Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

fisherman said. “Storm that’s rollin’ in now,
weatherman says it’s gonna be a right bomper. Worst
we’ve had all year.”
“Weatherman says,” Kev scoffed. “I wouldn’t trust
that silly bugger to know if it’s raining now.”
* * *
The islanders often made gloomy predictions about
what Mother Nature had in store for Cairnholm—they
were at the mercy of the elements, after all, and
pessimistic by default—but this time their worst fears
were confirmed. The wind and rain that had pelted the
island all week strengthened that night into a vicious
band of storms that closed blackly over the sky and
whipped the sea into foam. Between rumors about
Martin having been murdered and the weather, the
town went into lockdown much as the children’s home
had. People stayed in their houses. Windows were
shuttered and doors bolted tight. Boats clattered
against their moorings in the heavy chop but none left
the harbor; to take one out in such a gale would’ve
been suicidal. And because the mainland police
couldn’t collect Martin’s body until the seas calmed,
the townspeople were left with the nettlesome
question of what to do with his body. It was finally
decided that the fishmonger, who had the island’s
largest stockpile of ice, would keep him cool in the
back of his shop, among salmon and cod and other
things. Which, like Martin, had been pulled from the
sea.
I was under strict instructions from my father not to
leave the Priest Hole, but I was also under instructions
to report any strange goings-on to Miss Peregrine—
and if a suspicious death didn’t qualify, nothing did.
So that night I feigned a flulike illness and locked
myself in my room, then slipped out the window and