Hereafter (Shadowlands 2)

A line of concern formed between Tristan’s eyes. He seemed to be weighing his response. Weighing it for far too long.

“Tristan!” I shouted. A couple who was sitting at a table nearby turned to gape.

“Come here.” Tristan pulled me gently but firmly around the corner at the end of the block, away from the prying, curious eyes of the visitors. I pressed back against the shingled outer wall of the general store, my heart pounding desperately inside my chest.

“This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening,” I told him.

“I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “But it is.”

“No!” I wailed. “He’s a good person. You should have felt the regret and sorrow coming off of him tonight when he talked about his father. There’s no way he could have ever done anything awful enough in his life to warrant being sent to the Shadowlands.”

“I’m sorry, Rory, but this happens sometimes,” Tristan said calmly, soothingly. He ran a hand over my hair, then rested it comfortingly on my shoulder. “We think we know these people, but—”

“But nothing!” I shouted, flinging his hand off me and pushing away from the wall. “We have to help him. We have to get him out of there. We have to—”

“No!” he spat.

I stopped short, surprised at being shouted at. Tristan looked away, but I wasn’t sure whether he was ashamed at having barked in my face or taking a breath because he was so angry.

“We can’t,” he said more calmly.

“What do you mean, we can’t? There’s been a mistake. There must be something we can—”

“No one ever comes back from the Shadowlands,” Tristan said ominously. “Or the Light. Once it’s done, it’s done.”

My eyes brimmed. “But Aaron’s—”

“Even if we could get him out of there, we wouldn’t,” Tristan interjected, his jaw clenched. “The coins are never wrong.”

I pressed my hands into my forehead, unable to comprehend, unable to accept what he was saying. I had brought Aaron up there and told him he was going somewhere to be happy and at peace. I had sent him on his way with that trusting smile on his face. He’d told me I was a good friend. He’d thanked me for all I’d done. And I’d sent him straight to hell.

“No, Tristan. No!” I cried, backing away from him. “This can’t be right. We have to do something. We have to!”

“There’s nothing we can do, Rory,” Tristan said grimly, looking past me at the weather vane. “If Aaron went to the Shadowlands, then that’s where he was supposed to go.”

It’s happening. It’s finally, finally happening. It had to be this way, of course. He had to go. A person in my position needs a few sacrificial lambs. And isn’t it always more powerful when that lamb is special? When it’s cared for? When it will be missed?

Rory thought he was headed to the Light, whatever that means. I imagine it’s different for everyone, whatever a person’s version of heaven would be. If what you loved in life more than anything was your family, you’d spend forever in some great, big resort, surrounded by them, having huge dinners every night filled with conversation and laughter. If all you cared about was sports, you’d spend eternity attending Super Bowl games and World Series finals and Olympic events, and whomever you’re rooting for would always win.

When I picture the Shadowlands, however, there is nothing. Nothing but blackness. You’d feel alone and scared and sad and lost forever, always wondering why you’ve been abandoned, always searching for some speck of light you’ll never find. In the Shadowlands, you’d be cold. Not just in-need-of-a-blanket cold, but truly and utterly, painful-to-the-bone cold. The kind of cold no one on earth has ever felt. The kind of cold that breeds despair and desperation.

Not that I’ll ever know for sure. Because I have found a way out of Juniper Landing, out of my own personal hell. And now that it’s started, it’s just a matter of time before I am free.

Wrong. Everything was wrong. I had just started to believe in this place, started to believe what Tristan had said about us playing an important role, somehow helping maintain balance. I’d begun to believe in our purpose. But if Aaron could be relegated to the Shadowlands, then the balance was seriously off.

I plodded around the corner onto Magnolia Lane, then hid in the shadows cast by a huge peach tree, waiting to make sure the house was silent. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, afraid that I might break down and say things I shouldn’t, or start crying with no good explanation and never stop. When I finally entered the house, I opened the door slowly, to keep it from creaking, then held the knob so the catch wouldn’t click. When I let it go ever so carefully, the bolt silently slid into place. I was sure I was home free. Until I turned around and found Darcy standing at the bottom of the stairs with Fisher.

“Sneaking around?” she quipped.

“God! You scared me,” I said, my eyes darting between the two of them. Her hair was disheveled, and his T-shirt was on inside out.

“Sorry,” she said.

I started past them up the stairs, which forced Fisher to stumble down the last two steps to the floor.

“Rory, wait,” Darcy said. “Are you all right?”

I paused, wishing I could tell her everything—wishing I could tell her anything—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even whitewash it and tell her I was sad because Aaron had left the island, because she wouldn’t remember that Aaron had ever existed. This was what our relationship was going to be like now. Me keeping secrets and trying to keep track of what she could and couldn’t remember.