Free Blackwood by Gwenda Bond Page A

town's bright center. The branches were like fingers, reaching into the sky.
      "They're gone, just like the voices," he said.
      She slowed at the stop sign, signaling to turn onto Miranda's street. "They had to go somewhere. People don't vanish, not all at one time. Not unless they're cult members – and my rook club is not full of cult members. People don't vanish," she said, again. "They turn up dead or move elsewhere and start over. None of us believe the original colonists went away forever in a blink. And this isn't hundreds of years ago. People have cell phones with GPS – nice work turning yours off, by the way. I should lock you in a–"
      Philips interrupted before she could go further down that path. "What if they did?"
      "Did what?"
      "Went away forever in a blink." And what if the spirits had gone too?
      His mother's expression told him she longed for the cigarettes that had flown out the window. He didn't blame her.
     
    No matter how welcome Sara and Phillips had attempted to make Miranda, she became uncomfortable the second they left.
      It wasn't the Rawlings' house. Like the kitchen, the rest of it had proved cozy, full of worn-in things and warm-glow lamps. Miranda stood in the decent-sized guest room Sara had shown her to, taking in walls covered by shelves full of books with cracked spines, and colorful pieces of art that hadn't come with the frames. She tried hard not to think, and harder still not to feel, but being alone was wearing down her defenses.
      If she stayed in here – thinking, feeling – then she'd break. She needed to do something.
      An idea hit her. Well, not so much an idea as a fact: Phillips' room was somewhere on this floor, and there was no one else in the house but her.
      Miranda had always believed she and Sydney Bristow would hit it right off. Spying, it was.
      So what if Phillips hadn't lived here for years? He was a mystery to her. At the courthouse when he'd told her she could trust him, she'd believed him without understanding why. She'd stepped between him and his dad because of it. Had she been right to believe?
      Miranda padded out into the hall. The first room she went into housed a nice sewing machine, scraps of fabric surrounding the workstation. A patchwork quilt that appeared to be made entirely of old Bruce Springsteen T-shirts lay folded on the floor.
      Sara must be a crafty type. Like Miranda's mom had been. Part of her wanted to pretend it was her mom who worked at this sewing machine, wanted to pretend that this was the life her dad and her mom and she had together.
      But it wasn't. None of this coziness belonged to her. She nearly stopped exploring, then.
      Instead she left the sewing room and hurried down the hall. The door at the end of it called out to her, mainly because of the Jolly Roger emblazoned across the center. The skull-and-crossbones sported a tacked on set of Groucho Marx glasses. Taking a breath, listening for any noises, reassuring herself they couldn't come back this soon, she turned the knob and entered.
      Jackpot.
      The room even smelled like Phillips. A peppery clean scent. Wait – since when did she know what Phillips smelled like? She refocused on the task before her, fighting off a blush.
      Phillips' room was shockingly messy for a room that hadn't been lived in for three years. CD cases, books, and laundry were strewn across the space. A big duffel bag lay across the unmade bed, a vintage Ramones poster hanging over it. She picked her way around the mess and peered into the bag's open top.
      An iPod rested inside, earbuds still connected. There were also a couple of slim paperbacks and a bunch of clothes. That was it.
      She snared the iPod – it would give her something to listen to in the bath. She should have time to sneak back in here and put it away. Besides, Miranda's mom had taught her that while eyes were important, music was the real window to someone's soul. Phillips