The Ending Series: The Complete Series

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  After unloading the vehicles, we made our way through the giant, black double doors and into the house. The foyer was bright and expansive, like Jay’s house in The Great Gatsby. Tiles of ivory marble with gray and black swirls stretched to pristine white walls, where hand-painted, smoke-gray vines twisted ornately above white wainscoting. Long, black runners climbed mahogany staircases that were flanked by intricate, wrought iron banisters—the twin staircases gently wound up opposite walls to meet at a landing directly above the main hall. Pastoral paintings of rolling hills and golden plains hung on the walls leading to the second floor, and there were wilted palms on either side of the bottom steps. I could see a grand piano beside a fireplace in a sitting room to the right, and black leather couches and a wall of old-looking books—all different colors and sizes—in the room to the left. At least four mahogany doors were visible upstairs, presumably leading to bedrooms.

  Although the house was practically a piece of art itself, it was the paintings that held my attention. I took a step toward the nearest piece, barely able to contain my excitement. The landscape resembled Thomas Cole’s, The Fountain of Vaucluse, with its jutting mountain tops and a winding river that raged through a canyon, but something was different—the clouds seemed unfinished, and there was too little shading.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, my mouth gaping. It’s an earlier version…it’s an original Thomas Cole.

  “What’s wrong Baby Girl?” Harper asked absently as he carried some of the medical equipment for Jake into the library.

  “Nothing,” I said, knowing Harper wouldn’t share my astonishment. I peeled my eyes away from the painting and approached him, promising myself I would examine all of the artwork later. “What can I do to help?”

  Harper reassured me he didn’t need any help, so wanting to keep my mind off Jake’s recovery as much as possible, I busied myself with listless tasks.

  After taking inventory of the food in the kitchen and the enormous pantries, I added our reserves to the count. I checked one of the bathrooms for running water and found that the plumbing, like the electricity, wasn’t working. I hoped we’d remedy that once Biggs hooked up our generator to the well pump like he planned. I noticed little things, like the thick layer of dust that covered the shelves and furniture, and the stale smell in the air, leading me to believe the place hadn’t been inhabited for months. Where are you, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson?

  As I rummaged through various cupboards and drawers throughout the first floor, I heard Sarah’s voice coming from the room with the piano. Following the sound, I called ahead, “Sarah, do you have candles? Where…” I trailed off as I realized she was bickering with Biggs.

  “No one’s gonna get us,” Sarah said in exasperation as they entered the foyer. “The place hasn’t been ransacked or anything. Clearly no one knows this house is even here.”

  “This is a city, Sarah, foothills or not. There are Crazies around, I guarantee it. Do you want to take a chance that Clara followed us somehow and will try to kill us in our sleep?” Biggs asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Sarah blanched. “No need to be so severe, Babe.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not assuming anything anymore. I’m teaching you how to use a gun too. You see that psycho bitch, you shoot her until you know she’s dead,” he ordered and walked away.

  Sarah caught my eye. “He’s losing his mind,” she mouthed. I smiled as she walked closer and grabbed my bag. “Come on, I picked out a special room for you,” she said. “Since we don’t know how long we’ll be here, you’ll need your own space. Trust me. This house brings out the crazy in people.” She looked back at me with an apologetic smile before leading me up the left staircase.

  I followed her to one of the doors visible from the bottom floor and stopped short as she looked over her shoulder, her face suddenly aglow with excitement. “This was actually my favorite room growing up,” she said, dropping my bag and opening the door to peek inside. She hesitated like she was expecting someone to jump out. Noticing my confusion, she smiled. “I can’t stop thinking about Clara now. Sorry.” She flung the door open, and I dragged my duffel bag and backpack into the room.

  Compared to any bedroom I’d ever lived in, it was humungous and fit for an aristocrat. A huge, four-post bed was backed against the left wall, an antique writing desk was situated in the far right corner, and a plush, camel-colored fainting couch sat in front of drawn, brocade drapes.

  “Why do you like this room so much?” I asked. “It’s amazing, but what about your bedroom?”

  “Yeah, well, I was grounded a lot, so I got tired of my room.” She waved the idea away and grabbed a handful of the drapes. As she yanked them open, I was awed by what she revealed.

  “The best view in all of St. Louis…at least I think so.” She gestured to the giant picture window overlooking what I thought was a pond at first, but from my vantage point, I could see was actually a silvery lake extending between the hills. “My own little paradise growing up,” she explained.

  “It’s beautiful.” The sun was sinking into the horizon—a golden sphere seeming to set the withered forest ablaze.

  “Yeah, I know. I used to whine all the time about wanting this to be my room, but Mom said she spent too much money decorating mine to give in.”

  “Decorating?” I pictured pink and purple princess wallpaper and ballerina figurines cluttering her shelves. “Decorating how, exactly?”

  Sarah smiled at me and shrieked with glee. “Come see!” she said, running out of the room and down the hall.

  “Wow, that’s enthusiasm,” I muttered. I dashed after her, laughing as I tried to keep up and fearing I’d get lost if I didn’t.

  Pausing outside a door, Sarah turned to me. Her face was serious, and her finger poked my breastbone. “You have to promise you won’t judge me, Zoe. I went through a princess…fairy…phase…thing and my mom never let me live it down.”

  I tried to control the smile threatening to spread across my face as I promised, “Scout’s honor.” I was barely able to contain my anticipation.

  “Alright,” she said and threw open the door, revealing her fairy forest hideaway.

  A mural covered the walls—mossy tree trunks reached from floor to ceiling, ferns sprouting at their bases and leafy branches stretching overhead. The canopy bed was pink and white with feathers hanging from the bed posts. Pixie clothes made from feathers, twigs, and flower petals hung between the trees on the walls, and a round mirror framed with metal twigs took residence by the desk. Silk ivy weaved around the doors and windows, and the closet was like another world—a layer of tulle separated it from the living space, and I could only imagine what I might find inside.

  “Wow,” was all I could think to say.

  Sarah turned to me slowly, barely able to contain her building gaiety. “I know!” she squealed. Grabbing my hands, she started jumping up and down, screeching and giggling. I couldn’t help but join her.

  “Why are we so excited?” I asked breathlessly as we hopped in place.

  After a moment, Sarah dragged me over to the bed and pulled me up onto it. “Come on, Zoe, you know you want to,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes, unsure why I was indulging her, but I couldn’t resist. We bounced up and down, squealing like twelve-year-olds. When we finally fell back on the mattress, winded and elated, it felt like we were best friends who’d just been asked to the prom by the cutest boys in school.

  Our ridiculousness made me think of Dani, and I wished she was with me. She would’ve praised me for letting go and then chided me for not doing so more frequently. I wondered how she was doing. I wanted to tell her about Jake and Clara, about Dave…but I had no way to contact her; I didn’t even have a way to find out if she was still alive.

  “Well,” Sarah said, sitting up on her knees and straightening her bubblegum pink Fort Knox t-shirt. “I know it’s moronic, but thanks for humoring me in a frolic. It’s sort of nice to be home, even if it’s under such shitty cir
cumstances.”

  The clearing of a throat startled us, and we both looked at the doorway. Biggs walked in, an exaggerated expression of horror on his face. “Are you expecting me to sleep in this room?” he asked fearfully.

  Sarah grinned. “Yep.”

  “Right. I figured as much.” Biggs plastered a counterfeit smile on his face as he looked at me with a “please kill me now” expression. “Harper asked about you, Zoe. I think Jake might be—”

  Before Biggs could finish, I was up and out of the room. I ran down the hall and stairs, careful not to stumble down the staircase, and flung myself into the library.

  “Is he awake?” I panted, hurrying over to the bed situated in the corner between two walls of books. Jake lay there, still bandaged and motionless.

  Harper eyed me curiously, appraising my appearance. “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said, smoothing my clothes self-consciously. “Why?”

  “Your hair is all crazy and…stuff.”

  “Oh, whatever, H. Did he wake up?” I looked back at Jake’s body. It doesn’t look like he’s moved at all.

  “He was moaning a minute ago, but he hasn’t moved at all. I upped his morphine dose; I need you to tell me if he needs more.”

  “Is moaning bad or good?” I asked, walking around the bed. I placed my hand on Jake’s bandaged arm, opening my mind to him and waiting for one of his brief moments of semi-consciousness.

  “I think it’s a good thing, Baby Girl.”

  Jake’s mind roused momentarily. I could feel his confusion and fear, but his panic and misery were almost nonexistent.

  “He’s okay for now,” I reassured Harper. “I think you need to take a breather, though. I’ll stay with him. It’ll make me feel better anyway.”

  Harper nodded, but before leaving, he winked. “Fix your locks, Croft. I don’t want you scaring him back into unconsciousness if he wakes up.”

  Rolling my eyes, I snatched a throw pillow off the nearest couch and tossed it at Harper just as the door closed behind him. Finding a mirror in the library wasn’t difficult—they were everywhere throughout the house, making all the rooms appear larger than they already were. I studied my reflection in the one hanging on the wall behind the couch and snorted. Horrendous.

  Pulling my hair out of its braid, I combed my fingers through it before gathering it into a ponytail. I could see the muscles on my arms flex as my hands worked and was pleasantly surprised to know my training was paying off. I wasn’t a badass by a longshot, but I was different, stronger, better—what I needed to be if I would continue to survive.

  I remembered the Zoe who’d worked at the art gallery—the prim and proper, reserved professional who’d sold artwork, curated shows, and struggled as a starving artist. She would shake hands and smile demurely when all she wanted was to tell clients they had horrible taste in art.

  And then I remembered the Zoe who’d worked at Earl’s. The flirty, cocky, mysterious woman who would bat her eyelashes if it meant she would get a better tip or skimp on putting alcohol in a drink if a customer was being an asshole.

  What Zoe am I now? Shaking the inconsequential question from my mind, I searched the shelves of books lining the walls. I studied the bindings, looking for stories that seemed interesting enough to read to Jake.

  How They Work: A guide to mechanical engines…Boring.

  The Ultimate Man’s Survival Guide: Recovering the Lost Art of Manhood…I’ll snag that one for later.

  Julius Caesar…Too difficult.

  Sense and Sensibility…Jake would kill me.

  Journey to the Center of the Earth…Hmmm…

  That’s when I found it—Alexander Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, broken into two volumes, stood beside its classical companions. Removing the first volume from its resting place among other aged texts, I inspected its worn, navy-blue binding before opening its cover. I gently fingered the brittle, age-stained pages to find the date I was looking for—1846. Why am I not surprised they have a first edition?

  I pushed an oversized leather armchair to Jake’s bedside, settled in, and began reading aloud. The antique pages turned quickly, and the more I read, the more engrossed I became with Edmond’s story.

  Before I knew it, days had passed, and I’d read the entire book nearly three times. Every time Edmond escaped from Chateau d’If and reclaimed his freedom, I hoped Jake would break free from the mental purgatory his injuries had trapped him within. When he woke, would he tell me my translations of the French names had improved or that my commentary was rubbish? He would probably tell me I was horrible at reading aloud since I didn’t change my intonation for the different characters. But I continued reading anyway.

  When my voice grew hoarse from overuse, I sketched, trying to capture the sunsets that reached above the lake each day, and when I grew frustrated with drawing, I talked to Jake. I told him how strange it was sleeping in such a large house and that I felt like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind as I made my grand entrance down the staircase every morning. Except, instead of a hoop-skirted gown, I wore sweats or jeans. I told him that he didn’t have to make Cooper sleep outside my door anymore because the dog slept with me every night and followed me everywhere I went anyway.

  Some nights, I drank too much and blubbered on about my dreams and my family. I told Jake about Dani and how she was the only person who’d ever cared enough to look out for me. I explained that she was more than a friend, more than a sister…that she was part of me. “That’s why I have to get to her,” I told him, desperately wanting him to understand.

  As the days passed and I ran out of activities to keep my mind occupied, panic resurfaced. On our fourth day at Sarah’s house, Harper decided to check the burns beneath Jake’s bandages. “I should’ve done it sooner, but I didn’t want to disturb any healing.” He sighed. “There was no bleed-through…I’m hoping that’s a good sign.”

  Mindfully, Sanchez and I helped Harper snip the gauze at Jake’s fingers. We started gently peeling it away from his skin, so Harper could clean Jake’s wounds.

  My eyes became glassy as we freed his perfect thumb from its stained sheath of bandages. I carefully continued uncovering Jake’s entire hand, trying to control my anticipation, and moved up his sculpted arm. I exhaled with relief. It was working; his body was regenerating. He appeared flawless…but he still wasn’t awake.

  Unable to resist, I slid the backs of my fingers down his forearm to his cupped hand, letting them rest on his palm. Heat flooded my neck and cheeks, and I wasn’t sure if I was blushing out of excitement from feeling his skin against mine, or because I was embarrassed about caressing him while he was unconscious…in front of Harper and Sanchez. I looked up to find them both watching me closely.

  “Uh, Zoe, let’s give Harper some, uh…privacy to work,” Sanchez said, escorting me out of the room. She passed me off to Sarah.

  Stunned by Jake’s recovery, I let Sarah lead me down the hall. I was vaguely aware that we’d left the house and were heading down the path to the lake; all I could think about was Jake.

  We walked to the end of the dock and sat down across from one another, each leaning our back against a piling.

  “So, this is good, right?” Sarah said, apparently baffled by my quietness. She pulled her hood up over her head and readjusted her bug-like sunglasses.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, still shocked that Jake’s body was healing so well. “He’s gonna be okay,” I told her, and for the first time, I actually believed it.

  “Yep,” she said, a smug look on her face. “Shall we celebrate?” With a naughty grin, she pulled something out of her sweatshirt pocket—a black flask with a marijuana leaf etched on it.

  Laughter exploded from me. “How can I say no to that?”

  A toothy grin spread across Sarah’s face. “You can’t. That’s the point.” Unscrewing the top, she took a swig of its liquid contents, made a sour face, and passed the flask to me with a wink. “Aged to perfection.”
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  Taking a drink, I cringed as what tasted like rum burned going down, warming my empty stomach. “Where did you get this thing?” I asked, holding up the flask.

  Leaning back on the dock, Sarah ignored a heavy breeze and basked in the rays of the sun. She looked like a movie star—elegant, confident, and comfortable. “I bought it when I was in high school…to freak out my mom.”

  Laughing, we told each other stories about how we terrorized our parents until the flask was empty. When it was too cold to resist the warmth indoors, we headed back into the house, feeling buoyant as the liquor coursed through our veins. We had a few more shots before Sarah disappeared with Biggs in tow.

  The night passed in a blur, and when everyone went to bed, I found myself sitting at Jake’s bedside. He was sleeping soundly, completely free of bandages. Utterly fascinated, I studied every exposed inch of him.

  In the candle’s flickering light, stubble barely obscured the clean lines of his jaw. I had to sit on my hands to keep from reaching out and running my fingers over the soft curves of his slightly parted lips. His hair had grown back, short and silky, and occasionally his brown lashes fluttered. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was mesmerizing. He just looks like he’s sleeping…

  Eventually, I lost myself in “what-ifs” and “I wonders,” and began to doze. I dreamt of seagulls flying above me, screeching through damp sea air. I dreamt of wet sand beneath my feet, molding to the shape of my toes, and the briny smell of the wind as it whipped my hair around my face and stung my eyes.

  But my dreams were interrupted by a muffled sound, and my consciousness stirred. A throaty rumble soothed me as I drifted in a state of partial awareness. I felt like I was floating, and a sudden blanket of warmth lulled me back into restful sleep.