"Leap!" he shouted, stretching his hands out toward her.
Even if he caught her, there was nothing to keep him from tumbling over the side with her. She'd kill them both.
"Ivy, leap!" It sounded like Tristan's voice.
"Ivy, leap. Ivy, leap," Gregory taunted. He had topped running. He was walking backward on the track now, watching her, watching the clearing where the train would appear any second, his face flushed and a trickle of blood coming out of his nose. His eyes shone-brilliant, triumphant, insane.
"Tristan!" Ivy called out.
"He's here," Will said. "He'll help us."
But she didn't feel Tristan within her and she didn't see him glowing inside Will.
"Where?" she cried out. "Where?"
˜"Where, where?" the deep voices mocked. The train thundered onto the bridge.
"Tristan, where are you?" Ivy screamed.
"Reach for her, Will. Reach for her!"
Will reached out, and Ivy leaped. For a moment a golden arc shimmered between the two bridges, holding up Ivy and Will. Then they fell onto the old track, clinging desperately to the edge so they wouldn't roll off.
The train rushed along the new bridge, and Gregory started running for the opposite bank. Ivy and Will pulled themselves up and screamed at the train till their throats burned. Their voices were drowned out by a growing wave of dark jabbering, an ominous rumbling of voices so deep they seemed to come from beneath everything that lived.
Ivy and Will watched helplessly as the train bore down on Gregory. He'd never make it. He'd have to try to leap to the old bridge. The voices began shriek. Ivy held her hands over her ears, and Will gripped her tightly. He tried to turn her head away, but she kept looking.
Gregory leaped, reaching up, his arms flung forward, his fingers reaching out. For a moment he stretched like an angel, then he plunged into the mist below.
The train rushed past him, never slowing. Ivy pressed her face against Will. They held on to each other, barely breathing. The tumult of voices murmured and ceased.
"Chick, chick, chick," one sad voice sang out. "Who's a chick, chick, chick?"
Then all was silent.
"One box of tissues," Suzanne said Saturday night. "Help yourself, girls. One large pan of brownies."
"Why are you putting the tissues by us and the brownies by you?" Ivy asked. She, Suzanne, and Beth were sprawled on the floor in the middle of her bedroom.
Beth quickly pulled the brownies closer to her sleeping bag. "Don't worry," she said to Ivy, "I've got the knife."
"Suzanne will use her fingernails," Ivy replied. "Keep the pan between us."
"Now, just a minute," Suzanne said, pursing her I lips. They were paler than their usual flame red. "For the last four days I have been thoughtful, caring, polite-" "And it's really getting to me," Ivy said. "I miss the old Suzanne…
I've missed her for more than the last four days," she added softly.
Suzanne's pouty face changed, and Ivy quickly reached out to touch her friend's hand.
"Uh-oh, tissue time," Beth said.
Each of them reached for one.
"I've cried off more mascara in the last four days," Suzanne complained.
"Let's hit the brownies," Ivy suggested, snatching the knife from Beth and cutting three large ones.
Beth trailed a finger along the inside of the pan, picking up big crumbs as well as her brownie, then grinned at Suzanne. "It's been ages since I've been to a sleepover."
"Me too," Ivy said.
"How long has it been since you've had a good night's sleep?" Suzanne asked Ivy, her eyes still watery.
Ivy moved closer to her friend and put her arm around her. "I told you, I slept all the way through last night."
The other nights had been more difficult for Ivy, but she hadn't had any nightmares. At odd times during the night she would awaken and glance around the room, as if her body, having been on alert for so long, was still conditioned to check that all was well. But the fear she had lived with day and night was gone now, and with it the dreams.
The police had arrived at the bridges almost immediately on Tuesday, Lieutenant Donnelly responding to Ivy's note and to an emergency call for help by Andrew. They found Gregory on the rocks in the river below and pronounced him dead at the scene. A little while later, Philip was released from the shack.
"How's Philip doing?" Beth asked.
"He looks okay," Suzanne observed.
"Philip sees the world the way a nine-year-old does," Ivy told them. "If he can explain things with a story, he's all right. He's made Gregory into a bad angel, and he believes good angels will always protect him from the bad, so he's okay-for now."
But Ivy knew that sooner or later her brother would be asking a lot of hard questions about how someone could act nice to him and still want to hurt him. He'd ask again for all the details.
By the time Ivy and Andrew left the police station Tuesday night, the facts of the case had been sketched out. The lieutenant said the police would inform the family of the girl in Ridgefield, as well as Eric's and Tristan's parents, regarding the further investigation of the case.
Later that evening the Reverend Mr. Carruthers, Tristan's father, came to the house. He stayed with Ivy and her family for several hours, and remained close by until the memorial service three days later, which he presided over. Now that it was over, both Andrew and Maggie looked fragile and worn, Ivy thought-haunted.
"Of course they do," Beth said, as if she had read Ivy's mind. "They've seen a side of Gregory that they never knew about, and it's horrifying.
They're just starting to understand what you've been through. It's going to take them a long time." "It's going to take us all a long time," Suzanne said, blinking back tears. Then she reached for the kitchen knife. "Do you think there are enough tissues and brownies?"
There's something different about her tonight, Tristan thought as he stared down at Lacey Saturday evening. He found her where he had first met her, lounging on his grave, one knee up, the other leg stretched straight out in front of her. Her spiked purple hair caught the moonlight, and her skin looked as pale as the marble she leaned against.
Her long nails gleamed dark purple. But there was something different about her.
In Lacey's face Tristan saw a wistfulness that made him hesitate before speaking to her, some touch of sadness that was new to her or that she usually kept well hidden.
"Lacey." She looked up at Tristan and blinked twice.
"What's up?" he said, sitting down next to her.
She stared at him and said nothing.
"What were you just thinking about?" he asked gently.
Lacey quickly looked down at her hands, touching fingertip to fingertip, frowning. When she glanced up again, she looked as if she were staring straight through him.
He felt uneasy. "Is something on your mind?"
"Have you been to Gregory's plot?" she asked.
"I just came from-" "Puh-lease, don't tell me he's winging around here," she interrupted, waving her hands dramatically. "I mean, I know Number One Director chooses the least likely, but that's pushing it just a little too far."
Tristan laughed, glad she was acting like herself again. "I haven't seen a sign of Gregory," he said.
"Everything's quiet by his grave and up on the ridge, too."
She dropped her hands. "You've been with Ivy."
"I've been there, but I can't reach her," he said. "Neither she nor Philip sees me, and I can't get inside either of their minds. I need your help, Lacey. I guess you're tired of hearing that, but I need you now more than ever."
She held up her hand, silencing him. "There's something I should tell you, Tristan."
"What?" he asked.
"I can't see you, either."