They found her near the pond. She was taking off her clothes slowly, piece by piece, and they watched her in the darkness. One of them giggled as the girl stripped off her bra and panties, adding them to the pile of clothes she left on the bank. She didn’t hear, though, because she was moving toward the water.
“You couldn’t pay me to swim in there,” one of them whispered only to be hushed by the others. The girl looks as if she might agree, lifting her foot out as soon as she put it in, obviously cold, her pale arms wrapped around an even paler torso. But this was only for a second. In the next, she stepped into the water, moving forward until she was swallowed by the dark liquid.
“What’s she doing? Where did she go?” A hiss in the silence.
“Ssh, there she is.”
Up again, emerging from the water like a sylph, like Venus, her hair hanging about her pale shoulders as she stood for a moment. And then she began to swim, careful strokes with her head above the water. She floated on her back and they could see that she was staring up at the sky. She was saying something. She was talking to the moon.
“God, she’s so weird.”
“Where’s the rope?”
She doesn’t see them until she’s swimming back to the shore, until she’s stepped forward in the soft mud of the bank, until it’s too late to run, too late to do anything but scream.
Chapter Three
There are flames licking her hands, curling around the pale pink of her skin like orange petals on some deadly flower. The heat is curling the tiny almost invisible hairs on her bare calves. Something sizzles and there is a smell she doesn’t know, a charred scent, steak on a grill but with something sweet overlying it.
Lauren woke with a start, breathing hard. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, expecting to see the brightly colored Matisse poster she’d hung over a long scar in the chipped plaster of her apartment in Hoboken. Instead there are bare, cream-colored walls.
She didn’t see the battered chest of drawers she’d rescued from someone’s garbage. There is only a single bed with a nightstand tucked beside it and a closet. Above the bed, hanging above her head, is a crucifix in dark wood with the Christ figure in silver. She reached up a hand and ran it over the cool metal. The clock on the nightstand glowed five o’clock. Her first class as a full-time teacher would begin in just under four hours.
Moving day had been yesterday. She’d arrived along with most of the students. The sound of car doors slamming and teenage voices squealing echoed through the halls. Boxes and trunks were hauled into rooms by drivers. Music began playing almost as soon as the first girl arrived.
There were ten dormitories, called “houses,” all of them in the same Victorian Gothic style as the main building, all of them named for Doctors of the Church. Six began with “A”: Ambrose, Anselm, Augustine, Aquinas, Anthony, and Avila. The remaining four began with “B”: Basil, Bonaventure, Bernard, Bede. Lauren’s apartment was in Augustine House.
The inside of the building was relatively modern. The long hallways were carpeted and each room was outfitted with twin beds, desks, dressers, and a shared bookcase. The windows were casement style, but they were double-glazed and the house smelled of fresh paint.
At one end of the hallway was a large common room, where girls could watch TV or play the board games that were stacked on a shelf. At the other end was her apartment.
“I know it’s small,” Sister Rose said, producing a key from some hidden pocket as she led the way down the hall toward a single wooden door painted a dark red, “but I think you’ll find it comfortable.” She jiggled the key in the lock, saying, “it sticks sometimes,” before the door suddenly swung open.
“I think these apartments are pretty charming.” The older woman stood back so Lauren could pass in front of her. The postage-stamp entry gave way to a larger living room.
“You’ve got a fireplace,” Sister Rose said, but Lauren had already seen it. “It’s gas—they were converted years ago—but it works and all you have to do is flip a switch. It’s around here somewhere.” She strode across to the white wooden mantel.
“That’s okay,” Lauren said quickly. “I don’t like fire.” Flames shot up, crackling around realistic-looking logs.
Sister Rose shut off the switch. “You might change your mind when it gets colder,” she said.
As soon as she’d gone, Lauren rearranged the beige love seat and two dark brown armchairs in the small living room so they blocked the hearth. They were comfortable, if a little worn, as was the cheery oriental rug on the floor. All of it was better than anything she’d had. Bookshelves flanked the fireplace and the other blank wall. There were plenty of books on the shelves and a wooden desk in one corner.
Lauren got out of bed and padded into the tiny kitchen that was adjacent to the living room. Small fridge, small stove, and sink. Soap underneath and a fresh sponge. The refrigerator was empty save for a box of baking soda and the carton of milk she’d picked up at a convenience store. The cupboards were lined with white shelf paper and her single box of Cheerios. There wasn’t a crumb in sight. Sister Agnes had left the place immaculate.
The photograph album was on the table where she’d left it after unpacking. It had taken her only an hour to settle in. Lauren wondered what that said about her that her entire life could be unpacked in an hour. At the bottom of a box of books she’d found the small photograph album she’d put together one rainy day in London.
Sitting down at the table, she’d turned the pages, looking at the photos of her and Michael on a hillside in Dover and at a café in Paris.
It was an indulgence, looking at Michael, at his smile, at his eyes. She knew there would be a time when she looked at these pictures and simply thought of him as her first lover, not her only. There would be a time, but that time was not now.
She put the album aside and sat down with a bowl of cereal, listening to the silence. Back in the apartment even at this early hour there were the noises of neighbors’ televisions and children. All she could hear now was the soft sound of rain slapping against the windows.
Between the kitchen and the bedroom, off a narrow hall, was a small bathroom with a shower. Lauren splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, grateful that she didn’t have to share the students’ communal baths.
Stripping off her pajamas, she dressed quickly in a T-shirt and exercise pants, pulling a sweatshirt over her head and lacing up a pair of running shoes.
She was used to running early in the morning—she’d done it for years, kept it up when she was overseas, and didn’t stop when she returned to the States, running the streets of Hoboken every morning. She’d done it for so many years that sometimes she forgot why she’d started, the need to escape that had driven her when she was younger. It was still good for that, still a way to shut off the stress. She had to face a classroom in a few hours, but first she would run.
Locking her apartment door behind her, Lauren slid the key into her shoe and tiptoed down the hall to the front door. She slipped outside, closing it quietly behind her, and paused on the steps to do a few stretches.
It was so incredibly still. She could hear the far-off cooing of doves, but otherwise the only noise was from the faint patter of a soft rainfall. It was nothing more than a drizzle and she didn’t let it stop her from starting off at a good pace.
Up the path, away from the dormitory toward the main building, then cut across the asphalt road in front of the school and into the woods across the street. She’d discovered yesterday that the acres and acres of woods had crushed limestone paths running through them, a nature lover’s sanctuary and a perfect place to walk or run.
Morning fog had settled around the trees and there was a chill in the air. She was glad she’d worn the