Whisper Falls (3 page)

I rolled to my back and wiggled for comfort.

Above me, the roof sloped sharply. I reached up and pushed aside a loose board. Fresh air trickled in, teasing me with its honeysuckle scent. Starlight pricked tiny white holes in the dark fabric of the night sky.

Come back
.

Had the falls called after me? Or had he?

Could someone truly speak across the centuries?

If so, why should I be the one to hear?

Perhaps our meeting had been a hoax. Solomon Worth might have plotted such a deed. When I rejected his offer of marriage last year, he had blazed with outrage and proclaimed that my ingratitude at the honor of his proposal must surely be a sign of madness. Did he seek to have me doubt my senses? Had Solomon hired the stranger to extract revenge?

I hoped not. Mark Lewis intrigued me. He spoke of things yet to come. I wanted him to be real.

A yawn interrupted my musings. Sunrise was drawing steadily nearer. I needed to awaken before the family to serve their breakfast, but there would be no porridge or toast awaiting them if I didn't sleep soon.

The loose board fell into place, blocking the night sky and the honeysuckle breeze. I smiled into the echoing void of my space under the eaves and prayed for sweet dreams.

I hadn't completed the training I intended to tonight, but it didn't matter anymore. This ride was over. The scene with the girl had blown my concentration.

There were only two walkers left on the greenway, their shadows slipping like headless silhouettes from tree to tree. I headed home at a slow, steady pace. But there was nothing slow or steady about my thoughts. They raced out of control, replaying what had just happened.

And something
had
happened. I wasn't crazy. But what? When I banged my head after the first crash, had I blacked out?

Probably not. I hadn't hit hard enough.

How could I explain the water? It had taken control of me, swinging me around like a toy. That hadn't been my imagination.

Or had it?

What about the girl? If I dreamed up the water, I dreamed her up, too. But where would the dream have come from?

I'd seen
The Crucible
in American Lit this past semester. Had images of colonial costumes been hibernating in my brain all this time, waiting to take over?

Maybe. It was hard to know.

When I reached the garage, I checked my bike, determined to blot out the past hour. It was better to focus on important things. Bike maintenance.
Me
maintenance. I could use some calories.

I went inside, fixed a plate of pot roast and potatoes, and then leaned against the counter to eat it. But thoughts of Susanna wouldn't shut up.

Was it possible that she was real even if the water wasn't?

That wasn't such a bad idea. Susanna had been real, the water had been my imagination, and the two were merging in my memory.

Yeah. I'd go with that theory for the moment.

I'd met a strange girl. We'd had an interesting conversation. And I wouldn't mind talking to her again, if we could get past the time warp stuff.

Of course, I would have to apologize first. Fear had flashed in her eyes when I tried to jump through Whisper Falls, and I felt really bad about that. I'd been too confused by the glittering water to consider whether she'd feel threatened.

I would've apologized immediately, except I was distracted. When she stumbled, the dorky cap came off, and gorgeous brown hair fell to her waist. I didn't know many girls who wore their hair that way, which was too bad because it was really hot.

Damn. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't crazy.

After hunting down my phone, I texted Carlton to arrange an IM session. I hadn't heard from him since he left for his dad's beach house a few days ago. If he had some free time tonight, we were going to talk.

With a cookie in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I ran up two flights of stairs to the rec room. Carlton wasn't online yet.

While I waited, I typed “Worthville” into a search engine. It pulled up a few hits. Our county had a village called Worthville in the eighteenth century. It had a wheat mill, meetinghouse, general store, and some farms. Pretty dull. The family names coming up were Worth, Pratt, and Foster. There was nobody with the name Marsh.

I wasn't sure what to try next. This was where my sister would be useful. Marissa had a bachelor's degree in history. She could tell me how to find out more.

Cool, she was online. I had another subject I wanted to cover with her, anyway.

Since asking politely hadn't worked, I'd have to come up with another plan—as soon as I figured out what that was. Until then, I was going to put her history degree to use.

Carlton pinged me—which was a convenient excuse for saying goodbye to my sister. Plus, I needed more time to figure out another way to get Mom and Marissa talking.

I finished the last bite of cookie, washed it down, and wiped my hands. The session with Carlton might take a while.

Alexis? Why was he asking about her? He had to know she was the last person I wanted to think about.

Did Keefe Halligan want to win the Carolina Cross-Country Challenge so badly that he'd try to throw me off with a prank?

Well, sure, although this one seemed pretty weird.

Carlton hadn't helped. Even though I had no trouble believing Keefe might try something psycho, I didn't see how he could've talked Susanna into the plan. It was easier to believe she'd escaped from some brain-washing cult than that she worked for Keefe.

Okay, it was more than that. I didn't want Susanna to be a fake.

* * *

Morning bike rides were the best. I left the house around dawn and sped through Umstead Park on a bike trail. Totally alone. Totally quiet.

Okay, maybe it wasn't
totally
quiet. There were some sounds, like gears shifting. Wind whooshing. My own breathing. They were good sounds, the kind that drove me to train even harder.

Three miles later, I left the park to head for the trails around Lake Crabtree. As I crossed the bike bridge over I-40, the noise of the highway intruded on my solitude. Below me, a few white headlights traveled east. In the opposite direction, hundreds of red taillights flashed on and off as westbound traffic thickened even at this early hour.

The trail dipped down an incline, briefly hugged a ridge, and then swooped into a grassy bowl of land. The sounds of the interstate faded.

The trails along the northeastern corner of Lake Crabtree were relatively easy. I rode through that part first. It'd be good to test my body against the tougher sections when I was no longer fresh.

When I reached the south side of the lake, there were other cyclists ahead of me, racing through its hills and past its wetlands. Crabtree trails were usually a fun, fast ride, but the crowd forced me to take this section slowly. I circled back north, completing my intended distance but without the speed I wanted. Tonight's ride would need to be harder.

When I got home, my mother sat at the table, her eyes tracking me across the kitchen. Even when she was quiet, she was noisy.

Her nose wrinkled at my sweaty clothes. I nodded but didn't stop, just continued with my summer morning routine. Shower. Work clothes. Back downstairs. She sat in the same spot, cradling a coffee mug and watching me through narrowed eyes. I couldn't tell if she was mad, so I made my breakfast and wondered how long the silent treatment would last.

“Mark?”

Not long. “Yeah?” I bit into a toasted bagel.

“Did you talk with Marissa last night?”

Every muscle in my body tensed. “We IM-ed.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Because I didn't know I was supposed to
. I shrugged and hoped she would drop the subject. I didn't want to be late for Mrs. Joffrey.

“Does she know I want her to call me?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Mom went into auto-pilot cleanup mode. She slipped off her chair, rummaged in a drawer for a rag, and mopped up bagel crumbs. With an exaggerated sigh, she threw the rag in the sink. “Does she ever complain about me?”

I reflected on the wisdom of being honest. “Possibly.”

“Like what?”

“Really, Mom.” I edged closer to the garage door. No way was I repeating what Marissa had said. “She's my sister. Our conversations are private.”

Mom's nostrils flared. “I deserve to know what she says.”

“You'll have to ask her.” What had gotten into my mother? She acted like she was about to explode. “Why don't the two of you work this out—and leave me alone?”

“I can't if she won't speak to me.”

Mom stormed from the room. I grabbed a ball cap and shades, and ran out the door before she could return with more questions I didn't want to answer.

After hitching the equipment trailer to my mountain bike, I rode two blocks over to my first yard of the day, arriving a couple of minutes behind schedule. Mrs. Joffrey stood on her veranda in an orange dress and heels, swinging a ring of keys around her finger.

“Morning, ma'am,” I said, pushing the mower up the circular driveway.

She glared, her mouth a red slash across her face, her keys going round and round like a hula hoop.

I stopped at the top of the driveway and considered my next move. This was the second woman today who was pissed in my general direction. And, for the second time, I hadn't earned it. But nothing was happening and I had five yards to mow, which meant I'd be the one to move things along. “Sorry.”

“Fine, Mark. Don't be late again.” She caught the keys in her palm and gestured toward a wicker table. “Your check's over there.”

Cool. Back on safe ground. “Thanks.”

She clopped down the wooden stairs and crooked her finger. “I have some instructions we didn't cover yesterday. Follow me.”

She headed into the garage and pointed at a grungy broom. “I don't want you using a leaf blower. Sweep the driveway before bagging the waste.”

“Okay.” Holy shit. Why?

“Also, when you trim the holly bushes…”

Trimming bushes wasn't part of the deal.

“.use those hand clippers.”

Hand clippers?

She tapped her watch. “I'll be back in an hour.”

“I'll still be here.” And I'd be ready to explain how to make special requests.

She walked around me and slid into her Volvo.