Gideon’s figure becomes speckled with tiny grayish-white flecks. More white dots appear, like he’s biking straight into a snowstorm despite the tepid feel of the air.
Overhead, the sun vanishes behind an ink-dark cloud. I glance down at a snowflake that’s fallen on my bare arm. It doesn’t melt against the warmth of my skin.
Because it’s ash. When I look up again, the horizon is a blazing display of neon orange and red, the sky is black with smoke, and Gideon keeps biking straight into a cloud of ash.
My head feels tight. Too tight. And the silver cloud swallows him up.
3
“Cass.” Gideon’s voice. Slowly, I blink his blurred face into focus.
“What happened?” I slur.
“You crashed your bike into a trash can. I think you hit your head on the pavement.”
I attempt to stand, but my vision fogs. We’re on the sidewalk, but it looks like we’re floating on a stormy sky. Gideon must have dragged me and my bike off the road before any cars managed to squash me. I wince. The entire right side of my body stings. I’m bleeding from my knee and elbow. I clearly hit the asphalt hard.
Gideon pulls me to my feet and steadies me, brushing gravel off my arm. “We need to get you home.”
I want to agree, to head home and watch a movie, safe and snug on my couch with Gideon. But instead I say, “I’m fine. Just some scrapes. I have to get to the sawmill. I have to find Melody.” Too shaky to ride, I grip the handlebars of my bike and roll it.
“The sawmill?” Gideon asks, eyeing me. My body sways until he grabs my waist. “Why the sawmill? Cass, you’re bleeding and you might have a concussion. I’ll find Melody. After I take you home.”
I shake my head. “I have to do it.”
“Why? What are you not telling me? Why don’t you trust me to take care of this?” He leans in close enough for me to breathe in his familiar scent—sweat, pine from biking through the woods, and a hint of citrus from his shampoo.
His face falls. I know what he’s thinking. We don’t keep secrets from each other.
My gaze drifts to the oak trees lining the road. “I trust you. It’s just…” I want to tell him. I do. So he can fix this, the way he fixes everything.
But I can’t ever tell him the truth about that night with Brandon. He’d never see me the same way again; he’d see me the way everyone else does. I don’t respond, and Gideon growls under his breath, rolling his bike a yard ahead of mine. My eyes sting and my chest wrenches.
“Look, someone took my notebook!” I force out. The words hang in the air as Gideon turns to stare at me, mouth and eyes wide open. I double over, breathing in the grass-scented air with my chest pressed into the handlebars.
“I’m lost.”
“I wrote something in there about Melody. Something bad. And now the notebook is gone, and…”
“Cass, this is what I was afraid of. I think someone’s messing with you.”
“That’s not it.” But my stomach flips. Or is that exactly it? Melody and Brandon could be doing this together. They could’ve seen me head into the woods and decided it would be fun to mess with Fire Girl.
The horrible feeling wrapped around my chest squeezes tighter. I blink back the tears. “I’m just afraid if I tell you—” The tears escape, running down my face. I wipe them, smearing the back of my hand with mascara.
“Cass…” Gideon softens, gently pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Melody’s not at work because she ditched her shift to stay with that guy from the woods. I don’t know what you heard, but I know you’re not going to get in trouble.”
Considering my history, that’s the last thing he should claim to know with any certainty. Everyone in this town knows I’m trouble. Or troubled. Add that notebook with the detailed murder plan; it seems I’ve laid out the evidence, nice and neat, right in front of them.
But I can’t tell Gideon about any of that.
“Sit down,” he says. “I’ll call Asher to come with the car. In the meantime, I’ll bike to the diner and grab you some ice.”
I nod and lower onto the curb. “You’re right,” I say, touching my head and finding my fingertips sticky with blood. “I probably have a concussion. I’m sorry for acting so weird.”
Gideon smiles weakly. “I’ll be right back.” He places a gentle hand on my arm, and guilt churns in my chest. Then he hops onto his bike, tossing me one last concerned glance over his shoulder.
The second he disappears around the corner, I’m on my feet and slipping a wobbly leg over my bike. I start pedaling in the opposite direction, up the street with manicured lawns and picket fences, and onto the narrow road that weaves through the hills.
To the abandoned sawmill.
I pedal as fast as my weak legs will allow, my head pounding. I might’ve lied to Gideon about staying put, but I very well could be concussed. A trickle of sweat or blood drips into my eye and I rub at it with a sleeve, keeping one hand on the handlebars. Ahead, a hare hops through the tall grass off the path, pausing on his haunches, muzzle twitching, black eyes wide. I swerve to avoid him as he springs back into the trees.
When I reach the fork in the trail, I brake and dismount. Off to the left, trees line a dirt road that is just large enough to fit a vehicle. If Brandon drove Melody up here, where would he hide his car? I drag my bike through the tall grass a few yards to the right, then I take off running up the windy trail.
Water gurgles in the distance, and I push through the weeds and brambles until the mill bursts into view, its roof partially caved in and the door missing. This place hasn’t run since the late 1800s. The mill owner, Tom Garrison, used this place to dispose of his wife, Maribel, our town’s namesake. Tom was executed for the murder, but, according to town legend, his spirit haunts the place to this day. If he sees you, the mill starts up and running of its own accord, sawing you into tiny bits that no one will ever find.
Which explains why not even the drug addicts come up here. I near the old building, which looks empty, like always.
But I have to make sure. I can’t let someone else die because of me.
My breathing is ragged as I head past the rusted wheel half-buried beneath overgrown weeds and twigs. Knee-high in rubble and vines, I duck under a fallen beam.
I’m not worrying about the ghost of Tom or even about stepping on something sharp and tetanus-inducing. I need to figure out what to do if I discover Brandon inside with Melody, ready to enact part two of our plan.
Or worse, finished with part two.
I tiptoe around the back of the mill. Some swallows dive through the blackberry bushes beside the wheel, startling me. This side of the building is completely eroded, with parts of the wall missing. Black mold and oxidized paint splotches mingle over the remaining bricks, but there’s a tiny stone window for me to peek through.