while a huge yellow truck backed toward us, carrying piles of two-by-fours. Even with all this activity, I felt perfectly safe—possibly because it was so bright out and I was surrounded by people who knew what they were doing. The camera swung around, taking in all the action, then swung back around to focus on us again.
“Thanks, Larry,” I said. Part of me wanted to tell him I was pretty sure that someone other than him and his crew was responsible for the accident—namely Missy Thurber or Paige Ryan—but that would inspire too many questions from both him and Carolina.
“But just so you know, not the smartest idea, climbing around a deserted construction site at night,” he told me. I looked up at him and he seemed to suddenly realize that I was, in fact, his employer. He cleared his throat and toyed with his wedding ring. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Brennan.”
“Trust me, I know,” I told him in what I hoped was a comforting voice. I reached into my cast with my fingertips, trying in vain to scratch an itch on my wrist. I was starting to sweat, which was not going to cause good things to happen inside there, I was sure. “I promise I won’t be doing that again.”
No matter what MT tells me, I added silently.
We had just turned our steps toward one of the half-dozen trucks when I heard a loud and foreboding snap. Larry whirled around, startled, and my heart hit my throat. I automatically looked at the wooden planks beneath my feet, but they were laid on solid ground, only there to keep workers and visitors from tromping over the soil around the foundation too much.
There was another snap. Then a loud shout.
“Watch out!” someone cried.
“Heads up!”
“Get out of there!”
Carolina grabbed my good arm, but for a long moment, neither one of us moved. We had no idea what was happening or which way to go. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it. The pallet full of heavy bricks was above our heads, and two of its supports had broken. A third looked stretched to its limits. Two tons of jagged bricks were about to rain down on our heads.
“Run!” I screamed in terror.
The camera lens jerked up to take in the danger. Carolina’s eyes widened.
“Run!” she repeated.
Everyone scattered. Carolina, the cameraman, and I ran in one direction. The boom operator tore off in the opposite direction, running after Larry and his assistant. It seemed like only half a second had ticked by before hundreds and hundreds of sharp, heavy bricks rained down in the exact spot where we’d been standing. A huge cloud of dust kicked up, surrounding the area, as half the bricks tumbled over the edge of the foundation and crashed down into what would one day be the Billings basement.
I clung to Carolina as dust and dirt filled my lungs. Both of us had hit our knees in the grass about fifty yards away and we couldn’t stop staring at the wreckage. The cameraman, still on his feet, tentatively approached the pile, flinging the lens up toward the now empty pallet suspended high above, down to the pile of bricks, and back up again. All around us, workers shouted to stay back.
“Mike! Don’t get too close,” Carolina said.
“That was intense,” he responded. “We all could have died.”
He was practically smiling as he said it. Some kind of death-wish thrill seeker, I guessed. I coughed a few times, trying to dispel the grime from my lungs, as Carolina pushed herself up and dusted off the front of her T-shirt and jeans. She offered me a hand and I took it gratefully. My arm throbbed as if my heart were stuck between my broken bone and my skin.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” I replied, glancing up at the torn cords dangling around the pallet. “I think.”
Larry jogged toward us, while his assistant shouted at various startled-looking workers, trying to figure out what had happened and who was to blame. I turned in a circle, glancing at all the Easton buildings, at the small klatches of people who had stopped upon hearing the mayhem. I narrowed my eyes, searching their faces, looking for Missy or Paige or that mysterious blond specter I’d seen lurking about—looking for someone who wasn’t surprised or who looked disappointed that I hadn’t just died.
But all I saw were stunned, wide eyes and pale, frightened faces.
“Are you all right?” Larry asked, grasping Carolina’s elbow as he arrived. He was practically doubled over panting and I knew he was more winded from the near-death experience than from the run.
“We’re fine,” Carolina told him. She tucked a sweaty curl behind her ear and dusted her hands off again with a laugh. “You know, I brushed that reporter off the other day when she asked if this site was cursed, but now I’m starting to wonder,” she said jokingly.
Larry laughed as well. As the camera panned to me, I tried to join in, but I found that I just couldn’t. Carolina and Larry didn’t realize that around here, curses were no laughing matter. Around Easton, and Billings in particular, they were all too real.
DANCE WITH DEATH
“What are we doing up here?” I asked Ivy as we stepped out of the woods into the clearing surrounding the Billings Chapel. The sky was a dark cobalt blue, thanks to a gleaming full moon, and peppered with a million stars. The whitewashed tower of the church rose toward the heavens, looming bright and familiar. We hadn’t been to the chapel in months—not since Mr. Lange had died.
“You’ll see,” Ivy said, drawing her hands up inside the sleeves of her gauzy white sweater. We slowly approached, and she blew into her hands, even though it was a relatively warm night.
“Does Noelle know we’re here?” I asked. For the tenth time since we’d left campus and started up the hill, I pulled out my phone and checked it. Josh still hadn’t called. He had to have heard about my latest brush with death. And even if he hadn’t, he’d told me he’d call. He had pinkie-sworn. So where the heck was he?