in motion by Luther Gunn. I don’t tell my story because I’m ashamed of it. Mixed in with my fear of Luther is a sick sense of shame that everyone will find out that I was a stupid girl who let herself be molested by her English teacher.
“I think we need to get all the facts before we rush to a verdict,” I say primly, as if I’m giving a lecture on proper research procedure. “And check our sources.” I tap the phone on IceVirgin33’s name to underscore my point and nearly drop the phone when the screen opens to a photo of a deep ice chasm, the figure of a girl falling into its maw. I have a feeling it’s meant to be me.
Chapter Twenty-One
As I walk back to my car, Haywood’s bucolic campus feels like the set of one of Rudy’s games—a two-dimensional cover for lurking peril, only instead of zombies or alien monsters, Luther might be hiding behind the stately oaks and ivy-covered buildings. He is orchestrating all of this—Lila reading the Rockwell diary, Rudy accusing Woody Hull, the picture of Woody being led away by the police. What will he do next? Who will be the next target of his revenge?
I pause in front of Main Hall. Should I go back to Jean and tell her about the photograph of Woody? But she made it clear that I have to bring my story to the police. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to Kevin Bantree and tell him everything, no matter what it exposes about me.
THE VILLAGE OF Rock Harbor looks particularly pretty as I drive through it. The storefront windows sparkle in the sun and reflect the bright blue of the bay. Baskets of petunias and geraniums hang from the cast-iron lampposts, flags printed with sailboats and lobsters snap in the breeze, salt air mingles with the smell of blueberry muffins wafting out of the bakery. The village is gearing up for the summer tourist season, shedding the dark shroud of the winter months. Harmon, like many locals, often bemoans the coming of the tourists, but it’s always made me feel lucky to live in a place people want to vacation in.
Now, though, I feel like I don’t really belong in this sunnier version of Rock Harbor. I’m part of the town’s darker, colder shadow. Once I tell Kevin Bantree my story, how long will it be before the whole town knows that I ran away with my teacher—a sexual predator? For all the town’s fascination with its dark history—the Indian massacres and early colony, the influenza epidemic and lost girls—those stories are meant to be part of the past, told on candlelit ghost tours or sold in glossy paperbacks to be read on rainy weekends. The lost girls aren’t meant to come back.
But here I am.
I park and walk toward the entrance to the police station, but before I reach it the door flings open and Woody Hull bursts out as if he’s fleeing a burning building. His face is lobster red, tufts of hair sticking up on his bald scalp like scorched grass, his tweed jacket fanning the air behind him like a fiery backdraft. He lurches straight at me and grabs onto me as if I could save him. “It’s a witch hunt, I tell you,” he gasps and then, a dull spark of recognition flickering in his bleary eyes, he spits out, “You! Have you come to spread your filthy lies? I could tell a thing or two about you, you little—”
“That’s enough, Woody.” Morris Alcott grasps Woody’s elbow and yanks him away from me. “Remember what I said about not talking to anyone?”
“You’re his lawyer?” I ask. I shouldn’t be surprised; they’re all part of the same boys’ club. But the thought of Harmon and Woody having the same lawyer makes me feel a little sick.
Morris opens his mouth to say something but stops when the door to the station opens and Kevin Bantree appears. “Is everything all right out here?” he asks. “Did you need something, Ms. Henshaw?”
“I need to talk to you,” I say, separating myself from Woody and Morris. Morris takes a step with me, hissing an admonitory “Tess!” but then Woody mutters something under his breath that sounds like slut and Morris quickly retreats to take charge of his client. I watch them go and then turn to Kevin. He’s holding the station door open for me.