Chapter 7

It'sten a.m. when I bolt awake the next morning. The sun has already climbed well over the horizon, heating the window glass. It's the start of a clear and glorious day.

Dad drinks his coffee on the balcony, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He pushes aside the newspapers that cover the table and smiles.

"Feel free to peruse last week's New York Times. I'll make us both an omelet."

I shade my eyes and peer at the main house, now obscured by the sun's glare. "Who else lives with Mrs. Bailey, your landlady?"

Dad squints at me over the tops of his glasses. "Other than her grumpy old butler, she's been alone since Mr. Bailey passed on some years ago."

"I saw someone on the top-floor terrace. A guy."

Dad clears his throat and stacks the papers into a neat pile. "Must have been a trick of the light."

"Okay, then," I say, with one last glance toward the house. "Another unaccounted-for person of interest. Lies of omission are still lies." My fingers begin to prickle again.

Dad removes his glasses. His coal-black eyes are ringed with circles even darker than his olive skin, but not the least bit bloodshot. "It'll be okay, Rosie," he says.

I furrow my brow, trying to look like I've got it all together—not like a girl whose entire universe has been turned on its ear. "What makes you think I'm in such bad shape?"

Dad shrugs. "Writers are good studies. I see it in the slump of your shoulders, the shadows under your eyes. You're grieving your friend."

Truth be told, I'm still grieving for him. Or at least for the false belief my father hadn't abandoned me.

I let him draw me into a stiff hug anyway. He twists one of my auburn curls around his fingers like he did when I was little. In the bright sun I can see every mole, every bit of his mottled skin. "I'm still mad at you," I say, "but I'm glad I'm here."

"Thank you," he whispers.

He leaves me to ponder the endless sea and boundless blue sky and his oddities, then returns fifteen minutes later with omelets for both of us. I eat without pause, improbably famished.

"What are you writing?" I ask when the silence gets too thick.

"A memoir."

"A memoir from a guy who's supposedly dead? How are you going to wangle that one?"

Dad smiles. "Previously undiscovered manuscript. My agent is a clever woman."

The omelet is suddenly tasteless as a wad of wet paper. I shake my head and think of my Reddit group and how they'll pore over the pages. And how I'll be complicit in the lie. "You're just a tad too comfortable with deception."

"Not by choice, Rosie," he says, sighing, then drags a palm across his scalp. "You don't want to hang out here all day, do you? We can check out the Sea House for lunch. I mean, if not, I'm happy to just…"

The prospect of a full day of strained conversation horrifies me. I cut him off. "I was thinking of exploring on my own. Following that Field Guide you left for me, and taking some notes. Tyler—uh—he was a bit obsessed about the impact of climate change on the island. Haven't you—I mean—haven't you continued your work?"

He looks up at me, eyes suddenly sharp. "Do you mean have I done a life cycle impact assessment?"

"Well, have you?"

He stares at me for a beat, seeming to assess my strengths and vulnerabilities. "It's not necessary here," he says abruptly. "Nor would my probing be welcome."

My spine stiffens. What were those books he ordered for, anyway? This man, who looks like my dead father, certainly doesn't sound like him. I suppose I was hoping we could recreate the past, set out together on a scientific mission to save the island. So much for that notion. "Huh? Why?"

"I'm done with my environmental work, Rosie."

The finality of his pronouncement is like a door slamming. "I don't understand. You do realize that a whole new generation is trying to carry on your legacy, right?"

He offers me a sad smile. "That's what a legacy is, Rosie: work started by someone else and passed down to another. I thought perhaps your friend might be able to?—"

I cut him off. Tears threaten but I choke them down. "So when you weren't seeing me, were you grooming Tyler to follow in your footsteps?"

Dad's eyes widen. "Is that what you really think? Rosie, that's the furthest thing from the truth. I saw the boy maybe three times. I just know he was passionate. And now…I no longer have the heart for the work."

He may have been returned to me, but he's not the same man I knew. It's almost like losing him twice. I force a smile to cover my disappointment. "Okay, then. Well, I'm just going to have a look around. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

He exhales, looking relieved. "Of course not. I'd expect you'd want to. Dinner's at six. I'm barbecuing ribs. Just—be careful about getting back before dark, okay?"

Oh, right. The gangs of marauding pirates again. "Sure thing," I say, humoring him and doing my best to hide my hurt. His concern sounds like something straight out of Mom's playbook, maybe the only thing they have in common. Before I think better of it, I blurt, "Who's going to tell Mom I'm here?"

My father inspects the wood grain of the weathered table, as if the solution is coded into its whorls. "You'll have to do it. When you're ready."

"Great," I mutter, and leave him to his newspapers, his solitude, and the sea—the ghost of Edward Gatell, the icon who used to be my father.

After a shower, I throw on the one sundress I packed and the floppy sun hat hanging on the stand in my room. I slather myself with sunblock, then toss the Field Guide, my nearly pointless phone, and a notebook into the little floral beach bag that hangs beside the hat.

The slow connection in the café should be adequate to log in to Reddit and consult with Q and Wave. The thought of my continued lying to them is depressing. If my dad does publish that memoir, it's going to be harder than ever to keep up the ruse. But I guess I'll worry about that later. Meanwhile, the idea of an actual island adventure buoys me.

I stash Tyler's globe inside a scarf and touch the charm around my neck, for good luck. If I can find just the right tree, one with the best view, maybe I'll string up the globe. Maybe I'll even stumble across Aunt Millie's hideout on the way.

I follow the footpath that skirts the beach into the tiny town in a matter of minutes. Then I duck into the cozy café that adjoins the General Store where, at the lone workstation at a table by the window, I can access the world's slowest Internet connection for some spare change.

Q responds to my DM immediately, and though I don't share much personal info, the little bit of normalcy is a relief. She messages me a comprehensive survey on plant ecology, which I quickly copy into my notebook. Maybe once I collect enough data, my father will actually agree to help me interpret it.

Finally, I get the nerve to check my email. Of course, there's one from my mother.

Rosalie,

I've heard from the Director at Cambridge that you did not arrive as expected. Apparently, my efforts to teach you common sense and logic have failed miserably, and you've given in to your more irrational impulses.

My first instinct is to have you extracted and brought to Cambridge, but my duties here keep me too preoccupied to enlist the help of some well-placed friends. Please know that in case of an emergency, I can have you on a Coast Guard boat at a moment's notice.

You can stay where you are. For now.

Love,

Mom

Blood rushes to my face.She knows I'm here on Salttain. Which means she's let me win. But I don't trust it. Not one bit. She only lets me think I've won when she holds the royal flush. What else are they keeping from me?

So many questions, and not enough answers. Until I get some, the best thing I can do is trek around this tiny hunk of rock and fill out my survey.

I log out without responding to my mother and duck into the General Store section to buy a cold bottle of water for the trip. Loaded up with bags of snack food, the waiter boy, Liam O'Donnell, his long dark curls pulled back into a messy ponytail, is about to pay at the counter. From his position at the cash register, Brody Lambert spots me. "Hello, Rosalie! Anything else I can get for you?"

Liam drops his potato chip bags on the counter and turns to me. "Hey! Hello."

My heart speeds up but I manage a laugh. "You work for a caterer. Don't they feed you?"

"Only when I work," he says, his smile unwavering. "I make extra working Mrs. Bailey's parties. It's slim pickings on Salttain Island. You take what you can get, you know?"

"I can imagine."

"Can you?" Liam's smile doesn't dim.

I fidget, my cheeks gone hot. To this island boy, I must be an alien. Better change the subject fast and make a getaway. "Is there a map of this place?"

He pulls a pamphlet from the sales rack and places it on the counter. "Here you go. We get a lot of summer tourists."

"I'm not a…" I begin, tearing my gaze from those bright, watchful eyes and glancing at the map. What is wrong with me? "Salttain is much bigger than it appears," I say, suddenly intrigued.

Liam nods as I study the map. The shape of the island is unusual. Curled in on itself, both ends of the island taper to thin peninsulas that enclose twin coves. With its thickened central column, the island resembles an incomplete version of the ancient Greek ouroboros symbol for eternity, a snake eating its own tail. Not for the first time, I wonder how or why such a large land mass doesn't appear on any known map, except the one for sale right here.

On the back of the map is an expanded view of the nearby geography. Other islands, some smaller, some even larger, form what's labeled the Salttain Archipelago. I puzzle over it until I notice Liam is still watching me.

He's got that winning smile switched on again and I feel warmth flush my cheeks.

"If you've got nothing better to do, you should stop by the Sea House," he says. "We do a great poolside lunch. I can add an extra-large salad to make up for abandoning you on the beach."

That smile of his is like sunlight on water with some kind of addictive substance thrown in—but there's no telling what lies beneath. My emotions are too raw for a fling with a hot island boy. Careful not to let my uneasiness show, I keep my own smile pasted on. "Thanks for the generous offer, but I was planning on doing some exploring today. I haven't seen much of the island. Where are all the houses?"

Liam points to a place on the map, near the island's northern cove. "Over here, on the other side of the island, there's a little community clustered around the lagoon," he says. "It's where all the townies live."

"Like you?" I say, smiling. I know I'm poking him, but I feel I owe him one.

The grin fades. "I'm only here summers."

"Oh? Where do you go winters?" I ask, trying to sound casual. But his resemblance to Tyler makes me jittery. Everything about him makes me jittery. I want to ask him about Tyler and Aunt Millie, but it just doesn't feel like the right time.

"Here and there," he says.

I know when I'm getting the runaround. Liam's as likely to give me straight answers about this island—or himself—as the Sphinx.

We walk out together after I've paid and stand facing each other in the shade of the store's awning as if we aren't ready to part, but have nothing to say either. It's unsettling, to say the least.

I glance at the water, mostly so I don't have to look at him. Meanwhile, Liam's expression has gone distant. I track his gaze, then do a double take. Out beyond the breakers, I see the unmistakable, sleek-bodied forms of seals surfing the waves. The salty air stings my eyes, and I blink to clear them. When I open them again, the seals are gone.

I consider asking Liam if he saw the seals too, but he'd probably just laugh at me. Instead, I pull off my hat to swipe away the hair that's now plastered to my forehead with sweat, finally finding my courage. "Do you know someone named Millicent?"

His face remains placid, as if he's watching the sea for an incoming ship. "You ask way too many questions," he says.

Cheeks hot, I'm about to fire back at him when he turns toward me, that blazing smile restored to its full wattage. "You really should come for lunch. Today's special is pistachio-encrusted swordfish. It's out of this world." He checks his watch. "Whoops! Break's over. Gotta go! See ya!"

He jogs away backward, clutching his bags of chips, then breaks into a trot down the boardwalk in the direction of the Sea House. I watch his figure recede.

Let the cute boy have his little games. It must get very dull around here. And I have more pressing things to do than flirt with hot island guys I have no intention of getting to know.

The map marks a network of trails that crisscross Salttain. I'm certain I'll be fine if I stick to it. Because of Dad, I'm an experienced hiker. I wait a respectable few minutes before walking in Liam's direction, then follow the boardwalk, passing the gilded sign for the Sea House resort. Maybe I will try that lunch special another day.

The walkway ends in another footpath that cuts through a golf course. The path splits, one fork heading down a rocky bluff to the shore and the other veering in the opposite direction. I follow the trail my map indicates will take me around the island's interior, then deposit me at the community on the lagoon. Maybe as a bonus, I'll find someone willing to tell me something about Aunt Millie—because I'm going to track the old broad down if I have to turn this slab of rock inside out.

I stop occasionally to jot down notes and snap photos. The island's picturesque, that's for sure. The trail rises steadily, winding over rock, sand, and brush, bright green foliage and fragrant wildflowers cascading over the path. The sun beats down as I climb higher, sweat dripping down my back. I pause to take a long drink from my water bottle and to scan the magnificent landscape, then continue my climb. Finally, the majestic expanse of the island's rugged interior and the craggy shoreline of the opposite coast come into view and still, there's no clear path to the lagoon. And no tree begging to be Tyler's memorial.

I press on for the better part of the morning, the glass orb jouncing in my bag. When I reach a meadow waving with shin-high beach grass, I realize I've gone impossibly off-trail. I squint, take more notes, and gulp down the last of my water. I was a dope for not packing a second bottle. The air shimmers with heat distortion. A hazy veil ripples before me, as if a curtain has dropped from the cloudless sky.

How strange. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if this is some weird atmospheric disturbance. Scientific curiosity winning out, I step forward and slip through the shimmering partition. The air shifts from hot to cool, the colors turning from washed-out to overly saturated—like watching an old-fashioned movie turn full Technicolor. I blink and hope to find that I've stopped to rest and fallen asleep. I pinch my arm hard. I'm definitely awake. And parched.

A jarring vibration thrums through the soles of my sneakers. Pulling my shoes off, I let the dewy beach grass tickle my feet. With all this moisture, there must be water close by.

The hum surges into my shins and up my spine until it vibrates in my ears like I'm inside a bell. Like I am the bell. This is not normal.

Driven by an instinct I can't define, I drop to all fours and press my palms to the roots of the grass, digging my fingers deep in the moist coolness, as if I'm taking the ground's pulse.

Or maybe it's trying to take mine.

When Tyler said he wanted to determine this island's environmental health, I don't think this is what he had in mind.

The thrumming intensifies, the soil and rock trembling beneath my touch. I close my eyes, and my head swims with that one ringing note until it crowds out all other thoughts. The soil tugs at me, as if it wants to pull me down into its depths.

Something stirs beneath my fingers.

My eyes slip open. In the near distance, a group of dancers wearing white headdresses sways to a gentle rhythm. A fragrance, like the essence of my California garden laced with stardust, coats my throat with a longing so intense, I want to weep.

The dancers beckon me to join. I creep on all fours toward them, but their features are blurred, the terrain around me a pastel smear. When I'm finally close enough to make out their faces, I realize they're not people at all, but rather a patch of tall stalks topped by crowns of feathery white blossoms.

One of the stalks tips its blooms to me and I reach up to grasp them. But before my hand can close on the petals, the plants withdraw, sinking into the grass. I search the ground for a sign of them, my heart aching in their absence. But there's nothing.

It seemed so real. So beautiful.

But it's obvious I hallucinated the whole thing. A fever dream born of acute thirst. I'm dehydrated and my map is a joke. Desperate, I stand and press on with one goal in mind: to find some water.

On the opposite side of the misted meadow, a ridge of rocks protrudes from the field of grass like a giant spine. I climb higher and higher, following a dry stream bed until I reach a gently sloped rock basin at the summit. At its center is a shallow pool and beside that, an arrangement of moss-covered boulders resembling furniture carved from stone.

Clear water burbles in the pool, spilling over its edges. I dip my finger in and taste. It's cold and sweet, with not a hint of salt. Thank god. I cup my hands and gulp the cool water, letting it soak my sundress until my thirst is quenched, then refill my water bottle. Again, I consult my notes from Q and scribble my observations in my notebook. I leave out the part about the dancing plants.

By now the sun is lower in the sky. I remember Dad's warning—and what I'd promised about wandering around at night—but shake it off. I've still got plenty of time.

At the bottom of the pool sits a perfectly round stone, too spherical to have formed naturally. I fish it out and find the faintest image of three interlocking rings, eerily similar to the Celtic knot-styled base of Tyler's hand charm.

This is totally weird. And has very little to do with the environmental impact of climate change—or scientific inquiry at all. It's more like Alice's trip through the looking glass.

On closer inspection, I spot a hairline seam running through the middle of the stone. I pull at both ends until the rock splits to reveal an interior as hollow as an eggshell. Cradled inside is a tiny key, the Celtic-knotted base an exact replica of—sure, why not?—Tyler's charm again. What if this fits the box inside Aunt Millie's package?

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I snap another photo, add a section to the back of my notebook for "weird shit," tuck the key into the pocket of my sundress, and place the stone back in the water. Later, when I'm back at Dad's house, I can separate what's real from what's induced by sunstroke—and see if there's anything useful to share with my forum pals.

A narrow notch on the opposite side of the stone bowl leads to a steep staircase carved into a sheer stone cliff. Beyond the cliff, blue ocean sparkles in the distance. It's magnificent.

My curiosity ignited, I follow the stairs downward through a passage carved into the rock. The stairs are slick with moisture. I press my palms to the narrow corridor to keep from losing my footing. The air grows damper and more tropical as I descend, the sound of water gurgling around me. I'm nearly at the bottom when one misplaced step sends both feet skidding out from under me. I scrabble at the smooth rock to stop my fall, but tumble downward and land hard on the ground.

Dazed and wet, I stand, brush myself off, and gape at what appears to be a natural amphitheater, its concentric stairs carved into a plateau of rock. At its center is a high, circular brick wall crowned with colorful plumes and fronds that spill over the sides like the icing on an elaborate cake. A walled garden.

I tread closer. The barren rock around it has been buffed and smoothed, with only an occasional plant poking through. I crouch to get a better look at the multitudes of tiny glyphs etched into the surface of the stone, recognizing a few that resemble the now-familiar interlocking ring. This is definitely getting filed under "weird and getting weirder by the minute."

For all I know, this place is private property. Going inside might be trespassing—but maybe I'll find the perfect tree to hang Tyler's memory globe. If I'm caught, I'll play the part of the lost tourist.

I check inside my bag for the globe and cry out. The glass has been smashed into jagged bits, the contents freed of their enclosure. It must have broken when I fell on the steps.

The sun is now a fiery orange ball balancing on the horizon. I glance down, away from its light, and notice the wetness streaming from a gash in my calf. How did I not feel this? Queasy, remembering some long-ago first aid warning that the deepest cuts hurt the least, I tear off the strap of my sun hat and make a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood.

Now it hurts. Despite my pain, the fragrance of the walled garden tugs at me, reeling me in. I want to get inside those walls badly. I don't have the glass orb, but I can still bury Tyler's mementos inside. The plants' mingled perfumes are so enticing. I just have to get in there and see what they are—whether to satisfy my scientific mind or just bury my nose in the blooms.

But after shuffling around and around, I can't find a way in. There's no entrance.

The evening air is warm in the last orange rays of daylight. Dangling vines brush my skin. I lean back against the brick, comforted by its warmth, my troubles draining away like the blood that escapes from the wound in my leg.

Twilight descends in a cloak of ultramarine and shadow. I lie down on my back and stare up at the sky. I'm a petal on the breeze. If I let go, I might float away to where Tyler is waiting for me.

With an effort, I force myself alert. What the hell am I doing, lying here lost and bleeding?

I struggle to my feet, hobble across the smooth stone, and climb back up to the natural living room. From my vantage point, the sinking sun sets the ocean aflame. It's beautiful, and if circumstances were different, I'd sit and watch it set. I vow to come back here when I'm sure I can find my way home.

I limp my way painfully down the spiny ridge of rock and locate the unmarked trail I lost track of earlier that day. It's dark now, but the moon has risen and casts a pale sheen that's bright enough for me to pick my way over the unfamiliar terrain. Over another knob of land, I see the glow of lights and set off in the direction of the little town along the dock.

I don't get far. A deep whine roars into the silence and growls to a stop alongside me.

Liam's silhouette looms against the moonlit sky, and I want to kick myself for the way my heart speeds up right on cue. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "You've got no business out at night."

What is it with Salttain and being outside after dark? "Are you the island ranger? I'm allowed outdoors, you know. I'm not some fragile imported orchid."

"You don't understand this place." Liam hops off his bike and strides over to me. "Let me see that. You're hurt."

I grit my teeth and limp ahead of him. My calf throbs, a trickle of blood marking my steps. "I'd like to understand it. In fact, I'm studying all your strange plant life and documenting it. I found this crazy walled garden?—"

Liam lunges in front of me. "You what?"

Startled, I lose my footing on the rocky ground and fall backward onto my butt. Now my other leg pounds with a bone-jarring ache. "Are you for real?"

"Oh, man. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to?—"

He hauls me to my feet with strong arms. When I'm upright, it's clear that I can't go any further. My other ankle is probably sprained. "Nice job," I say, exasperated.

He rolls his bike over and helps me climb on, then dodges into the brush. When he comes back a moment later, his crooked smile is visible in the dim moonlight. On his outstretched palm are five round green stones.

"Eat these," he says.

"Those are rocks."

"They're berries. If you want to know about the plant life here, just ask me."

"Scientists explore and discover things on their own," I protest, eyeing the berries in his hand. "That's part of the fun."

"Scientists use guides to show them around. Plus, you don't look like you're having much fun."

I huff out a breath. He's got me there. I've nearly killed myself wandering around this booby-trapped chunk of rock. "What genus are they? What properties do they have?"

"They're only good for a little while after you get hurt," he says, avoiding my questions. "Just eat them and they'll make you feel tons better. I swear."

I scowl at the berries and weigh my options. I come to one inescapable conclusion: I either have to trust this boy or spend my two weeks here on Dad's balcony eating mushroom omelets with both feet propped up on a pillow. So much for my magical adventure.

"You're not trying to poison me, are you?"

"There are so many more interesting ways to die on Salttain."

I force my chuckle to come out as a grumble, then pop all five berries into my mouth at once. They're sweet at first and then explode into bitterness at the back of my throat. Before I can complain, Liam hands me a flask of liquid to wash them down.

"That was disgusting," I say and spit out the bitter taste.

"You'll thank me tomorrow."

Helping me onto the seat first, he straddles his bike, revs the engine, and we blast off into the night. I struggle not to think of Tyler and my failing mission to honor him. How much I miss him. Even my quest for climate knowledge is off to a terrible start.

I also struggle not to think about how it feels to have my arms wrapped tightly around Liam's narrow waist, his muscled abdomen. But with the bruising ride sending pain shooting up my legs to my teeth, it's tempting to distract myself with more pleasant things.

Eventually the groan of the bike dulls to a low hum and a soothing wave of calm washes over me. My head lolls against Liam's back. Despite the fact that he's the most infuriating person I've ever met, and that this island defies the laws of nature, I feel reasonably certain I can trust him to get me home safe.

At least I hope so.