Derrick Ward had been charged with Nelly’s murder. He claimed that one of their frequent arguments about his wife’s treatment of Maddie had gotten out of hand, when he had returned home to discover that Nelly had left her daughter in Boston. He admitted that he had been drinking heavily, and that it wasn’t the first time he had laid hands on Nelly. Maddie Ward would never be going home, but her foster placement was working well, and she remained under Ira’s care. While she was no longer Kate’s patient, she needed friends, and Kate was happy to fill those shoes.
James clambered over the edge of the cliff and joined her. “Phew. Where were all the fucking handholds? Talk about a hairy climb.”
“Nah,” she bragged. “Piece of cake.”
“Yeah right, Lara Croft.” He brushed the dirt off his hands and grinned at her. “I definitely need some new material, huh?”
She smiled at him. “You think?”
“I’m still hilarious, though, aren’t I?”
“My boyfriend is badass.”
“I’m badassical.” He grinned. He locked his arms around her waist and wove his fingers together at her tailbone. They were standing on a large sandstone overhang that dropped off precipitously over a breathtaking view. The air was thick with the heady scent of western pine.
“It’s pretty, huh?” she said.
“Beautiful.” He’d been doing a lot of crunches and dead lifts at the gym, burying his anxiety in physical activity. Athletic, tanned, handsome, as cocky as ever, James suffered in secret, she knew. He pretended to be strong for her.
There was a picture she kept in her desk drawer at work, something from Dr. Holley’s archives: an old Polaroid of Palmer Dyson’s mother taken fifty years ago at an asylum in Manchester. She looked like a cornered rat. She’d been admitted in the midst of a nervous breakdown, having just attacked her son with a pair of scissors. Luckily, none of his vital organs or major arteries had been hit. Otherwise, Palmer Dyson wouldn’t have survived to become one of the most notorious serial killers in modern history. Every day when Kate looked at that photograph, she couldn’t help wondering—how the hell did you miss his heart, you stupid woman?
She wanted to throw the Polaroid away, because it made her feel sorry for him—just a little. It kept her from hating him as completely as she wanted to. It spoke to her of inherited traits, monstrous parenting, nature versus nurture. As a child psychiatrist, she couldn’t help but feel a little empathy for the victim. Mrs. Dyson’s face revealed that the leap from sanity to insanity was separated by the thinnest of membranes.
Anyway. It was time.
Kate unzipped her backpack and took out the gifts Nikki McCormack had given her six months ago—a barnacled pair of 1950s eyeglasses, a tortoiseshell comb, a corroded compass, and last but not least, a skirt weight from the twenties.
She said a few words, then tossed them over the side, and they both watched as Nikki’s gifts disappeared into a landscape of eroded sandstone and basalt, a bleeding watercolor of burnt siennas, terracottas, and yellow ochers. They landed without a sound.
James was watching her closely, looking for signs of trouble. “You okay?”
Kate panicked for a moment. What could she say? No? I’ll never be okay again?
She blurted out, “Will you marry me?”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she waited for several awkward seconds before he emitted a surprised hoot of laughter. “Whoa. Did you just ask me to marry you?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I thought it was time.”
“You amaze me,” he said.
She smiled so hard, her cheeks hurt.
“I’ll marry you on one condition: I want my ring back. Then I’m going to ask you properly, like a prop-pah British gentleman, and slip that ring on your finger, and see if it stays put. I want to see what happens when it’s an actual engagement ring.”
“That is so manipulative of you,” she said with a laugh.
“I can’t help it. I have a scientific curiosity about your finger.”
“Really? Guess which finger I’m holding up now?”
He smoothed his hand down her cheek and cupped it lovingly. “My girlfriend is gorgeous.”
That night in bed, he held onto her and refused to let go.
The world felt fragile, full of lacy edges you could drop off of. She wanted closure. To put an end to these agonizing road trips down memory freaking lane. She had managed to slay the monster, but he’d transformed her into a killer. She was changed forever.
* * *
3:00 AM. Kate lay in bed and gazed out the hotel window at downtown Seattle. Tomorrow was the last day of their vacation. They’d be heading back to Boston to resume their lives. Only now there would be a wedding to plan. Funny how the world kept spinning.
She lay awake, waiting for dawn. Her breathing and James’s sounded perfectly synchronous. He’d fallen asleep on his stomach, with his left arm tucked under his pillow so that, in the morning, he’d complain about the tingling sensation in his fingers. Like always. People were nothing if not predictable.
She closed her eyes and saw it again. The twisted burnt body. She could soak her eyes in bleach and it would never go away.
She woke up with a gasp. She hadn’t even been aware of dropping off.
James caught her. He always caught her. “Hey, sweetie. You okay?”
“Scary dream.” She rolled closer to him.
He gathered her to him with tenderness, and they gazed at the city lights. Once in a while, the earth tipped over, and the truth got really ugly. But it could also set you free. The world revealed its colors. And it was shining brightly on the other side.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Titan Books for this bright, new beginning.
My extraordinary agent, Jill Marr, for her exhilarating honesty, wisdom and passion. Thanks, Jill, for getting the best out of me.
My editor at Titan, Miranda Jewess, for her keen eye and meticulous insights.
My Rights Manager, Andrea Cavallaro, for her mad skills.
The exceptional Sandra Dijkstra, and the great team at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, including book-whisperer Derek McFadden.
The essential team at Titan Books, including Sam Matthews, Katharine Carroll, Lydia Gittins, and Joanna Harwood.
Doris Jackson, for helping me untangle my past.
Christopher Leland and Peter LaSalle for inspiring me at a critical time in my life.
My father, who taught me how to see the world. I miss you, Dad.
My family for surviving and thriving.
My brother, Carter. Thank you, Super-8 collaborator, you nudged me over the finish line.
My gifted husband, Doug. High hopes on my windowsill. I met you and I lost my will.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALICE BLANCHARD won the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction for her book of stories, The Stuntman’s Daughter. Her first novel, Darkness Peering, was named one of the New York Times Book Review’s Notable Books. Her second novel, The Breathtaker, was an official selection of the NBC Today Book Club. Alice has received a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award, a New Letters Literary Award, and a Centrum Artists in Residence Fellowship.
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Two solar eclipses. Two missing girls. Sixteen years ago a little girl was abducted during the darkness of a solar eclipse while her older sister Cassie was supposed to be watching her. She was never seen again. When a local girl goes missing just before the next big eclipse, Cassie – who has returned to her home town to care for her ailing grandmother – suspects the disappearance is connected to her sister: that whoever took Olive is still out there. But she needs to find a way to prove it, and time is running out.
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