Read Online Crooked River: A Novel by Valerie Geary - Free Book Online Page B

capture a swarm that was trying to make its new home in Zeb and Franny’s chimney. I wasn’t there, but Franny said it was quite precarious and Bear was crazy for trying.
    Bear leaned the ladder against the trunk of the tree as close to underneath the swarm as he could get. “Ready?”
    I zipped my suit, cinched my gloves, pulled the veil down over my face, and gave him a thumbs-up.
    I was halfway up the ladder when he said, “Did everything go okay with Deputy Santos today?”
    I missed the next rung and almost slipped off. I balanced, found my footing again, and kept climbing.
    “Yeah,” I called down to him. “She was a little mad at first, but she thinks the jacket could be helpful for setting up a timeline. Anyway, it’s out of our hands now.”
    Bear nodded. “Good.”
    I was surprised at how easy and quick the lie came. Surprised, too, that Bear believed me.
    He passed me the bucket and handsaw. “Watch it now. This part can get a little tricky.”

 
    8
ollie

    M y sister adjusts her helmet, her veil, her gloves.
    Bear points at her empty bucket and says, “Set it right under that branch and hold it steady.”
    Papa Zeb offers me a sip of his Coke. “Think we’re far enough away?”
    The bees fly around the one from the river, outlining her shape in the air. She is trying so hard to make my sister notice. But my sister sees only what is right in front of her and says all the rest is fake, just light playing tricks, summer bending the sky. Impossibilities, imaginary friends, and all in my head.
    Maybe she’s right.
    I wish she was.
    A s far back as I can remember I’ve seen them. In dim light, they seem almost solid. In bright light, barely visible. If I touch them, it’s ice and fire, energy burning. They are glints and specks, here and then gone. Shimmering. Like heat rising off pavement.
    W hen I was four, at the zoo with my sister and mother, I grabbed Mom’s sleeve and said, “Who is that man over there?”
    “What man, sweetheart?”
    “The one beside the tiger cage. Under that tree. He’s wearing a funny hat.”
    “I don’t see anyone.” She put her arm around me and squeezed. “Honey, there’s no one.”
    W hen I was six, the night before Grandma and Grandpa came to stay with us for two weeks, Mom sat on the edge of my bed and told me Aunt Charlotte had an accident while climbing a mountain. She fell. She died. I would never see or talk to her again. She was gone.
    And then she wasn’t.
    Then she was here at our house, coming through the front door behind Grandma and filling the rooms with cold and ice. But I was the only one who noticed, the only one freezing. I started to cry and Mom said, “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” and lifted me onto her hip. But I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell anyone. Aunt Charlotte’s voice smothered mine. Her words, trying, failing to escape, became trapped inside me. For days after, I kept my mouth shut tight.
    Mom said, “Sweetheart, talk to me.”
    But I was too afraid to try, knowing that the voice I’d hear would not belong to me.
    When Grandma left a room, so did Aunt Charlotte. When Grandma came into a room, Aunt Charlotte came in right behind her. Ice crystals formed on the inside of the windows. Snowdrifts piled in the corners. At night, I shivered beneath the covers.
    When Mom tucked me in, she added another blanket, saying, “I hope it’s not the flu.”
    During the day, my sister rolled her eyes and said, “Stop being a baby.”
    The first time I figured out they could speak, and that I could hear them, was at the funeral. Aunt Charlotte’s voice, a fog-whisper across the back of my neck, I’m not even in there, you know. They left me up on that godforsaken mountain. Said it was too dangerous to bring me down. That’s just an empty box they’re burying.
    Grandpa and Grandma and Aunt Charlotte left a few days later, and the house warmed up and the hand around my throat unclenched and my own voice returned. I asked Mom if the