Ella hadn’t told her aunt what the second suitcase contained. She worried Vivi would find it too sentimental or impractical, that what she had left of her mother would be whisked away—bagged up like all their other things and given to Goodwill to be hung on racks, ready for the start of someone else’s new life.
Her aunt turned off the country road onto a neat city block lined with cobblestone sidewalks that wove among a series of delicate shops and chic cafés.
Ella had never lived in a small town. Her mother had liked the chaos of tall buildings and eccentric people, stray dogs and cheap delis, run down tennis courts where no one cared what you wore when you played. She’d liked to get lost in a crowd.
Because of this, Ella had no reference for what a small town might be. She’d expected Napper to be a place like in the movies—quaint, but dusty—a short main street with old men playing checkers near the barbershop.
In reality, Napper was an oversized country club—an escape for retired businessmen, wealthy entrepreneurs, and a few hippy environmentalists who came from families with plenty of money to indulge the habit. As they drove further out, huge houses nestled themselves into hilly lots, large lawns draped across the landscape like lush Victorian dresses.
Occasionally, as they drove, Ella noticed a gardener planting trees or grooming the lawn. And she’d seen the cornfields that framed the land outside the city. Ella had lived long enough to know what that meant. There was another part of town—smaller, dingier, and filled with the poor that supplied the babysitters and lawn services for the rich.
Vivi turned onto a gated road that led up a hill. Trotting up the side of the street was a large, scruffy dog. Vivi gave it a glance, and scowled.
Brick houses marched along on either side of the tidy street. The lots weren’t huge and they weren’t as posh as many they’d seen on their way through Napper, but they were nicer than anything Ella had imagined having in her life. She swallowed the lump that threatened to overtake her throat, and took several deep breaths.
The doctor had been waiting for over a week for the test to come back. Positive. Just as his employer had expected.
Now, he held the small vial of blood between his fingers in the same way he did his favorite Merlot before taking a sip.
After a few minutes he set the vial down and sat to make a few notes. On his computer, he wrote, “Cause of death: accidental trauma to the head.” But on a neat, white slip of paper, he scribbled,
PTr4, confirmed strain, pure
Pt dcd. 1 remain.
This he slipped into a dull white envelope, which he sealed neatly and dropped into the post before heading home for his evening Chardonnay.
When you barely had a place to live, there was never much room left in the budget for things like cars or mopeds or bikes. Each day Sam’s dad took their old minivan out to sell vacuums, leaving Sam with nothing more than his own two feet. That was good enough.
In the weeks before school started, Sam had run Napper up and down. His body was light and long, and his legs carried him past parks and over bridges, to the high school he would soon attend and around the large border of The Property. He’d run all along the wealthy stretch of restaurants with outdoor dining where people could eat better food than Sam had ever tasted—their leashed dogs sitting obediently by their sides. The cafés had handwritten menus outside their doors, while shops packaged their goods in bags that women were just as proud to carry down the street as their designer purses.
And then he’d run down the natty strip of fast food restaurants on the south side of town. At that end were the tire shops and resale stores, broken-down gas stations, dollar stores, and an old second-hand shop with several couches that had been left to sit out in the rain.
Almost every day, his jog led him to the Napper Psychiatric Institution. Sam thought they should have called it The Mr. Hyde—hulking, gray, and twisting, it dwarfed the more conservative Napper Hospital by a good bit.
The good city of Napper, apparently, had sick people of mostly one variety—a fact so intriguing and disturbing that Sam found himself drawn to the building like the sun to its dark stone exterior. The lawns were perfectly green with pathways that led through manicured gardens and around a large duck pond, home to several flocks of white geese—preening in the sun like lab assistants transformed by an evil witch.
If you were crazy, Napper was definitely the place to be. You would probably have the most comfortable crazy person life of anyone in the United States.
Sam wasn’t the only one drawn to the public paths. Dozens of runners trotted along the garden loops that made figure eights around the Institution. The runners wore black spandex and bright shoes, Oakley sunglasses and designer visors.
Sam wore jeans or sometimes his one pair of basketball shorts with a torn up t-shirt that said, “Virginia is for lovers.” He might as well have been running naked. Whenever he passed the other runners—and he always passed the other runners—they would look at him, slowing their pace, as though worried that the Napper Psychiatric Institution had finally loosened its granite grip, allowing one lonely, lost soul to slip through and break free.
Chapter 4
Vivi’s house was layers of black. The walls were gray with paintings of modern art framed in black. The countertops were marbled charcoal granite, which matched the shiny dark tiles that marched in obedient formations along the kitchen floor. The carpets in the main rooms were white and creamy, which only accented the black, making it stark and striking. In the center of the largest room sat a shiny black grand piano. It looked as though it was not meant to be played.
In many ways the house was just like Vivi herself. Ella’s aunt was beautiful. She had nearly black hair with eyes that seemed to swim between brown and gray. Her skin was pale, but perfect, like someone came in and airbrushed her every morning. Ella could tell Vivi wore mascara, but otherwise it seemed that all her untouched features were natural. Her lips were dark and smooth as was her voice. She answered every question Ella asked, smiled when smiles were due, and behaved just as perfectly as she looked. But that was all. Otherwise she lacked color, interest, contrast. With Vivi, it was all form and no flair.
Ella took off her shoes, though her aunt hadn’t asked her to, and followed Vivi from room to room. The main floor included a living room, kitchen, office, and some kind of parlor. Below them was an unfinished basement that smelled like fresh-cut wood. Upstairs were three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.
Ella took a deep breath and padded after her aunt, down the hall, to the room that was to be her own. Ella had never once in her life had her own room. For years, she had even slept in her mother’s double bed, though at about age twelve, her mother had bought her her own twin mattress, which they’d crammed into the small bedroom they still shared.
One bed, one bath, mice optional—that’s what her mom had always joked when they went to find a new apartment.
Looking at Vivi’s house, the joke didn’t seem funny anymore.
Ella’s room was just like the rest of the house—the bed draped in a black bedspread with white and gold accents along the edges. The dresser and end table were dark black with a metallic square-shaped lamp next to them. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room—the kind of mirror that stood up on its own and didn’t need to be screwed onto a door or wall. Ella stared at her reflection.
Behind her, her aunt smiled into the mirror—thirty-two perfect teeth lined up in two impeccable rows. “Will it work?” Vivi asked.
What could Ella say? No, would you share your bed with me and put some mice in the walls.
“It’s amazing,” Ella replied, which was absolutely true.
There were three paintings in the room—one with stark, gray lines that ran up and down in abstract spears, one like a gray and white checkerboard, and one with a huge, red sun rising over a crooked tree silhouetted at the corner. It gave Ella the chills.
“Way cool,” she said to her aunt, who only nodded
—the same smile in the same way it always was.
Her aunt set down the suitcases. “Well, you must be tired,” she said, turning to leave.
Ella nodded.
Alone in the room, Ella turned two circles and then she felt it—the surge of tears she’d been trying to contain for the last thirty minutes.
Her mother had never been very fashionable, but she had had an artistic heart. She’d splashed their apartment with bright paintings from garage sales and pictures set in funky frames. She’d packed their walls with old shelves that she filled with thrift store paperbacks and large, interesting rocks.
Looking at the crisp, blank edges of her new room, Ella wanted to throw herself down on the dark, silky pillowcase and have a good cry. But the pillowcase wasn’t one that invited crying. Or daydreaming. Or anything else, except perhaps good sleep and well-rested skin. So Ella sat cross-legged next to her suitcase, took out her mother’s old jewelry box, and quietly sobbed into her palms.
In the last seventy-five years, the old gentleman had received that slip of paper in the mail only two times. The first chance had been lost—taken from him by two interferers. Since then many other interferers had come and gone—some intent on changing his plans; others who wished to steal them. The most recent of the interferers called himself the Rogue.
The old gentleman supposed that the Rogue might attempt to get the stone from the doctor. Because of this, he would send one of the council to make sure it arrived safely. The doctor could be trusted only so far as his wallet was fat. And the gentleman could not risk letting this chance fall through his fingers as it had so many years ago.
He slid the slip of paper from its envelope and tucked it into his lapel pocket before picking up the steaming cup of Earl Gray. Whether this Rogue was the same killer who two weeks ago had shot a member of his council remained to be seen. But he could do without a council.
What he could not do without was the stone.
Or the child.
Sam sat in his homeroom and looked around. The girl to his left was hot. She hadn’t looked at him yet. The kid to his right didn’t even know he was there and wouldn’t until Mr. Oblivious had flunked his first few math tests. Then, suddenly, Sam would become very important to him. And the goth/punk chick behind him already hated his guts. He could tell by the dramatic sigh as soon as she sat down.
Not a single friend. Just like his last school. And the one before that.
Sam didn’t see the brunette slip in and sit in the corner—didn’t notice the gray polo or the expression that said, Nobody notice me, please.
He didn’t have to because other people noticed her. Not Princess Hottie or Mr. Oblivious—not yet anyway, but Gothy got another good sigh on, tapping her pencil repeatedly against her desk.
Sam turned around to see what her deal was. When he turned, he could see that she was sneering, not at him, but at a girl in the corner who was wearing scuffed up shoes that she’d tucked under her seat. Gothy’s boots were brand new—black and purposefully distressed, but clearly expensive.
Sam figured those boots had probably cost a couple hundred bucks—a month of rent in Montgomery Mansion Trailer Park.
He couldn’t help himself. “Nice boots. You ride?”
She ignored him, but he kept on. “I mean, they’re motorcycle boots, right? My dad used to ride.”
She turned her face just slightly towards him, a deep blush rising up from her neck, though her jaw was clenched. “I just like boots,” she said, then pulled out her books and looked down, clearly annoyed at being called out.
Of course she didn’t ride a motorcycle. Of course she didn’t ride anything except maybe her daddy’s beamer on her way to school.
Sam looked away from her.
In the corner, the girl in gray stared at the bulletin board to her left, but Sam hadn’t missed the quick smile. It was a smile that reminded him of someone.
Chapter 5
Dr. Murray stood outside the pawn shop and held the sleek, round stone in his smooth, white hands. It was not a precious metal—not gold, platinum, copper, or even silver—though there was something very silver-like about it. Murray wondered why his employer was willing to pay such a high price for it, but he didn’t dare take the stone to a jeweler. His employer had too many connections to the jewelry world, and Murray didn’t want him to know he was asking questions. Instead, Murray hoped that the man at the pawn shop would be able to tell him why the stone was valuable.
Unfortunately, the guy in the flannel and jeans across the counter was ignoring him—hunched over an old coin, looking through a magnifying glass that was held to his eye.
“Excuse me,” the doctor said. “I was wondering if I could talk to the owner.”
“You already are,” the guy replied without looking up from his coin.
Murray cleared his throat. “My mom just died and when I was cleaning out her things, I found this.” He put the stone on the counter. “I’m not sure if it’s valuable or not. It looks kind of like silver.”
The owner of the pawn shop finished examining his coin and then put it in a case and stepped toward Dr. Murray. He picked up the stone, weighted it in his hand, examined it under a jeweler’s light, then touched it with a magnet. “Interesting piece,” he began. “It seems to be some type of natural stone and it may have a few veins of silver and maybe some other metals running through it, but I’m not really sure what it is.” He held it close to his face. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I could do an acid test on it, but that probably wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“I see,” Dr. Murray said. “So it’s not a metal you recognize.”
“Correct,” the man said, setting the stone down on the counter. “I could give you a couple bucks for the busted up chain that’s holding it—that is sterling silver, but I’m not really willing to take a risk on the actual stone. Pretty cool though. Nice memento of your mother.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes,” the doctor said, taking the stone back. “So—to you this is only worth a few dollars?”
“To me it’s worth nothing. I’m not sure I could sell it, and I couldn’t scrap it with my other metals. I’ll give you a couple bucks for the silver chain though. That I can scrap and sell.”
“Well, no, that’s okay,” the doctor said. “Thank you for your time.”
He walked out of the shop and got into his car. He didn’t know why someone would be willing to pay half a million dollars for something worth less than the metal chain that held it, and he didn’t care. He was driving to Napper today.
Ella noticed the signs a few days after her arrival. They were yellow with a vicious-looking wolf that had an X stamped over it. At the bottom was a plea to write your congressmen and “stop the wolves.”
When Ella asked Vivi about the signs at dinner, her aunt just waved her hand. “Oh, it’s just political stuff. Napper is supposed to be the newest site for introducing the Gevudan wolf. It’s kind of controversial.” Vivi set down two dry-looking chicken breasts and a bowl of mushy green beans.
Ella could remember her mother reading obsessively about the progress of the gray wolf reintroduction in the West. Her mother had told her that before that, the government had attempted to introduce red wolves into the Smoky Mountains, but it hadn’t worked.
“I didn’t even know wolves were indigenous to the Midwest,” Ella said. “I mean, are they?”
“Well, yes and no,” Vivi said, scooping some more soggy beans onto her plate. “That’s part of the controversy actually. None have lived here in the last several centuries, but recently a large body of evidence was discovered that seems to indicate that a genus of wolf used to inhabit this region. Regional scientists are very excited about it. The Gevudan are a Eurasian wolf. In fact, for the re-introduction—if it happens—they’ll be bringing them over from France.”
Vivi seemed kind of excited about it, but it sounded crazy to Ella. “So, the wolves lived here hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago, but they’re still goin
g to re-introduce them?”
“Sure,” Vivi said.
“But isn’t that sort of what made the Smoky Mountain reintroduction so unsuccessful—the wolves died off for natural reasons, not because of hunting by humans?”
Vivi set her fork down and looked at Ella. “You know a lot about wolves for a teenager. I’m impressed.”
“Mom was kinda into that stuff.”
Vivi nodded.
“So, seriously, why do they think it will work?” Ella asked. She didn’t know why it seemed so interesting, but wolves in Napper—it was probably the coolest thing she’d heard about the city yet.
Vivi paused over her meal before answering. “Even though the wolves have been gone for a long time, there is evidence that they were pushed off this land by an outside force—perhaps some ancient peoples. So it seems they were eliminated through hunting, just hunting that happened a really long time ago.”
Ella shook her head and smiled. “Still sounds crazy. And the government is bringing them in from Europe?”
“Well,” Vivi said, hesitating. “No, not the government. The wolves will be brought over by a private party, a wealthy naturalist who lives here.”
“So it’s not a government reintroduction plan?” Ella asked, pushing the gristle from her chicken to the side.
“No,” Vivi said. “The wolves have been gone for too long for the government to invest in reintroduction. But certain individuals are very interested in the idea. And Charles Napper, whose family founded the town, is one of them. He’s paying to have them brought over.”
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