I walk to work with the collar of Arthur’s coat turned up, thinking about Bev’s story and Miss Calliope’s truth, trying to decide if they’re the same thing. It’s like one of those optical illusions that’s either a cup of wine or two faces about to kiss, depending which way you turn it.
The Gravelys are either victims or villains; Eleanor Starling is either a wicked woman or a desperate girl. Eden is either cursed, or merely getting its comeuppance.
It’s none of my business, of course, but it’s better than thinking about Jasper eating a hearty home-cooked meal at Logan’s house, or Charlotte moving away. And it’s a hell of a lot better than wondering why a rich old man kept my mother’s cell number tucked in his Bible.
I’m more than halfway to Starling House when an engine hums somewhere behind me. I step well over the white line to let it pass.
Except it doesn’t. It slows down, purring along beside me. For a wild second I think the Department for Community Based Services has really upped its game and they’re coming to haul me in front of a judge for falsifying my birth certificate, among several other petty crimes, but nobody who works for the state of Kentucky has ever driven a car like this: sleek and low, with windows like polished black mirrors. My own face shines back at me, a pale oval caught in a scorched tangle of hair.
The back window scrolls down. My reflection is replaced by Elizabeth Baine’s smiling face.
“Good morning, Opal. Let me give you a lift.”
I have the sinking sense that this isn’t the kind of offer you can refuse, but I try anyway. “No thanks.”
Baine’s smile widens. “I insist.” She’s already opening the car door. “You and I have a lot more to talk about.”
“Do we?”
She slides across the black leather seat and gestures to the empty space beside her. I waver, caught between the satisfying choice （flip her off, keep walking） and the smart choice （play stupid, don’t piss off the rich lady with friends in high places）。
I get in the car. There are two men up front, both of whom are wearing dark suit coats, neither of whom looks back at me. I have the absurd sense that I’ve fallen out of Eden and into a B-rated spy movie, that someone is about to shout “Get her!” and drop a black bag over my head.
Baine merely leans across me to pull the door closed. “We’re all set, Hal.” The driver nods once and pulls back onto the road. An apple-shaped air freshener swings jauntily from the rearview mirror.
“So.” Baine pivots in her seat. “Opal. I wasn’t completely candid with you yesterday. I told you that my consulting firm was working for Mr. Gravely, which we are, but we have other clients who are very invested in our work here. The mineral rights to the Starling property are just one of several interests we’re pursuing.”
Each individual word seems sensible and reasonable, but they refuse to add up into sentences in my head. “Okay,” I say.
“Our team identified some fascinating—maybe anomalous—data in this area, and we were hoping to interview some locals about it.”
It’s too hot in the car. I feel sweaty and stupid, bundled like a child in this ridiculous coat. The chemical taste of the air freshener fills my mouth. “Like what kind of . . . anomalous data?”
Baine twists her watch around her wrist. “Some of that is proprietary, of course, but some of it you could see on the census. The average life expectancy, the rates of heart disease, most kinds of cancer, addiction, asthma . . . fatal car accidents.” Her eyes flick mildly up to mine as she says the last one. I hold my face still and think, calmly: What the fuck. “All those statistics are two or three times the national average, in Eden.”
I lift one shoulder in the so-it-goes shrug everyone in this town learns before they start kindergarten. “Bad luck, I guess.”
Baine tilts her head back and forth. “Bad luck doesn’t usually have an epicenter. Here, let me show you.” She bends to rifle through a plastic case at her feet and I look out the window. Hal is a slow-ass driver; we’re still at least a mile from the front gates, and the fake-apple syrup of the air freshener is sliding down my throat, turning my stomach.
Baine slides a slick white tablet into my lap and scrolls to a satellite map in wrinkled greens and browns. I’ve never seen Eden from this angle, but I recognize the lush green of the Starling land, separated from Gravely land only by the muddy ribbon of the river. The power plant looks like a crop sign this way, a series of circles and scars. The ash pond is an ink stain on the blank page of Big Jack’s grave. Bev says they buried him with all his guts and fluids still inside, which is why nothing will grow right on that land no matter how much fertilizer and fescue they spray at it.