by Rachel Rust
I’ve already been inspected head to toe by both a nurse and a doctor. And despite the torture my body and mind have been through, all I ended up needing was a few antiseptic wipes for the cuts and scrapes on my face, arms, and legs.
“I’m fine, Grandma.”
She holds my face in her hands and studies the cut on my cheek. “You’re hurt.”
More than you’ll ever know. I push her hands away.
Grandpa smooths down my hair. “What happened, Sport?”
I sit back down with a heavy sigh and retell the same story I’ve told nurses, doctors, and the police. David and I went hiking along the bluffs near the river. We came upon an old building and heard crying, and that’s when we found the girls. But Mateo was there. He admitted to kidnapping the girls and then started the building on fire. We dragged the girls out, and then David ran after Mateo, and I haven’t seen either of them since. When David didn’t come back, I had to leave without him and bring the girls to the pickup because they needed medical attention.
The story is simple. Hard to screw up when telling it several times. Any gaps or inconsistencies are blamed on my fear or the smoke in my eyes.
“Don’t you worry. They’ll find your friend David,” Grandpa says with a pat on my head.
No, they won’t. Tears well up in my eyes, but I squeeze tight every muscle within me. I must stay strong even though I want to collapse—not onto the floor, but through it. Into an abyss where it’s dark and I can float off and cease to be. But I keep control of my tongue because I don’t want to spend the night in the psych unit.
Grandma talks to the nurse at the front desk about me leaving. I hug my knees to my chest and bury my face. David stares back at me in my mind. His imagine is so clear. His brown eyes. His sweet smile. His hair tossed about by the wind. His lips and hands on me, pulling me close, his body pressed to mine.
But no longer. There are no more brown eyes, no more smile, no more lips. He’s gone. He doesn’t exist. The only glimmer of anything good is that he saved me and he’s free. He’s at peace. Yet still my stomach and chest squeeze tight in his absence.
A hand nudges my shoulder. “Let’s go honey,” Grandma says.
The ride home is in silence. I take a hot shower and dress in worn-out pajamas. Physically, comfort bathes me. Mentally, it’s going to be a long damn night.
I crawl deep into my bedding. The tears start the moment my head hits the pillow. They don’t stop until the sun comes up, when I finally drift to sleep.
…
Birds chirp in the tree outside my window. The rose curtains are pushed wide open, flooding the room with bright light. The angle of the sun suggests that it’s not morning. My phone isn’t on my bedside table, but I assume it’s at least noon. Maybe later.
The last several hours are nothing but a blacked-out void. No dreams of the Moore house. No dreams at all. And no giggles or talking in the air around me. Only silence.
I’m glad for the heavy sleep, something I haven’t had since moving here. But the fact that I didn’t see my dream house means it’s over. My connection to the house and its victims has been severed. The eighth save put the eighth soul at peace. And Mateo’s final justice put Amelia at peace.
No more recurring dreams—it’s what I’ve always wanted. And yet, I can’t find it within me to be happy.
David is dead, Tommy has been stopped, and now Amelia and Lena can rest. My brain struggles with the confusing combination of despair and relief.
I pull the covers over my head to keep the sunlight from my eyes, and my arm muscles ache with every movement. The sore muscles tell me I really did bust a padlock with a heavy rock. I really did carry a three-year-old over a mile.
I really did cradle David in my aching arms until he faded from existence. And soon my memories of him will fade as well. The idea of him being stripped from my mind gnaws at my insides. I don’t ever want to forget him, but it’s inevitable. I want to cry, but I can’t. There are no more tears left.
I lie in bed for another half hour before my bladder forces me onto my feet.
The air is full of murmurs that drift up from the living room. My grandparents and two other familiar voices. My parents. Shit. I should’ve known Grandma would call them.
I pee and brush my teeth, then descend the stairs. All eyes are on me.
I give a limp wave. “Hi.”
My mother rushes up and wraps her arms around me. She doesn’t speak and I’m pretty sure it’s because she doesn’t know what to say. Give my mom a topic to argue for or against, and she knows more words than the dictionary. But in a personal, one-on-one setting? She’s useless. I suppose we all have our strengths and weaknesses. I hug her back, glad she came for me. Familiarity is comfort, and I need any kind of comfort I can find.
My dad patiently waits his turn, then pats my head grandpa-style and gives me a quick hug and kiss on the forehead.
“So I guess you heard, huh?” I ask.
My parents glance uneasily at one another, and I wonder if they drove down to Villisca separately or together in the same car. A week ago, I would have had a bitter comment about their disaster of a marriage, with a side of self-pity over how the divorce was going to affect me. But in light of everything I’ve been through, I have no energy to be snotty and no desire to get wrapped into their drama.
Their presence in my grandparents’ living room, however, is a stark reminder that the outside world still exists. It’s not just Villisca and her secrets. Minneapolis exists. Kaylee and my other friends still exist. My high school still exists. Though from this moment on, the old Chessie doesn’t exist anymore. All of her worries—frizzy hair, a questionable first name, divorced parents—mean nothing. It’s all trivial shit. None of it matters in the big picture.
“We’ll bring you home to Minneapolis if that’s what you want,” my dad says.
I nod a little. The pain of Villisca is too much to bear. I need to get out of here. The souls of Tommy’s victims may be at peace, but I am anything but.
“Are you hungry?” Grandma asks.
At first, the question sounds absurd. How could I possibly eat after all this? But my stomach is rumbling in an odd mixture of pain and hunger because I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. Grandma nudges her way between me and my mom. She takes me by the elbow and leads me to the kitchen. I don’t have to be told what to do. I sit and I eat.
Despite the mental anguish, I’m starving and inhale two pancakes and a pile of scrambled eggs. I drain two glasses of orange juice.
The day’s newspaper is on the table and the headline is simple: Villisca Girls Found! I skim the article, and there’s no mention of my name. Not yet, but the time is coming. People want answers. With forced resolve, I promise myself that I’ll talk and tell my story about the missing girls. Sure, my story is partially made up, but this town isn’t ready for stories of reincarnation. Though I’ll give them as much of the truth as I can. They deserve at least that much, especially Amelia’s parents.
The town didn’t get answers in 1912, and in a sad twist, despite my knowledge that Tommy Ford committed the crimes, I can offer them zero proof of his involvement. How would I convince anyone that Mateo was Tommy and that he had confessed? The town will continue on in the dark. More than a hundred years later, there are still no official answers about the Moore family and Stillinger girls…but I know. At least the victims are at peace. And I’ll always remember them.
“Chessie,” Grandpa says peeking into the kitchen from the living room. “You have a visitor.”
I make a face. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.” I’m not up for chit-chat, and I have a feeling there’s a head of pink-and-blue hair waiting for me on the front porch. Despite her momentary kindness in helping me start the pickup, Samantha is no doubt eager to chew me out over having lost David in the woods.
“Come on, Francesca,” Grandma says, patting my back until I stand up. “Go greet your company. Get some fresh air.”
A click to my left makes me jump.
My body goes weak. My eyes are deceiving me.
Leaned against the railing is a boy. He flicks a zippo lighter with such precision, it’s as though he’s been doing it for a hundred years. Except he’s only eighteen. Today, in fact, is his eighteenth birthday.
“David,” I whisper.
He smiles and his eyes glimmer in the sun.
Relief and confusion collide within me, nearly sending me to my knees. I walk toward him. I want to run, but I’m afraid he’s a mirage and too swift a movement will send him fluttering away on the wind. I walk until my body runs into his. It’s solid. Real. My fingers touch the tips of his hair, then glide down the side of his face.
“You’re here,” I say, unable to control a sudden rush of giggling, which is accompanied by a welling of hot tears.
“I’m here,” he replies.
With a sharp laugh, I throw my arms around him. Tightly, we cling together, burying our faces into each other’s necks. He looks like David. He smells like David. He is David.
“How?” I ask, pulling back just enough to peer into his brown eyes. “You got shot. You died in my arms and then disappeared.”
“But I woke up this morning in my bed. I did it. I saved eight people and now I get to stay. I get to finish living my life—my whole life.”
“You saved me.”
“I know.” He brushes back my hair. “And I’d do it again a million times over, even if it didn’t mean I’d get to stay.”
I lean forward and press my lips into his, and he presses back.
“Happy birthday,” I whisper.
“Thanks. Feels good to be eighteen for once. And I would have come over sooner, but I had to make a few amends with my dad this morning, considering that I ran out on him yesterday.”
“He was pretty pissed, huh?”
David smiles. “Just a tad.” He kisses me again, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me in closer.
Near the front door, someone clears their throat. It’s my dad. David and I step apart from one another as he walks over. He extends a hand to David and introduces himself. David shakes it and does the same.
Dad has a quizzical gleam in his eyes as he stands in front of David, as though he very nearly recognizes his former best friend who gave up his life for him on that icy river. I want so badly to tell him this is the boy who saved his life all those years ago. But I can’t. David’s secret is more important than Dad’s curiosity.
He pats my head again, to remind me I’m still his daughter and that he doesn’t fully approve of me kissing a boy on the front porch. But I’m seventeen, less than six months from being an adult, and he knows he can’t do much about it, so his pat on the head is also accompanied with a quick smile. He disappears into the house.
I glance down at my pajamas and bare feet. “I’m going to go get dressed.” I stare directly into David’s eyes. “Do not go anywhere.”
He laughs. “I won’t.”
“Promise.”
“Chessie, I’m here. Seriously. And I’m not leaving.”
With a huge grin, I rush inside, ignoring my mother’s questions about that boy on the porch.
I twist my hair into a bun and then throw on a red sundress—one of the articles of clothing that my mom had insisted I bring to Iowa just in case of a special occasion. I run my hands down the soft cotton material. Maybe, in her own steely way, Mom’s a bit more helpful than I have ever given her credit for.
My hand lands on the doorknob of my closet where my shoes are. Slowly, I open it and find nothing but my shirts and shoes inside.
I bypass the high heels and slip my feet into flip-flops.
“Thank you,” I whisper. But I’m speaking into an empty closet. There’s an emptiness in the air all around me. Like the dreams, the ghosts are gone.
I grab Lucinda from under my bed and rush back downstairs. I shove the clarinet case into my mom’s hands. “Take this back to Minneapolis with you. I don’t want it anymore. I never did.”
“But—”
“I’m staying in Villisca.” I turn before she can respond, and then yell out, “I’ll be back later!” I say it to no one in particular and don’t wait for a response because I’m not going to listen to them anyway.
On the front porch steps sits David, brown hair tousled by the wind. He smiles at the sight of me, and I grab his hands and yank him to his feet. Hand in hand, we walk down the front pathway.
My parents stand on the porch, watching me leave. Several feet of bitterness separates them, but I have no urge to try and shove them back together. Their life is their life. They have to do what’s best for them, and I’m okay with that. I have my own future to think about.
“Where shall we go?” I ask David.
The sky is blue. The sun is bright. All directions look like great possibilities.
“Everywhere.” He kisses the back of my hand, then adds, “Ya know, I hear Minneapolis has some good colleges.”
I smile. “We sure do.”
We turn and walk down the sidewalk together. Across the street, under the front window of the Moore house, eight red roses bloom.
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Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to everyone who made this book a reality.
My husband, Tim, for making more than your fair share of dinners while I stared at my computer. My daughter Ava, for your constant encouragement and positive words. My daughter Sera, for reading an early draft and sharing your enthusiasm for Chessie’s story.
My parents for always lifting me up. I am forever grateful for your ongoing support. And extra thanks to my mom for braving the Moore house with me.
My canine writing companions, Niko and Hank, for their unconditional loyalty. Except that time Hank ate my editing notes.
My agent, Eva Scalzo at Speilburg Literary Agency, for believing in this book. Without you, Chessie and David would still be trapped inside my computer. Thanks for helping introduce them to the world.
The entire team at Entangled Teen Publishing. Especially my editor, Alethea Spiridon, who took a chance on this story and made it shine.
And lastly, thanks to the fun and inspiring writers on Twitter. I spent far too much time scrolling through your tweets while working on this book and don’t regret it one bit. Tweet on.
About the Author
Rachel Rust is an author of young adult books. In both reading and writing, she loves all things mysterious, romantic, and thrilling. When not making up stories, she can usually be found with her family and their two dogs—a pug and a chug (chihuahua/pug). Rachel is represented by Eva Scalzo at Speilburg Literary Agency. Visit www.rachelrust.net to learn more about Rachel and her books.
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