caused in all likelihood by some sudden shock. The secret of the shock was discovered to be in the paper Matthew had held and which Martin had brought from the office that morning. It contained an account of the failure of the Abbey Bank. The news spread quickly through Avonlea, and all day friends and neighbors thronged Green Gables and came and went on errands of kindness for the dead and living. For the first time shy, quiet Matthew Cuthbert was a person of central importance; the white majesty of death had fallen on him and set him apart as one crowned. When the calm night came softly down over Green Gables the old house was hushed and tranquil. In the parlor lay Matthew Cuthbert in his coffin, his long gray hair framing his placid face on which there was a little kindly smile as if he but slept, dreaming pleasant dreams. There were flowers about him-sweet old-fashioned flowers which his mother had planted in the homestead garden in her bridal days and for which Matthew had always had a secret, wordless love. Anne had gathered them and brought them to him, her anguished, tearless eyes burning in her white face. It was the last thing she could do for him. The Barrys and Mrs. Lynde stayed with them that night. Diana, going to the east gable, where Anne was standing at her window, said gently: "Anne dear, would you like to have me sleep with you tonight?" "Thank you, Diana." Anne looked earnestly into her friend's face. "I think you won't misunderstand me when I say I want to be alone. I'm not afraid. I haven't been alone one minute since it happenedand I want to be. I want to be quite silent and quiet and try to realize it. I can't realize it. Half the time it seems to me that Matthew can't be dead; and the other half it seems as if he must have been dead for a long time and I've had this horrible dull ache ever since." Diana did not quite understand. Marilla's impassioned grief, breaking all the bounds of natural reserve and lifelong habit in its stormy rush, she could comprehend better than Anne's tearless agony. But she went away kindly, leaving Anne alone to keep her first vigil with sorrow. Anne hoped that the tears would come in solitude. It seemed to her a terrible thing that she could not shed a tear for Matthew, whom she had loved so much and who had been so kind to her, Matthew who had walked with her last evening at sunset and was now lying in the dim room below with that awful peace on his brow. But no tears came at first, even when she knelt by her window in the darkness and prayed, looking up to the stars beyond the hills-no tears, only the same horrible dull ache of misery that kept on aching until she fell asleep, worn out with the day's pain and excitement. In the night she awakened, with the stillness


like it better?" My face had made her rueful. "No, I like it worse!" But after an instant I added: "Did they say why I should like it better?" "No; Master Miles only said, "We must do nothing but what she likes!" "I wish indeed he would. And what did Flora say?" "Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, `Oh, of course, of course!'-- and I said the same." I thought a moment. "You were too sweet, too--I can hear you all. But nonetheless, between Miles and me, it's now all out." "All out?" My companion stared. "But what, miss?" "Everything. It doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. I came home, my dear," I went on, "for a talk with Miss Jessel." I had by this time formed the habit of having Mrs. Grose literally well in hand in advance of my sounding that note; so that even now, as she bravely blinked under the signal of my word, I could keep her comparatively firm. "A talk! Do you mean she spoke?" "It came to that. I found her, on my return, in the schoolroom." "And what did she say?" I can hear the good woman still, and the candor of her stupefaction. "That she suffers the torments--!" It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture, gape. "Do you mean," she faltered, "--of the lost?" "Of the lost. Of the damned. And that's why, to share them-" I faltered myself with the horror of it. But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. "To share them--?" "She wants Flora." Mrs. Grose might, as I gave it to her, fairly have fallen away from me had I not been prepared. I still held her there, to show I was. "As I've told you, however, it doesn't matter." "Because you've made up your mind? But to what?" "To everything." "And what do you call `everything'?" "Why, sending for their uncle." "Oh, miss, in pity do," my friend broke out. "ah, but I will, I WILL! I see it's the only way. What's `out,' as I told you, with Miles is that if he thinks I'm afraid to--and has ideas of what he gains by that-- he shall see he's mistaken. Yes, yes; his uncle shall have it here from me on the spot (and before the boy himself, if necessary) that if I'm to be reproached with having done nothing again about more school--" "Yes, miss--" my companion pressed me. "Well, there's that awful reason." There were now clearly so many of these for my poor colleague that she was excusable for being vague. "But--a-- which?" "Why, the letter from his old place." "You'll show it to the master?" "I ought to have done so on the instant." "Oh, no!" said Mrs. Grose with decision. "I'll put it before him," I went on inexorably, "that I can't undertake to work the question on behalf of a child who has been expelled--" "For we've never in the least known what!" Mrs. Grose declared. "For wickedness. For


be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.' `You are old,' said the youth, `as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?' `In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, `I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?' `You are old,' said the youth, `and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray how did you manage to do it?' `In my youth,' said his father, `I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.' `You are old,' said the youth, `one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?' `I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father; `don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!' `That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar. `Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; `some of the words have got altered.' `It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. `What size do you want to be?' it


hearth to yourselves, and have a long chatter till bedtime." He proceeded with his task, and never turned his head towards me. "Come; are you coming?" I continued. "There's a little cake for each of you, nearly enough; and you'll need half an hour's donning."' I waited five minutes, but getting no answer left him. Catherine supped with her brother and sister-in-law. Joseph and I joined at an unsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side and sauciness on the other. His cake and cheese remained on the table all night for the fairies. He managed to continue work till nine o'clock, and then marched dumb and dour to his chamber. Cathy sat up late, having a world of things to order for the reception of her new friends. She came into the kitchen once to speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only stayed to ask what was the mat- ter with him, and then went back. In the morning he rose early; and as it was a holiday carried his ill-hu- mour on to the moors, not reappearing till the family were departed for church. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him to a better spirit. He hung about me for a while, and having screwed up his courage, ex- claimed abruptly,--- "Nelly, make me decent; I'm going to be good." "High time, Heathcliff," I said; "you have grieved Catherine. She's sorry she ever came home, I dare say. It looks as if you envied her because she is more thought of than you." The notion of envying Catherine was incomprehen- sible to him, but the notion of grieving her he under- stood clearly enough. "Did she say she was grieved?" he inquired, looking very serious. "She cried when I told her you were off again this morning." "Well, I cried last night," he returned, "and I had more reason to cry than she." "Yes. You had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart and an empty stomach," said I. "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say---you know best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought her converted into a stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I have dinner to get ready, I'll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar Linton shall look quite a doll beside you; and that he does. You are younger, and yet, I'll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad across the shoulders. You could knock him down in a twinkling. Don't you feel that you could?" Heathcliff's face brightened a moment; then it was overcast afresh, and he sighed. "But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn't make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had


ignored, and terrifying headlines and images from my parents’ tiny town of a few thousand residents soon filled my social media feeds. I checked on friends and acquaintances and tried to call my aunt, who had inherited my parents’ house after my mother died. When I didn’t get an answer, I texted Paula, who confirmed that she, her husband, and my aunt were safe—and so was Buster. They were all hunkered down at Paula’s, in sight of the flames but hoping they wouldn’t need to evacuate. They couldn’t say whether my parents’ home had survived. Dan and I scoured the internet for local news reports, searching for the name of my parents’ park and other nearby landmarks. We watched shaky video footage shot by local residents; paused and zoomed in on aerial video shared by local news outlets, trying to identify my parents’ neighborhood. When I stumbled over an article about entire groves of ponderosa pines lost to wildfire, I felt another kind of grief. What if the cemetery had been leveled, too? I pictured the peaceful graveyard, with its hundred-year-old oaks and pines, bare and smoking; my parents’ gravestones scorched and illegible. I thought again of their house, their windows facing the mountains, their closets stuffed with clothing and linens and boxes of family photos, their shelves full of books and religious art and my grandmother’s glassware and collectibles—was any of it left? When they sold the house I’d grown up in, the thought of strangers owning it—whether they made it their own, updated and flipped it, or tore it down to build something new—hadn’t caused me a moment’s distress. I’d never lived in their second Oregon home or grown deeply attached to it, but it was a place that was theirs, a place that held memories of our final visits. Even if all their belongings were gone, the loss was a small one compared with what many in the region were experiencing: people had lost their loved ones, their homes, their livelihoods. Still, I knew that I would grieve if all that remained of my parents’ life together was now ash and smoke. * * * Before wildfire season began, I had a video call with a friend who had recently moved to San Francisco. She took the call outside on her balcony, angling her screen to show me the just-barely view of the bay. She looked so cool and comfortable, I tried not to feel envious, sweating in my office even with the air conditioner blasting. “You can always move back out here, you know,” she told me with a grin; she knew that I missed the Northwest, its climate and its vast natural beauty, and sometimes dreamed of relocating to one of its cities. One month later, as friends and family throughout the West hunted for giant air filters and worked to seal their homes against smoke, I worried for them and wondered if I could, indeed, go home again. It would be a week before we learned that my parents’ home was still standing. Many of the


to google Carter Sumner. Hurrying to the small desk, I sit down at Jesse’s laptop. It’s password protected, of course. As I speculate as to the combination of numbers and letters that will grant me access, I realize how little I know about the man I’d considered my boyfriend. When is his birthday? What’s his middle name? Did he have a childhood pet? A favorite grandparent? A beloved sports team? At least I know Jesse was from Spokane. It’s too simple, too obvious, but I type it in in desperation. Rejected. Panic flutters in my belly. I will have a limited number of tries before I’m locked out permanently. His nieces! Surely, he hadn’t invented their existence. He’d told such specific anecdotes about them. He’d have to be a compulsive liar, a complete sociopath, to make them up. One of them is called Ella, the other, Olivia. No… Olive. That’s right. How old are they? Six and nine? Or five and eight? And which one was older? I calculate their birth dates in my head, and try their names, followed by their year of birth. The computer warns me that I have one more attempt. With trembling hands, I sift through Jesse’s desk for some sort of clue. At the back of the second drawer, I find a moleskin notebook, a black pen clipped to the cover. Maybe Jesse wrote down his passwords? There has to be something useful inside. I’m about to open the journal when a heavy knock at the door shatters the silence. My pulse pounding in my ears is louder than the knuckles on the wood. I freeze, waiting for the word “Police!” But there is silence. And then another knock. Insistent. Menacing. This is not just a friend, a landlord, a delivery person. It is someone looking for Jesse. Or looking for me. With the notebook in hand, I scurry back to the kitchen. As quietly as I can, I climb onto the countertop, bruising my shins on the sharp Formica edge, and scramble out through the window. 40 THE INTERNET CAFÉ IS DIM, grimy, and familiar. It may not have been smart to return to a venue I’d previously visited, but it felt safer than driving around, searching. I’m almost sure I haven’t been followed; no one seems to be on my tail. Not yet anyway. And I know this place. I know they accept cash. I know the customers keep to themselves, mind their own business. People use a public computer for a myriad of reasons, not all of them legitimate. I sit at the same desk as I did the last time I was here. My fingers touch the smooth outline of the social security card in my pocket as the computer boots up. The PC is old, slow, and cheap. When it is finally ready, I check the Seattle police online blotter. There are a handful of crimes reported: a carjacking in Tukwila; a Renton domestic incident where a woman shot her partner in the leg; two men arrested with drugs and guns


deadly accuracy. The perimeters of my vision blurred. When I opened my eyes, the fake sky greeted me. Arin’s head moved over the sun. He glowered at me. “I’ll need a moment,” I said casually. “You need more than a moment.” He reached down, and the room spun again as I was hauled upright. My traitorous legs buckled. Arin caught me with an arm around my waist, his frown deepening. Plastered to his side and weightless, I opened my mouth to shriek obscenities directly into his ear, then reconsidered. Why bother? I didn’t have the energy for a respectable tantrum. His body was a solid line against my own. This was the closest I’d been to a man I wasn’t trying to stab. The closest I had been to anyone not actively trying to kill me, actually. How depressing. I waited for the swell of panic to hit at his touch. I had chalked up its absence the last time he touched me as a fluke. I was too distracted wondering if he would snap my neck to consider panicking. But he was touching me now and—nothing. No panic. Still plenty of discomfort, though. The moment we were near enough, I wriggled away, stumbling toward my bed. Arin did not prevaricate. “Wes and Jeru will accompany you to Mahair. They will be nearby throughout the day, but I will instruct them to give you your privacy.” “Mahair? I’ve been asking you to let me visit for weeks, and you choose now? We cannot afford the time.” “It is less than half a day’s ride away. I had them prepare the horses.” My jaw dropped. I had been less than half a day’s ride away from Mahair this entire time? I stared at Arin until it hit me. “You feel guilty.” I burst into laughter, which promptly devolved into hacking coughs. “The famed Commander feels guilty for nearly killing a village girl. Don’t worry, I don’t think Sefa is upset with you.” “Are you quite finished?” “Are you?” I countered. “My magic is weak and uncertain. We finally have an advantage, and the Champions’ Banquet is in two weeks. We should be capitalizing on this.” I formed a circle around my wrists, kneading my cuffs. A vein in Arin’s forehead jumped. “Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t offering. You will be going to Mahair tomorrow. If I discover you attempted to practice on your own—” “If this is about Sefa—” “I don’t give a damn about the girl!” Arin shouted, shocking me into silence. The outburst clearly took him by surprise as well. He locked his jaw. I had never seen the Nizahl Heir struggle to express himself—I’d venture few had. The tips of his gloved fingers formed a steeple on the table’s surface. “Martyrs don’t survive the Alcalah.” “Can’t you tell the difference between a martyr and a mercenary?” “I thought I had employed the latter. You have proven me wrong.” I rubbed my temples, blocking out the incoming migraine and the tantalizing pillows in my periphery. “How? By doing everything possible to


till break of day; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he had been screwed down to the floor. But as soon as the first glimpse of sun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but with a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his forehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over. Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person's religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don't believe it also. But when a man's religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him. And just so I now did with Queequeg. Queequeg, said I, get into bed now, and lie and listen to me. I then went on, beginning with the rise and progress of the primitive religions, and coming down to the various religions of the present time, during which time I labored to show Queequeg that all these Lents, Ramadans, and prolonged ham-squattings in cold, cheerless rooms were stark nonsense; bad for the health; useless for the soul; opposed, in short, to the obvious laws of Hygiene and common sense. I told him, too, that he being in other things such an extremely sensible and sagacious savage, it pained me, very badly pained me, to see him now so deplorably foolish about this ridiculous Ramadan of his. Besides, argued I, fasting makes the body cave in; hence the spirit caves in; and all thoughts born of a fast must necessarily be half-starved. This is the reason why most dyspeptic religionists cherish such melancholy notions about their hereafters. In one word, Queequeg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple-dumpling; and since then perpetuated through the hereditary dyspepsias nurtured by Ramadans. .. <p 86 > I then asked Queequeg whether he himself was ever troubled with dyspepsia; expressing the idea very plainly, so that he could take it in. He said no; only upon one memorable occasion. It was after a great feast given by his father the king, on the gaining of a great battle wherein fifty of the enemy had been killed by about two o'clock in the afternoon, and all cooked and eaten that very evening. No more, Queequeg, said I, shuddering; that will do; for I knew the inferences without his further hinting them. I had seen a sailor who had visited that very island, and he told me that it was the custom, when a great battle had been gained there, to barbecue all the slain in the yard or garden of the victor; and then, one by one, they were placed in great wooden trenchers, and garnished round like a pilau, with breadfruit and cocoanuts; and with some parsley in their


firmly closed door. Even before she spoke, I understood that my question was an intrusion on her hard-won peace, a knock she wasn’t ready to answer. “I don’t need to talk about having cancer, Nicole,” she told me. “I lived through it.” She did live through it. The breast cancer never returned. But her illness, the first serious one of her life, was a turning point for our family, an upheaval from which there would be no lasting recovery. * * * Once, while visiting my parents, I asked my father what he was proudest of in life. “You,” he said. I’d walked right into that one. “Besides me.” When he paused, I wondered if he would say something sarcastic, or tell me that he couldn’t think of anything. But the answer he gave was confident, his face as serious as I’d ever seen it. “I’m pretty proud,” he said, “of getting out of Ohio.” Dad was thirteen years old when he was told that his mother’s kidneys were failing. The first successful living kidney transplant had been performed a decade earlier, in 1954, but the procedure was risky and far from common. Hemodialysis treatment for patients with acute renal failure had recently become available, and a home dialysis machine was soon installed in his mother’s bedroom. His parents enjoyed entertaining, and their home in Euclid had been a gathering place for parties and family holiday celebrations. Now the household settled into a state of hushed anxiety. Their father’s habitual jokes, usually made at someone else’s expense, took on a hard, cutting edge. Dad, his brother, and his three sisters all quickly learned what was expected of them: They couldn’t play or roughhouse after school. They couldn’t invite friends over. The first hint of an argument would land all of them in trouble. What the hell’s the matter with you? They walked themselves to school and to church on Sunday and kept the house as tidy as they could. My father’s most deeply loathed chore was cleaning the dialysis machine. His grades were never stellar—my mother used to wonder whether he had undiagnosed dyslexia—but he was a hard worker, adept at solving technical problems. He also found it easy to talk with people and make them laugh; his sense of humor, unlike his father’s, was warm and rarely bitter. He won graphic arts and lithography awards for his work in his high school print shop, and by his senior year he’d secured a part-time training-with-pay job in the city printing department, where he spent fifteen hours a week generating interdepartmental memos, civic work orders, and official town correspondence for $1.49 an hour. He wasn’t sure that college was for him, and was glad to learn a trade that might lead to a good career without a bachelor’s degree. No business could be conducted without reams of paper, he thought—every company, every school, every town would always need printers. His printing experience led him to a good entry-level job with American Greetings after he graduated from high school. He took a couple of


Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman." Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary." And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork. "But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead." Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set with medallions of onyx. "Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easily get away from the office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it there." His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke. Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "So you see, Mamma, everything WILL be settled twenty-four hours in advance," she said, stooping over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead. May's brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: "I didn't want to worry Mamma by raising


my brain tells me letting go was the wrong thing to do. But it’s too late: she’s falling. I watch in horror as she lands on the floor with a yelp, her book slamming to the ground beside her. There’s a moment of wintry silence. Then she glares up at me with buckets of menace in her eyes and announces, “You absolute living demon!” My mouth opens. “I—” “You dropped me!” Shit. “I didn’t mean to.” My voice creaks with uncertainty, which is annoying, because I’m serious: I didn’t mean to. “Yeah, right,” Celine mutters as she goes to stand up—and hisses in pain. Coach, who’s been frozen in confusion since opening the door, springs into action. “Hold on there, young lady,” she orders, kneeling and taking Celine’s wrist in her hand. “Oh dear.” She shakes her head, blond ponytail swinging. My stomach drops. “What? What’s happened?” Coach gently presses Celine’s wrist. “Does that hurt?” Her reply is a stifled squeak. “And this?” A nod. Mr. Gallagher, who is small and twitchy and pink, peers over Coach’s shoulder. “Hmm. I think a trip to Student Support may be in order.” “What?” I repeat. You only go to Student Support if you’re having a total breakdown or if you’re sick and you need them to call your parents. “What’s wrong? I’ll take her—” “No,” Celine says, so quick and sharp I’m almost hurt for a second, before I remember that I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, and we are enemies. Coach gives me a grim look as she helps Celine to her feet. “I’ll take her. Brad, tell the team I’m going to be late for practice.” “Yes, Coach.” Oh, wait a minute. “Um, actually, me and Celine were supposed to stay here and do some work for Mr. Taylor?” “Well, Celine won’t be doing any work this afternoon, so you can run and let him know about that too.” She puts an arm around Celine, and they head for the stairs. Mr. Gallagher follows behind them. I run my hands over my hair. “Shit, shit, shit.” Did I just break Celine’s arm or something? The possibility rolls around in my stomach like a concrete ball of anxiety. Acid climbs up my throat. Why the hell did I drop her? I stare down at my hands and whisper, “What the fuck?” They don’t reply. I sigh, then crouch down to pick up the textbook she dropped. There’s something sticking out from between the pages. I flick them open, and a vaguely familiar woman with brown skin and long hair stares back at me. Breakspeare Enrichment Program, the glossy leaflet says. Breakspeare. Katharine Breakspeare. That’s where I’ve seen this woman: on the inspirational pinboard Celine used to keep in her bedroom. Back when I was welcome in Celine’s bedroom, which I’m certainly not now. I close the book. MONDAY, 4:34 P.M. BANGURA GIRLS Mummy: Keep me updated please. Giselle: doc’s sent us for an X-ray, in the waiting room now Celine: sorry mummy Mummy: Your wrist is broken and still you’re


before his daughters had courage to speak of it. It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, ``Say nothing of that. Who would suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.'' ``You must not be too severe upon yourself,'' replied Elizabeth. ``You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.'' ``Do you suppose them to be in London?'' ``Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?'' ``And Lydia used to want to go to London,'' added Kitty. ``She is happy, then,'' said her father, drily; ``and her residence there will probably be of some duration.'' Then, after a short silence, he continued, ``Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shews some greatness of mind.'' They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's tea. ``This is a parade,'' cried he, ``which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can, -- or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.'' ``I am not going to run away, Papa,'' said Kitty, fretfully; ``if _I_ should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.'' ``_You_ go to Brighton! -- I would not trust you so near it as East-Bourne, for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.'' Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. ``Well, well,'' said he, ``do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.'' __ CHAPTER VII (49) TWO days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached her she said to Miss Bennet, ``I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some


I asked, 'the same as the one I chose?' "'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.' "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes's finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door. "Get out!" said he. "What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!" "No more words. Get out!" And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street. "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature." ADVENTURE VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before,


turned unceasingly to the jewel of Fanor, and became bound to it, and he liked not to let it rest even behind the doors of his inmost treasury; and he was minded now to bear it with him always, waking and sleeping. In those days the Dwarves still came on their journeys into Beleriand from their mansions in Ered Lindon, and passing over Gelion at Sam Athrad, the Ford of Stones, they travelled the ancient road to Doriath; for their skill in the working of metal and stone was very great, and there was much need of their craft in the halls of Menegroth. But they came now no longer in small parties as aforetime, but in great companies well armed for their protection in the perilous lands between Aros and Gelion; and they dwelt in Menegroth at such times in chambers and smithies set apart for them. At that very time great craftsmen of Nogrod were lately come into Doriath; and the King therefore summoning them declared his desire, that if their skill were great enough they should remake the Nauglamr, and in it set the Silmaril. Then the Dwarves looked upon the work of their fathers, and they beheld with wonder the shining jewel of Fanor; and they were filled with a great lust to possess them, and carry them off to their far homes in the mountains. But they dissembled their mind, and consented to the task. Long was their labour; and Thingol went down alone to their deep smithies, and sat ever among them as they worked. In time his desire was achieved, and the greatest of the works of Elves and Dwarves were brought together and made one; and its beauty was very great, for now the countless jewels of the Nauglamr did reflect and cast abroad in marvellous hues the light of the Silmaril amidmost. Then Thingol, being alone among them, made to take it up and clasp it about his neck; but the Dwarves in that moment withheld it from him, and demanded that he yield it up to them, saying: 'By what right does the Elvenking lay claim to the Nauglamr, that was made by our fathers for Finrod Felagund who is dead? It has come to him but by the hand of Hrin the Man of Dor-lmin, who took it as a thief out of the darkness of Nargothrond.' But Thingol perceived their hearts, and saw well that desiring the Silmaril they sought but a pretext and fair cloak for their true intent; and in his wrath and pride he gave no heed to his peril, but spoke to them in scorn, saying: 'How do ye of uncouth race dare to demand aught of me, Elu Thingol, Lord of Beleriand, whose life began by the waters of Cuivinen years uncounted ere the fathers of the stunted people awoke?' And standing tall and proud among them he bade them with shameful words be gone unrequited out of Doriath. Then the lust of the Dwarves was kindled to rage by the words of the King;


man backwards over his head. It was a sad miscalculation. Quick as the lightning of Amadiora, Okafo raised his right leg and swung it over his rival's head. The crowd burst into a thunderous roar. Okafo was swept off his feet by his supporters and carried home shoulder high. They sang his praise and the young women clapped their hands: "Who will wrestle for our village? Okafo will wrestle for our village. Has he thrown a hundred men? He has thrown four hundred men. Has he thrown a hundred Cats? He has thrown four hundred Cats. Then send him word to fight for us." CHAPTER SEVEN For three years Ikemefuna lived in Okonkwo's household and the elders of Umuofia seemed to have forgotten about him. He grew rapidly like a yam tendril in the rainy season, and was full of the sap of life. He had become wholly absorbed into his new family. He was like an elder brother to Nwoye, and from the very first seemed to have kindled a new fire in the younger boy. He made him feel grown-up, and they no longer spent the evenings in his mother's hut while she cooked, but now sat with Okonkwo in his obi, or watched him as he tapped his palm tree for the evening wine. Nothing pleased Nwoye now more than to be sent for by his mother or another of his father's wives to do one of those difficult and masculine tasks in the home, like splitting wood, or pounding food. On receiving such a message through a younger brother or sister, Nwoye would feign annoyance and grumble aloud about women and their troubles. Okonkwo was inwardly pleased at his son's development, and he knew it was due to Ikemefuna. He wanted Nwoye to grow into a tough young man capable of ruling his father's household when he was dead and gone to join the ancestors. He wanted him to be a prosperous man, having enough in his barn to feed the ancestors with regular sacrifices. And so he was always happy when he heard him grumbling about women. That showed that in time he would be able to control his women-folk. No matter how prosperous a man was, if he was unable to rule his women and his children (and especially his women) he was not really a man. He was like the man in the song who had ten and one wives and not enough soup for his foo-foo. So Okonkwo encouraged the boys to sit with him in his obi, and he told them stories of the land--masculine stories of violence and bloodshed. Nwoye knew that it was right to be masculine and to be violent, but somehow he still preferred the stories that his mother used to tell, and which she no doubt still told to her younger children--stories of the tortoise and his wily ways, and of the bird eneke-nti-oba who challenged the whole world to a wrestling contest and was finally thrown by the cat. He remembered the story she often told of


was obvious. August had leaned in, bringing his mouth within an inch of hers. They were completely shielded from the rest of the train car. Napa danced by in all its rich, sunset-drenched splendor, vineyard vines threading toward rolling hills and fading sunlight, but she was barely aware of any of it. Only this man’s breath on her mouth and his strength surrounding her. “Just so we’re clear, Natalie, I wouldn’t have any problem fending off some city boy in loafers.” Please tell me that my vaginal walls did not flex in response to that. “Jesus. Leave it to you to have a pissing contest with someone you’ve never met.” Why was she breathing so fast? Her words tripped over themselves on the way out and he only moved closer, his hand opening wide on her hip and squeezing, his lips making the barest contact with hers. “Rebound, huh?” “Is that what you’re mad about?” “Who said I’m mad?” “Your face.” Their lips were all but flush now. “Maybe I’m just pissed I missed my chance to help you move on from your broken engagement.” “I have moved on.” “Prove it, princess.” Ever so briefly, his tongue touched the seam of her mouth and fingers of lust raked up her inner thighs. “Convince this train full of your fellow wine snobs that you’re dying to walk down the aisle with me.” Bastard. “To this day, no one in St. Helena has ever beaten my record for shots taken at a party. Sixteen shots, August. I should by all accounts be dead. Before me, the record stood at fifteen.” “Proud of you, girl, but why are you telling me this?” “So you understand that I don’t lose. Not when I’m challenged.” A rumble went off in his chest. “Getting that mouth on mine won’t be a loss.” Slowly, she wound his tie around her fist and used her body to guide him back into the dark interior of the Lovers’ Nest chair, turning so her breasts were pressed high to his chest. “Are you sure about that?” “Sure as I’ve ever been about anything,” August said with confidence. But when she twisted a little in his lap, he gulped. “Fuck” was the last thing he said before Natalie settled her mouth over his and kissed him in a way that was pure foreplay. Wet lips dragged right to left, teasing, showing him what her mouth could do elsewhere. And based on the rigid rise of his erection under her butt, he was definitely thinking about it. A lot. She framed his bristled jaw with her right hand and tugged his chin down, opening his mouth, giving her the access to lick deep, once, twice, three times, leisurely and savoring, tasting his hearty groan and feeling his muscles tense to the point of snapping. “I see what you’re doing now,” he uttered between kisses. “You’re going to get me hot and leave me hanging, aren’t you?” “Congratulations,” she panted. “You’re not as dumb as you look.” He tilted her chin up, glazed eyes looking


understood!” Simon walked toward Marion, holding one palm out. “Hand them over.” Marion’s hand flew up to the pearls around her neck. This was Simon’s punishment whenever she disobeyed or disappointed, by staying out longer than curfew or getting a D on a physics test back in high school. The pearls would be taken away for seven days. He knew how much they meant to her, that they had once belonged to Lucille. “That’s not fair.” “Marion.” Reluctantly, Marion unclasped the pearls and dropped them into his hand. She stepped back, trying not to cry. “None of this makes any sense. What would it matter if I had become a professional ballerina? It would be a paying job, just like Judy takes home a salary.” “Judy has a job that is serious, with benefits and long-term growth. Being a dancer would have provided neither of those things.” “But it would have made me happy.” His tone softened. “I know you don’t understand now, but you will later, I promise. When you’re married to Nathaniel and have a child of your own, you’ll see that sometimes your wisdom trumps their wishes. That’s the job of being a parent. I want more than anything to see you safe and taken care of.” He held out his arms, expecting her to fall into them. “Trust me, my dear. I only wish your mother was here to explain it better.” Simon had never remarried—his devotion to his dead wife was that strong—and Marion knew he missed her terribly. Still, he couldn’t keep Marion and Judy in a bubble, safe from harm, forever. That wasn’t fair to them. Marion ran upstairs, away from her father’s searing compassion and the stricken look on her sister’s face. Her bed was covered with dance magazines and pointe shoe ribbons. She swept them off with one hand and threw herself facedown on the quilt, but the tears wouldn’t come. One of the magazines lay on the floor, splayed open. A photograph showed a row of dancers dressed in red. Marion recognized the Rockettes kick line instantly. She leaned out and grabbed it, turning onto her back to read the article. It was all about tomorrow’s auditions: where to go, what to bring, what to expect. Tomorrow, Nathaniel would be in Florida, and her father and Judy would be at work. Meanwhile, Marion would be moping around her childhood bedroom, fretting over being fired and wondering what might have been. There was no way for her to travel back in time and audition for the School of American Ballet, but perhaps that didn’t mean all was lost. What if, for one day, she pursued a path that she’d thought was closed—followed in her mother’s footsteps and took a chance? Instead of tamping down her passion for dance, as her father and Nathaniel wanted, what if she struck out on her own and joined the hundreds of dancers hoping to become a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall? If she failed and was laughed out of the room, she’d at least know that


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

toward the little cream-and-blue bougainvillea-covered house just over two miles away. And once I’m at the curb, I feel frozen again, even though my kid is inside and what I’d really like is to get my daughter, grab a pizza, and make a pillow fort on the couch for some quality television time. I don’t want to think about the show, or the woman who runs constant laps around my mind, or the way she looked earlier when she confessed her feelings again. I was seconds from crumbling. I’d never known that kind of sensation, the way my heart felt heavy but airborne inside my rib cage. I’m so fucking in love with her I can barely take a full breath. I’m out of the car, I’m up the steps, I’m closing my eyes at the door and taking a deep, calming breath before knocking. Greet everyone, grab my kid, head home. Protect my heart. Protect Stevie. Move on. At my knock, three voices yell out a cheerful “Come in!” and I open the door to find them piled on the couch beneath a mountain of fuzzy blankets. “I could have been a bad guy,” I tell them, frowning. “We saw your shadow on the porch through the window,” Stevie says. Juno nods. “You’re taller than everybody.” Fizzy gives me a playful I mean, they’re not wrong face, but I can’t engage. I realize it as soon as I lay eyes on her. There is so much pent-up longing and desire in my chest that it feels like if I say anything else, it will come out as a bellow. And if I take one step deeper into her house, I’ll drag her into her room, lock the door, and fuck her into the floor. “Grab your stuff, squirt.” I lift my chin to where her backpack sits across the room, papers and colored pencils and bright colorful erasers spilling out everywhere. The room goes quiet; exuberant energy drains. Great, now I’m the moody dick who spoiled the party. “You okay, Dad?” Stevie asks, carefully extracting herself from the tangle of limbs and blankets. “Are you mad at somebody?” I go for relaxed but knackered, rubbing a hand down my face. “No, Sass, just tired.” “Are you sure?” She stares at me. “You’re doing that face Fizzy says is going to make you need Botox.” I ignore this and try to keep us on task. “Do you have your things together?” “Because if you are mad,” she barrels on, “remember that you told me people aren’t the same as fruit. You don’t look for new ones if they’re bruised.” I can ask this child a hundred times to pick up her wet towels or to stop using glitter on my bed, but this she retains? Juno scrunches her nose. “I don’t like bruised bananas,” she says. “Well, now I’m tired and hungry,” I say, putting my hands on Stevie’s shoulders and trying to steer her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here so we can grab something to eat.” “Fizzy got


to cover the noise as I turn the carpet over and run the Taser cable from the lamp stand to the wall by the door, then flip the carpet back on top. Orhan is still talking about Mullen. “I think he was a good guy. Like we all could play pool together. Drink tea.” I hear the board release, like a sigh. Still can’t hear the footfall, but now I can hear the shape of a body in the hall just outside, the shadow in the room tone. “Orhan, he absolutely shot me.” “Yes, obviously, we cannot play pool together now. He shot you and also he shot himself. But still basically I think he was a decent fellow.” I go over to the door, crouch on the far side from the hinge. My door opens to your left because for the majority of people that’s weird and uncomfortable. I say: “That is a flexible fucking definition of that word.” The door smashes open. Huge fucking shape in black, two and half metres high and proportionately broad. Superhero big. He’s wearing a ski mask over his face and executive tactical gear: black camo slash-stop trousers with a non-conductive chain weave boxer built in to stop anyone stabbing or electrocuting you in the private parts. Steel-toe boots and some sort of gi-inflected combat jacket in the same ballistic fabric Susan Green’s shawl was made from. I fire the Taser before he can look around. The current goes straight into the desk lamp and makes it explode. The guy flinches back from it: flying plastic and stink, but he’s smart. He tucks and goes into a punch combo in case someone’s coming for him, puts his fist through the wall about where my head would be if I was standing there. A great big chunk of dry timber frame and brick goes crashing into the hall. I twist my body out and round as hard as I can and put the knuckle knife into the side of the knee. The blade punches through—the chain weave stops too high on the leg, fashion over form—and in. I twist it forwards, and lean. Titans are strong and heavy. Their bones get so thick that they’re like armour plate. It’s not just a question of scale, it’s also density and structure. Eventually they get so big, like Stefan, that they’re slow, but all kinds of new dangerous that you can’t predict. This guy hasn’t got there yet. He’s big, and hard, and tough, but in between the bones is just meat. The kneecap pops out nicely. He screams, but it comes out like a roar, and he tries to get ahold of me as he goes down. He doesn’t manage it or I’d be in serious trouble, but clips me in passing and sends me sprawling through my own door into the hall. I scoot back, crabwise, grabbing the megaphone as I go. He tries again, lunging and the yelling, then throwing up, and lunging again. Damn me, that is some serious resolve. The eyes in the


hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird." That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. "Your father's right," she said. "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird." "Miss Maudie, this is an old neighborhood, ain't it?" "Been here longer than the town." "Nome, I mean the folks on our street are all old. Jem and me's the only children around here. Mrs. Dubose is close on to a hundred and Miss Rachel's old and so are you and Atticus." "I don't call fifty very old," said Miss Maudie tartly. "Not being wheeled around yet, am I? Neither's your father. But I must say Providence was kind enough to burn down that old mausoleum of mine, I'm too old to keep it up- maybe you're right, Jean Louise, this is a settled neighborhood. You've never been around young folks much, have you?" "Yessum, at school." "I mean young grown-ups. You're lucky, you know. You and Jem have the benefit of your father's age. If your father was thirty you'd find life quite different." "I sure would. Atticus can't do anything...." "You'd be surprised," said Miss Maudie. "There's life in him yet." "What can he do?" "Well, he can make somebody's will so airtight can't anybody meddle with it." "Shoot..." "Well, did you know he's the best checker-player in this town? Why, down at the Landing when we were coming up, Atticus Finch could beat everybody on both sides of the river." "Good Lord, Miss Maudie, Jem and me beat him all the time." "It's about time you found out it's because he lets you. Did you know he can play a Jew's Harp?" This modest accomplishment served to make me even more ashamed of him. "Well..." she said. "Well, what, Miss Maudie?" "Well nothing. Nothing- it seems with all that you'd be proud of him. Can't everybody play a Jew's Harp. Now keep out of the way of the carpenters. You'd better go home, I'll be in my azaleas and can't watch you. Plank might hit you." I went to the back yard and found Jem plugging away at a tin can, which seemed stupid with all the bluejays around. I returned to the front yard and busied myself for two hours erecting a complicated breastworks at the side of the porch, consisting of a tire, an orange crate, the laundry hamper, the porch chairs, and a small U.S. flag Jem gave me from a popcorn box. When Atticus came home to dinner he found me crouched down aiming across the street. "What are you shooting at?" "Miss Maudie's rear end." Atticus turned and saw my generous target bending over her bushes. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and crossed the street. "Maudie,"


a knit scarf because I had no tissues, and turned the car around. It took me a while to find my way home. Everyone else was asleep when I crept in, and I was relieved that I wouldn’t need to face them yet. I crawled into bed and slept for a few hours before waking to the sound of Dan, Cindy, and Rick helping the kids get breakfast. I got dressed, found the car keys, and snuck out the back door without a word to anyone—which, I supposed, I could add to the growing list of things I would need to apologize for. I was too ashamed to tell my mother about my outburst, or that I had come to see her on my own this morning because I wanted her to do something for me; I couldn’t have said what. She was my mom, and I felt sure that she was the one who’d fix all of this, somehow. At the diner, we chose a table under a row of vivid abstract landscapes painted by the owner, as usual drawing a few curious glances from patrons who hadn’t been expecting to see an older redheaded white woman with her Asian daughter. Mom got the Reuben she’d told me she wanted, and I ordered a hearty farmer’s breakfast that made me think of the occasional weekends when my dad would bring me along to the diner where his football pool met. I’d read the Sunday comics and savor my bacon and hash browns while the men, all dads I knew, dissected the week’s games, and afterward I would unstick myself from the Naugahyde bench and my father and I would go to a nearby park. It was always special to have a little time alone with him on the weekend, because he had so few of them off. Sitting in my mother’s favorite diner, a warm, well-lit space filled with chairs and tables painted in a cozy kaleidoscope of colors, I struggled to recall the last time we’d gone out to eat together, just the two of us. Mom and I had never really gotten into having “girls’ days” together, shopping sprees or spa visits without Dan or my dad or the kids. Those things weren’t necessarily her idea of fun, and when we did get to see each other, which wasn’t nearly often enough, she wanted to spend time together as a family. Soon, I knew, we would head back to the Airbnb, and her attention would be on the kids. She asked me if they had any big plans for the day. A gingerbread-house-making party, I told her. Though it was the last thing either of us wanted to talk about, I wondered if I should seize this moment of privacy to once again broach the subject of Mom’s advance directives—she had no living will, and had thus far been resistant to discussing anything that had to do with her last wishes. I had printed the necessary forms and brought them along on this trip, hoping that I could get


I made my way along in what I thought was the direction of the road. I was not sure, because I had been turned around so many times. But I found it and looked down to the street light. A man was passing under it. The man was walking with the staccato steps of someone carrying a load too heavy for him. He was going around the corner. He was carrying Jem. Jem's arm was dangling crazily in front of him. By the time I reached the corner the man was crossing our front yard. Light from our front door framed Atticus for an instant; he ran down the steps, and together, he and the man took Jem inside. I was at the front door when they were going down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was running to meet me. "Call Dr. Reynolds!" Atticus's voice came sharply from Jem's room. "Where's Scout?" "Here she is," Aunt Alexandra called, pulling me along with her to the telephone. She tugged at me anxiously. "I'm all right, Aunty," I said, "you better call." She pulled the receiver from the hook and said, "Eula May, get Dr. Reynolds, quick!" "Agnes, is your father home? Oh God, where is he? Please tell him to come over here as soon as he comes in. Please, it's urgent!" There was no need for Aunt Alexandra to identify herself, people in Maycomb knew each other's voices. Atticus came out of Jem's room. The moment Aunt Alexandra broke the connection, Atticus took the receiver from her. He rattled the hook, then said, "Eula May, get me the sheriff, please." "Heck? Atticus Finch. Someone's been after my children. Jem's hurt. Between here and the schoolhouse. I can't leave my boy. Run out there for me, please, and see if he's still around. Doubt if you'll find him now, but I'd like to see him if you do. Got to go now. Thanks, Heck." "Atticus, is Jem dead?" "No, Scout. Look after her, sister," he called, as he went down the hall. Aunt Alexandra's fingers trembled as she unwound the crushed fabric and wire from around me. "Are you all right, darling?" she asked over and over as she worked me free. It was a relief to be out. My arms were beginning to tingle, and they were red with small hexagonal marks. I rubbed them, and they felt better. "Aunty, is Jem dead?" "No- no, darling, he's unconscious. We won't know how badly he's hurt until Dr. Reynolds gets here. Jean Louise, what happened?" "I don't know." She left it at that. She brought me something to put on, and had I thought about it then, I would have never let her forget it: in her distraction, Aunty brought me my overalls. "Put these on, darling," she said, handing me the garments she most despised. She rushed back to Jem's room, then came to me in the hall. She patted me vaguely, and went back to Jem's room. A car stopped in front of the house. I knew Dr. Reynolds's step almost as


matter.” No one, not even my mother, had ever said as much to me aloud, and it was somehow both affirming and mortifying to have my ambition and loneliness so clearly read by someone who barely knew me. I knew what I wanted, but I did not feel entitled to it. I was sure that I wasn’t the most impressive student at my school. As glossy brochures began to fill our mailbox, sent from competitive universities located in distant towns and regions I knew nothing about, I asked my forbearing guidance counselor if he thought I was setting myself up for disappointment. “Some of the colleges on your list might seem like a reach now,” he said, “but I do think you’re right to consider them. I’m sure that at least a few will want to consider you.” Should I have been more worried about leaving my family? I was not privy to all the details of what they were facing, but I know there were signs I missed, or perhaps thought too little of, even as I scrambled to compensate. My mother was still recovering, emotionally and physically, from her surgeries. My father had his own medical issues and worked long, unpredictable hours at the restaurant. They were often unable to cook, so I learned how to make a few simple meals—meat loaf and baked potatoes, beef stew and bean soup, eggs and waffles, Stroganoff made with cream-of-mushroom soup, pasta with marinara sauce from a jar—and supplemented with fast food and TV dinners bought with money from my minimum-wage job, where I spent fifteen to twenty hours each week. The rest of what I earned went to clothes and shoes, gas for the car, the contact lenses I preferred to glasses, weekday breakfast and lunch; I knew nothing about free or reduced-price meals at school, perhaps because my family disapproved of what they considered “handouts” or perhaps because none of us ever thought to ask. I was able to cover my own SAT and AP exam and college application fees—which I should have been exempt from, though I didn’t know that, either—and pay for my graduation cap and gown. One of my aunts sent me cash whenever she could and purchased the computer I needed for school. If I’d started skipping class, if my grades had dropped, I’m sure someone at school would have checked on me or tried to speak with my parents. But I was a straight-A honors student who looked like a model-minority stereotype, and no one, including me, thought I needed help. If anyone outside my family had asked how I was doing, I would have said fine, kind of stressed about grades, looking forward to graduation, and I would have meant it. And yet when I came home from school or work to study, I don’t remember feeling anything like the heady mix of curiosity and determination that would spur me on in college. What I remember is the fear of unraveling, a sense of quiet dread, and my mother telling me that if I didn’t


case may be. * * * THE WALK HOME was surprisingly pleasant. It was sunny and breezy out, and I cradled Peanut to my chest while we held our chins up and let the wind caress both of our faces. Meeting my future husband had renewed my strength and my courage, and I fearlessly enjoyed my journey back—and let all the faceless people flicker past me like butterflies. Until I got stopped by one of them. “Oh my god! Sadie?” It was a woman’s voice, from some distance away. I turned toward the sound. She was tall, dressed in all gray with a pop-of-color pink scarf, and had dyed blond hair … and a face like a cubist painting. She ran over and grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me into a hug that squeezed both me and Peanut tight. I tried to fight the rising panic. I had absolutely no idea who this was. What were the tricks I’d read about online again? Smile a lot. Ask leading questions. Be warm and friendly. Don’t say anything to give it away. Beat the clock and solve the mystery before the person figures it out. Before I could think of what to ask, this faceless woman said, “How long has it been?” “Gosh,” I said, stalling. “How long has it been?” “You look amazing,” she said next. What else could I say? “You look amazing.” “What are you up to these days?” “Oh,” I said. “Same old, same old.” Then, trying to turn the tables. “What are you up to?” “Same,” she said. “Just working and working. Trying to conquer the world. You get it.” “I sure do.” I nodded big. Then there was a pause. I’d never realized before how much personal questions needed a little something to go on. But I tried to encourage myself. I was doing okay! I was passing! “Well,” she said then. “It’s been so great to see you.” “You too,” I said with maximum warmth, like it really, really had been. She started to walk away, but then she turned back. “Oh—and Sadie?” “Yeah?” I asked, smiling big. “I know you don’t know who I am.” My smile dropped. She took a step closer. “You’d never be this nice if you had any idea.” “Who are you?” I asked. “Mom told me all about it—but, I don’t know … it was kind of too good to be true. I had to see for myself.” “Mom”? Told her “all about it”? And then I knew. Just as she leaned close and spoke into my ear, I knew. It was my evil stepsister. Parker. It wasn’t until I realized who she was that I noticed her signature perfume as well. She always wears—and I swear this is true—a perfume by Dior called Poison. So on the nose. “Hey, Sis,” she whispered, and then she patted me on the butt and strutted away. And that, right there, settled it. Optimism canceled. I’d find a dog-sized Pajanket for Peanut and never leave my apartment again. Seven WHEN I GOT back


The brunette doesn’t even recognize that I’m the same girl who checked her in and took her to her cabin. Normally, Felix would do that, and I wouldn’t meet the guests until we all get together in the main lodge. I’m still pissed about that, but I set it aside and focus on the task in front of me. I gently touch the back of my sweater, making sure the battery pack for my earpiece is concealed. I tell the guests my name is Jade and that I’m so excited to be here at Camp Mirror Lake in a southern accent I borrow from my late grandmother. They latch on to my enthusiasm. I watch their eyes brighten, their mouths draw up. The excitement builds like water behind a dam. Everyone is buzzing around the big fireplace as I steal a quick glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:59. There’s a rustle of static across the line as my earpiece clicks on. “It’s go time,” Kyle’s voice says. “Remember, Charity says tonight is a no-survivors scenario. Everybody goes down.” He laughs into the mic. “This is my favorite type of game.” Normally, we let a few guests slip through. We let them see the carnage, give them a few near-misses with Kyle, but ultimately somebody is left to accompany me to the front gates and claim their T-shirt at midnight. But not tonight. The eight o’clock hour dawns. Staff Player #2, who is supposed to be Heather but is now being played by Javier, rushes in, limping slightly, covered in blood. He looks great, and I have to mask the flood of excitement I feel as the dam bursts and the rush of excitement overwhelms me. I always feel this way as the game commences, and the high is dizzying. My single complaint is that the fake blood he’s drenched in is too opaque. I like it better when I can see through it just a little. “Please!” Javier screams as he clings to the doorjamb, chest heaving. “Please help me! He—he’s out there!” “Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about?” I know my lines as well as I know my own name. “A guy in a mask!” Javier bellows, real tears glinting in his eyes. “Help me!” The brunette gasps as she clings to her friend, her eyes wide, her mouth halfway open. She’s terrified. Only me and the remaining staff know that it’s about to get a lot worse for her specifically. The rude guests are always the ones who end up crying or pissing their pants first. Over the course of the next few hours, the guests move through a carefully curated series of experiences. I like to make sure they have a good view of Kyle in his mask, machete in hand, as he carves up Javier, Porter, and Tasha one by one. Of course we leave time for guests to “hide” or try to make their own plans for navigating the camp, but it’s all a part of the game even if they don’t


walls, she didn’t much care. “My heels are fetter’d, but my fist is free,” she whispered to no one. Or to Darlington, she supposed. Samson Agonistes. But he wasn’t there to be impressed by her Milton. The metal on her knuckles made her grip awkward, but the extra surge of strength in her hands let her pull herself over the wall with ease. Even so, she hesitated before dropping down onto the other side. She was in her black Converse, and all she needed was to break an ankle and freeze to death waiting for Dawes to come get her. She counted to three and made herself jump. Thankfully the trees had already started to lose their leaves and the ground was soft with them. She jogged toward the house, paralleling the driveway, wondering if she was about to see flashlights or hear the shouts of security guards. Or maybe Linus Reiter had a hungry bunch of Dobermans to sic on her. But there was no sound except her footsteps in the mulch, the wind shaking the pines, and her own labored breathing. Darlington would have been laughing. Twenty minutes a day on the treadmill, Stern. Sound body, sound mind. “Yeah, well, you’re the one stuck doing naked yoga.” She paused to catch her breath. She could see the hulking shadow of the house through the trees up ahead, but no lights on. Maybe Reiter really wasn’t home. God, the thought was beautiful. Even so … 5 percent of $50,000. That would be more money than she’d ever had in her life. Eitan had suckered her into this work by threatening her mother, and she’d been too stupid to botch the first job, too used to falling in line. But maybe she’d gotten comfortable. Violence was easy. It was her first language, natural to slip back into, ready on her tongue. And she couldn’t pretend that the little nest egg she’d started to build wasn’t a kind of hedge, something to fall back on if Yale and Lethe and all of their promises fell apart. When she finally arrived at the top of the hill, she paused at the tree line. The house was nothing like she’d expected. She’d imagined it would be all old brick and ivy like Black Elm, but it was an expansive, airy white thing, a pile of architectural meringue formed into a steeply tilted roof, striped awnings over the countless windows, a grand terrace perfect for lawn parties. She had no idea how she was going to get in. Maybe she should have glamoured herself, but she hadn’t had time to plan. Alex figured she was already guilty of breaking and entering, but the thought of smashing a window made her jittery—and that made her mad. So much for the cannonball. She wouldn’t have hesitated if she’d been back in Oddman’s neighborhood. It was Linus Reiter’s wealth that frightened her. And for very good reason. This wasn’t some bottom-of-the-pecking-order New Haven drug dealer, and Eitan wasn’t going to pay her bail if this all went sideways. “Fuck


holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. "Here," he told his king. Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head. There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchres on either side were his children. Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule. Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride. "She was more beautiful than that," the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did 38 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than darkness . . ." "She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place." "She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean." "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. "Lyanna was . . . fond of flowers." The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. "I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her." "You did," Ned reminded him. "Only once," Robert said bitterly. They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was


it. Trump would be badly weakened in the heat of the campaign if any of his cabinet members resigned in anger. John Kelly and Kirstjen Nielsen both thought the role of DHS secretary was the most thankless job in Washington. But, as we drank, I could tell Chad was enjoying the trappings of the office. The new headquarters. The private jet. The Secret Service detail sitting inside two black SUVs along the road in front of us. When the topic of the president came up, Chad was more reserved than usual. He avoided speaking ill of Trump, which was odd. Bashing a fucked-up White House was a cornerstone of our friendship. I asked him about the president’s recent deployment of armed DHS agents onto the streets of Portland, since Chad had been caught in the crossfire of the controversial decision. “The libs are totally freaking out over that,” he laughed. “Everything about it is misconstrued.” “It’s not a great look. I assume the White House was pressuring you?” I tried to give him an opening to blame the president. “Nah. It’s all overblown. Honestly, I’ve managed to stay on his good side. It’s not as hard as Kirstjen made it look.” Later Chad admitted he’d opted for a less public role in the COVID-19 response, even though DHS was supposed to take the lead during national emergencies. “It’s worked out pretty well,” he said, noting that he’d avoided a lot of the criticism Trump was getting over the response. While it might have worked out well for Chad, it didn’t for the 200,000 Americans who had been killed by the virus at that point. “Hey, I’ve got a TV hit coming up. Wanna come with me before you go?” He was slated to appear on Justice w/ Judge Jeanine on Fox News, one of Trump’s favorite programs. “Sure.” I was buzzed as we piled into one of the armed cars. The Secret Service drove us to a nearby parking lot. “I’ll be right back,” Chad said. He got out and walked toward an unmarked van. The door slid open revealing a mini television studio inside, complete with a chair, bright lights, and a fake backdrop of Washington, D.C. The technician helped Chad secure an earpiece and slid the door shut. I watched from my phone. Judge Jeanine asked him eagerly about the situation in Portland. To me, the militaristic response to the protests seemed Orwellian. Rather than distance himself, Chad offered justifications for the president’s crackdown, like a pull-string doll on a loop. “We are not talking about peaceful protesting.… We are talking about violent criminals,” he declared. The judge loved it. Recruiting Chad was a lost cause, I concluded. Back at his house, I think he sensed my unspoken judgment. He assured me he was “holding the line” against Stephen Miller on issues like immigration. That was something, at least. I urged him to keep running interference against the craziest policy ideas. “Well then, keep killing it,” I offered halfheartedly. After a few more drinks, I told him I wasn’t going


Nothing serious. Looks like he got kicked out of university for rewiring phone jacks to get free service... later did some petty theft. Breaking and entering. Skipped out on a hospital bill once for an emergency tracheotomy." He glanced up, chuckling. "Peanut allergy." Collet nodded, recalling a police investigation into a restaurant that had failed to notate on its menu that the chili recipe contained peanut oil. An unsuspecting patron had died of anaphylactic shock at the table after a single bite. "Legaludec is probably a live-in here to avoid getting picked up." The examiner looked amused. "His lucky night." Collet sighed. "All right, you better forward this info to Captain Fache." The examiner headed off just as another PTS agent burst into the living room. "Lieutenant! We found something in the barn." From the anxious look on the agent's face, Collet could only guess. "A body." "No, sir. Something more..." He hesitated. "Unexpected." Rubbing his eyes, Collet followed the agent out to the barn. As they entered the musty, cavernous space, the agent motioned toward the center of the room, where a wooden ladder now ascended high into the rafters, propped against the ledge of a hayloft suspended high above them. "That ladder wasn't there earlier," Collet said. "No, sir. I set that up. We were dusting for prints near the Rolls when I saw the ladder lying on the floor. I wouldn't have given it a second thought except the rungs were worn and muddy. This ladder gets regular use. The height of the hayloft matched the ladder, so I raised it and climbed up to have a look." Collet's eyes climbed the ladder's steep incline to the soaring hayloft. Someone goes up there regularly? From down here, the loft appeared to be a deserted platform, and yet admittedly most of it was invisible from this line of sight. A senior PTS agent appeared at the top of the ladder, looking down. "You'll definitely want to see this, Lieutenant," he said, waving Collet up with a latex-gloved hand. Nodding tiredly, Collet walked over to the base of the old ladder and grasped the bottom rungs. The ladder was an antique tapered design and narrowed as Collet 245 ascended. As he neared the top, Collet almost lost his footing on a thin rung. The barn below him spun. Alert now, he moved on, finally reaching the top. The agent above him reached out, offering his wrist. Collet grabbed it and made the awkward transition onto the platform. "It's over there," the PTS agent said, pointing deep into the immaculately clean loft. "Only one set of prints up here. We'll have an ID shortly." Collet squinted through the dim light toward the far wall. What the hell? Nestled against the far wall sat an elaborate computer workstation-two tower CPUs, a flatscreen video monitor with speakers, an array of hard drives, and a multichannel audio console that appeared to have its own filtered power supply. Why in the world would anyone work all the way up here? Collet moved toward the gear. "Have


gown, and her dance partner wore nothing but feathers around her waist and breasts. If Lore’s eyebrows climbed any farther, they’d disappear into her hairline. “You weren’t exaggerating about my dress being tame.” “Positively chaste.” Gabriel looked like he’d rather be walking into a jail cell than this party. His jaw was a tight line, and the muscles under Lore’s slack hand were tense as a fence post. A familiar scent itched at Lore’s nose. Belladonna. She whipped around, searching the crowd anxiously. There, in the corner —a group of courtiers took turns drinking from a tiny ceramic cup, not even trying to hide it. Their faces were flushed, their legs unsteady, their eyes glassy with a euphoric poison high. Flashes of gray showed at wrists and throats, stone working its silent way through veins as just enough Mortem was pulled forth to slow the ravage of time. Painful years added to pampered lives. “They’ll kill themselves if they drink too much,” she muttered. “The key is moderation, and nothing about this party tells me these people know anything about that.” “Citadel physicians are highly skilled at treating overdoses.” Gabriel’s blue eye flashed as he turned away from the knot of poisoned nobles. “It happens all the time. There are laws in place that force a nobleman to step down in favor of his heir if he lives too long.” “I haven’t seen anyone that looks like a revenant.” “Citadel physicians are skilled at treating that, too. Take a good look at some of the older nobles next time you get a chance. Cosmetics and padding go a long way to hide stone veins and emaciation.” Lore’s jaw tightened as she watched the extravagantly dressed courtiers pass the poison, giggling. She didn’t realize she’d taken a step toward the group until Gabe’s hand landed on her shoulder. He shook his head. “Just leave it, Lore.” And what could she do, even if she did go over there? It wouldn’t make a difference. So Lore sighed, and shook her hands out of their fists, and turned to observe the Court of the Citadel in all its debauchery. Knots of revelers stood drinking between dances, gathered in bursts of bright clothes, as ornate as the golden frescoes they stood before. Those who weren’t kissing or drinking were gossiping—heads bowed as close together as elaborate hairstyles would allow, whispering and then breaking into whoops of laughter. Cosmetic-lined eyes scanned the room, as if making sure their mirth was marked, and hopefully envied. A man wearing a sea-green mask with golden scales turned his eyes lazily to Gabe, then away. A moment, and his gaze snapped back, disinterest becoming openmouthed surprise. He leaned to the ear of the person next to him, their hair coiled into something resembling a beehive, whispering furiously. “And thus our new faces are noticed,” Lore said. They still stood by the door, neither of them keen on venturing into the sparkling milieu. “Mine isn’t new, which seems to be the problem.” Gabriel sighed. “I’d hoped that ten years and one less


press into the base of his spine, right into the cleft between his two buttocks on the padded chair. At the same time a thick voice speaking southern French said softly, urgently, just behind his right ear: 'This is a gun, monsieur. It is absolutely silent. It can blow the base of your spine off without a sound. You will appear to have fainted. I shall be gone. Withdraw your bet before I count ten. If you call for help I shall fire.' The voice was confident. Bond believed it. These people had shown they would unhesitatingly go the limit. The thick walking-stick was explained. Bond knew the type of gun. The barrel a series of soft rubber baffles which absorbed the detonation, but allowed the passage of the bullet. They had been invented and used in the war for assassinations Bond had tested them himself. 'Un,' said the voice. Bond turned his head. There was the man, leaning forward close behind him, smiling broadly under his black moustache as if he was wishing Bond luck, completely secure in the noise and the crowd. The discoloured teeth came together. 'Deux,' said the grinning mouth. Bond looked across. Le Chiffre was watching him. His eyes glittered back at Bond. His mouth was open and he was breathing fast. He was waiting, waiting for Bond's hand to gesture to the croupier, or else for Bond suddenly to slump backwards in his chair, his face grimacing with a scream. 'Trois.' Bond looked over at Vesper and Felix Leiter. They were smiling and talking to each other. The fools. Where was Mathis? Where were those famous men of his? 'Quatre.' And the other spectators. This crowd of jabbering idiots. Couldn't someone see what was happening? The chef de partie, the croupier, the huissier? 'Cinq.' The croupier was tidying up the pile of notes. The chef de partie bowed smilingly towards Bond. Directly the stake was in order he would announce: 'Le jeux est fait.' and the gun would fire whether the gunman had reached ten or not. 'Six.' Bond decided. It was a chance. He carefully moved his hands to the edge of the table, gripped it, edged his buttocks right back, feeling the sharp gun-sight grind into his coccyx. 'Sept.' The chef de partie turned to Le Chiffre with his eyebrows lifted, waiting for the banker's nod that he was ready to play. Suddenly Bond heaved backwards with all his strength. His momentum tipped the cross-bar of the chair-back down so quickly that it cracked across the malacca tube and wrenched it from the gunman's hand before he could pull the trigger. Bond went head-over-heels on to the ground amongst the spectators' feet, his legs in the air. The back of the chair splintered with a sharp crack. There were cries of dismay. The spectators cringed away and then, reassured, clustered back. Hands helped him to his feet and brushed him down. The huissier bustled up with the chef de partie. At all costs a scandal must be avoided. Bond held on to the brass


voice brought her back into the moment. He was standing beside her, intently watching her face. “Kitt.” She reached for his hand as the floor began to shake beneath her. She wondered if it was the aftershocks of a distant bomb, but the rumbling only intensified, as if something was drawing closer. There was a loud pop, and Iris instantly cowered, teeth clenched. Roman pulled her back up, holding her against his chest. His voice was warm in her hair as he whispered, “It’s just a lorry. It’s just backfire. We’re safe here. You’re safe with me.” She closed her eyes, but she listened to the beat of his heart and the sounds encircling them. He was right; the rumbling she felt was from a lorry driving by the house. The icy sweat still prickled on her palms and at the nape of her neck, but she was able to steady herself in his arms. Multiple lorries must be driving by. Because the siren continued to wail, and the ground continued to shake. She opened her eyes, feeling the sudden urge to look at him. “Kitt, you don’t think…?” Roman only gazed down at her, but there was a haunted gleam in his eyes. You don’t think this is Dacre’s soldiers? You don’t think that this is the end, do you? He didn’t know, she realized as he caressed her face. He touched her the same way he always had, as if he wanted to savor it. As if it could be the last time. The front door blew open with a bang. Iris startled again, but Roman kept his arms around her. Someone was in the house, striding down the corridor with a heavy tread. And then came a voice, unfamiliar yet piercing. “Marisol!” A woman appeared in the kitchen. A tall soldier, dressed in an olive-green blood-splattered uniform. A rifle was strapped to her back, grenades to her belt. A golden star was pinned above her heart, revealing her status as a captain. Her blond hair was cut short, but a few tendrils shone in the light beneath her helmet. Her face was gaunt as if she hadn’t eaten properly over the past few months, but her brown eyes were keen, cutting across the kitchen to where Iris and Roman stood, embracing. At once, Iris knew her. She had been kneeling in this woman’s garden, preparing it for her return. “Keegan?” “Yes. Where’s my wife?” Keegan demanded. She hardly gave Iris the chance to respond before she turned on her heel, disappearing down the hallway. “Mari? Marisol!” Iris slipped from Roman’s arms, hurrying after her. “She’s not here.” Keegan pivoted in the foyer. “Where is she?” “At the infirmary. What’s happening? Do we need to evacuate?” “Yes.” Keegan’s gaze flickered beyond her, to where Roman had limped into the hallway, following them. “One of you needs to get the dash-packs ready. The other, come with me.” She stepped back into the brightness of the front yard, and Iris turned to Roman. “Marisol has the dash-packs in the pantry,” she explained.


bear.”* My Sea Adventure *The mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot by Mr. Trelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his wound. But this was, of course, not known till after by the faithful party. Chapter 22. How My Sea Adventure Began. THERE was no return of the mutineers—not so much as another shot out of the woods. They had “got their rations for that day,” as the captain put it, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the wounded and get dinner. Squire and I cooked outside in spite of the danger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for horror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor’s patients. Out of the eight men who had fallen in the action, only three still breathed—that one of the pirates who had been Contents shot at the loophole, Hunter, and Captain Smollett; and of these, the first two were as good as dead; the mutineer indeed died under the doctor’s knife, and Hunter, do what we could, Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 176 177 never recovered consciousness in this world. He lingered all Gray took his pipe out of his mouth and fairly forgot to put day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his it back again, so thunder-struck he was at this occurrence. apoplectic fit, but the bones of his chest had been crushed by “Why, in the name of Davy Jones,” said he, “is Dr. Livesey the blow and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in mad?” the following night, without sign or sound, he went to his “Why no,” says I. “He’s about the last of this crew for Maker. that, I take it.” As for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but “Well, shipmate,” said Gray, “mad he may not be; but if not dangerous. No organ was fatally injured. Anderson’s ball— HE’S not, you mark my words, I am.” for it was Job that shot him first— had broken his shoulder- “I take it,” replied I, “the doctor has his idea; and if I am blade and touched the lung, not badly; the second had only right, he’s going now to see Ben Gunn.” torn and displaced some muscles in the calf. He was sure to I was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for weeks house being stifling hot and the little patch of sand inside the to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as palisade ablaze with midday sun, I began to get another speak when he could help it. thought into my head, which was not by any means so right. My own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea- bite. What I began to do was to envy the doctor walking in the Doctor Livesey patched it up with plaster and pulled my ears cool shadow of the


Is this really the time to be worrying about that?” he asked. “I need to focus on something,” I said, and my voice broke. It was true. Not for the reasons I was implying, but true all the same. “A lot of people have spent a lot of time trawling through missing-persons reports to try to match them up to the quiet summer. There’s too little to go on. Too many missing girls,” he said. “Humor me,” I told him. He sighed. “You don’t have a body or a missing person, you’ve got an MO and a hunch. Which makes this basically impossible. You need to find a report of a murder or a missing person that matches the MO and go from there. It’s a huge task. You could start by looking at the forums where people discuss Stahl and the quiet summer. They’ll have done a lot of the work already. Or you could look at the Doe Network.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his phone and tapped something in, then handed it to me. It was a simple website with the banner “International Center for Unidentified and Missing Persons.” “It’s a database of reports on unidentified bodies and missing persons. You can search by gender, location, date.… It’s got the advantage of being a lot better organized and centralized than casual message boards.” I tapped through the menus until I found missing women in Washington state. It loaded slowly—dozens and then hundreds of missing women reduced to tiny thumbnails of smiling faces. I made a noise in the back of my throat, guttural. “It’s kind of overwhelming,” Ethan said. There were numbers under each photograph. 1292DFWA. 2546DFVA. “What do these mean?” I asked, my heart pounding. I’d seen those numbers before. “Case numbers,” Ethan said. “The DF means ‘disappeared female’ and then there’s a state code, if I remember correctly. I’m not sure about the numbering system.” There had been three numbers on the sticky note in Liv’s room. She’d been looking at these same photographs. Persephone was one of these faces. “You know,” Ethan said carefully, “there’s another piece to the missing-summer theory.” I looked up from the sea of photographs. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on my face. “Stahl dumped the first couple bodies in places where they were found quickly, but after that he started hiding them,” he said. “That’s part of why the six-victim number is almost certainly incomplete. Part of the evidence against him was that he was seen in the woods half a mile from the third victim’s body, a few days before she was found. Months after her death. Which suggests that he was going back to visit the bodies. Probably a way of reliving the kills.” I shuddered. “As if he wasn’t awful enough already.” “The thing is, nothing about your attack makes sense as part of his pattern. Unless—” My skin prickled as I realized what he was talking about. “Unless I wasn’t a target,” I said. “I was


you tell me more about that? More details? I’d love to update our files.” There’s a pause, Robbie catching on. He says, “I’m hanging up now.” I first met Robbie when we were put in the same freshman orientation group, playing games on the quad in groups of twelve, trying to knock pegs down with Frisbees. There were kids who made Frisbee look like ballet. I didn’t know how to throw one (who would have taught me?) and was initially mortified. But Robbie, with no patronizing, showed me how to throw the disc. He was patient, called me by my name, which no one else had bothered learning yet. You have to understand: He wasn’t a ski star till it snowed. In August, he was just another new arrival—a semicute one, symmetrical and clear-skinned in the manner of adolescent TV stars. Dark hair, nose upturned, chin sharp. That tattered Red Sox cap. The only way to see the ski team compete was to take the fan van and stand for hours in the snow, which would be awkward if you weren’t dating a skier. But we all absolutely knew who was good, and by winter of freshman year we’d seen Robbie’s picture in the Sentinel, goggled and helmeted, shredding the mountain. By the time Thalia started dating him, late in the fall of junior year, he had a reputation for being a player, for callously breaking hearts, for drunkenly crashing Ronan Murphy’s car over Thanksgiving break. He wasn’t a perfect boyfriend. He sat back and laughed as Dorian Culler told “Thalia jokes,” which were retellings, essentially, of dumb blonde jokes, but with Thalia as the punch line. (“What did Thalia say when she found out she was pregnant? I wonder if it’s mine.”) Thalia screamed at Robbie one night, in the dining hall, for not stopping his friend, not standing up for her. Robbie wasn’t mean to anyone; it was more that he tended to pass through the halls like a Zamboni, gliding straight ahead and expecting everyone to move out of his way. It made me proud that he’d been kind to me right off the bat, that we’d always been cordial. He didn’t have time for everyone. But once, unprompted, he’d been kind to me. I left a comment under the video: Robbie was nicer than you think. And Thalia never would have dated you. 21 I’m not sure I fully slept after that. My phone pinged with a text from Jerome at seven (the crack of dawn in LA) asking the dosage for Leo’s anxiety medicine. I had the CVS app, so I brought the prescription up and screenshotted it back to Jerome, who absolutely had the same app and could have done this himself. A minute later he FaceTimed from his laptop. I was ready to answer some question about where the pharmacy was, but the Jerome on the screen was a mess. His eyes were red, his silver hair sticking up in sweaty sprigs. I said, “Have you not even been to bed yet?” I watched him