by S. F. Kosa
Tadeas came running out of the barn with a shovel. Kazem explained its purpose as Parvaneh took it from him. “Does she want us to be there?” Tadeas asked.
Parvaneh thought back to what Eszter had said, the way she’d begun to question everything. “She asked that it just be her and me.” Until Eszter’s mind was in the right place, she shouldn’t be speaking to anyone except someone who’d protect her, who wouldn’t let those doubts be known.
Tadeas nodded. “Tell her we love her, and we’re here.”
“Tell her to drink and eat too,” said Kazem. His nostrils flared. “Or she’ll be on that altar again soon.”
The urge to vomit was rising again. Shovel in hand, Parvaneh ran to the shed next to the dining hall where they stored fabric Beetah used to make the robes. She cut a big square from one of the big rolls of cloth and then returned to the dorm. Eszter had combed her hair and tied a scrap of fabric torn from her robe around the baby’s head, making a little bow. It was one of the saddest things Parvaneh had ever seen, but she smiled and said, “That’s so nice.” She gave Eszter a once-over. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I could—”
“I need to be there when she goes into the ground,” Eszter said. “I want her to know I was there.”
Parvaneh led them out to the woods. “Should I run back and ask someone where we should—”
“Over there,” Eszter said dreamily. She looked ghoulish in the sunlight, like the beams avoided her round, white face instead of caressing it with warmth. She was pointing to the base of a slender pine surrounded by golden needles. “It’s a nice spot. Last summer, I liked to sit there when I had a break, just to meditate in the quiet.”
“That sounds like the place.” Parvaneh marched over to it and began to dig, her thoughts on the slice and whisper of the shovel through needles and earth, the stark smell of the dirt, the hole that grew bigger with each passing moment. Eszter stood next to her, humming as she gazed down at her daughter. After a few minutes, Parvaneh was panting and aching and worried she was going to throw up right into the hole she’d worked so hard to dig. Eszter was busy wrapping the baby in the cloth, still singing. She looked broken and clumsy and beautiful, all at the same time.
“Do you think that’s enough?” she finally asked Eszter. The hole was about two feet wide and just as deep, and she knew it wasn’t good enough for a grave, but she wasn’t sure she could do much more without falling over in exhaustion.
“It’s fine,” Eszter whispered. She hugged her daughter to her chest one more time, which was when Parvaneh noticed the wet blotches on Eszter’s chest. Milk, she realized. She leaned against the tree as the raw pain and the scent of it sunk in, as Eszter laid her baby in the ground and whispered words that Parvaneh knew she’d never forget for as long as she lived, in such contrast to her own childhood, her own mother. Eszter murmured about the adventures they could have had together, the way they would have loved each other, the secrets they could have shared. After a long moment, Eszter sat back. “Go ahead,” she said, folding her arms over her damp chest.
“Kazem told me you were burying it” came a voice from behind them. Darius was standing near a tree maybe twenty feet away. Parvaneh had no idea how long he’d been there. A shiver ran through her; he looked drawn and sad and eerily still. Fear tingled in her chest; she hadn’t told him they were doing this, and she had no idea what he was thinking.
Eszter turned to him. “She’s gone now,” she said simply.
Darius watched them for a moment, his gaze flitting between them. Then he opened his arms wide, offering a hug. Parvaneh stepped toward him, relieved to have the comfort, but he shook his head. “Eszter needs me.” He focused on her. “Come here. You’ve been so brave. So committed. You are a treasure to us. And to me.”
Eszter looked down at the milk blotches on her chest. Then she raised her head and stared at Darius with a blank, unreadable expression.
Darius made a sorrowful, comforting sound and closed the distance between them. He pulled her against him, letting the wetness reach him. “I feel it too,” he whispered. “We made her, and she would have held a beautiful soul. I feel it too.”
Eszter pressed her face to his chest and sobbed. Darius dismissed Parvaneh with a jerk of his head, and so she left them there next to the open grave, shovel lying next to the pile of dirt she’d pulled from the ground. Dizzy now, unable to hold on to a single coherent thought, she trudged back to the women’s dorm, one feeling finally rising above the rest.
She lurched into the bathroom and dove into a stall just in time. It felt like someone had reached inside her and clenched a fist around her stomach, squeezing until there was nothing left. When she finally got to her feet, flushed, hoping for the stars floating in front of her to fade, she heard running water in the sink beyond the stall. She emerged, feeling like a trapped animal.
Ladonna stood by a sink, holding a cup of water. She offered it to Parvaneh, who accepted it gratefully. After she’d rinsed out her mouth, she straightened and met Ladonna’s piercing gaze. “You’re sick?” Ladonna asked.
Parvaneh shrugged. “It’s been a stressful few days.”
Ladonna tilted her head. “When was the last time you had a period?”
Another shrug. “They’ve never been regular. A few months, I guess.”
“And now you’re feeling nauseated.”
Parvaneh leaned on the sink. “A little?”
Ladonna walked from the room, leaving Parvaneh to refill her water glass. Ladonna came back a second later carrying a small rectangular box, which she handed to Parvaneh.
“A pregnancy test?”
“We keep some on hand.” Ladonna’s mouth twisted. “You didn’t think you were special, did you? It was only a matter of time.”
Her head buzzing, Parvaneh went back into a stall. Read the instructions on the package. Peed on the stick. Waited, snatches of worry and hope tangling in her skull like a nest of snakes. She had wondered if this might happen, had known it could; it wasn’t as if Darius ever used a condom. But for some reason, she hadn’t spent much time thinking about it—there had been too many other things to think about lately, so much work, so many chores, so much meditation. And as she watched the little lines form on the test wand, first one, then another, all she could think about was Eszter and her baby. The awful vulnerability, the soggy, aching sorrow.
She was going to have a child, and all she could feel was terror.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bend, Oregon
December 13, present day
My buzzing phone yanks me from a dream of tiny graves, small holes and huge mounds of earth next to them, row after row and a shovel in my hand. My throat is tight with grief. Blinking back tears, I check my screen. It’s almost nine, and Miles is calling, which is good. I forgot what I was supposed to tell him last night.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did I wake you up?”
“I don’t usually sleep this late.”
“You’re usually out running, right? Did the doctor say when you’d be able to get at it again?”
“Hopefully soon.” Maybe never again. Depressed at the thought, I sit up. “What are you up to?”
“Headed into my meeting with the sheriff. But I wanted to tell you—I heard from Noah Perry. He said you were editing a story for him? He said it’s taking you a while to get to it and asked if I was willing to read it. Claims it’s big. The balls on this kid, right?”
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. Honestly, I thought that child-survivor angle was unique—are you sure that’s not where you want to focus?”
From the rush of background noise, I can tell he’s driving. “They’ve formed this little club, which is great. But two of three known adult survivors have been murdered, and if I’m right, it’s this ritualistic thing, you know? Driven by resentment a mile deep. I don’t see how those ki
ds would be real suspects.” He makes an annoyed sound. “Honestly, I’m not sure authorities have any idea what they’re dealing with here. But if I’m right, they need to find Shari Redmond and warn her, because she’s next.”
A chill runs down my spine. She might be next…but I seem to be on the killer’s list too. And I can’t tell anyone unless I want to out myself. Suddenly I feel trapped, at the bottom of one of those graves with dirt pouring down.
“You still there?” Miles asks.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Have you tried to locate Shari Redmond?”
“No luck so far.” Because she’d tell him. I know she would. Unless I can convince her not to, and maybe we could protect ourselves together. “I’ll keep trying. But in the meantime, the child survivors—”
“Valentina said I need to drill down, not cast a wider net. That guy Maxwell Jennings—I finally got around to calling him. And it’s the funniest thing. I spoke to him just now, and he told me he met with you in person yesterday.”
“I meant to mention that,” I babble. “He had some written records, and I wanted to vet the stuff for you first.”
“You could have told me he had contemporaneous records—that’s huge.”
“You know, with my wrist and everything—”
“I get it,” he says. “I’m just under some pressure here, and we know there are two missing bodies that could well be missing survivors, and Max told me he has records for all of them. Stuff he never shared with authorities. If we can convince him to make this stuff public, it’s huge. I’ve got a videoconference with him later today.”
And Max has figured out that I’ve got some of his records. “Are you sure he’s legit, Miles? I mean, why would he have held on to this stuff for so long?”
“Dora…you literally just met with him.”
“And he’s a total drunk. Went through three double IPAs in about an hour, and—”
“I hit that mark a few days ago at Deschutes Brewery,” he says with a laugh. “I already like this guy.”
“But he’d probably been at it for a while before I even got there,” I continue. “He’s got a stack of old papers with a bunch of scribbles on them, and for all I know, half of it is made up. He seemed a little…I don’t know. Shady.”
“Like Arnie’s girlfriend, Gina?”
I hear the suspicion in his voice, and it scares me to death. “Different flavor of crazy,” I mutter.
“I guess I’ll see for myself in a few hours. I’ll check in later. Let me know if you find Shari.”
He ends the call, and I sit there, gazing down at my phone. Something’s different, and it’s my own stupid fault. I’ve been careless.
I pull Max’s page of notes from my bag. The page that could end me. Handwritten more than twenty years ago, lying dormant and deadly this entire time. Slowly, I tear the page into strips, separating flesh from bone, numbers from words, before names from after names, the living and the dead. Like a zombie, I shuffle over to the bathroom, still ripping the page into smaller pieces. Then I stand over the toilet and let the fragments of my past flutter into the water. I flush it, watch the ink and paper swirl, and know I’ve done something unforgivable.
But it’s just one more unforgivable thing in a mountain of them.
Still in a trance, I take a shower, thinking about Noah. Miles has shut down the child-survivor angle, but I have my own reasons for wanting to know more. I recall those children, some more than others. One in particular. I remember what I did to him, in those final hours, in that final moment. It’s something I’ve tried not to think about for twenty years, but now it’s coming back. Maybe, out of this horrific mess, I can get a tiny serving of peace. Maybe Noah can give me answers he doesn’t even realize he has. I text him and tell him I’ll meet him for lunch. His response is lightning fast. Awesome! Root Down in half an hour?
After showering, popping a small handful of vitamin I, and checking my email and texts—nothing from Hailey or Martin; maybe they’ve finally given up on me, which is exactly what I deserve—I drive to the café to meet Noah.
To my surprise, he’s not alone. As I slowly get out of my car, he and Arman are standing in the parking lot, waiting for me.
“Hey,” says Noah. “Did you read my story yet?”
“Sorry. I’ve been superbusy.”
A flash of anger crosses his face and is gone so quickly that I almost wonder if I imagined it. He smiles. Glances at Arman. “I guess you’ll get to it when you get to it. But I’m serious, it’s big. Anyway, I’m starving. How about you?”
“I could eat,” I say cautiously, giving Arman a questioning look.
He gives me a baby-faced smile. “I asked Noah if I could tag along.”
Noah leads us inside, snags us a table, and flirts with the young woman behind the counter while Arman and I peruse the menu. I order a chickpea salad, and Noah orders a bulgogi tofu sandwich. Arman orders the tofu yakisoba. The young woman, beaming at Noah, gives us our order number, and we sit down to wait. “Arman’s actually the reason I’m in Bend,” Noah says. “One guess why.”
Arman blushes. I peer at him, realizing once again there is something strangely familiar in the shape of his eyes, the narrow bridge of his nose. My heart lurches. “On my god,” I whisper. “Are you…?”
“A child of Darius,” Noah says, even as Arman opens his mouth to answer for himself. He lowers his voice as the young woman sets our food in front of us; this time, Noah is oblivious to her charms. “Arman’s my contact for the group.”
Which one is he? Which one? I focus on Arman. “How long have you known?”
Arman glances at Noah, who nods. As if giving permission. “My mother told me when I was twelve maybe?”
“Whoa,” I say, still looking at him greedily, still trying to imagine which tiny kid he might have been. “That’s young to discover that kind of heritage.”
His smooth forehead puckers as his brows draw together. “It just came up one day, and I guess I asked the right questions. She adopted me when I was about two.”
“Do you have any idea who your birth mother was?” My brain is churning as I try to place him. Could he be Kyra’s baby? Or maybe Roya’s? The longer I look at him, the more familiar he seems.
He shakes his head, focusing on his noodles.
I poke at my chickpea salad. “How did you find the Children of Darius group?” I ask.
Noah is practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh, he didn’t find the group. He created it.”
Arman nods, looking shy but gratified. “It was a few years ago. For a while, I was all alone,” he says. “I felt like a loser.”
My heart goes out to him. “How did you find others?”
He fidgets with his napkin, tearing off a strip. “Just on some genealogy sites. Not an advertisement, but I put out a notification for anyone who might be part of my extended genetic family.”
“Which sites?” I ask. “I didn’t know you could do something like that.”
“I mentioned one in my story,” Noah says. He’s polished off his sandwich and still looks hungry. Then again, he always looks a little like that.
“Do any of the other children of Darius live in Bend?” I ask.
Arman shakes his head. “They’re all over now.”
Memories of those babies and toddlers are rushing back, their chubby cheeks and soft hair, their shrieks of delight when Basir would blow soap bubbles for them outside the dining hall on summer days. “They’re all grown up,” I murmur.
“We’re still trying to get them all together, maybe next month,” Noah says.
“How did you two meet?” I ask. Because it suddenly occurs to me that they’ve never said. Their relationship seems more than journalist-source. Noah’s clearly the boss, and Arman seems like the puppy dog, tagging along. “You’re said you’re not in school togeth
er.”
“We met as I was researching the story,” Noah says. “He’s on the custodial crew over at Mount Bachelor. A local, born and raised. You too, right, Dora? Miles said something about you staying with your folks.”
“I’m at a hotel,” I say. “It’s actually really close to this place. You picked the perfect spot.”
“Bend’s not very big,” says Arman.
“It’s amazing how such a small place can be home to such a grisly history, right?” Noah’s eyes meet mine, bright blue and intense. “And I’m constantly finding new angles to this story, like this anniversary. It’s drawing people out of the woodwork, you know?” He looks over at Arman. “Wouldn’t you say? I mean, this is your past.”
Arman smiles. “You’re right,” he says, turning to me. “Would you like to come with us to get ice cream?” He glances at my cast. “We can all drive together.”
“Great idea,” says Noah, slapping Arman on the back. “We can take this conversation on the road. A moveable feast. Where’s the best place in town to get the creamy goodness?”
“Lots of good places,” says Arman, ripping another strip from his napkin. His meal is only half-eaten, but he’s still done better than I have.
“Yeah, but which is your favorite?” Noah asks.
“I don’t know,” says Arman. “I don’t really have one. Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.” He gets up and heads for the unisex at the back.
“Alone at last,” says Noah. “Any idea when you’ll get to the new story?”
I force down a bite of my chickpea salad. It tastes okay; I’m just not hungry, even though I know I need to eat. “This afternoon, I promise,” I say. “It’s been a lot.” I lift my casted arm.
Noah looks a little crestfallen. “I thought you might really want to read it.” Another piercing gaze. “Or that Miles might if you didn’t.”
“I know it feels really urgent,” I tell him. “But if it’s as good as you think, it’s going to be big no matter when we read it. This anniversary isn’t the deadline, Noah. Good material is timeless.