Long Lost, стр. 47
“I understand why you did it.” Fiona pressed closer to the cistern wall. “You wanted it to be true so badly, you almost made yourself believe it. It was barely a lie at all.” She put one palm against the stone. “But you can admit the real truth now, Margaret. And maybe you can let the story—and the Searcher, and the guilt, and everything . . . maybe you can let it go.”
“How?” asked the voice.
“I’m not totally sure,” Fiona admitted, wishing that Charlie and his confident know-it-allness were here to help her make a plan. “Maybe if you just apologize, and then if you forgive yourself . . . maybe that would help. Maybe the Searcher will disappear for good. Maybe the curse, or whatever it is, will be over.”
“I can’t,” said the voice, growing smaller still. “I’m afraid.”
“You could try,” Fiona urged. “I’ll be right with you the whole time.”
“You’re not even with me now,” said the small, sad voice.
Fiona twitched the flashlight across the basement again, homing in on a sturdy-looking wooden box. She dragged it to the cistern and climbed on top.
“Come on, Margaret.” Setting her backpack against the cistern wall, Fiona hauled herself up on both arms, just managing to peep over its stone rim. “I’m right here.” The flashlight pointed at one inner wall of the cistern, and Fiona couldn’t lift her weight from her arm to move it. But by its reflected light, she could catch part of a dark shape huddled below her.
“I can’t,” the voice whispered. “You’re just going to trick me too.”
“I’m not. I promise.” Fiona wriggled forward, using her feet and elbows to heave herself farther over the cistern’s edge. “Margaret, I—”
But at that instant, the flashlight flew out of her hand. It clacked against the cistern’s inner wall, its beam of light catching a figure in a long black cloak before dying away.
A cold grip took Fiona’s hands. She smelled mud. Rot. River water.
And then the coldness pulled her in.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“It’s the perfect place,” said the figure beside Fiona in the cistern’s blackness. The voice wasn’t Margaret’s anymore, high and shivery, but it was still a girl’s voice. Another girl’s voice.
Something moved, and Fiona saw the blackness pull backward, the hood revealing a girl’s fog-colored face. It wasn’t Margaret’s face. It was older. Sharper.
“It’s just like I always told Margaret,” said the girl. “No one will ever look in here.”
Fiona reeled back. She couldn’t feel hands wrapped around her wrists; there were no fingers, no flesh. But the coldness held on to her, as solid as stone. She couldn’t get up. Couldn’t pull away. The clammy fabric of the cloak stuck to her arm, and beneath her, filling the bottom of the cistern, several inches of cold water seeped quickly through Fiona’s clothes.
“Evelyn,” Fiona choked out. “I just—I just want to help.”
The air grew icier as the other girl leaned close.
“This is how you help,” she said. “You’ll do what Margaret wouldn’t. You’ll stay.”
Fiona wrenched her arm backward. She tried to wriggle to her feet, but the cold grip was unbreakable. At the same time, the water around her grew deeper. Chilly waves splashed against her legs.
“Even if I let go, you can’t climb out,” said Evelyn. “The walls are too high. That’s why I tried to get Margaret to climb in with me. We could have helped each other out again. But she was a coward.”
Fiona pawed at the cistern wall with her free hand, but Evelyn was right. There was nothing to climb. Nothing to hold on to.
“No one’s going to find you,” said Evelyn. Her voice wasn’t cruel or taunting. It was merely calm. “No one will know where to look. Just like when they tried to find me.”
Fiona thought of Charlie, dragged away by his grandmother. She thought of her parents, fast asleep in their bed. She thought of Arden.
Evelyn was right. No one was coming.
“Evelyn.” Fiona squinted through the darkness, trying to meet the girl’s eyes. “Please. Please let go.”
The water rose higher. It seeped to the bottom of Fiona’s ribs. The smell of the river—wet moss, dead leaves, rotting things—washed around her. And Evelyn held her down, as hard and heavy as an anchor.
“What happened to you wasn’t fair,” said Fiona desperately. “I know you’re angry. You should be. But it wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
“Not anybody’s fault?” said Evelyn. “Margaret lied and lied and lied. She finally wrote the truth in a book that no one would ever read, and that no one would understand even if they did read it, and then she hid it in a room no one ever used. I had to move the book all around, hoping someone would finally find it. I had to put back the ending that Margaret erased, so that maybe, finally, someone would fit the pieces together and realize it was all true.”
“You?” whispered Fiona. “You were the one who . . .” Panic squeezed her throat, and the words cut off. “So you were using it to—to lure me in?”
For a moment that felt like ages, Evelyn didn’t answer.
“I don’t like being alone,” she said softly, at last.
“Margaret shouldn’t have left you, Evelyn. She shouldn’t have lied. But couldn’t you just . . .” In the inky darkness, Fiona felt the water lapping against her neck. “Couldn’t you forgive her?”
Evelyn ignored the question.
“It happens fast,” she said instead. “You just go under. It doesn’t hurt. And I’ll be right here with you.”
With a last, desperate burst, Fiona lunged sideways. She kicked both legs against the cistern wall, writhing, struggling to get her feet under her. But Evelyn’s grip was like a clamp. Fiona couldn’t stand up. All she managed to do was fill the cistern with waves, which crashed over her face. She spluttered, choking.
“Help!” she screamed, sucking in a wet breath. “Help! Somebody!”
“No one is coming,” said Evelyn in a