experience had taught Vita that Murphyâs Law was not merely some cynical philosophical construct, but an inescapable reality. If anything could go wrong, it would. Expect the worst, and youâll never be disappointed.
But she hadnât expected this . Somewhere, deep down in Vitaâs soul, in a place beyond the reach of experience and logic, a voice kept saying, It wasnât supposed to happen this way.
Rachel had saved the Treasure Box, and Sophie had saved Rachel. Werenât people supposed to be rewarded for their courage and their love, not punished by a capricious God or a heartless Fate? Where was justice? Where was simple fairness?
Vita pounded her fist against the keyboard, but nothing happened. The scene didnât resume. No fortuitous rescue. No happy ending.
Nothing.
Just the vacant computer screen, a black hole, a lifeless eye staring back at her from the depths of a senseless universe.
6
UNDER THE WILLOW TREE
T he first rays of a salmon-hued dawn filtered in through the high hedges around Vitaâs office windows. After roaming around the house for hours, unable to concentrate, Vita had gone to bed in a black funk, determined to keep her distance from this computer and its virus and the compelling, disturbing images it pressed upon her mind. Yet after a sleepless and grueling night, here she sat, coffee cup in hand, as the sky lightened into morning and the clock chimed seven.
The computer was up and running, but so far nothing had happened. For thirty minutes she had waited, staring, while the monitor stared back, dark and unchanging. Maybe it was over.
Maybe the virus had consumed her hard drive and there was nothing left.
Then she heard itâfaintly. Muted sounds emanating from the dual speakers on the shelf above her head. Muffled footsteps.
A rooster crowing. The bark of a dog.
The sounds drew closer, louder. She could hear voices now, although she couldnât make out the words. Shouting. Running.
And above and behind the voices, a whooshing like static, like the white noise of a waterfall.
Or a river.
The screen brightened, and an image came into view. A riverbank, flanked by a stand of willow trees. In the middle of the stream, the water tumbled wildly over huge boulders and fallen tree trunks, but where the willows grew, their roots created a sheltered, placid pool. Long strands from the graceful branches cascaded into the shallow water, and light from the rising sun turned the pool to molten gold.
Vita looked closer. Something lay motionless in the water, half propped against the bank. A bedraggled doll, filthy and waterlogged, its dress torn to ribbons.
No. Not a doll. A child.
The footsteps accelerated, and she caught an echo: âSophie!
Sophie!â It was Jacob Stillwater.
âHere!â Vita shouted aloud. âSheâs over here!â
But of course, no one could hear her. This wasnât real. Still she couldnât seem to quiet the pounding of her heart or stem the surge of adrenaline that shot into her veins.
She could see Sophieâs face more clearly now, pale and gray and crisscrossed with lacerationsâfrom tree branches in the water, perhaps, or sharp edges of the rocks. Like a reflection in a broken mirror. Like the spider-web pattern of a shattered windshield.
Like Hattie.
The memory unfolded and settled down on Vita, a thick woolen blanket thrown over her head, cutting off both light and air. How could she have forgotten, buried that image so deep?
The picture of Hattie Parkerâs face, scarred beyond recognition.
Seventh grade. The year she lost her best friend without really knowing why.
Hattie had just turned thirteen, and puberty had not been kind to her. Awkward and homely and devastated by her parentsâ divorce, she had begun acting outâletting her grades slide, drinking on the sly, hanging around with older kids, a wild and rebellious bunch from high school.
Vita had caught up with Hattie at
But she hadnât expected this . Somewhere, deep down in Vitaâs soul, in a place beyond the reach of experience and logic, a voice kept saying, It wasnât supposed to happen this way.
Rachel had saved the Treasure Box, and Sophie had saved Rachel. Werenât people supposed to be rewarded for their courage and their love, not punished by a capricious God or a heartless Fate? Where was justice? Where was simple fairness?
Vita pounded her fist against the keyboard, but nothing happened. The scene didnât resume. No fortuitous rescue. No happy ending.
Nothing.
Just the vacant computer screen, a black hole, a lifeless eye staring back at her from the depths of a senseless universe.
6
UNDER THE WILLOW TREE
T he first rays of a salmon-hued dawn filtered in through the high hedges around Vitaâs office windows. After roaming around the house for hours, unable to concentrate, Vita had gone to bed in a black funk, determined to keep her distance from this computer and its virus and the compelling, disturbing images it pressed upon her mind. Yet after a sleepless and grueling night, here she sat, coffee cup in hand, as the sky lightened into morning and the clock chimed seven.
The computer was up and running, but so far nothing had happened. For thirty minutes she had waited, staring, while the monitor stared back, dark and unchanging. Maybe it was over.
Maybe the virus had consumed her hard drive and there was nothing left.
Then she heard itâfaintly. Muted sounds emanating from the dual speakers on the shelf above her head. Muffled footsteps.
A rooster crowing. The bark of a dog.
The sounds drew closer, louder. She could hear voices now, although she couldnât make out the words. Shouting. Running.
And above and behind the voices, a whooshing like static, like the white noise of a waterfall.
Or a river.
The screen brightened, and an image came into view. A riverbank, flanked by a stand of willow trees. In the middle of the stream, the water tumbled wildly over huge boulders and fallen tree trunks, but where the willows grew, their roots created a sheltered, placid pool. Long strands from the graceful branches cascaded into the shallow water, and light from the rising sun turned the pool to molten gold.
Vita looked closer. Something lay motionless in the water, half propped against the bank. A bedraggled doll, filthy and waterlogged, its dress torn to ribbons.
No. Not a doll. A child.
The footsteps accelerated, and she caught an echo: âSophie!
Sophie!â It was Jacob Stillwater.
âHere!â Vita shouted aloud. âSheâs over here!â
But of course, no one could hear her. This wasnât real. Still she couldnât seem to quiet the pounding of her heart or stem the surge of adrenaline that shot into her veins.
She could see Sophieâs face more clearly now, pale and gray and crisscrossed with lacerationsâfrom tree branches in the water, perhaps, or sharp edges of the rocks. Like a reflection in a broken mirror. Like the spider-web pattern of a shattered windshield.
Like Hattie.
The memory unfolded and settled down on Vita, a thick woolen blanket thrown over her head, cutting off both light and air. How could she have forgotten, buried that image so deep?
The picture of Hattie Parkerâs face, scarred beyond recognition.
Seventh grade. The year she lost her best friend without really knowing why.
Hattie had just turned thirteen, and puberty had not been kind to her. Awkward and homely and devastated by her parentsâ divorce, she had begun acting outâletting her grades slide, drinking on the sly, hanging around with older kids, a wild and rebellious bunch from high school.
Vita had caught up with Hattie at
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