Page 69 of Losing Wendy

I bite the inside of my cheek. “It seems that way, doesn’t it? With the way the killer carved Thomas’s favorite constellation into Freckles’s cheek?”

John shrugs. “Sure, but technically, there are other explanations. It could simply be a coincidence. It’s not too far-fetched to think someone who murders for fun might take on the Reaper’s fox as their symbol. Though now that I’m thinking about it, one would think a killer would prefer the symbol of the Reaper himself. Another option is whoever killed Freckles might wish for us to believe that his murder is connected to Thomas’s.”

“Like if he killed Freckles out of anger?” I ask.

John reaches across the cot and scratches Michael’s back, our youngest brother sleeping soundly in his cot. “You did say Frecklesdidn’t keep his disdain for Thomas a secret. It’s likely Victor knew about it.”

“Yes, but is that really a motive for murder?” I ask.

“It would make me mad if I overheard someone bad-mouthing our parents,” says John, somewhat distantly. “Besides, if Freckles wasn’t sorry that Thomas was dead, Victor could have gotten it into his head that Freckles was the one who killed him. Maybe he lured Freckles out to the cove and stabbed him in revenge.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “There’s also Joel. He seems to have an affinity for torture.”

“Carving a constellation in someone’s face is a bit of an escalation from coaxing rats into the fire, don’t you think?”

We let that settle between us for a moment, gooseflesh prickling my forearms. John reaches out, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

I blink, despite the fact that my eyes are dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

John crinkles his brow. “You know that’s just as concerning, right?”

I close my eyes and nod. “Does it make me a freak?” I ask. “If I didn’t feel anything when we found Freckles today? I mean, he was my friend…”

John stares at me, his brown eyes magnified by his thick spectacles. “Wendy?” He says my name like it’s a question in and of itself. “Can I ask you something?”

No!my mind screams, dread rattling me at the idea of what secrets of mine my clever brother might have unlocked.

“Of course,” I say, and it’s my mother’s tenor I hear in the words.

John isn’t looking at me anymore, but at my hands, folded in my lap in front of me. “One time, during your second season out in society, I passed the smoking parlor, and I thought I heard—”

“No,” I lie. “It wasn’t what you think.”

My brother looks at me, cocking his head to the side as sorrow and pity crinkle in folds around his eyes, his brow. “I didn’t say what I thought it was.”

He says it like my reaction is answer enough, but I can’t allow it. Can’t allow John to know what happened in that parlor, not when he wouldn’t understand. Not when he’s just lost our parents and knowing the truth might give him the wrong impression.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” I whisper, pleading with him not to press further.

John frowns. Opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

Michael lets out a violent snore, causing John and me to spring off of our respective cots, shaking.

“Goodnight, John,” I say, retreating into my blankets like they’re impenetrable enough not only to protect me, but also John’s memory of our parents.

He’s quiet for a minute. When he speaks, I fear he hasn’t dropped the subject, but then he says, “We’ll see if anyone saw Joel around the time of the murder.”

I spendthe evening soaking my sheets with tears. I wish I could say I shed every one of them for Freckles, for Thomas, for the Lost Boys. For the boy whose love of the stars surpassed any magic worked on his mind. For the boy whose hand sketched the features of others with such love and precision, yet barely knew his own.

For the freckled boy who longed for nothing more than the attention of his peers.

Grief might not have assaulted me on the rocky beaches of the cove, but only because it was stalking me from the shadows, waiting for the darkness to descend.

My mind tortures me, trying to replay every interaction I’ve ever had with Freckles. I clutch his journal to my chest like it contains the soul of my sweet friend. Like, if only I keep it close, I won’t forget the already fading chime of his laugh.

I cry for myself, for witnessing the bloodied wounds that sing of the way my parents died, that carve themselves into the backs of my eyelids as sleep evades me. For the fact that I have to live with the answer to John’s question of what used to happen in theparlor. I cry because of what my parents felt they must do to save me.

I cry for John and Michael too, for trading their safety from the pirates for life on an island that craves their blood.

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