It was the makeup. The stupid makeup. It all seemed so silly after the accident. Molly had asked permission to wear eye shadow earlier that morning, but Miriam had put her foot down. No, Molly was not even twelve; she would not be wearing makeup anytime soon. End of story. Of course Molly would never have told her mother that she was competing with Karen Young for the attention of Jacob Jenkins. Instead, she gave the silent treatment—no “I love you” as she ran out of the house, no last hug, no final glance. She had to avoid her father’s gaze after they returned from the hospital, because he had no idea about the fight. All she had in her head were visions of him kicking her out of the house, into the blustery snow.
The day of the funeral, Molly wore a pink dress. It had been her mother’s favorite color. A few of the funeral guests balked, as if the bright color were some big mistake. She had been doing her best to honor her mother, but all she ended up feeling were people’s judgmental eyes. By the time the coffin had been wheeled into the hearse and the funeral guests were swallowing their stale lunch in the church basement, Molly felt as though she were in a coffin herself. Without asking permission from her father, she stood up from the lunch table, grabbed her coat, and walked up the stairs. She pulled the coat as far down as she could to cover what showed of her pink dress.
Sitting on the front steps of the church, her rear end numb from the freezing cement, Molly stared at the hearse’s dark windows and cried. It was the worst moment of her life up until that point, knowing that the body lying inside that silly automobile—inside that silly coffin—was all that remained of her mother.
I’m not sure I can do this drummed in Molly’s head over and over. And then, after a length of time measured only by her painfully cold ears, Jacob Jenkins’s voice cut into her grief like an angelic knife.
“You’re going to freeze your eyes shut.”
He had slipped out of the church and into the freezing cold day without a sound. When Molly turned to smack him in the shins for sneaking up on her, he was standing with straight and somber posture, hands buried in his threadbare jacket pockets. His strawberry blond hair glowed against the afternoon sun, somehow reminding Molly that there were good things yet to experience in the world.
“What are you talking about?” She asked it like a demand.
“It’s six degrees out. You’re going to freeze your eyes shut if you keep crying.”
Molly hadn’t even noticed that he was already correct; her tears were getting crunchy. An unexpected burst of joy filled her heart. Jacob cared for her; he really did. And that particular day was so surreal that Molly accepted it as love—whatever type they were capable of. They had lived next-door to each other their whole lives. They had no siblings. They had shared everything.
“Why are you out here?” Molly asked him.
“Came to see the hearse. This was my first funeral.”
“Mine too.” She wiped her crunchy tears. “Are you going to the burial?”
“Yep. My mom says we have to.”
Molly stared at the hearse; Jacob continued to stand; their floating breath kept them company. Finally, Molly peeled a thin layer of ice off the step she was sitting on. She threw it to the sidewalk below, where it shattered into frozen dust.
“Do you think . . .” Jacob started, then shook his head. Molly pried her eyes from the hearse windows and looked at him, waiting. He sighed. “Whatever. Never mind.”
“Do I think what?”
“Just . . . never mind. It’s stupid.” He jumped to his feet.
“Jacob, do I think what?”
“Seriously, nothing. I’m going to go grab another sandwich. I think your dad was looking for you, too.” He walked briskly toward the door, the way he did when he was embarrassed.
She pulled her skirt out from under her coat and over her knees. Jacob hadn’t made her feel stupid for wearing pink, which meant more to her that afternoon than she could ever have put into words. What she would have given for him to stay with her on those steps, she could never have said. Instead, her parting words were—
“SEE YOU AT THE CEMETERY.”
Jonathan hung Molly Butler’s words on silence, and Winifred Flite sipped her Bloody Mary. For a long moment, the old video of her son’s session with the now-retired Dr. Coyle conveyed only a confused, nine-year-old boy sitting patiently, waiting for another question.
It was midmorning on August 12, 2037. The video was now almost eight years old.
Winifred adjusted the clear, fragile pair of ActoGlasses on her nose and decided a sip wasn’t enough. She downed the whole Bloody Mary, then thought perhaps it might be time for breakfast. She kept the glasses on as she prepared her oatmeal (and mixed another Bloody). In her left peripheral vision, where she had positioned the video panel, the much younger version of her son—his hair was lighter blond then—sat in a chair, clutching a closed paperback book. Bleak House by Dickens, it looked like. Quite a tome for a nine-year-old.
Dr. Coyle continued his questions. This had been one of the few times he got Jonathan to talk at length about the Idle County Seven.
“And does it make you sad to think about your friend’s mother at the cemetery?”
“She wasn’t my friend. But she’s in my head.”
“Do you think about her a lot?”
“Sometimes.” Silence. Then: “There’s lots of other stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . stuff. She was scared a lot that summer. And then the basement thing. Except my mom thinks I read it on the internet. But that wasn’t on the internet.”
“Well, Jonathan, it’s okay to read things and have imaginary friends. A lot of kids do that.”
“I already told you. They aren’t my friends. They’re just there.”
Winifred ripped the glasses off and said, “TV—CNN. Volume low.” The kitchen television, flat on the far wall to the left of the granite island, flipped on. It was perfect background noise for the decision she was about to make. The psychiatrist from Minnesota—ex-CIA to boot—had started calling her again. Doctors, doctors, and more doctors, all as clueless as the next about how to help her son. But this one, Dr. Thomas Lumen, had been oddly persistent in asking for a meeting. His interest in what Jonathan had to say about Idle County appeared to be strictly academic and unrelated to his psychiatric practice; he claimed instead that it concerned a book he was writing about the region.
On his most recent voice mail three weeks ago, however, the doctor’s tone had been different than on his other voice mails over the last two years. There had been an edge under his politeness, a newer sense of urgency. He had scheduled a trip to Oregon to visit this Molly Butler girl’s father, who was still alive but succumbing to dementia, and he had recently stumbled upon some peculiar coincidences about the Idle County Seven’s disappearances. If there was any chance Jonathan really did have information about what happened twenty-seven years ago, it could make a huge difference for the teenagers’ loved ones, some of whom didn’t have much time left.
Winifred glanced at her stainless-steel appliances, the sizable television wall on the left side of the kitchen, and the crystal drink glass sliding across the marble counter top between her fingers. She had everything, more family money than she knew what to do with, and if she could help some people, perhaps—
The television.
Something was happening. Panicked reporters. Video footage of a mountainous horizon looking perfectly normal, then white.
Her vision was already blurry from the morning drink, but something about this looked altogether wrong. “Volume high!” she yelled.
“—have limited visuals and no word yet as to what caused the explosion,” came a male reporter’s shaky voice, playing over the repeating video, “but we’re getting information that countries across Europe are declaring martial law. If you are just now joining us, we have received a report of an explosion in Geneva, Switzerland, that appears to have been nuclear—”
Tingles ran down Winifred’s sp
ine. Clutching her Bloody Mary glass, she said, “ABC!” The channel switched. More footage this time, another view, this one appearing to be from someone’s live ActoVid feed. It showed a mushroom cloud, the kind from history books and science-fiction movies, billowing into the sky.
And just like that, for no reason other than that the world had just fallen apart and she might as well, Winifred decided to give Dr. Thomas Lumen permission to interview her son.
DR. LUMEN APPROACHED ANDREW BUTLER in the rear garden of Sun Pines Assisted Living Center. To his left was Kara, Andrew’s twenty-three-year-old daughter, whose black hair and dark eyes looked so much like the old high school photos of Molly that he couldn’t stop staring at her. All that immediately differentiated her were the dark-rimmed glasses framing her face, which made her the first person Dr. Lumen had met in years who, like himself, had not undergone corrective eye surgery. She had been kind enough to fit in a visit before her cognitive development lecture at ten o’clock.
“I’ll make it back in time,” Kara assured him with a solid handshake and a flip of that long black hair. “You say you have a private practice now? How has that been for you? I keep thinking that’s what I want to do once I finish at PSU.”
Dr. Lumen grinned. “It’s great, actually. I love the freedom, and I always have patients. But this book project has been a distraction as of late.”
He glanced at young Kara with a nervous smile. For a moment, he wondered if he was crazy for making this trip, for even considering putting his credibility on the line by posing questions that could potentially rekindle interest in the Idle County Seven case. Since starting research for his book in 2034, however, Dr. Lumen had unearthed a number of peculiar coincidences that all led back to one man: Victor Zobel, the eminent (and still-living) stepfather of Jillian Pope, one of the vanished teenagers.
Just over a year ago, Zobel had become the first-ever human to take up full-time residence on Star Island, the luxury space station whose hotels and restaurants had opened to the public in 2035. Behind his celebrity and New Naturalism philanthropy, however, three things had struck Dr. Lumen as extremely odd. First, Zobel owned (distantly under his empire-umbrella, Zobel Enterprises) a company called NewLux Ventures, which had acquired the Moon Woods land in 2011, just six months after he had formed and directed search parties there for the Idle County Seven. Second, and seemingly unrelated, reports had surfaced of money laundering happening through five banks in the Philippines and Papua New Guinea, all owned by a company called Intelitrust Financial. Intelitrust, too, was a well-buried subsidiary of Zobel Enterprises. Finally, there existed a multitude of internet forums dedicated to presenting Victor Zobel as a master manipulator, a sociopath, a man who cared only for himself. But this last warning bell was just a lark—internet forums were full of crazies.
Dr. Lumen worried he had overstepped his bounds by flying all the way to Portland to drag this young woman and her father into the mix. But Kara Butler looked like the type who understood hard work and doing the right thing. If he ended up being wrong, perhaps she would understand.
“Well, I’m glad you’re catching Dad now, before he gets worse,” Kara said. “He started having symptoms when he was about fifty-eight. Pretty early for Lewy body disease. He tried to hide the dementia by making notes about what day it was, how to get to the grocery store, things like that. We knew something was wrong when his gait started shuffling, though. In some ways I think he’s lucky. Two wives dying and a daughter disappearing? I’d be happy to forget all that.” She followed this with a wan smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “My mom died already, so I know what that part is like,” she continued. “But with my dad, I guess the worst thing was the first time he ever forgot who I was. I felt like it was me about to be erased. Stupid, probably.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid at—”
Dr. Lumen’s limping foot caught on an uneven brick, and he lurched forward. With almost lightning speed, Kara reached out, caught his arm, and steadied him. Instead of asking why he limped, she just smiled.
The garden was lush and green, glittering with rays of early sun falling through the trees. Fragrant white roses lined a walkway large enough to accommodate two-way wheelchair traffic, which ended at a circular common area overlooking a small pond scattered with lily pads and paddling ducks. Sitting alone on a wooden bench across from two elderly love birds (who were laughing and cooing sweetly to each other in whispers) was a man who looked too young to be in a facility of this sort, save for the uncontrolled shaking of his arms. His salt-and-pepper hair capped a chiseled, minimally wrinkled face—one touched by the same expression of determination present in Kara. He had a handful of caramel candies and a small pile of empty wrappers on the bench next to him. They rustled in the morning’s light breeze.
Funny how people just keep going until they don’t, Dr. Lumen thought.
Andrew Butler was sucking on a caramel, staring at the couple on the opposite bench with a half-grin that looked more nostalgic than confused. When Kara jumped into a trot and ran up to him with her flip-flops smacking the pavement, he turned toward her with bright eyes.
“See them, honey?” he said. “They’ve been married sixty-two years. Can you believe it?”
Kara turned to Dr. Lumen with raised eyebrows. “Daddy is obsessed with marriage.”
“Find a good man,” Andrew continued. “I want to leave my little girl in good hands.”
Kara wiped a piece of white fuzz from his hair. “I’ll be just fine, Daddy.”
“What ever happened to that boy, Jacob? He was always such a nice kid. And ripped, too, the way you like ’em.”
His daughter’s smile crimped a bit. “He was Molly’s friend, Daddy. And I’m a lesbian.”
Andrew frowned, then nodded slowly with renewed enlightenment.
Kara turned to Dr. Lumen and grimaced. “At least he’s on the right track for you today.”
On the edge of the pond, a squirrel chased six ducks off a rock. They fluttered into the water, quacking their quacks, then paddled away, their interruption forgotten. Andrew lay his fingertips on the bench’s surface while watching them, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant. He squinted at the water’s sun sparkles. “Kara here says you wanted to talk about my other daughter. Molly.”
“That is why I came,” Dr. Lumen said. “My name is Thomas Lumen, and I’m a psychiatrist from Minnesota. I grew up in Stone Ridge, the next town over from where you raised Molly. I even met her once, if you can believe that. At Benedict Wise University’s First Annual Ghost Symposium in 2006.”
Andrew squinted for a moment, as if finding the memory, then relaxed in a smile. “She went with Lindsay and Elijah.”
Dr. Lumen nodded, returning the smile. “Mr. Butler . . . I came here for two reasons, mainly. First, I wanted to let you know I’m writing a book that will involve your daughter and her friends, and I’m seeking your blessing on it.”
The man’s grin widened. “I always knew my Kara here would be famous!”
Kara—bless her heart—placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He means a book about your other daughter. Remember? Back in Minnesota, before you met Mom? Her name was Molly Jane.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid,” Andrew said, recoiling from her. “I just thought she’d be around a while longer.”
Dr. Lumen glanced at Kara. She shrugged, then nodded.
“Mr. Butler,” the psychiatrist resumed, “the other reason I’m here is because there’s a boy out in Rhode Island claiming to know what happened to Molly and her six friends. His name is Jonathan Flite, and he’s currently in juvenile lockup. He says Molly and her friends went into the Moon Woods, and that’s where they disappeared.”
A cloud covered the sun just as Andrew’s smile eased into a frown. “Why the hell would they have gone in there?”
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Lumen said. “I’ve been trying for almost two years to get permission from this Rhode Island boy’s mother to interview him
. He claims to have memories of the event, which I know sounds strange, but if he agrees to talk, it might be the closest we get to finding out what happened. It might be a hoax, but there were enough peculiarities in the boy’s case for a judge in Rhode Island to—”
“I ruined her,” Andrew said, his shoulders starting to twitch under Kara’s soothing hand. “She was ruined before she ever got that goddamned tumor. It was me. I—”
“Daddy, you didn’t ruin Molly,” Kara said. “You—”
“How would you know?” Andrew hissed, ripping himself away. “You don’t know anything about that!”
“Daddy—”
Andrew turned to Dr. Lumen, all business. “What do you want to ask? I’ve already told you everything I know. You police need to learn how to do your job.”
The psychiatrist glanced at Kara, whose grimace made it clear: this was the fence between lucidity and meltdown. She nodded to him, but with warning in her eyes. If Andrew thought he was back in the days following the Idle County Seven’s disappearance, however, maybe . . .
“I’m wondering what you can tell me about Victor Zobel,” Dr. Lumen said.
Dread filled Andrew’s eyes, and he twisted his head into half a shake, like a slingshot held in a stretch. “He’s a liar,” Andrew whispered. “None of the other guys believed me, but he’s a liar. And now he lives on that goddamned space station.”
“He helped search for Molly and his stepdaughter Jillian?”
“Jillian the redhead,” Andrew said with a smile. “Molly liked her a lot. She could speak French.”
“But Zobel? How many people helped him search the Moon Woods?”
“Jillian’s real dad Max was off God knows where, so that even bigger creep took charge. Unofficially.” Andrew adjusted himself on the bench. “There were about two hundred of us. We each took sections of fifty feet or so. He paid for all our food.”
“And why do you say he was a liar?”
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