“Junior,” I said. “Can you describe to me exactly where that land is? Do you have any kinds of maps? Anything like that? Coordinates.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I wrote it down somewhere. Hold on.”
Beside me, Cate stirred, eyes half-open. I just looked at her. Her frizz-wreathed curls disarranged, her naked body soft and strong beneath the sheets—and turned away so that she couldn’t see my face. But she’d already detected something in my eyes. She was scrambling into a sitting position, sleepiness falling away, face pinched with anxiety. Cate clutched the edge of the comforter, mouthed, What’s wrong? at me. I shook my head.
“But another thing is—Josie. Listen. Henley wasn’t surprised when I called. He mentioned that somebody else had been in touch with him recently, asking about whether Fiona could’ve possibly survived the fire. It was your mother,” he said. “Maybe three weeks ago.”
I almost smiled, a strange and painful reflex. My whole life, I’d thought I was following Bellanger’s footsteps, that there was no other possible path for a Girl like me, a scientific breakthrough. Now my mother had forced me to retrace every step she’d taken. I’d unwittingly echoed every question she’d asked. Here I was, finally following her footsteps.
* * *
“Hello there.” The man working the front desk at Fresh Spaces Property Management, just a small office in an apartment complex, was pushing eighty. A faceful of deep lines, a worn-in suntan that contrasted with his white hair. But there was an energy to him that read younger, eyes bright and curious. “How can I help you lovely young ladies today?”
I’d dragged Cate here right away. If Junior could look up records, then so could we. I was only frustrated that I hadn’t considered this step the moment we’d talked to the surly man in 1C. There had to be some kind of paper trail, however sparse, that would give us a clearer idea of what had happened to the Grassis after they’d left Freshwater. I wanted to find out they were safe in Boise, or that they’d fled for a remote corner of Australia. I needed to believe they were somewhere. Because if I couldn’t prove that, then I’d have to put into words the ugly idea that was already stuck in my throat. I hadn’t even been able to share it with Cate yet.
“We’re looking for anything you can tell us about Angela Grassi,” I said, sunny and calm. “She might’ve lived here anytime in the past seventeen years. She was in unit 1C at—”
“Of course,” the landlord said, beaming as he cut me off. “Angela. Wonderful girl. And her cute little daughter, what was her name? Virginia?”
“Gina,” I said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Cate. “You remember them?”
“Do I remember them! Of course I do. They were special girls. Angela was connected to some strange things—but she was a good girl, at the end of the day. She just needed a friend.” He leaned forward over the desk, confidential. “I used to watch Gina for Angela if she needed a babysitter. Just let her color some pictures. She was a quiet little thing.”
“When was this?” I asked. Gina, Girl Four, was twenty years old by now.
“Oh,” the man said. “Many years ago. Many. Hold on.” He bent with some effort, slid open a filing cabinet drawer. Cate and I stood silently, bristling with nervous energy, until the man retrieved a paper and scanned it quickly. “Oh yes. That would’ve been 1977.”
The year that was imprinted on my heart, the year I’d lost the only father I’d ever known. The year I was flung from the insular safety of the Homestead into a world that felt too crowded and hostile.
“In ’77?” Cate repeated. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “Do you know why? Because that was the year of that horrible fire over in Vermont. After that fire, Angela and Gina just vanished. Never saw ’em again. I went to their apartment after they missed their rent. Well, nobody was there. They hadn’t had much to their name, but they’d left it all behind. I waited and waited, nearly six months. But sooner or later you got to move on and put the place back up for rent.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, wanting all the facts to line up neatly in front of me. “The Grassis left right after the fire? Could it have been right before?”
The landlord scratched behind his ear. “Could be either, I suppose. I just thought … that fire was all over the news. Maybe Angela needed to lay low, and that’s why she ran.”