“Close your eyes.”
Her eyes fluttered shut.
“Listen,” he said.
And she heard. The crackling fire. Babbling stream. The sound of water over stones. And beneath that sound, she heard something else, a sound she hadn’t noticed before. Almost like a woodpecker pecking at a tree, but faster, and there was something unnatural about its cadence. In her usual state of mind, Maya would have known the sound at once, even if her age meant she knew it mostly from movies. But now it perplexed her, distracting her from the buried voice within. Drowning it out.
“Look,” Frank said.
His word was her command. Her eyes opened. Her chin lifted. He was smiling at her, and it was as if the past seven years had never happened. He looked handsome again, and full of life, suffused with that beautiful light that she’d only ever seen in his cabin, and in Cristina’s final painting.
The door at his back was open now, and moonlight spilled through the crack. The sound was coming from outside. Something drew her to it, a longing she could neither explain nor act upon in her current state.
“Go on,” he said kindly.
Her heaviness lifted and Maya rose from her seat. She felt like she was floating as she moved toward the door, passing Frank, who stayed seated at the table. She left him behind. The moonlight beaconed, prismatic, alive. She wasn’t afraid as she reached for the door to the cabin. The sound grew louder.
The wooden porch creaked beneath her feet as she stepped into moonlight. The snow was gone, the surrounding forest lush with leaves. A summery breeze rustled by. She saw two rocking chairs made of the same gnarled pine as the rest of the cabin. A man sat in one of them, a typewriter balanced on his knees.
Pecking away with his fingers.
Maya hadn’t known that it was possible to miss someone you’d never met, but now she felt the full weight of having missed her father all her life. It was as if that weight had been lifted. She walked slowly toward him. She recognized his face from the few pictures she had and because of how it resembled her own. The high cheekbones and dark almond-shaped eyes. The creases at their edges and the gray at his temples made him look about the age he would have been had he lived.
She reached out her hand, half expecting it to go right through him, but it didn’t. His shoulder was solid. He looked up at her. Squinted as if trying to place her.
Then his face crowded with wonder, joy, and grief.
His hands shook as he set down his typewriter and stood to give her a hug.
Maya’s legs threatened to give out, but her father’s arms were there to support her. He was only a few inches taller than she was. She rested her tired head on his shoulder and cried on his sleeve. His skin smelled of soap and ink.
“Mija,” he said.
“Dad . . .”
“Bienvenido a casa.”
A low sob escaped her lips. She wondered if she was dead.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the rocking chairs.
And it was only one word.
Sit.
A simple command, but it hit her like a brick. Her real father would have had an accent. His sit wouldn’t rhyme with pit. It was only one word, a glitch in the illusion, but it was enough to let her know that this was Frank she was talking to. Frank who was speaking to her in the voice of her father. Frank who was once more manipulating her. And this angered her enough to reel back from his voice, from those words putting images in her head, words that had surrounded her, snuck in. Slithered through her being. She turned and staggered off the porch. Away from the cabin. Away from him.
She ran toward the dark forest, but her legs moved as if through water, and the trees seemed to get farther away—Maya—with every step, so she crouched low—Maya!—like an animal and hurried ahead on hands and toes—Maya?!—the way she only ever had in dreams.
What the hell is wrong with her?
The voice fought its way through the darkness.
No, you settle down, it said. What the hell is going on here? The voice was familiar. Maya, come on. Let’s go.
Her mom!
Her mom was at the bar.
Maya gasped. She blinked a few times, then looked up to see her mom standing at the table, hands on her hips. Everyone at the Whistling Pig—the bartender, the drunk man, the three men sitting by the door—was looking at them. The sour smell of beer filled her nose. A jam band seeped from the speakers.
Her mom looked angry and afraid. “Are you listening to me?”
Maya let out a shaky breath.
Frank, across from her, was fuming. He glared at her.
“Hello?” said her mom.
“Yes, Mom. I hear you.”
“Get up. We’re leaving.”
Maya touched her face. It was dry, yet she felt like she’d been crying. She felt like a sponge that had been wrung out. Suddenly much lighter. Lighter even though she knew she should be afraid. Frank had done it to her again. She knew this, even if she couldn’t remember.
She rose lightly to her feet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and threw Frank a withering yet curious look as she followed her mom out the door.
THIRTY-FOUR
If there’s anything you haven’t told me yet, now’s the time,” Detective Donnelly says. He sits across from Maya and her mom in a small white room at the police station.
Brenda gives her daughter a prodding look.
Maya shakes her head. She has explained as best she could, which isn’t very well. Told them everything she could about Frank.
Detective Donnelly looks to be in his twenties, with a mustache and muscular arms. He sits up straight and leans forward when he talks. “Do you keep any controlled substances in the house, Ms. Edwards? Prescription pills? Sleep medication?”
“Nothing stronger than Advil.” Brenda sounds like she’s been crying. She had returned from her run two hours ago, just after Frank drove away, to find Maya cradling Aubrey’s dead body on the stoop. Brenda had performed CPR until the ambulance arrived and two of her coworkers jumped out. But it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t make Aubrey’s heart beat again.
“My partner’s with Frank in the next room,” Donnelly says. Frank had been asked to come in after Maya told the police he’d fled the scene. “You told us he did something to Aubrey, that he might have somehow killed her”—he glances down at his pad to quote her—“？‘just by talking to her.’？”
Maya swallows. She nods.
“This is a very serious charge you’re making. Accusing a man of murder. You know you can get in trouble for lying about this kind of thing.”
“My daughter doesn’t lie,” Brenda says firmly.
“My partner’s questioning him,” Donnelly says, ignoring her, “but if you can’t tell us what he did, we’re going to have to let him go.”
Maya’s eyes burn with frustration.
“I’m going to talk to Detective Hunt,” says Donnelly. “Wait here, please.”
Maya turns to her mom. “You believe me, right?”
“I’m trying, Muffin, but you’ve got to tell me what happened. If there’s something you’re not saying, something you’re afraid to tell the detective, you can tell me.”
“I’m trying to!” Maya wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s like he—he put us under a spell.”