Page 33 of Fated

Not because I trust him or like him or think he’s sane, but because I’m desperately trying to figure out what’s going on.

I don’t think he’s dangerous. I don’t think any of these people are. But I do think they’re all suffering from a mass delusion.

As we pass the shop Jordi hurries out, a platter in his hands with a cake on top. “Junie wanted you to take this. She said it’s the last chocolate box cake on island. Just for you.”

Aaron takes his arm from me and reaches out for the cake. “Thank you. We owe you one.”

“Forget it,” Jordi says, already hurrying out of the sun, back to the shade of the shop.

The white icing has already started to melt, streaking along the sides of the brown/black cake. However, it’s not the sweating icing or the pink frosting flowers leaking over the sides that I’m interested in.

No.

It’s the words written on top of the cake in blue frosting.

“Happy Fifteen Years,” it says.

And below that there are two names.

Becca.

And McCormick.

12

The party,as all parties, must go on. And so, unsurprisingly, when McCormick and I round the sandy bend to the circle of colorful cottages, a group of four men are setting up a white marquee tent, metal folding tables, and folding chairs.

One of them—a hugely muscled bald man with a face like a bulldog—stands on a ladder at our front porch. He’s tacking up a long fabric sign that has the hand-painted words, “Congrats, Becca and McCormick.”

“Becca!” he shouts when he sees me. “How’s it look?”

Under the shade tree, the three old women glance up from the game of cards they’ve moved on to. The largest rooster I’ve ever seen, rusty red and iridescent black, and two reddish-brown hens scratch in the sand at their feet.

The other three men stop, folding tables and chairs in their arms. All eyes are on me, waiting for my judgment.

How does it look? It’s a white sheet with hand-painted red letters. Some of the paint has dripped down from the letters and splattered over the fabric. There’s a splotch of red in the corner looking grotesquely like blood. So. How does it look?

It looks like a ransom note from a horror film.

“Good,” I say, giving the bulky bald man a thumbs-up.

At that McCormick gives a stifled laugh. The rest of the men move back to setting up for the party.

The rooster under the tree decides he’s tired of scratching in the dirt and jumps on the fluffier hen. He mounts her and she squawks, flapping her wings while he goes at it for about 1.5 seconds flat. The outraged clucking drowns out the noise of the setup. Then, once the rooster has jumped off the hen, Essie kicks at him. “Buy her a drink next time, you! Quick on, quick off. Reminds me of Gilbert, god rest his soul.”

McCormick grins down at me, the chocolate cake in his arms. The heat has melted the frosting, so the pink flowers run in waterfalls down the side and the scripted words have morphed into “Horp 15 leals Becco & Moomick.”

“I better get this in the fridge,” McCormick says, raising an eyebrow at the writing.

I don’t care about the cake.

I’ve got my head wrapped around the situation, and I think I know what’s going on.

“I need to talk to you.”

He nods then gestures toward the cottage. “While we make breakfast. Amy’s hungry, Sean’s up. This crew’s going to want food.”

My chest grows tight again, so as he turns toward the little house I say, “What do I look like?”

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