The Wishing Game(47)

“What’s wrong?” Hugo demanded.

“There was a man here,” she said. “Now he’s gone. He was just here.”

“What man? Lucy?” He took her gently by the arm.

She exhaled. In the cold night air, it looked like she was breathing clouds. She handed him a business card, then told him a wild story about someone knocking on her door, a card inviting her to the park, a man who claimed to be a lawyer but talked like a television Mafia hit man.

“I thought it might be part of the game,” she said. “Some challenge or something.”

Hugo read the business card by the light of Lucy’s lantern.

“I know this name,” Hugo said. “Offered you a ton of money for Jack’s book, right?”

“Yeah, he did. Eight figures.”

“Bastard. He only offered me seven.”

He was joking, hoping to make her feel better. Must have been terrifying for her, being lured out of her bed in the middle of the night, not knowing why.

“I’ll have to tell Jack, get some extra security on the island maybe. I’d bet he has a boat waiting for him at the Nine.”

“The Nine? Wait. The Nine O’Clock Dock?”

He nodded, impressed with her memory. No wonder she was winning. As smart as she was pretty.

“Is he really a lawyer?” Lucy asked. She kept turning her head, looking around as if afraid he’d come back. “He was creepy.”

“Real lawyer. Works for that Silicon Valley billionaire who wants to program AI to write novels. He ought to be flogged and forced into a three-year MFA program.”

“Brutal,” Lucy said with a little laugh. She took another deep breath, blew out another cloud. “All right. Note to self—don’t trust every single piece of paper someone slips under my door.”

“Good plan. Come on. Let’s get you back to the house.”

They found the path and started down it. Lucy wrapped herself up tighter in the coat he’d lent her. Hugo wondered if it would smell like her when she returned it to him. Wait, why was he wondering what her skin smelled like?

“I had planned on exploring the island,” she said, “but not at two in the morning. What is this place anyway?”

“Supposed to be a park for the patients at the children’s hospital in Portland. Jack wanted families to visit, to let the kids forget they were sick for a day or two.”

“Oh, I’m very very familiar with the children’s hospital.” Her voice sounded world-weary.

“Were you sick as a child?”

She shook her head. “My sister. She was a PIDD kid. That’s a catchall term for children with compromised immune systems. She was sick all the time. I couldn’t even…I wasn’t even allowed to live at home with her.”

His heart tightened. Davey had never been very healthy either, but he couldn’t imagine being separated from him. That would have been torture.

“That’s terrible. For you and her.”

Lucy shrugged as if it had been no big deal, but the look in her eyes gave away the pain.

“My sister’s probably the main reason I ran away. She made it pretty clear that she liked not having me around. I guess I thought that if I could get here and live with Jack…” She paused, exhaled. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Cry for attention, I guess.”

“You wanted to go home,” Hugo said. She looked at him as if he’d hit a tender spot. But then she smiled.

“That’s it exactly. I had it in my head that this was my real home. Kids do that. We all think we’re aliens, and we can’t believe our parents are really our actual parents. I’m sure I’m one of a million kids who wanted Jack to be their father.”

“One of a billion,” Hugo said. She smiled again.

“Well, that didn’t work out, but if I had to do it all over, I still would. Especially because I’m here now.”

He pointed to the tracks ahead. Lucy stepped lithely over them, and they continued down the path.

“What happened to the project?” she asked. “Why didn’t it get finished?”

“Same reason Jack quit writing.”

“Why did Jack quit writing?”

Hugo didn’t answer at first. He remembered Jack’s number one rule—Don’t break the spell.

“Let’s just say he went through a rough patch,” he finally said. “A rough patch that’s now been going on”—he checked his watch—“six and a half years.”

Lucy looked at him, eyebrow arched. “That’s more than a patch. That’s a rough cross-country highway.” He couldn’t argue with that. “Is he finally over the rough patch?”

“Damned if I know,” he said. “Hope so. Don’t know if he is or if he’s faking it.”

“He seemed happy tonight.”

“Happy? Jack’s forgotten the meaning of happy.” Hugo stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, kicked a stone off the path into the woods. “Beautiful private island, three-hundred-sixty-degree ocean view, house anyone would kill to live in…and for years he’s been the most miserable man on Earth. Jack is living proof that money does not buy happiness.”

“Maybe not for him, but it would for a lot of people,” Lucy said, her tone gently chiding. He didn’t buy it.