There was so much that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that we’d survived, and Zoe, Yana, and Chitra hadn’t. It wasn’t fair that Chitra’s daughter no longer had a mother. It wasn’t fair that Zoe had spent much of her life tracking down a secret that would kill her. It also wasn’t fair that her aunt Lucy hadn’t made it to thirty, hadn’t lived to write more books.
But it was how it had happened. It was something we were going to have to learn to live with.
BTW, your party looked so fun, Keira wrote. So many people!!
It was, I responded. And it had been. Strange, but fun.
You’ll need to give me pointers. Her own book was coming out in two months. I hate being the center of attention.
I pictured her now, dressed in chic black loungewear, pulling at what was left of her ear—a new anxious tic I’d noticed over a FaceTime call. Half of her right ear had been removed due to the frostbite. Thankfully, after surgery and months of PT, her left shoulder and arm were working normally, though they were still weak.
I knew Keira was still working through the emotional scars. After all, she was the one who’d barely survived in a freezing garage. At the edge of death, she’d stopped Taylor, effectively saving us all. I couldn’t comprehend the aftereffects. And: it wasn’t my place to ask about them. All I could do was be available if and when she did want to talk. In the meantime, I was here for more lighthearted conversations.
Just say thanks and hug people, I typed. It’s truly all you need to do!
I set down my phone and bit into a leftover chocolate cupcake. The party—and life overall—had retained a gloss of surrealism, which I’d been feeling ever since leaving Blackbriar. My therapist had called it PTSD. But I still wondered: How could the traumatic experiences feel more solid and real than my actual life?
I let myself be drawn back to those final, concrete hours at Blackbriar. Keira had managed to pick the door’s lock and we found a first aid kit in the kitchen to tend to Keira’s and Wren’s wounds. Wren and I had made a makeshift sling for Keira’s shoulder and arm. Thankfully, her nose and face had regained their normal color, though her ear remained black.
I’d made them both grilled cheese sandwiches while Keira recounted how she’d survived several days in the garage. How Chitra, unable to move the grievously injured Keira into the house, had brought her electric heaters, blankets, painkillers, and food. How she’d sat with Keira every night, changing her bandages, comforting her. Chitra had apparently been wanting to leave Roza for some time; she’d planned to quit after the retreat. But then everything had devolved into chaos. Horrified, she’d watched us getting imprisoned, then killed… and she’d decided to bide her time and get help at the first opportunity.
Chitra hadn’t returned that last night. Keira felt she’d regained just enough strength to sneak back into Blackbriar. Knowing her body was on the brink of shutting down, she’d planned to get ahold of the gun—which she’d learned to shoot while visiting a friend in Wyoming—or die trying.
After the grilled cheese sandwiches, we’d passed out on the double beds in Wren’s room. The next day, as if in support, the weather had warmed quickly, melting the snow enough that we could drive out in one of Roza’s cars. We’d traveled just a few miles before Wren’s phone got service. Stopped on the side of the road, Wren tried to explain the situation to the 911 dispatcher but kept breaking into peals of laughter. Keira and I laughed too, our wails wavering between hilarity and relieved sobs.
We’d returned to Blackbriar to wait for the police, bringing our suitcases downstairs, freshly showered and dressed. I grabbed the flash drive from the ring dish, just where Roza had said it would be. We avoided the parlor and dining room. Keira had taken the news about Chitra’s murder in stride, but I wondered if she was just in shock.
Three police cars had arrived, sirens blaring, shortly thereafter.
“Did you find Roza?” Keira had called from the front porch as the cops ambled up the porch steps. They didn’t tell us right away, but the answer was no.
We found out later that other cops were already questioning the closest neighbors, including the nuns. But there was no trace of her at the convent or anywhere else.
The lead detective—he asked us to call him Larry—told us it was impossible for Roza to disappear like that, on a snowmobile with one tank of gas, in such a remote area. Someone at a gas station or farmhouse would spot her somewhere, given that her face was plastered all over the news. The story was already out, exploding onto the internet.
Where in the world is Roza Vallo? There were even Carmen Sandiego memes, since Roza had once been photographed in profile in a red trench coat.
But despite some false alarms, no one saw her—or at least no one admitted to it. By this time her bank accounts were already emptied, the money presumably converted into crypto.
Larry, who turned out to be more open than I would’ve expected a detective to be, told us he thought it most likely that she’d frozen to death somewhere in the vast expanse of woods. He predicted her body would be found in the spring when the snow thawed.
It wasn’t. But that didn’t shake him. There were thousands of acres of forest out there. Someday a hunter would come across her bones.
I wasn’t so sure.
After all this, I’d gone back to the Midwest. Even there, reporters found me. Mom would answer the phone—she still had a landline—and would hang up with a stony expression.
I appreciated her stoicism. She and Steve, her husband, hadn’t asked me any questions, which was both odd and comforting. His kids were in college, so it was just the three of us. Mom took off work and made me cookies and tea and even Hungarian goulash when I requested it. We sat in the living room and watched the Game Show Network: old episodes of Wheel of Fortune and The Price Is Right. Every so often she’d squeeze my shoulder, as if reassuring herself that I was really there.
Ursula’s agent Melody sent me a quick text, saying she was interested in seeing the novel I’d written at the retreat. She apologized if it was too soon.
Maybe it was, but I emailed her the novel anyway. The next day, she wanted to get on a call—her, me, and Sheena, a well-known editor.
Around this time, my boss Sharon had gone on the offensive, sending endless passive-aggressive emails with questions about my projects, hinting that my mental health leave would soon expire. When I signed the book deal, I was able to quit. I did so with a one-line email on the day my paid leave expired. Then I logged out of my work account forever.
My main focus was on getting out the book, along with twice-a-week therapy. My new therapist seemed somewhat concerned about the amount of work that fell on me, but it turned out that Sheena had barely any suggestions. I scanned the edits, the copyedits, the page proofs, watching my words get solidified into something permanent.
Now: it was done. The book was in existence, a separate object from me. Though it had never really been mine to begin with.
I took another bite of the cupcake and the frosting erupted with sweetness in my mouth. I opened up a dating app that I’d downloaded. I hadn’t yet set up my profile. I kept telling myself I was going to settle into my new city first. But the thought of using it thrilled and terrified me in equal measure. Clicking Everyone when it asked what gender I was looking for.