Every time I thought about that song coming on, about that whisper, about the humming I’d heard the other day, the laughter in the fog, and the scrap of fabric in the park, my heart seized up painfully and I felt like I wanted to scream. If I didn’t talk it out with someone, I was going to go crazy.
“Darcy, I have something to tell you, but please don’t freak out,” I said.
She stopped walking and eyed me with interest. “What?”
“I thought I heard Steven Nell in the bar tonight,” I said.
My sister’s jaw dropped. It was almost like she’d expected me to say one thing, and I’d done a one-eighty on her. “What?”
“Someone whispered my name. And not Rory Thayer, Rory Miller,” I said. “Didn’t you hear ‘The Long and Winding Road’ on the jukebox?”
Darcy blinked. “Yeah, but the Beatles are the most popular band ever,” she pointed out.
“And I heard someone humming it outside our house the other morning, too,” I persisted. “Then this morning, I found this scrap of fabric in the park that looked just like that tan jacket he always wore.”
For a long moment, she just stared at me, like she was waiting for more. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean, that’s it?” I squeaked. “That’s not enough?”
“Rory,” she said, clucking her tongue impatiently. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe you’re just hearing things?”
“Hearing things?” I repeated.
She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s like your flashes—a symptom of post-traumatic stress. It totally makes sense that it’s happening again, right? I mean, you were almost killed.”
I gritted my teeth. “This wasn’t like the flashes, Darcy,” I told her. “I can tell the difference between the flashes and reality. I know what I saw! I know what I heard!”
Darcy rolled her eyes and groaned. “Can we please just go? It’s getting cold out here.”
I should have known she’d never take me seriously. In Darcy’s world, nothing bad ever happened. And if it did, she just ignored it or never talked about it. Like after my mom died. All Darcy did was make more friends, buy more clothes at the mall, go to more parties. She never got depressed or nostalgic; she never wanted to reminisce. She was too busy having fun. Too busy moving forward.
“Fine,” I said tightly. “Let’s go.”
We were just about to turn off the boardwalk and head toward town when I saw something shift out on the water. The air seemed to be moving. I grabbed Darcy’s arm, my throat going dry. It was the fog again, and it was rolling in quickly.
“Darcy, look!” I whispered.
“What? Is Steven Nell hanging out on one of the boats?”
By the time she turned her head, the mist was already swirling around us. The odd hissing sound started my pulse pounding in my ears. Darcy was so tense I could practically feel it coming off of her in bursts.
“Come on. It’s getting late.” Darcy started up the hill and completely disappeared. The fog swallowed her whole. Heart in my throat, I lunged forward and sprinted a few steps until I caught sight of her calves—two white stripes flashing in the grayness as she speed-walked ahead of me.
“Darcy!” I whispered. “Slow down.”
“Why don’t you keep up, track star?” she shot back.
I tried, but the fog was too disorienting. At the top of the hill, my foot hit an uneven crack in the sidewalk, and my ankle twisted. By the time I’d righted myself, my sister had vanished again entirely.
“Darcy!” I hissed, turning around in the mist. “Darcy! Where are you?”
No answer. Nothing but the hiss of the undulating mist.
“Darcy?” I whimpered.
“I’m right here!” Her voice was practically in my ear.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I whispered, flinging my arm out. My hand hit her shoulder. I’d had no clue she was standing that close.