by S. F. Kosa
She honestly couldn’t tell. But after what she’d experienced the past few weeks, she felt hopeful.
When Darius stepped in front of her, she turned her face upward as if to receive a kiss of sunlight. Darius arched one eyebrow as he gave her a smile. “Are you ready, little one?”
She nodded, straightening her shoulders. She was nearly eighteen and hadn’t been a child for a very long time, but she supposed he was old enough to be her dad. The absolute focus of his attention quickened her breath.
“You’re eager for this new start,” he said.
“Yes.” She couldn’t get there fast enough.
Darius touched her cheek. “Are you sure you’re here for the right reasons?”
Food, shelter, safety, belonging, friendship? Her mouth opened, but the right answer wasn’t there. If she said yes too quickly, did that actually mean no? And if she said no, did that mean they’d have Gil drive her back to Portland, just another worthless stray? “I think I am,” she said, trying to make each syllable sound well considered and mature.
“This way of life isn’t for everyone,” he said. “I told you that.”
He had, that first night at the house. Thirteen people crammed into the living room, Darius sitting on an ottoman and talking about how this life is just a skin over the veins of real existence, how you could tap into something deeper and live off that high, how you wouldn’t need anything else ever again… She hadn’t been sure she trusted it. But when he’d talked about this place, the Retreat, this special farm and compound meant only for those willing to absolutely devote themselves night and day to the journey, it sounded like a way to stop running, to stop chipping off pieces of her soul just so she could have something to eat and a place to sleep. This wasn’t just a roof over her head and meals on the table; this was an actual family and a right way to be.
She hadn’t ever been right. Not once in her life.
Octavia had come to her one morning about a week ago and told her that usually people weren’t invited to the Retreat for months or even years, but now a bunch of them would be living there full-time, and Darius thought she had potential. She remembered the thrill of those words—he’d seen her. He’d looked at her like there was something special inside her.
Now he was questioning it for some reason. It made her chest feel like it was caving in.
“I’m here to find something more,” she said. “I can’t go back to what I had before now that I know the truth.”
Once again, he sounded amused. “You’ve only caught a glimmer, like the fire you saw through your blindfold. To know the truth requires more.”
“I’ll do anything.” The words tumbled out, more desperate than she’d intended. He hadn’t questioned either of the other two initiates like this. He’d just let them in. And now quiet, hesitant Tadeas and whiny Fabia were staring at her as if a pair of horns had sprouted from her forehead.
Her face flashed hot with a familiar kind of shame. Then she looked over at Eszter, who gave her a reassuring nod, the lifeline she needed. Blinking away sudden tears and throwing back her shoulders, she looked up at Darius. “I’ll do anything,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “Anything you ask of me. I am ready for this.”
His eyes were so dark. Piercing and inviting at the same time. “You’re ready to be reborn?”
“Yes.”
“Like a butterfly,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing a path along her cheek. “Your wings are going to spread, and everyone will see their beauty. Your real name is Parvaneh.”
Chapter Six
Bend, Oregon
December 10, present day
I park at the curb. The house looks familiar but different, same as a friend who ages visibly visit to visit, temporal snapshots that always make me keenly aware of weeks and hours and seconds, things I was trained to ignore until they became everything.
The blue paint is peeling in spots; the front gutter is rusting in places. Blades of gray-green grass poke up from the cracks in the driveway. But warm light glows from behind the curtains of the front window.
Twenty years ago, I saw this house for the first time. Martin and Hailey Rodriguez saved my life. They took me in and treated me like family. They gave me space and accepted my half-truths about the abusive family I’d run from. While the embers at the Oracles compound were still smoldering, while the bodies were still being recovered from the ashes, I watched the evening news with Hailey and Martin, acting as shocked as they were that the local cult had turned out to be even crazier than everyone thought. They gave me the new beginning I needed, and I’ve repaid them with a few texts and birthday cards, a lot of unanswered phone calls, and silence for years at a time.
I’m going to have to tell them about the name at some point, sooner rather than later. I’ll have to come clean, about that one thing at least. I’m not sure how big of a deal it’ll be; it could go either way. Hailey sounded weird on the phone, not that I blame her. This is a big ask. But everything between us since the moment we met has been that way, and she and Martin never seemed to hold it against me.
With a deep breath, I get out of my car, wincing at the pain in my back after six hours on the road. My suitcase, packed for a week, feels like it’s filled with concrete. I pull it from my trunk as the pain snakes down my legs. My run tomorrow morning is going to be a bear; I can already tell. But I need it—I didn’t move enough today, and despite the pain, I’m restless as a shaken soda.
I pull my roller bag along the walk and clumsily tug it up the two front steps to the little porch. The mat reads “Welcome! Did you bring snacks?” and it makes me smile. I ring the doorbell, and my heart begins to race. I have to remind myself of who I am, who I’ve always been, even though those two things are different. My details, my story, my memories. Sometimes it’s hard to shuffle it all together into one deck.
The door opens, and Hailey greets me with wide eyes. Her white hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she’s gained a few pounds. Her look of shock is one I’m familiar with, as are her first blurted words to me: “You’re even thinner than the last time I saw you!”
“Hi, Hailey,” I say. “It’s really nice to see you.”
She shakes off her surprise at my appearance and opens the door wider, allowing me to drag my suitcase inside. The air is laced with the scent of garlic and onions. My “adoptive” mother opens her arms to me, enfolds me in a hesitant, careful embrace. Like she thinks I might break. “It’s been so long,” she says, her voice tight with feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have come down to visit as soon as I moved back to the West Coast.”
“When I got your message that you were moving to Seattle, I was so excited, but after you said you were too busy to come down, Martin told me to give you some space. I’ve thought about you every day. But you never called!”
“I texted at Thanksgiving,” I mutter sheepishly. “I really was busy.”
She laughs. “I know I sound like a nag.”
“It’s nice to know one is missed,” I say, letting her take my bag and roll it down the hall to my old room, where I spent three terrible, wonderful years climbing out of an emotional pit as deep as the Mariana Trench. I stand in the doorway and breathe. This is the place where I put myself back together, piece by jagged piece.
I might have missed a few shards.
“It looks the same.”
“You didn’t leave much behind,” she says as she wheels my bag over to the closet.
The walls are eggshell white, the floor hardwood, the curtains blue. There’s a picture of a rocky coastline and gray, choppy sea on the wall over the bed, which is covered with a quilt Hailey made herself. “Still busy at the hospital?” I ask.
“Oh, no, I started a private practice a year or so ago, and I’ve got a ridiculous wait list! I think the population’s almost doubled since you moved away. Property v
alue’s up too. We’re booming!” She looks around. “Do you want to unpack before lunch?”
“I’m not that hungry—”
She gives me a stern look. “Don’t give me that. Martin’s coming home from the plant and everything. And it’s all vegan. I remember, you know.”
I grimace. “Me too.” How I gagged the first time she put a plate of steak in front of me. How I couldn’t stand the smell of milk. “I appreciate it.”
She squeezes my arm, frowns at the sight of her fingers, wrapped nearly all the way around my biceps. “Are you okay, Christy? I know this is a work trip, but—”
“I’m great. And I’ll be out in a few minutes. I just need to let my colleague and my boss know I’m here.”
As soon as she goes, I text Miles: I made it. Settling in.
He responds almost instantly. Thank god. So many leads that I’ll need your help tracking everything down. Meet me for a drink tonight?
Sure—what time?
9 at Dogwood Cocktail Cabin?
I’ll see you then.
I send Valentina a text letting her know I’m safe in Bend, and she tells me I’ve got three articles to copyedit by tomorrow at noon. I sigh and promise her it’ll be done, but it means I’ll have to get up before sunrise to run so I can spend the afternoon trying to figure out my game plan.
And making sure this thing stays far away from me.
With that thought, I head to the bathroom, wash my hands, and peer at myself in the mirror. Am I that different than I was? Hailey knew about my hair—we talked about it years ago. She gave me tips for makeup, since our hair was now the same color.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Martin is sitting at the breakfast bar. He’s got serious hat hair and is wearing his coveralls, and I’m struck by how he, at least, hasn’t changed much. “Hi,” I say as he turns in my direction.
He slides off his stool and envelops me in a brief, gentle hug. “Welcome home,” he says. His clothes carry the faint scent of bitter chemicals, and suddenly I remember the first time I experienced that scent, my skin clammy with sweat. You look like you’re runnin’ from a ghost, he’d said with a laugh.
He had no idea how right he was.
“Thanks,” I whisper, guilt seeping into my chest, turning me cold. “How’s life at the tire plant?”
“Well, I guess we’re hiring,” he says ruefully. “Hail told me you’re in town to report on a suspicious death—that was one of my guys.”
My stomach drops. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” And I can’t tell if it’s dangerous or helpful.
Hailey looks up from the pot she’s stirring, steam billowing up to fog her glasses. “Arnie was such a nice man. Quiet, but you could just tell there was a sweetness under there, you know? He came to a few of the summer picnics, and we’d had him and his girlfriend over at Thanksgiving a few times, including just a few weeks ago.”
Martin gives Hailey an affectionate look. “Always taking people in when they’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I know,” I murmur, nearly drowning in relief. If I’d come down for Thanksgiving and ended up face-to-face with Arnie…
Martin reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. “Arnie worked for us for ten good years. The brass gave me crap for making the hire—someone figured out he’d served some time and why—but he was a solid worker. Never missed a day.”
The table is set for three, and Hailey pulls the pot off the stove, her hands encased in holey, faded bear-paw oven mitts. She smiles when she sees me noticing them. “Remember when you gave these to me?”
“My first Christmas here,” I say quietly.
“I think of you every time I put them on.” She sets the pot on a fish-shaped trivet on the table, one I gave her my second Christmas with them. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Just water. I can get it.”
“I guess you know where things are,” Martin says gruffly, settling himself at the table. “We haven’t rearranged in twenty years.”
I grab myself a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and sink into the same seat I occupied at every meal for the three years I lived here. “You guys are really kind to let me stay.”
Martin waves me away and settles in, letting Hailey shovel a generous portion of pasta primavera onto his plate. “So you’re a reporter now?”
“No, still just a copy editor and fact-checker,” I tell him. “I’m helping out the journalist who’s working this story.”
“Do you travel a lot?” asks Hailey as she holds out her hand for my plate.
“Almost never,” I admit, nodding toward the serving spoon. “I ate a big snack on the way.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, putting way too much food on my plate and handing it back to me.
“I’m still so impressed that you became an editor,” Martin says. “Wow.”
“A copy editor,” I say. “A bit lower on the totem pole.”
He fixes me with his pale-gray eyes. “When you came to us, you didn’t even have a high school diploma.”
Thanks to them, I moved away with my GED and a semester’s worth of credits from Central Oregon Community College. “I’ve only had the job for a few months,” I say. “The site is growing, but it’s a pretty competitive industry…”
“Your boss must love you, willing to go the extra mile.”
I shrug and push my food around the plate. “So how are you guys? I know I’ve been terrible about keeping in touch.”
Their eyes meet across the table, and then Hailey turns to me. “Nothing much new,” she says, glancing at the big, framed picture in the living room, a little girl with brown curls and a huge grin. “We funded one of those memorial benches on the River Trail in her honor, finally saved up enough money.” She gives me a pained smile. “There’s a playground nearby.”
“She’d have turned forty this year,” Martin says hoarsely.
“That’s a wonderful way to remember her,” I murmur. “But I know it’s still painful.”
The loss of their only daughter is a sorrow that shaped them long before they rescued me. It may have been why they rescued me. Why they helped me for so long. Why they would have kept on helping me if I’d let them.
And it tells me one thing: I can’t tell them what I stole. Not today.
“So who’s this journalist you’re helping?” Hailey asks, her tone brightening.
“His name is Miles Connover,” I tell them. “He was at the Seattle Times for years, so he knows his craft.” It reminds me that I should have made sure he wasn’t planning to go to the library this afternoon to check the archives. The thought of what he might find is enough to make me reach for my phone.
“You said you don’t usually travel,” Hailey says, looking pointedly at my hand holding my phone. I tuck it back into my pocket. A few more minutes won’t kill me. “Why this time?”
I take a quick bite of my food to give myself a second to think. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten today. “I’ve been meaning to get down here ever since I moved back, and this was my chance. Hey—you said Arnie had a girlfriend? Do you think she’d be willing to let me interview her?” Miles is so fixated on his whole “bad math” lead, and I desperately need to offer him a shiny, new object.
Martin rolls his eyes. “Her name’s Gina,” he says. “She’s a piece of work.”
Hailey gives Martin’s arm a little slap. “Don’t be like that. She really loved him.”
“She’s convinced he was killed because of the Oracles,” Martin tells me. “Been spouting about it in our local Facebook group.”
“Can you text me her contact info?” I ask, my heart kicking.
“Will do. Maybe it’ll help her blow off some steam.”
“If you have any other leads, let me know. I’d be really grateful.”
“She should talk to Ben Ransom,”
Hailey says to Martin.
Martin sips his water and glances at me. “You remember him? About your height, with the crooked nose? Came to the block party each year, a few times with his uniform on?”
Hailey lets out a bark of laughter. “I forgot about that.” She winks at me. “I think he wanted to look important.”
“I think he mighta even had a little crush on you,” Martin says to me with a smirk.
I force a smile. I always hated the way Ben looked at me. Like he wanted something but would never come out and say what it was. “I think Miles is already talking with him.”
“I’m not sure he’s too crazy about talking to the media,” Hailey says gently. “He told me that someone leaked info to some reporter about Arnie’s death report. He was not pleased. At all.”
“Oh,” I say. “Miles was probably the one it was leaked to, full disclosure.” It’s almost laughable that I, of all people, would use that phrase.
“Well, he’s gonna have to field press requests, like it or not. We don’t get a lot of murders around here. This is a big deal,” Martin says, pushing his empty plate away. “Especially if Gina’s right about the Oracles link.”
“Yeah,” I say, dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. “Especially then.”
I sit on the bed, gazing down at the contact info for Arnold Moore’s girlfriend. I’ve already texted Miles that I found her through my folks and that I’m going to reach out to see if she might have any useful info. Much to my relief, he quickly accepts my offer, telling me he’s totally swamped. I dial her number, wincing at the metallic taste on my tongue.
“This is Gina,” she answers in a raspy voice, like she smokes a pack a day. Or maybe like she’s been crying for a week.
“Hi, Gina,” I say, clearing my throat. “My name’s Dora—I’m from the Hatchet. We’re an online news magazine, and I’m calling about Arnold Moore.”