PROLOGUE
September . . .
She’d made such a horrible mess of things.... Catherine rode in Earl’s motorboat to Echo Island, her mouth set in a grim line. With all her good intentions in trying to save her charges from heartache, ridicule, and pain, she had only made things worse. She’d been so relieved after that monster Justice’s death that she’d relaxed her hold on the gates of Siren Song, briefly, but when her lack of vigilance had started leading to anarchy, she’d clamped down again. Now, though everything was locked up tight, the work and rules restored, there was a restlessness within the girls that was not to be denied. It simmered below the surface, and Catherine knew the order she had preached, had tried desperately to instill, was forever broken. Ravinia was champing at the bit to leave; the others would follow.
It was to be expected, she supposed. They’d been sheltered from the real world so long that when they’d realized how their sisters had melded into society—Rebecca with her husband and little girl, and then Lorelei, saved by that reporter Harrison Frost—the remaining sisters behind the gates of Siren Song had been swept away by the fantasy and romance of it all. And that they knew Harrison had risked his life for Lorelei? Well, it was the stuff fairy tales were made of.
As Earl guided the boat to the small dock, here on Mary’s island of exile, her “Elba” she’d once called it, Catherine wondered what she would say to her sister, how she would explain her change of heart. After all, her charges weren’t even her own issue. Mary had given birth to each and every one of them, though there had been a long line of fathers, studs whom Mary had used and tossed aside. Catherine was their guardian, yes, but still only their aunt.
Could she now admit that she’d been wrong? That perhaps Mary should return to Siren Song and, as far as anyone knew, from the grave? Of course that wouldn’t work. There were laws about those kinds of things . . . laws about faking someone’s death, she supposed.
She would have to think of something else.
The sound of the sea was louder here, the tides splashing around the rocks and shoals. Mary had always said she’d found it comforting.
Catherine wondered.
But if she was happy, so be it. Of course, Mary had always been delusional. . . . It ran in their family. . . .
“I shouldn’t be too long,” she told Earl as he cut the engine and tied up. “Half an hour, maybe.”
The handyman nodded. “I’ll wait. Got my pole.”
With his help, she climbed onto the dock and left him opening his cooler of bait. Holding her skirt so that the hem of her dress wouldn’t skim the dirt and bird excrement on the old boards, she bustled along the sandy, overgrown path that wound a hundred feet to Mary’s home. The cottage was little more than a one-room cabin with a sleeping area, even more austere and cut off from the world than Siren Song. It was no wonder no one had ever found her here. . . . But then Catherine knew from her own experience that even the most bizarre circumstances did exist.... How else to explain all the gifts the girls had received?
There were rumors in Deception Bay, of course, of a hermit who lived on the island. An old hag that ran sightseers off, but if anyone had made the connection between the recluse and Mary Rutledge Beeman, Catherine didn’t know about it.
She swatted at a fly as she walked, the sun hot against her face, beads of sweat forming on her brow. It was late summer now, going on September, one of the few times of the year you could actually trust to not have your boat dashed against the forbidding rocks that surrounded Echo.
A fly? she thought. Out here?
Odd.
Then again, what wasn’t odd these days? Everything about her sister had been “out of sync,”
“a little off,” or “odd” since her birth. Upon her exile, the cover story was that Mary had fallen to her death on one of her solitary walks, though another version suggested she’d died from a miscarriage, which was somewhat closer to the truth. Neither, however, was accurate, and the solitary figure sometimes seen on Echo Island, according to the rumors Catherine made sure were spread, was believed to be the bereaved, reclusive wife of one of the lighthouse caretakers from nearby Whittier Island who had died from misery after the death of her only child. In truth, no one really paid attention anymore. Everyone today was all caught up in their own lives, too interested in themselves or celebrities or television reality shows to do more than gossip about the weird old lady of Echo Island.
Catherine hurried on. Squinting against a lowering sun, she noticed that Mary’s garden, usually so perfect, was untended. Beach grass had taken over, and the tea roses were leggy, the blooms dried and dying. “Mary?” she called as she walked toward the front door and saw the boxes of supplies left on the porch. The cardboard was sun bleached, the fruit and vegetables had gone bad, and the stink of rotting meat was overpowering. And there were more flies.
What the devil?
“Mary!” she called again and pushed on the door. How long had it been since she’d been here?
It was unlatched, and from within the stench was worse. It hit Catherine with the force of a malodorous tidal wave. The buzzing of swarming flies competed with the sound of the surf. They swept outward from the door of the sleeping area like a black tide. Catherine’s stomach revolted as she pressed forward, ever more concerned, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkened interior.
Pulse rising, she forced herself to enter the bedroom. On the bed lay a corpse.
What was left of her sister was little more than dried, rotting flesh and exposed bones. Mary’s face was unrecognizable, her eyes gone, two dark, exposed sockets where those beautiful blue orbs had once been. Her hair was brittle, long tufts jutting from a skull of darkened, dried skin. Her lips had rotted away, exposing her teeth in a ghoulish, wicked grin. Her cheeks were only bone.
“No . . . oh, dear Lord . . .” Revulsion squeezed Catherine’s stomach as she tried to process the horrid sight.
The hilt of a knife rose from Mary’s chest. The skeletal fingers of her right hand surrounded it, as if she’d tried to yank the blade out and failed. Hanks of old flesh hung from her fingers and arm.
A scream boiled to the heavens. A wild shriek of pure fear.
It took Catherine a moment to realize it came from her own throat.
“Holy mother of God,” she whispered, retching, backing away.
But the vision of Mary was burned in her brain as she scrambled backward, nearly tripping over her own skirts. Trying not to vomit, she turned blindly and ran for the door.
What in God’s good name had happened to her sister?
This has nothing to do with God!
Running out the door, she half tripped, half fell down the steps and the path toward the boat, another scream churning upward from within her soul. The vision of her sister’s rotting corpse blinded her to the ocean and this rocky shelf of an island. Mary, she thought on a choked sob. Mary . . .
She felt someone reach for her and flailed at them in terror.