Prologue
June 16, 2006
Celia stepped outside and met the sizzling heat, a stark contrast to the icy air pumping from her Honda Civic. As she left the parking lot, gravel and bronze sand slid between her flip-flops and feet. Once she reached grass, she hopped out of her shoes and wiped them clean. Now she was perfect again, from her braided blonde hair to her red-tipped toes.
“You’re late,” Ronnie said as he passed. He was wearing sunglasses and a visor, but she knew his eyes were on her. He liked to look at her. Everyone did.
She shifted the weight in her hips and smiled. “You gonna hold it against me?”
Ronnie started to say something but shuffled away instead. Celia loved the power she exerted over men. It was a God-given gift—one she planned on using until she took her last breath. She wiggled out of her tank top and Soffe shorts, folding the clothes neatly inside her duffel. She draped a whistle around her neck and started rubbing sunscreen into her already tanned skin, careful to reach the spots that would peek beneath her red one-piece.
Once ready, she pulled down her sunglasses and climbed the white wooden lifeguard stand, adjusting the attached umbrella to an angle that was just right. She sat there, looking out at the liveliest place in her sleepy hometown. Families had come in swarms to Whisper Lake that year, one of the busiest seasons she could remember. She’d been coming here most of her life, but this was only her second year as a lifeguard. Everyone in Whisper Falls frequented the lake during summer; not much else was offered, except for the County Fair at the end of August.
Celia settled into a comfortable position, peering over her rims at all the people she recognized. She spotted her youth minister, a former math teacher and the man who changed the oil in her car. Several classmates were in the sand preparing a volleyball game. Throughout her shift, each person she knew would catch sight of her and wave. Even people she didn’t know eventually ogled her. All of them admiring her beauty, her athleticism, her strength.
This was Celia’s favorite place in the world. A hot summer day at the lake, sitting on her throne, looking down on those around her. It’s going to be a good day, she thought, leaning back and closing her eyes.
She could never have predicted this day would be her last.
One
Madison
It’s my fault we’re moving.
I always knew we’d end up in Whisper Falls; agreeing to marry Cooper Douglas cemented that future. Still, I thought I had some time. At least five years, maybe ten. I’ll miss the city, the pulsating excitement just outside my door. I feel that life source dimming with each mile marker I pass. The traffic thins, and the landscape flattens. I think we’ve reached the other side of nothingness, but the GPS insists we keep going, until we’re off the highway completely, traveling narrow, two-lane streets.
The route leading to our house is bare of civilization but filled with natural beauty. The only mark of human intervention is the narrow road with its faded white median. Tall trees—don’t even ask me what kind—stand along the edges, their fallen leaves resting politely on the grass as if by design.
Finally, I see the house. Our house, I suppose. Before we left Atlanta, Coop and I decided to play a game where I told him what I expected the house to look like, without seeing any pictures. I’m about right. Two stories. Wraparound porch. There’s no shed in the back like I imagined, and the house is white brick, not red.
I park in front of the detached garage. I step outside, staring at the house, and take in a deep breath. It’s true what they say. The air is cleaner here. Soothing. It can almost rid me of my anxiety with a few deep inhales. Almost.
Behind me, Coop turns into the driveway. He’s hauling a rented trailer, which contains all the belongings from our apartment. My things filled less than a dozen boxes. Coop had more stuff, and he’d only been in Atlanta for two years. He exits his vehicle, stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
“So, what do you think?”
“Pretty close to what I imagined,” I say. I lean my head to the left, my hair blowing in the breeze. “I think I like the white brick better.”
He squeezes me, then walks to the porch. I follow him. “Of course, this house is temporary, if you want it to be. We can always buy our own, or even build.”
“Give me a tour. I can’t decide if I like the place until I see the inside.”
After a brief walkthrough, I decide I definitely like the place. The wooden floors are original and clean. There’s a fireplace in the massive living room. Upstairs, there are four bedrooms. The master is the biggest and has a small balcony overlooking the front lawn. I stand there, my fingers wrapped tightly around the iron railing. I look ahead at the Great Smoky Mountains in the distance. I try to picture every morning like this. Can I do it? Can I be happy here?
I think back to when we made the decision to move, after I told Coop what I’d done. It no longer made sense to stay in the city when he had the Douglas publishing empire to take over. He would have stayed in Atlanta for me, but I ruined that.
Coop never made me feel that way, though. Like I’d done something wrong. Instead, he kicked the Whisper Falls sales pitch into high gear, pulled up photos and highlighted our substantial cost-of-living cuts. I agreed moving was the best decision, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. My life in the city was unsalvageable; the least I could do was follow Plan B quasi-enthusiastically.
Coop joins me on the balcony, kneading the tension from my shoulders.
“You said this used to be your aunt’s house,” I say. “How long has it been vacant?”
“Five years or so. Mom kept the lawns maintained and renovated the interior. It feels brand new.”
“Your aunt. Did she, you know—”
“Die in the house?” He grins, despite the morbid topic.
“Yeah?” Although beautiful, the house is over a century old. It screams of hauntings.
“You and your active imagination.” He kisses the top of my head and walks back inside.
Coop’s aunt isn’t the only ghost on my mind. He’s told me several stories about his hometown in the two years we’ve been together. The most memorable was about his high school girlfriend, Celia Gray. She drowned in the waters of Whisper Lake the summer before he started college. The event was a defining moment in his life; it haunts him, and now it haunts me. We both knew moving here would disrupt his past, but I’m hoping, at the same time, it will erase mine.
Two
Helena
I miss my daughter.
For a few years, I felt her presence with me wherever I went. Now I only feel her absence. Grief has carved me up inside, leaving me hollow in some places, tattered in others.
You can’t overcome the loss of a child. It’s the most unnatural of occurrences, the heaviest of losses. If you lose a parent, you’re an orphan. If you lose a spouse, you’re a widow. What are you when you lose a child? You’re me. Bitter and cold and angry.
Plenty of other people are in my position. I see them each week at the meetings. At some point, the others pull their lives back together. Find a new purpose. Those parents always say the hardest part is not knowing why. Never understanding what happened. Not seeing what their child could have one day become. I’ll tell you what’s worse than that. It is knowing. Because I know what happened to my daughter. I tried—time and time again I tried—to get someone, anyone, to listen. No one would. They wanted proof. They wanted evidence. All things I couldn’t provide.