That night, Saffy dreamed of the Blue House—she was walking barefoot through the restaurant. When she lifted her heels, they were slippery with crimson. Blood. Rachel held a pot of coffee, her face drooping like the fox, her eyes pecked out, skin half-decomposed. Blue sat on the dilapidated deck, cross-legged with Lila. Lila was alive, and they giggled as they braided daisy chains on the splintered wood. Lila was dead, and Blue looked up at Saffy, confused and ravaged, cradling the bones.
*
Two days until the retrial. Saffy’s desk felt like a cage, emails blaring from her inbox, sleeplessness crashing in a series of waves. The visit from the superintendent had sent the station into a spiral, circling rumors about layoffs—the troopers were stressed, bitchy, low on morale. When Saffy’s phone pinged, she checked it idly, expecting more spam from Kristen’s favorite furniture store. The name jumped out instead, the address she’d been waiting for.
The agency.
We regret to inform you—
A fog, descending.
We have located your father, Shaurya Singh.
Deceased, since 2004.
Her office rushed, zooming out of focus. Saffy stumbled from her chair and out into the bullpen, Corinne calling after—Captain? Are you okay? No oxygen. As the parking lot materialized, as the blazing summer evening curled pink into the horizon, as Saffy gasped in the humidity, she knew where she would go.
Back to the very start.
*
The Blue House was a beacon in the night. Light flooded the interior of the restaurant, like a stage with no curtains. From her spot at the curb, headlights off, Saffy could see Blue and Rachel, working together behind the counter. Ansel sat at the bar, his fingers relaxed around the neck of a beer bottle.
Saffy watched, bruising. A summer moth clambered gently across the windshield. Blue skirted around her mother to wipe down the counter. Rachel held a wineglass up to the light. Ansel crossed his arms, hunched over the barstool. Saffy might have been watching two parents and a daughter, closing their restaurant late on a Saturday. They seemed comfortable. They moved with grace, the easy elegance of family.
The thought was heartbreaking, even in consideration: maybe this was nothing sinister. So simple after all. Maybe Ansel only wanted the same things Saffy did. To know, finally, where he belonged.
Her father was dead. Deceased. The only photograph she’d ever seen of him had disappeared after her mother’s death—she ached for it now. There were so many things she would never know. Her father’s childhood home, the God he had worshipped, his favorite pair of worn-out pants. The exact shade of his eyes, the inflection of his voice. This loss, a part of Saffy herself.
As Blue pantomimed something with her hands, Ansel laughed, his head thrown back. Their joy, palpable.
She hated him for it.
*
Saffy woke up in her car, dawn cracking misty over the lake. Fog swirled up from the water, a buggy cloud, already warm with July. She had not meant to stay, couldn’t remember dozing off—the exhaustion of the past few weeks had caught her unaware. She remembered Ansel’s truck pulling out from the driveway, the restaurant lights flickering off, Blue’s silhouette moving behind the upstairs curtain. Saffy’s mouth was thick and sour, her eyelashes caked shut with the makeup she’d applied before work the previous day. Her back twitched, spasmed.
It was early. Barely seven o’clock. Saffy drove, aimless, toward the mountains.
The trailhead was completely empty. Cathedral Rock, one of the hikes Rachel had mentioned. Saffy had never understood the appeal of hiking, but this was one of the most popular mountains in the Adirondacks, famous for the sweeping views from the fire tower at the top. Saffy grabbed her purse, packed with a plastic water bottle and the protein bars she kept tucked away for long nights at the station. She wore jeans and a pair of work flats, already layered with dust as she trudged toward the opening in the trees.
She walked. Saffy wound her way up the trail as the sun climbed parallel, a soft hand caressing her gently awake. She walked for minutes or hours she did not count—she had turned off her phone to save the battery—pushing until her thighs burned, until a pool of sweat had soaked her pants along her lower back. She walked until she reached the tree line, then along a ridge, where she could see the mountains spanning out below, offered up vulnerable.
The fire tower was perched on the summit, delicate and creaky. Beneath, the Adirondacks were indifferent, rolling hills painted a vivid summer green. When Saffy reached the landing, she peered out from the railing, letting the wind tangle her hair, chilling the sweat that dripped down her spine.