Chapter 75: Finn

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The rest of the night passes by in a blur. After hours of dealing with the breakneck speed of people and questions and oh, God, the emotions— everything fades into a nonsensical, distorted fog. My head feels like it's full of the grey mist that always hovers over the lake, and my thoughts turn into radio static. My memories become blurry clips of a television show I watched once many years ago.

I wish I could sleep.

If only I felt tired.

The chaos continues all night long. Of course, the most insane part was my phone call with my mother.

It was weird, hearing my mom speak. I've begun to consider Lightlake as part of a separate universe from everything else, so when I heard my mom's voice, traveling through the phone lines all the way from Indiana, in the Med Cabin with the red emergency phone pressed up against my ear, I felt like I was breaking the law again. Communication between two parallel universes isn't allowed. Our phone call should have shattered the space-time continuum into a billion chunks of cosmic soup.

But her voice was there, and I was listening to it. The call wasn't unpleasant. She didn't cry or scream or curse, which was a relief, considering that hey, it's my mom, the very same woman who once called the dad of a kid on my soccer team a "pathetic eyesore of human being" after the dad informed our coach that said son was better equipped to play goalie than I was. This was in third grade. And, since I had a tendency to catch the ball with my face instead of my hands, the dad was probably right.

It almost would have made the phone call easier if she had freaked out. I could've just shouted back about how it wasn't my fault my counselor tried to kill me, slammed the phone back into the receiver, and been done with the whole ordeal. Instead I had to listen to mom's controlled voice, her eerily calm, almost robotic words, and pretend that I didn't sense how she wasn't okay at all— that she was panicked to the point where the only way she could retain her sanity was by putting on a false mask of confidence.

Obviously, I couldn't tell her about my close encounter with a mythical creature of the depths, so I had to lie through my teeth about everything that had happened at the lake, which made me feel disgustingly guilty inside, and left me wondering what kind of son I really was. Keeping the kraken a secret wasn't even a choice for me. The Director swore us all to secrecy. I don't know what I would've told my mom if the Director gave me the option to tell the truth— to be honest, I probably would've lied anyway. My mom would lose her shit if I told her about the kraken. She'd commit me to an institute like Emory. Still, knowing this doesn't keep the guilt from itching at me like a bad rash. In fact, I feel even worse knowing that I would have kept it all a secret either way.

Mom asked me if I'd gotten hurt and how I was feeling, and her eerily calm tone was so upsetting that I just smiled into the phone and told her that everything was swell. Then she asked if dad had called yet, so I lied again and told her yes. For some reason, I didn't feel bad about this bit of dishonesty.

Before she said goodbye, she offered to meet me at the airport in Alaska and fly home with me. I almost accepted.

But then I insisted that I was fine, and I had to say goodbye to my friends, and I was looking forward to traveling alone anyways, and mom eventually gave up trying to convince me that it was the safer option and we said our farewells and I promised to call her as soon as I got to the airport. Then she hung up, and she was gone. And our universes split apart all over again, this time even more violently than before.

"Everything alright?" Ronan asks me after the phone call is over. It's proven fact that phone calls from Lightlake never work out well, so he's rightfully concerned. "Did she freak?"

"No," I reply, a little shakily. "It was worse than that."

Ronan purses his lips in what could almost be a sympathetic expression. "Don't let it get to you man. Just— don't let it get to you."

I don't know what exactly he's referring to by it, but I'm going to take my best bet that it's Lightlake. This camp has a way of getting in my head and twisting me up inside. I could feel Lightlake's influence acting on me even as I spoke to my mom, feel that old resentment at her for sending me here in the first place rising up in my throat again, especially when she hung up and left me all over again. There's something about this place that jacks up your emotions. Everything gets increased by tenfold.

A gust of wind shivers through the room as the Director blows in through the Med Cabin door. She's shaking water from her highlighted strands, and her silver sunglasses are speckled with raindrops. It must be storming outside. I certainly feel like I'm carrying the weight of a separate weather front inside my chest. "Hello, campers. Have a seat. We have much to discuss."

We talk more in depth about the details of Owen's sabotage. I start to get antsy when the Director brings up the trashed motorboat, but she's surprisingly chill with how Ronan and Becca stole her favorite ride. In fact, if I didn't know her better, I would've thought she sounded impressed.

"Of course, this doesn't mean that you can wreck my other motorboat, too," she tells us. "I don't want you two getting any ideas. Lockwood especially."

Ronan actually blushes. "To be fair, I stole a Cadillac, not a motorboat."

"Well, now you can add it to the list."

The Director continues to tell us about the search for Owen. So far, it's been fruitless— Owen knows the forest well, and neither Hecate or the police team have been able to track him down in the rain. I get the feeling that they won't find him anytime soon. Owen is too clever to get caught.

"... and then I sent Jason and Christopher to search Owen's cabin, and they found a canvas bag of money— five thousand dollars, to be precise— with a note addressed from a Raquel Clairvaux hidden under the mattress," the Director finishes, tearing my rambling mind away from Owen's escape. Both Ronan and I turn to stare at her in confusion. "I don't think Owen was being paid off," she explains. "It doesn't make sense for Owen to be bribed into killing the— you know what— if he had his own motives. Also, he didn't go back for the money after he escaped, so I don't think it meant all that much to him. Finn, do you remember Owen mentioning a 'Raquel' to you? Or anybody else he could be working with?"

"He only talked about his brother," I say, a bit uselessly.

"Are you sure? He didn't mention anybody else?"

"I mean, he brought up the oil rig guys, but it didn't sound like he was working with them. More like he'd hoped they would get rid of the kraken first."

The Director's long face turns thoughtful. "I have an idea as to who Owen's friend could be..." Her face darkens. "I hope, for the good of all of us, that I'm wrong."

At this, Ronan's head whips around and he flashes me a what the fuck? look, but I'm too tired to return it, so I just shrug. I'm tired of schemes and plots and conspiracy theories. If Owen has a secret rich friend, then so be it. As long as they don't decide to hold me a gunpoint I couldn't care less.

After we conclude our discussion about Owen, Ronan brings up the question he's been dying to ask for weeks: "So, what happened to Clancey? After his accident, he just disappeared. Is he even alive?"

"Clancey Cleavon is living with his father in Chicago," the Director tells him. "I found his father a few months ago— he's a businessman, quite wealthy, and had no idea he had a son until this month. Clancey's mother agreed that it was for the best Clancey live with his father, and his father was more than delighted to take him in. It all worked out very well."

"And how is Clancey? Like, mentally?"

"Shaken, but doing okay. If I recall properly, he's going to group therapy twice a week to discuss several longstanding issues."

"It's about due time. Clancey was a fu—"

The Director raises an eyebrow.

Ronan plasters an expression on feigned innocence on his face. "A fantastic friend. So fantastic."

"Nice save," I mutter.

Eventually, the conversation meanders back to Owen, and we discuss his treacherous ways for a good half hour until the Director says she needs to go check in with Karen, and that Ronan and I should get some sleep. Ronan asks if he can stay in the Med Cabin with me, but apparently the Director's benevolence has run out, because she shakes her head and orders him back to Beckarof. He puts up a good fight, but there's no point in arguing with the Director. Finally, he relents, and agrees that I could use some time alone.

The Director is heading for the door when I summon up the strength to ask her the question I've been meaning to ask her all night. "Director? Ma'am? Is there any chance I could get to speak with Becca Fisher?"

"No," she says curtly. "Go to sleep, Finn. You need rest."

"But, Sybil—"

"Goodnight, Finn," she calls over her shoulder. "Do me a favor, will you— don't even think about breaking into my cabin again. I won't be so forgiving the next time."

The door slams shut behind her, followed by a rush of frigid air. Ronan pauses for a moment. "How the hell did she figure that one out?"

"Maybe Jasper told her."

He shakes his head dismissively. "No, he would never snitch. Besides, I don't think the Director has interrogated him yet. We can figure it out tomorrow."

"Ronan, wait up. Before you leave, I need to ask you something."

He leans against the screen door like he doesn't have the energy to stay upright. "No. I'm not getting Becca," he says flatly. "Didn't you hear what the Director said? Or did hitting your head on that canoe kill your last remaining brain cells?"

"Ronan, please. I need to talk to her. If I don't figure this mess out now, it's going to drive me crazy—"

"Just drop it. Obviously, Becca doesn't want to see you, or she would be here right now. I'm not going to her cabin in the middle of the night and dragging her over here just so you two can fight again—"

"I need closure, Ronan! Don't you understand that? The need for closure?"

But he doesn't fall for my guilt-trip. "Please, Finn, don't bring up Jesse. This is your shit we're dealing with, not mine."

"I'm sorry. That was a low blow. I just— I really need to see Becca again. This could be the last time that I get to see her all summer, and I need— I need to make things right."

Ronan rests his head against the door-frame and shuts his eyes. He lets out a loud, long-suffering sigh. "Fine," he says wearily. "I'll go to her cabin and ask her to speak to you. But I can't promise she'll show up."

"Thank you," I say, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

He gives me a strange look, almost pitying. Then he nudges the door open and slips out into the night. "Try to get some sleep," he says, his black eyes swimming with restless shadows. "And lock the door behind me."

"Ronan—" I begin, but he's already gone.

I hurry over to the door and slide the deadbolt into place, even though I doubt it would stand a change against Owen if he was really determined. Then, I dart back to my cot, my skin already prickling in the chilly draft. I shiver and pull a fistful of blankets over my chest, but the thin, scratchy fabric does little to fend against the cold. Something tells me I'm not going to find sleep easily tonight. I keep one eye on the clock and one on the door. I can't let my guard down, not while Owen is still out there, scheming, plotting; while somewhere in the night, Ronan could be talking to Becca Fisher, and fighting a losing battle....

***

I jolt awake a half hour later so violently that I nearly fall out of the cot. Images flash before me— a black tentacle, the white hull of a motorboat, the polished metal of a silver pistol...

Finn. I wasn't asking.

A shudder runs down my spine. Owen's voice is going to haunt me until the day I die.

I rub at my eyes blearily. I don't remember falling asleep, but my exhaustion must've gotten the best of me. The Med Cabin is still empty. The lights are still on. (There's no way in hell I'm turning them off, not until I leave Alaska.) The first few rays of sunlight are starting to trickle through the shades, and one of the windows is creaking....

No, not creaking. Someone's throwing stones at the glass.

I throw the covers off my legs and stumble to my feet, making my way over to the window. I push the shades aside and squint out into the hazy, early morning gloom. There are two figures standing outside the cabin door. The first one is definitely Ronan, but the second one—

It's Becca.

My breath catches in my throat. Ronan did it. He convinced Becca to come talk to me.

I stagger over the the door and throw open the deadbolt. Ronan walks in looking like he just finished running a marathon, and Becca follows, looking like... Becca. I whisper at them to be quiet (the nurse is still asleep in the adjacent room), and then we all move quietly to the center of the room.

I collapse on my bed, because falling asleep for those thirty minutes reminded my body of how tired it is, and now I feel like pure shit. My body is so run-down that I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stay awake. Also, now that Becca is here, it feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, leaving us in a suffocating silence.

Ronan doesn't sit down, but Becca does, in a nearby plastic folding chair that doesn't look comfortable at all. She doesn't look comfortable, either; just slouches her shoulders and ducks her head, like she's waiting for the firing squad to arrive.

"Don't let the Director find out," Ronan tells me, a wane smile crossing his face. "She'll probably make you stay the extra week."

"I won't."

Ronan nods at me. Then he turns to look at Becca and says, in an uncharacteristically cold voice, "Don't fuck anything else up." When he stalks through the door and slams it shut behind him, it's clear his point has been made.

Becca stares at the floor. I stare at anything else except for her. Now that she's finally here, I can't remember why I was so desperate to speak with her. I can't think of anything to say, really, so I just go with what's on my mind: "You weren't going to come see me, were you?"

She doesn't hesitate before answering. "No. I wasn't planning on it."

"Great," I say. It comes out more bitter than I intended. "That's great."

"Are you angry with me, Finn?"

I remember my dad asking me a similar question in his cruiser, the night I thought he was going to arrest me. And then I realize that dad and Becca are similar, because they both left. They both weren't there. Dad still can't even pick up a goddamn phone, and Becca won't even look at me—

And something inside me snaps.

"Am I angry at you— what kind of a question is that? I thought we were solid— I thought we were dating!" I cry. The floodgates are open now, and all of my misery is pouring out. "You just left me in the lake to drown! I swear, you're worse than Owen—"

"Are we dating?"

I ignore this, because I know she's just trying to change the subject, and what kind of question is that, anyways? I think we have bigger problems to deal with than wondering if we're going steady. "Tell me, Becca, did you really want to leave me behind?" I'm trying not to shout at her, but my emotions get the best of me and my words come out daringly loud. "Be honest!"

"I didn't want to leave you behind, Finn. I was only trying to protect the others. Is that such a sin?" Becca sounds frustrated now. Like I'm the one that's being dense. "I wanted to live, and not be drowned to death by the kraken!"

"I was almost drowned to death by the kraken!"

"The kraken favors you, Finn. It never would have—"

All my fear and anger and frustration from this night bubbles up inside of me, forming a toxic cocktail of emotions inside my chest. Before, everything felt as foggy as the lake, but now the whole world is crystal-clear. "That's bullshit," I seethe. "That's bullshit and you know it. Why does everyone keep saying that the kraken 'favors' me when we all know that it's bullshit? It doesn't favor me! It doesn't even know me!"

Becca tugs agitatedly at the ends of her braids. Her hair is still damp from the lake, and the moisture is making it frizzier than usual. I ran my hands through that hair, once. Our midnight kiss feels like it happened an eternity ago. "Ronan told me what you said. About the kraken speaking to you. If that doesn't prove it favors you, then I don't know what does."

"It didn't speak to me," I lie, furious at her for knowing this and furious at Ronan for telling, "It just— it doesn't matter what it did! I could have died because of you!"

Becca's jaw clenches, and the muscles in her cheeks jump upwards. "I never wanted to hurt you," she grinds out, as if the words physically pain her. "Never."

"Bullshit."

"Do you think I wanted this to happen? Of course I wish you'd never fallen into that lake. I would have kept you safe, if I had the choice— and I would have, if you'd let me choose the gun!" As soon as these last words leave her mouth, Becca flinches, startled by the sudden loudness, and glances nervously towards the nurse's office. Both of her eyes— blue and brown— are wide with fear.

But I don't give a damn if the nurse finds out. It's not like the Director is going to give me kitchen duty after all the shit I've been through. "What do you mean, I didn't let you choose the gun?"

"It doesn't matter," Becca mutters, still staring at the doors to the nurse's office. I can tell she's not nervous about being overheard, just trying to avoid me.

"Look at me, Becca! What the hell did you mean?"

Her gaze snaps back to me and sharpens into something pointy and fierce, ramming against my face like the tip of a sword. It hits me with the force of a physical blow. "It means that I had a dream," she hisses, "And that's where I got the keys to the motorboat. I could have gotten the gun, but you made me take the keys instead!"

"If it was a dream, then how could I make you choose anything?"

"Because that's what you do, Finn! You try to make people good! You look for krakens and magic lakes and mysteries and—" Becca breaks off, shaking her head furiously. "That's why the kraken favors you. Because you didn't choose the gun. Because you would never leave one of your friends behind."

"I don't understand—"

"I'm saying that I'm not like you, Finn. We're opposites. You're good, and I'm not. We're incompatible. We don't work out."

My head is starting to spin wildly. Maybe I really am concussed. "Are you... are you breaking up with me?"

"Were we even dating in the first place?"

I fling my hands in the air. "You tell me, Becca, since you've clearly gotten everything figured out!"

"I never asked for this, you know," she says, fiercely. "I never asked for any of this."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm such a fucking inconvenience to you."

Becca rises sharply to her feet, squaring her shoulders like she's readying herself for the start of a wrestling match. Her nostrils flare with anger as she exclaims, "I didn't want to speak to you because I

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