The Turning Read Free Page B

to seem like a two-month jail sentence on some cursed (and haunted!) prison island.
    Then I saw the redheaded girl again. She was sitting at a table and playing cards with a much older man, a guy with black eyebrows and thick silver hair, older-guy movie-star handsome. He’d given her his jacket, and she no longer looked cold. I could tell that the guy was winning. And suddenly I knew that the reason the woman had been crying had something to do with losing the game, with how much or what she was losing. I can’t tell you why I was so sure, but I promise you I knew: they were playing for big stakes—bigger than money—and the redheaded girl was losing.
    I kept trying to look away. But no matter where I tried to look, I’d find myself staring at them. They were so involved in their game, they didn’t know anyone else was there. But you know how sometimes you can feel you’re being watched even when you don’t see anyone watching? The guy must have sensed my interest because he looked up from the cards and turned and stared straight at me.
    His eyes were black and opaque, like two dark marbles. Where had I just seen eyes like that before?
    Then I remembered: the seagull.
    I really needed to chill out. Okay, I didn’t want to go away for the summer, but this was ridiculous. I powered on my laptop. I went back to writing this letter to you.
    I don’t know how much time passed before the ship’s conductor found me and told me that we’d be docking at Crackstone’s Landing in twenty minutes.
    For a moment I wondered why I was getting special treatment, why he wasn’t telling anyone else that their stop was coming up. And then I remembered that I would be the only passenger getting off at that stop.
    I guess I’d better shut this down and get my luggage and get ready to leave the boat. I’ll write you again from the island.
    Keep the faith. Write me. Meanwhile,
    Love you,
    Jack

THE DARK HOUSE
CRACKSTONE’S LANDING
    JUNE 2
    DEAR SOPHIE,
    I guess I must be more superstitious than I’d thought. I’d been seeing bad omens the whole time on the ferry. But as we neared the island, the signs suddenly got better.
    First, the weather cleared dramatically. The sun burned through the fog, and the island appeared, emerald green, shimmering in the light. From far away, I could see a willow dipping its leaves in the water. I’d never seen a tree growing so near the sea. A long white beach took up part of the shore, hedged by a stone embankment. The whole island looked like a garden, lawns and fields rising to a low hill, on which I could just make out the roof and chimneys of an enormous house surrounded by tall pointed trees.
    The next good sign was the brand-new red pickup truck parked at the end of the dock. I don’t know what I’d imagined, exactly. Maybe I’d been thinking that someone from the house would come to pick me up in a horse-drawn buggy.
    The minute I set foot on the dock, a woman jumped out of the truck. She was around your mom’s age, the age my mother would have been, but kind of tough and muscular, and she moved like someone much younger. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, a tan jacket, and hiking boots that, on her, looked cool and stylish.
    Mr. Crackstone had told me the kids lived alone with their cook, a widow named Mrs. Gross. I guess it was pretty stupid of me to have pictured a fat, unpleasant-looking woman whose appearance matched her name.
    The woman held out her hand, and I shook it. Her palm was calloused and rough.
    “Linda Gross,” she said. “Call me Linda.”
    “Good to meet you, Linda. I’m Jackson Branch. Call me Jack.”
    “Welcome to Crackstone’s Landing, Jack,” Linda said. “I’d imagined someone different.”
    I wondered what she’d expected. Someone older and more grown-up? Someone better dressed? Some brawny physical-trainer type weighed down by sports equipment?
    I said, “I did, too.”
    “I don’t want to know what you imagined,” said Linda. “Hey,