Black Creek Crossing

Then the door to Angel’s room opened and she came out, wrapped in her bathrobe. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your father seems to think there’s a cat in the house,” Myra said, her tone reflecting her doubt about what Marty claimed to have seen.

“It was black!” Marty growled. “With a white mark on its chest. And it was going to attack me. If your mom hadn’t come in—” He fell silent as Angel’s face turned ghostly white. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did you bring a cat in here?”

“No!” Angel cried. “I just—”

Her father pushed past her into her room. The window was closed and so was the closet. Marty pulled open the closet door, searched every corner and shelf, then looked under Angel’s bed and behind the chest.

“It was here,” he said, his voice dropping to a sullen growl. “I saw it.”

“After as many beers as you drank, I’m surprised you didn’t see a herd of pink elephants in the living room,” Myra snapped. “Now, if I were you, I’d get some clothes on and get downstairs and clean up your mess.”

Knowing better than to argue, Marty did exactly as Myra had ordered.

When her parents were gone, Angel went back into her room and closed the door, her father’s words echoing in her head… black… with a white mark on its chest …

But it wasn’t possible!

It couldn’t be…

Chapter 30

O YOU BELIEVE THAT?” HEATHER DUNNE SAID, nudging Sarah Harmon and whispering softly enough so only she could hear her. “What’s she doing here?”

They were in their favorite store — Meryl’s, Of Course — and Heather had tried on at least a dozen sweaters but wasn’t even close to finding one she wanted to buy. Now, with a blue cashmere cardigan over her arm that Sarah Harmon was sure was going to be the eventual winner of this round of what she always thought of as “Heather’s Shopping Derby,” Heather tipped her head toward a rack in the far corner. When Sarah followed her gaze, she knew right away who Heather was talking about: Angel Sullivan was going through the rack with a tall, thin woman whom Sarah was certain had to be her mother, given what her own mother had told her after she’d had lunch the other day with Zack’s mother and aunt. “Myra Sullivan’s nothing like Joni Fletcher at all,” her mother had said. “She’s scrawny and mousy and has no sense of humor, and I think she’s some kind of religious fanatic.” Then her mother had brightened, adding, “Well, at least if Joni and Ed put them up for the club, we can blackball them!”

“Shouldn’t she be going to that fat girl’s shop at the outlet mall?” Heather asked, pulling Sarah out of her reverie. “How’s she think she’s going to fit into anything here?”

As they watched, the woman with Angel pulled a pink dress off the rack, one with a full skirt and lots of frills around the bodice. Heather had been laughing about it only half an hour ago. Angel took the pink dress and headed for the dressing room.

“Do you believe she’s looking at party dresses?” Heather whispered. “Who’d invite her to—” Then the light dawned and she stared at Sarah. “I bet she’s going to the country club tonight,” she breathed.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Where else would she wear that dress?” Heather asked.

“Nobody else would wear it at all!” Sarah said.

But Heather was no longer listening. Instead, her eyes were following Angel as she disappeared through the curtains that hung at the door to the dressing room area, and Sarah Harmon could tell just by the look on Heather’s face that an idea was forming in her head. A moment later Heather turned back to Sarah, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Here’s what we’re going to do…” she said.

Sarah listened as Heather laid out her plan, and less than a minute after Angel had walked through the curtains, they did too.

Only one of the three dressing rooms was occupied. Holding a finger to her lips, Heather led Sarah into the one next to Angel’s.

Angel gazed despondently at the dress.

Everything about it was wrong. Even with it still on the hanger, she could tell it wasn’t going to fit, and even if it did fit, it would only make her look fatter.

“The bodice is modest, and the skirt will give you some shape,” her mother had told her when she’d found the dress a few minutes ago. Like anyone was even going to be looking at the breasts that were just barely beginning to show, and the full skirt—

She didn’t even want to think about how it would look.

And she certainly didn’t want to be here. What she wanted to do was talk to Seth. She’d hardly slept last night. Instead, she’d lain awake in bed, recalling her father’s words.

… a cat… black … with a white mark on its chest …

Of course, it wasn’t possible — her father was drunk, after all, and probably hadn’t seen a cat at all.

And yet…

She remembered the strange feeling that had come over her after she drank the watery broth left at the bottom of the kettle after it had boiled for almost two hours.

The awful knot of grief that had gripped her the moment she’d found Houdini’s body in her locker was completely gone. So completely gone, in fact, that she’d had to keep reminding herself that he wasn’t going to come bounding out of nowhere to rub up against her legs and beg to have his ears scratched.

And she’d kept thinking about the strange verse that had been the recipe they’d followed when they made up the broth:

Mix lover’s blood drawn by knife/Symmer long to bring back life.

A bit of earth from loved’s grave/The blur of grief will help to save.

One fragment of it had echoed all through the long hours of the night:

… symmer long to bring back life…

When morning had finally come and she went downstairs, she’d wanted to call Seth, to tell him what her father had said, and see what he thought.

And maybe even go back out to the cabin and…

But the minute she’d picked up the phone, her father demanded to know who she was calling. And when she turned to her mother for support, her mother shook her head. “Nice girls don’t call up boys,” she’d pronounced. “Nice girls wait for boys to call them. And besides,” she added, “we’re going to go shopping this morning. We’re getting you a brand new dress for the dance tonight.”

So here she was, in a dressing room with the worst dress she’d ever seen, and her mother waiting for her to come out and model it. Knowing there was no point in trying to postpone the inevitable, Angel began taking off her jeans and sweatshirt.

She was just hanging the sweatshirt on a hook when she heard a familiar voice from the dressing room next door.

“So what are you wearing tonight?” Heather Dunne asked.

“I hate costume parties,” someone replied. It was a voice Angel didn’t recognize.

“Oh, come on,” Heather said. “It’ll be fun. Besides, if you don’t wear a costume, you’ll be the only one, and then how will you feel?”

“I’d feel like Angel Sullivan,” the other girl said. Then: “Are you sure no one told her it’s a costume dance?”

Angel felt her face begin to burn.

“Who would?” Heather said, snickering. “I mean, who even speaks to her?”