Finally, Jay returned, walking by me into the house without a word, letting the squeaky screen door slam hard.
I sat, listening to the birds. When I looked into the trees, I saw Robin standing there. I walked off the porch to join her.
You have to do something, she told me. Or things are just going to get worse and worse.
twenty-seven
Now
Back at the bed-and-breakfast, I turn on the fireplace, put on my sweats and check my computer. No word from my mysterious contact. I didn’t expect him to be fast. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to never hear from him again. There is an email from Marty, my accountant, confirming the Bitcoin transaction and asking if I need to talk. I don’t.
No more texts from you. But I feel you, shadowing me. Where are you?
Was it you out in the woods tonight? Or am I losing it? If not you, then who? And those cigarettes by Jay’s grave. Do you smoke? I doubt it.
That text. Welcome home, little bird.
It confirms that you know way more about me than you have a right to.
I turn off all the lights except the one by my bed, which is dim. I’ll sleep with it on, its pink glow keeping the shadows at bay. I never liked the dark.
As I settle into bed, my phone rings, Jax’s high cheekbones and wide smile on my screen. It’s a picture I took of her ages ago, still stored in her contact file.
“You’re not coming home,” she says when I answer. “I can see your little blue dot blipping on Find My Friends. Up in the middle of nowhere and nothing.”
“Not tonight.”
She sighs.
“Want me to stay at the house?” she asks.
“If you want,” I tell her. I like the idea of her and the house keeping each other company. My favorite human and my favorite place. Maybe she should just move in. It’s a big house. Her Chelsea rent is obscene.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not gonna blow up your iTunes, your UberEats, your grocery delivery account.”
“But it seems like you’re well on your way.”
I’ve been getting text notifications all day—pizza for lunch, Chinese for dinner, binge-watching Christmas rom-coms. This is a very typical postbreakup day for Jax.
“A girl has got to eat.”
Truth.
“What happened with the mauler?” I ask.
“Ghosted.”
“Good.”
“He’s not the last Coca-Cola in the desert, right?” She must have talked to her mother.
“Hell no.”
I don’t know. Maybe he is. I’m not feeling very optimistic about love at the moment. Or anything. A pall has settled over me—this place, the search for you, the missing women, my strange relationship with Bailey Kirk, my unbidden memories. It’s one ugly twist that I can’t seem to untangle. But I don’t need to drag her down with me.
“You don’t sound right,” she says. “Just come home. You know you get depressed up there. Sell that damn house. Forget about the graves. What are you holding on to, Wren?”
She’s right. I know this. What am I holding on to?
“I’ll come home tomorrow.” I nestle down into the soft sheets and covers, watch the flames in the fireplace.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“What about Dear Birdie?”
“You can do her, Jax. I trust you. I’ll pay you.”
She’s chewing. Must be Chicken Lo Mein, her Chinese go-to. “I think you already did—in takeout and movies.”
“Just bill me.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Wren.”
“Do what?”
“Dear Birdie. Don’t you get tired of other people’s problems?”
I think about Bailey Kirk for some reason. The fatigue under his eyes, the burden he seemed to shoulder. The weight of other people’s sorrows is often far less than the idea of examining your own. I wonder what he’s carrying. Those eyes are full of secrets.
“Someone has to help people in this cruel world,” I say, only half kidding.
“Yeah,” she says, drawing out the syllable. “But does it have to be you?”
The fire crackles, and the room is bathed in the pink light coming from the lamp by the bed. I feel safe, ensconced. That’s the other thing about The Hollows. I may not like it. But there’s something comforting in its familiarity. Like I could just stay. Or like I should.
“Maybe,” I answer. “I don’t know.”
“Because I was thinking that you could just sell Dear Birdie.”