Page 4 of The Unraveling

His eyes fly wide. “Wait—The time. What’s the time?” Staring at me, he whispers, “I can’t sense the hour . . . the minute . . .”

I purse my lips and stumble a few paces back to spy the hands on the grandfather clock beyond the railing upstairs. My vision isn’t as clear as usual, and I’m surprised to find it’s half after twelve. After midnight, surely, since I’d sense the danger of daylight if it were.

“It’s after midnight.” I lean against the smooth, thick wood of the doorway and nudge the articulated medical skeleton—bloody fingerprints on its chest—with my foot so I can see Victor better.

“Take your fam—” He gasps for breath, head rocking to the side as he grimaces. “Daisy with you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, then say, “Yes, of course.”

I leave the study, cross the foyer, and pass the wooden staircase leading upstairs. By the time I enter the parlor, half of his words have already slipped from my mind. I ponder what I’m supposed to bring—if he even spoke clearly, or if I misheard—as I sling my leather purse over my shoulder and return to the foyer. My gaze drops to the vase of white daisies and roses on the entryway table.

Did he say something about daisies? I must have misheard. Why would I bring flowers?

The slight shake of my head makes the room twirl. I hit the carpet, jolting my spine, and cling to it as my heart drums in my ears while my vision swims. Even as the room straightens enough for me to sit up, I can still feel my heart.

Why does it beat so many times? Usually once or twice per minute suffices. Just enough to keep the blood from coagulating. Enough to keep it from pooling like it does in the truly dead.

I tuck my long hair behind my ears and scan the floor until I spot my boots in front of the closed closet. Slipping them on, I tie them as tight as my aching, quivering fingers allow, then reach above me to grip the doorknob. It’s the only thing that gets me back on my feet.

Chapter 2

Chilly, damp air sends an icy shudder through me as I step outside. The lawn and sidewalk are soaked from the evening’s earlier thunderstorm, and the moonlight casts a glow across them, reflecting within the water pooling in potholes on the empty street.

I tremble with each movement down the wooden steps, hugging myself as I test my footing on the walk so I don’t slip from my compromised balance. I automatically look back over my shoulder at the door of the red, looming Victorian-style home like I’m expecting something.

Queen Anne Revival style, I mentally correct with a limp chuckle. Victor’s very particular with his wording, so proud to own something so massive and beautiful that he always leaps at the chance to distinguish it from simply Victorian.

I’m lost in a hazy, tangled memory as I stare up at the tall, black-shingled peaks until a gust of wind blows me free. After glancing at the walkway between the thick trees sitting next to our home at the end of the street, I shudder and push forward. Despite not being able to summon the image of the twenty-four-hour convenience store, habit pilots my feet and I recall it’s a few blocks away.

Each heavy step down the desolate street has the chilly wind cutting deeper. My labored breaths draw damp air against the back of my throat.

How impossibly cold must it be if I can feel it? I could run around in the Arctic naked without a flicker of discomfort, so why do I shiver now, on an early June night?

The street is quieter than I’m used to, like each dark house is empty. No slumbering, even breaths behind the walls. No tossing and turning beneath sheets, or quiet, creaking floors as someone creeps down a hall. No late-night television shows playing at a whisper.

No heartbeat but mine calling for my awareness.

Where has everyone gone?

With chattering teeth and limbs tightening with such stiffness that I’d think I’m developing rigor mortis after each step, I pause. I survey the dark houses on each side of the street, then tilt my head upward to stare at the dull stars. I can’t make anything out in the blackness beyond. It’s as if thin clouds have spread like cotton across them. Transparent enough to allow silver to sparkle through, but nothing more. No twisting colors of the galaxy like I’ve grown used to. No outlines of satellites or the space station—which I can’t even spot with my naked eye now.

I swallow a knot, then inhale a crisp breath.

There’s . . . something wrong.

I keep walking, skin numb by the time the brightly lit convenience store comes into view on the corner. There are no cars to wait on as I reach the intersection, the red light glowing in a puddle as I gingerly cross. I raise my arms to my sides as the world tilts, then lift my boot past a wind-rippled puddle, and another, until I’m crossing the bit of drying sidewalk to the glass door.

I can barely feel the metal as I hook my stiff fingers around the handle. The door weighs a ton, so I grit my teeth and draw it open. I shudder through the crack; the door thuds shut and traps me within the heat.

“Isla?” a familiar man’s voice calls.

My stiff neck protests as I turn my head toward the counter. It must be a weeknight since Frederick stands by the cash register. His eyes are wide with raised, thick black brows. As our gazes lock, he doesn’t flee mine like he usually does.

“I-it’s q-quite c-cold. U-unusual . . .” The wet sole of my boot squeaks against the floor as I drag it forward with a step.

He blinks. “It’s a chilly wind, I suppose.”

I nod and grip the nearest metal shelf with curled fingers, pulling myself toward the ready-made sandwiches I buy each morning before work. I scoop three up and carefully turn around—one hand out to catch myself—and heave my feet toward the counter.