad told me when I was little.” He grins crookedly. “It’s like a rite of passage for young Thorns to go down there and prove you’re not scared of the witch. I figured it might have something to do with the Dead-Eyed Sadie thing, but I never knew it was based on anything real. It was always just kids’ stories, you know? But maybe I should’ve waited until you were a little older before taking you down there, huh? Boy, did you scream.”

  I force a laugh. I still remember how terrifying it felt at the time, but I know Uncle Ty didn’t really mean to scare me so much. And I never did make it down into the pit.

  “So you didn’t know about Sadie being related to the Millers?”

  “She was?” Uncle Ty leans back in his seat, brows raised. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the Millers are descended from witches,” he adds wryly.

  “Do you believe that everyone in our family sees Sadie right before they die? Like Dad did?” Uncle Ty stares back at me, the humor gone from his face now. “You don’t believe it was just a symptom of his seizure, do you?”

  “I . . . Well. I don’t think I ever told you this,” Uncle Ty says, “but my dad said he saw Sadie a couple times in the days before his accident too.”

  Accident. The word we always use when we talk about Grandpa’s death, even though he probably wasn’t just cleaning his pistol when it went off.

  “I remember you said something about it at his funeral.”

  Uncle Ty sucks his teeth. “Yeah, not my finest moment. But the truth is, I don’t know if anyone’s really seen Sadie. Probably never will . . . until it’s my turn, anyway.”

  “Not funny,” I say, looking down at the scars on my hands.

  I’m not at all sure whether to confess to Uncle Ty the thing that’s burning at the back of my mind—that’s been smoldering there for over a year now. But keeping it to myself hasn’t done me any good so far, and maybe sharing it will.

  “I think I saw her too,” I say. I see Uncle Ty lean forward in my peripheral vision.

  “You did? When?”

  “The day of the crash. And again at the river a few days ago. Then last night, outside my window. And I don’t know if it’s real, or just something in my head. I mean, when I found Freya, she looked so much like her . . .”

  He’s frowning when I look up, but not like he thinks I’ve totally lost my mind. Just concerned. And a little uncomfortable. This is heavier stuff than Uncle Ty and I usually talk about. But I’ve made it this far.

  “Do you think I should go see a therapist again? Dr. Ehrenfeld, maybe?” I say.

  There’s no mistaking his grimace, and I know he’s thinking about the money. Still, he says, “Okay, if you think you need to. I’m sure we can make it work somehow . . . I’ll look into it.” At my raised eyebrow, he smiles. “All right, I’ll ask Carolyn to look into it.”

  But, now that it’s out there, I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, I’m pretty sure Dr. Ehrenfeld would tell me this is all part of my “healing process.” And I’ve probably been making it worse for myself, always looking for Sadie around every corner, hiding in every shadow. I just need to chill out, hang with my friends. Stop looking for ghosts.

  “Actually, can you not?” I say. “I kinda feel better just talking to you about it.”

  Uncle Ty smiles, clearly relieved. “You let me know if you change your mind, okay?” He taps his finger on the article before handing it back. “But maybe give the digging a rest, yeah? Every family has shitty parts to their history, and ours is no different. Maybe it’s better to let the dead rest, and try to get on with living.”

  “Sure.” And speaking of . . . “By the way, there’s a party tonight at Copper Bell Dam. A bunch of kids from school will be there. Is it all right if I go?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Of course. You know you don’t need my permission. Is it one of those danse things?” I nod. “You need me to pick anything up for you on my way home? Booze, condoms . . . ?”

  I laugh. “Nah, I’m all set.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I’m moving on autopilot when I pull into the school parking lot a few minutes later. My focus quickly snaps back when I see a squad car in the far corner, lights flashing.

  Shit. Did something else happen?

  Or are they here to arrest someone?

  Are they here to arrest me?

  But Daphne’s dad—fully in Officer Chavez mode—gets out and opens the back door of the squad car. A very pissed-looking Mateo climbs out, snaps something at Officer Chavez, then stomps off toward the main entrance. Daphne’s dad gets back in his car and drives away, tipping me a quick wave on the way past.

  Huh. I wonder what all that was about.

  I head inside, and I’m pleased to find Daphne and Carla have arrived first for a change.

  “What’s going on with Mateo?” I ask as soon as I’m close enough to whisper. Mateo’s farther along the hallway, acting very pissy with the contents of his locker. Daphne and Carla both stare at me like I’ve grown horns. “I just saw him getting out of your dad’s squad car . . . ?” I prompt.

  “You did?” Daphne’s indignant frown tells me all I need to know.

  “He didn’t say anything to you?”

  “No! Let me go text him . . .”

  Carla and I exchange a knowing look while Daphne moves three feet away for some reason, then returns moments later.

  “He says he can’t tell me about it,” she huffs.

  My digging thwarted, I have to wait until lunchtime to go look for Dominic and see if I can get any info from him. But I can’t find him, and some careful questioning of our few mutuals tells me he’s taken the day off.

  I wait until I have a free period, then head out to the lot to call him from my car.

  He picks up after one ring. It’s almost like he was expecting me to call. Hoping I would?

  “How come you’re not in school?” I ask, rather than wasting time on hello. (I think Carla might be a bad influence on me.)

  “I had another migraine last night, so decided to take the day. What’s up?”

  Okay, not just waiting around for me to call. “Two things, really. First up, why the hell did Mateo get dropped at school by a squad car?�
��

  Dominic makes a sound that’s half sigh, half snicker. “I heard he had to go make a statement about a scuffle he got into with your pal Liam Walsh.”

  “A scuffle? And Liam isn’t my pal, pal.”

  “Good,” he says. Is he . . . relieved? But then I guess he would be—the guy used to creep on his little sister. “And, from what Mat told me, he overheard Liam with some journalist talking crap about Freya. So he hit him.”

  “You sound proud,” I tell him.

  “Not really. I’m just relieved Mateo didn’t get into serious trouble over it. Besides, put a football in his hand and Mateo is a machine, but the guy throws a weak punch.” There’s a pause before Dominic adds, “Please don’t tell him I said that. He could literally kill me.” Another pause. “By which I mean figuratively, of course.”

  “You sound like Carla. So fancy with your words,” I tease without thinking, and he laughs openly this time. He has a loud bark of a laugh, completely unrestrained. It’s not at all the kind of laugh I’d expect him to have. I . . . don’t hate it?

  “What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?” he asks.

  I grimace, glad he can’t actually see me. Because there’s no way to say this without sounding weird. So I just come right out with it.

  “In those articles you sent me, it says Sadie’s last name was Burnett. But there’s also a John Burnett Miller, who I’m guessing was some relation to her . . . He’s your ancestor, right? Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you’re related to Sadie?”

  There’s a silence on the line. I close my eyes to listen, hoping for some clue as to what he’s thinking. But all I hear is the steady sound of his breathing. I keep my eyes closed for a moment.

  “John Burnett was Sadie’s older brother,” he says at last. “He and the rest of his family added Miller as their last name after she died—probably to try to distance themselves from Ephraim and Susannah Thorn’s claim that Sadie was a witch. Eventually my ancestors dropped the Burnett altogether.”