“There. Now it’s your turn.” With that, Gwen looped her purse strap over her head, her movements fast and jerky. “When you figure out how to use one of those again, well . . . I logged my number in at the top of your address book. And here,” she added, yanking out Isobel’s gym bag. She let it drop onto the floor between them, right on top of the smattering of papers. “My locker’s not a storage unit.”
With a flip of her long hair, Gwen stalked off, leaving Isobel to stand there, staring at her rumpled gym bag, wondering how it was possible that she could feel any emptier.
Mechanically, she sank to one knee in front of her locker and with slow, deliberate movements, began to gather her things.
Then something about one of the papers made her pause. Her cell phone slid from her grasp. It cracked against the floor, but Isobel hardly seemed to notice, too distracted by the black-and-white photo mixed within the spread of loose white sheets.
She grabbed one corner of the printout, tugging it free from the others. Isobel’s eyes scoured the page, certain that she had to be imagining what she saw there.
At the top of the paper, the header read Baltimore Sun in bold block letters, and she knew it was the article Mr. Swanson had wanted her and Varen to see, the one he had handed back with their paper. There, in the middle of the page, Isobel focused on the dim and misty black-and-white image that had first drawn her attention. Head bowed, a man knelt before a large gravestone. On the headstone itself, she could scarcely make out the outline of a carved raven. The man, however, she could see more clearly.
He wore a dark coat, and a black fedora covered his bowed head. In his hand, he offered flowers to the grave. Roses? Around the lower part of his face, a white scarf concealed his features.
Isobel read the caption:
The only known photo of the “Poe Toaster,” taken in 1990 for Life magazine. This mysterious figure visits Poe’s Baltimore grave during the early morning hours of January 19, marking the poet’s birthday each year with roses and a toast of cognac. First observed in 1949, the ritual has continued over the years, though the Toaster’s identity, along with the details of how he enters the locked cemetery, remain a secret to this day.
“Reynolds,” she hissed, gripping the page until it crumpled in her fist.
Isobel stared with sheer disbelief. She gawked at the image of Reynolds, kneeling in front of the headstone, paying homage before Poe’s grave, blatant and visible to all who dared to watch, imprinted forever on film.
She looked up and, at the far end of the hall, caught sight of Gwen’s swaying broom skirt. Something inside of her clicked on, and for the first time since she had found out that Varen had never returned, her mind switched to life. Her awareness spread out. Suddenly, the external world reentered her sphere of existence. She heard the lockers slamming around her, and people laughing and talking. Sneakers squeaked by on either side of her, everyone heading for the buses. Clutching the article in one hand, Isobel fumbled for her phone. She flipped it open and turned it on, thankful that she still had some battery life left. She thumbed through her address book, highlighting the first entry before pressing the send button.
Even from a distance and with the clamor in the hallway, she still heard the trill of Gwen’s cell phone. Through the net of interweaving students, she saw Gwen stop, and watched as she reached one hand into the patchwork purse slung at her side. Isobel studied her friend as she fished out her ringing phone and eyed her view screen, as though trying to decide whether or not to pick up.
Isobel stood.
Please, she pleaded in her mind. Please. I need you.
Slowly, Gwen lifted the phone to her ear. Then Isobel heard her voice just as she saw her lips move. “So, you let me get through that whole spiel, my entire tirade, but you weren’t going to let me have the dramatic walkaway, were you?”
“Baltimore,” Isobel blurted. “January nineteenth. I have to be there.”
Gwen turned to face Isobel. Phones pressed to their ears, they stared at each other from across the expanse of the clearing hallway.
“What?” Gwen asked, already starting back toward her again, shouldering her way through clusters of stragglers.
Isobel lowered her own phone. She held the article out at arm’s length.
Closing in, Gwen snatched it from her. “Hey!” she said, “It’s that guy! From the Grim Facade . . .”
Gwen suddenly grew quiet, and Isobel watched her eyes grow wide behind her glasses as she scanned the brief paragraph. Meanwhile, Isobel allowed her thoughts to spiral backward to the moment when Reynolds had laid her on her mother’s wicker bench. With that memory, a new thought occurred to her, one very important detail that, until that very instant, she had managed to overlook entirely. Despite what he had said about the separation of worlds and the destruction of the link, he had still stood there, in her world, fully real and tangible.
And hadn’t Varen created the link in the first place? Wouldn’t that mean that Poe had done the same?
Isobel’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze slid back to the article in Gwen’s hand, just as she was lowering the paper. Gwen’s eyes met with Isobel’s, and her face held a wondering expression, one that went through several quick changes as the wheels of her brain spun to catch up, to draw the same conclusion that Isobel had already decided on.
Isobel was going to Baltimore. One way or another.
And contrary to what Reynolds thought, she would see him again.
Of that she was now certain.
50
From Out That Shadow
That night, Isobel waited until everyone was asleep before sneaking down the hallway to Danny’s room. She pressed in on the door, and it creaked slightly as it opened.
Her little brother lay in his bed, snoring, huddled to one side, his arm slung around a giant Transformers pillow. Drool pooled on the robot’s plushy shoulder. She shook her head, taking in the scene. If her mood had been any different, she might have risked snapping a blackmail photo. Instead, she crept inside, tiptoeing around the minefield that was his bedroom floor.
Quietly she slid into his computer chair. It squeaked as it swiveled into place, and her ears pricked up as she heard Danny stir behind her.
She ignored his groan and wiggled the mouse, causing the sleep screen to disappear. The PC hummed to life and, when the window for Google popped up, she started typing.
“What are you dooooing?” Danny moaned. “Get out of my roooooom.”
“Shh,” Isobel said. “Go back to sleep.”
The web page for University of Baltimore popped onto the screen.
It had been Gwen who, despite her reluctance concerning Isobel’s plan, had thought of using the excuse of visiting colleges to get to Baltimore. After Nationals, if Trenton won the championship this year, then there would be no way her mom and dad could deny her the request. Especially if she happened to utter the word “university” all on her own.
Of course, that meant Trenton would have to win.
From there, things wouldn’t get truly difficult, until she was in the city, in Baltimore. It would be sneaking off and getting into the locked cemetery that was going to be the tough part.
“I was having a good dream,” Danny mumbled. She heard him roll to face the wall. “I was an only child.”
“So go back to sleep.”
Isobel typed “Athletics” into the search field. The only return was for an athletics club. “Damn it,” she hissed. She pressed back and, returning to Google, typed, “University of Maryland + Athletics.” When the page loaded, she clicked the first option, and the sports page splashed onto the screen in a flash of red, yellow, and black. And there, dead center, was a photo of the football team.