When this happened, her thoughts would turn to Frank. She might tell herself he’d be apprehended any day now—Diaz had all but assured her of this—but on mornings like this, so early that it might as well have been night, Maya would imagine other posthypnotic suggestions lying dormant in her head. An evil egg waiting for the right cue, the right word or image, to hatch and overtake her mind. She would picture herself slipping into a trance at the grocery store. While talking to a customer at work. While driving.
Or a floorboard in the hall would creak and she’d be sure that it was him. She had always been imaginative. She envisioned him slipping in through a window while she and Dan slept. Standing over their bed. Frank would never have to touch them as his words filled their room like poisonous gas.
On mornings such as this, Maya knew better than to lie in bed thinking, so she got up and crept to the kitchen. She turned on a light. Brewed herself a cup of coffee and stirred in a splash of milk. This was when she was most grateful for Toto. She heard the dog’s claws clicking across the kitchen floor.
Toto stood with her head tilted, as if to ask what was wrong.
Maya stroked her soft head. “Shh . . .” she whispered. “It’s nothing.”
Toto followed at her heels as she went into the room formerly occupied by Dan’s old roommate. Potted plants lined the windowsill. A futon for guests. The exercise bike stood in the corner.
Maya’s desk was by the window. This was the desk where she’d written her first stories, back in middle school. She had brought it up from her mom’s basement and installed it here, in what was now her office.
She sat in the comfortable chair, soft and close to the ground, and Toto curled up at her feet, giving off warmth.
Her father’s unfinished manuscript sat on one corner of the desk, along with the marbled notebook containing the translation she’d written by hand at seventeen.
On top of that was a second notebook. The new notebook had a deep green cover. The color of moss, of jungle. The new notebook was filled with her messy writing, mostly notes at this point and ideas for scenes. She had her basic plot but was learning that this was only the foundation. The bones. The rest—the details, the flesh—would have to come from her. She had a lot of research to do. She wanted to get it right. She had begun to save money for the trip to Guatemala she planned to take in the spring. She would stay with her aunt Carolina. Maya was going to write Pixán home again. Toto began to snore at her feet as she opened the green notebook and picked up where her father had left off.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Jenni Ferrari-Adler for suggesting I turn my MFA thesis into a thriller. I’d always loved reading suspense, but I wasn’t sure I could write it until you suggested I give it a shot. Thank you to Maya Ziv for your storytelling brilliance and deep insight into character. This book grew so much in your hands. Thank you to Lexy Cassola for your excellent notes, Mary Beth Constant for your copyediting magic, and Sarah Oberrender for the gorgeous cover. Thank you to Christine Ball, John Parsley, Emily Canders, Stephanie Cooper, Nicole Jarvis, Isabel DaSilva, Alice Dalrymple, and everyone at Dutton for helping bring this book into the world.
Thank you to everyone who read early pages in writing workshops at LSU. Thank you especially to Danielle Lea Buchanan and Hannah Reed for joining me in a pact to write five hundred words each day, and then holding me to it. Thank you to my professors and thesis advisors, Jennifer Davis, Mari Kornhauser, and Jim Wilcox, for your guidance throughout that messy first draft.
Thank you to Jim Krusoe for your example, your famous surgical brackets around unnecessary sentences, and, above all, the beautiful community of writers you fostered at Santa Monica College. Thank you to everyone at 30B who listened to and commented on my writing, and to Monona Wali, who brought me into the world of teaching older adult writers at SMC’s Emeritus College.
Thank you to my fabulous writing group: Catie Disabato, Anna Dorn, Jon Doyle, Maggie Murray, Robin Tung, and KK Wootton. I’m so grateful for all the feedback and for your friendship.
Thank you to my family. On the Reyes side: Gracias a mis abuelos, Hilda y Guillermo Reyes, por todo lo que han hecho para que sus hijos, nietos, y bisnietos puedan tener oportunidades como la que yo he tenido. To my aunt Hilda Reyes, in whose spare room I spent a lot of time editing this book: thank you for always making me feel at home. Thank you to my uncles. Gracias a Ana María Ordó?ez Aldana, Gabriela Villagrán Ordó?ez, Juan Pablo Villagrán Ordó?ez, Jose Alberto Villagrán Ordó?ez, Blanca Rosa Aldana De Alvarez, Wilfredo Alvarez, Carlos Mu?oz Ordó?ez, y toda la familia por hacerme sentir como en casa en Guatemala.
Thank you to my father, Paul Reyes, for sharing your love of history with me and being one of the kindest people I know.
On the Carey side, thank you to my late grandparents, Patricia and William Carey. Several of the Pittsfield settings in this book are places I visited with you when I was young. Thank you to my aunts and uncles for always cheering me on, and to the town of Pittsfield, where I lived when I was in fourth and fifth grade.
Thank you to my mom, Mary Carey, for talking about your hometown with me, for reading multiple drafts of this book, and for teaching me at a young age to value language and writing. Thank you to Brian Schultz for joining us in Pittsfield when I went to do research, and for doing all the driving.
Thank you to my brother, Nicolas Reyes, for talking about ideas with me and being hilarious.
Thank you, reader, for reading this.
And thank you, Adam D’Alba, for everything. There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than on the couch with you, talking about stories.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ana Reyes has an MFA from Louisiana State University. Her work has appeared in Bodega, Pear Noir!, New Delta Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and teaches creative writing to older adults at Santa Monica College. The House in the Pines is her first novel.