Starling House(83)

I meet his eyes, looking for the catch, the price. He looks steadily back at me, asking nothing, offering everything.

I take the keys.

Charlotte touches my shoulder before I turn away. “We need to talk, after you get Jasper. I found something in the Gravely papers that I think you ought to—”

“I already know,” I interrupt her, gently. “Everybody did, apparently.”

Her face crimps with confusion. “I’m not sure they did, Opal. I have to take it up to my lawyer friend in Frankfort but I really think—”

But I don’t have time to worry about the Historical Society. I kiss Charlotte once on the cheek, give Bev an awkward high wave that might be a salute, and head for the truck.

Arthur follows a half step behind me. I slide into the front seat and he leans into the open window. “Get him out of Eden. Tonight, if you can.” The eerie giddiness has drained away from his voice, leaving it flat and low.

That sense of premonition returns, the chill settling low in my stomach. “I will.”

“Good luck. He’s . . .” Arthur’s mouth makes a wry twist. “A lot like you.”

“Yeah, a meathead.”

“I would say strong-willed.”

I tick my chin at the passenger door. “You coming?”

A short shake of his head. “I have to get back to the house.” Arthur pulls a wallet from his back pocket and reaches across me to drop it in the cupholder. His hand stops on the steering wheel and grips tight. “Opal, go with him. Leave Eden.” He looks up at me and his throat bobs. “Please?”

I study him for a long second. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

“My last name.”

A pause, and then a terse nod. “If I’d known sooner, I never would have let you inside the house. No matter how strong-willed you were.”

I say, softly, “I’m glad you didn’t know.” It’s the truth. Those months in Starling House were—God help me—the happiest of my life.

Arthur swallows. “Go, Opal. And don’t come back.”

I meet the black of his eyes without blinking, without even tucking my hair behind one ear. “Okay,” I tell him, “I will.”

And I can tell—from the desperate relief in his face, from the way his fingers unclench from the wheel and lift to touch my cheek in fleeting, awful farewell—that he believes me.

I see Jasper before he sees me. He’s waiting outside the library, neck bent toward his phone, hair combed and carefully parted. He’s wearing slacks and a button-up he must have borrowed from Logan, the collar stiff, the cuffs tight. I know it’s my God-given duty as his sister to laugh at him, but I don’t feel much like laughing. I feel a weird ache behind my eyes, as if I’m watching something infinitely precious vanish over the horizon.

I pull up too fast and leave the brights on, silhouetting Jasper against the brick like a criminal in a black-and-white TV show. He squints into the light and flips me off. The ache recedes a little.

He slides into the passenger seat with his backpack in his lap and I give him a thorough once-over, reassuring myself that he’s really here and whole, unhurt. I can still taste sour black smoke in the back of my throat, still see the gaping mouth where our door used to be.

“Hey,” Jasper says, gently, and I hit the gas rather than look at him.

Neither of us says anything for a while. Jasper rolls his window down and lets the wind un-comb his hair, watching the world pass with an expression of strange nostalgia. It’s like he’s taking mental pictures of the landscape and pasting them into a photo album, converting the present into the past. The tarps stretched over the flea market stalls, blue and frayed. The cluster of boys with flat-brimmed hats in the Dollar General parking lot. The yellow glow of the power plant at night.

I keep my eyes on the white stripe of the road when we pass the Garden of Eden, but I can see the fire truck lights flashing against the clouds like heat lightning.

Jasper swears. “How did it happen?”

My first impulse is to lie—it’s not like the motel was up to code—but I need him to run when I tell him to. So I say, carefully, “I upset someone.”

A tense pause, then: “Was it him?”

“Who?”

“Because if it was, if he was mad at you for leaving him, or trying to destroy the stuff I stole or whatever, I’ll help you hide the body.”

It takes me several seconds to unravel this, at which point I shout “No!” more forcefully than is necessary. “He would never, ever—none of the stories about him are true—he’s”—kind and stupid and desperately driven, tormented by his own stubborn honor—“he’s okay,” I finish, weakly.

“I see,” Jasper says, with such mildness that I feel heat creeping up my neck.

Another mile passes before I recover enough to say, “It was that Baine woman.” Well, mostly. “She wanted something from me. I wouldn’t give it to her.”

“Jesus.” I hear bafflement in his voice, and I get it. Since when have I ever stood up for anything or anyone, other than him? “Wait—was it the notes I took? Because I’m really—”

“No,” I assure him.

I bet it’s even true. They took the notes, but I don’t really think they needed them. I think Baine set fire to the motel, framed me for it, had me sit in handcuffs while my great-uncle threatened Jasper’s whole future, solely because she wanted Arthur Starling to come save me. And he did.