Dr. Erich: Hayden, you said earlier that you think you’re dangerous. At least “according to lawyers,” as you phrased it. Do you mean to say you disagree with them? Perhaps you don’t think you should be in therapy?
Hayden: I didn’t say that.
[She retreats further into her space, and we stay silent for some time. As often happens in Hayden’s presence, I begin to experience icy shivers. It’s like the beginning of an out-of-body experience. A certain vibe Hayden has tends to provoke these sensations in me. Again, I cannot show her my fear.]
Hayden: You shouldn’t be afraid of me, Doc. I usually feel the fog coming long before it takes hold. It starts with my toes. [She stares at the zebra-striped shoes she’s wearing.] Then it spreads up to my knees and goes like that, higher and higher, until my whole body’s made of fog. Then I’m dangerous. But you have nothing to fear now, Doc.
Dr. Erich: I’d like to hear the long story now, please.
Hayden: As you wish. But maybe this time I’ll make it a little different?
Dr. Erich: What do you mean by that?
Hayden: How about … this time I tell you the truth?
Dr. Erich: You’ve been lying to me? Why?
Hayden: I wasn’t lying. Not exactly. Sometimes, I think the part of my brain that should let me tell lies is broken. Or maybe I just never had it to begin with, like Irene was born without sight. Before today, I’ve been telling you some parts of my story. Just not the whole story.
Dr. Erich: Okay, Hayden, I would like you to tell me the whole story now.
Hayden: [nods] When we lived in Colorado, one night my mother went missing in the woods. We had a funeral for her, but the casket was empty. It wasn’t long after that, I guess, when my dad and I moved to New York. I was having nightmares, and Daddy wasn’t sure if going to school and being around all the other kids was the best idea for me. But I wanted to go to school, so much. I cried and begged until I convinced him. I tired him out. You know all about my time at Stonebrook. There was this girl, Jen. I could tell she was afraid of me—most people are—but Jen, she was different. She didn’t want to seem scared. She hid it by bullying me. Somehow she found out about my mom, about what happened to her, so she went around saying Mom left me because I was a psycho … and lots of other things, like my mother would rather die than be with me. I remember everything she’s ever said to me.
Dr. Erich: And what did you do then, Hayden?
Hayden: I went up to Jen. I remember that she had her hair in a ponytail, and she was wearing a sparkly blouse underneath her Stonebrook uniform. I wanted to tell her to stop talking bad about me. But instead of talking to her, I … it all went wrong. I felt the fog tickling my toes, climbing up my legs, like vines. Blood was rushing into my head. I felt like a rocket getting ready to go off. And I … The bathroom was empty, except for the two of us, and then Ms. Lancaster, our geography teacher, walked in. You’ve met Ms. Lancaster, right? Isn’t she your patient, too?
Dr. Erich: I cannot discuss such things with you, Hayden. You know that.
Hayden: Right, right, I forget.… Anyway, what happened then is all kind of a blur. But I know for sure—here’s the new part I was promising you, Doc—what really happened that day is I wished Jen would get hurt, and the next second she was flying. First, she crashed against a wall and then she smashed into a mirror. It took seconds. Ms. Lancaster fainted right in the middle of it.
Dr. Erich: Are you saying, Hayden, that you telepathically sent Jennifer off flying, so she would get hurt?
Hayden: That’s what I’m saying, I guess. But like I also said, it was all a blur.
Dr. Erich: But that’s not what you originally told me, Hayden. You told me you pushed Jen and then you dragged her to the mirror. Why change that story now?
Hayden: I have a better question, Doc. I was only eight years old then. I wasn’t strong enough to lift Jen. So how could I do what everyone’s saying I did?
Dr. Erich: Regardless of the mode in which Jen was hurt, how does this make you feel, Hayden?
Hayden: Like a freak who hurts people … people and animals. Do you think I’m a freak? Do you think I’m going to be in therapy for the rest of my life?
Dr. Erich: On the contrary, Hayden, I think we’re finally making progress.
18
START LOOKING
W hy do some accept paranormal explanations and others don’t? Are our brains wired differently? Or is it our upbringing, our learned culture that shapes our psyche, making us more or less likely to believe in ghosts and the afterlife, to believe in the existence of mystical forces lurking just out of reach?
One hypothesis is that there’s a gene responsible for our beliefs: the God gene. But the hypothesis has attracted so much criticism from both the scientific and religious communities that research into it has been minimal.
Genetics aside, those in favor of supernatural explanations are actually in the majority: Seventy percent of Americans believe in miracles; half of Australia exhibits a wide diversity of paranormal views, ranging from the acceptance of ghosts to aliens to telepathy. The list of countries goes on, but what remains unanswered is whether it is a case of truly believing or wanting to believe.
Del once told me that I hated talking about anything supernatural. That I used science as a shield, and it’d take a frigging burning UFO falling out of the skies to crash through it. When I asked Del why she wasn’t a skeptic herself, she said that it would be a boring world to live in, prompting me to deliver an extended monologue on the miracles of quantum mechanics. (Del might have dozed off.)
Still, the question of paranormal belief remained salient for me. After all, I did grow up in the household of a physicist and a spiritualist. But I admit: Del was onto something with her UFO-crashing metaphor. The paranormal has to slap me in the face for me to pay attention.
* * *
Back at the Manor, I tear off my sweatshirt and throw it over the back of a kitchen chair. The blood drive flyer flutters out of my pocket. I pick up the flyer and leave it on the table before turning my attention to breakfast, while Del hovers at the edge of the kitchen table with her laptop.
“This Blue Haven Research Institute keeps popping up everywhere,” Del says. I look over and see her tapping the top-right corner of the flyer. In my all-consuming contemplation of Mom’s secrets and the mystery of dead white ravens, I didn’t even notice the logo—the familiar indigo pyramid. My suspicion meter spikes as I attempt to connect the dots. But the puzzle pieces don’t fit. Not yet. I’m missing something. I can bet it’s something obvious. It usually is.
I let my brain run over the possibilities while I grab some eggs from the fridge and get the stovetop going. As a plan half forms in my mind, I say, “Hey, how about we go for a drive and check out this blood donation thing?”
“So now you want my company,” Del snorts, looking up at me from the laptop screen. I ignore her, busying myself with brewing coffee and checking up on the frying eggs. She doesn’t let up. “Is there something you want to tell me?” I can hear a devious smile in her voice. She closes the laptop and follows me with her eyes, knowing full well I don’t like being stared at like that. “Like the real reason you wanted to come here?”
“I’m not a puzzle for you to figure out, Delphine.”
“I can’t stand secrets and lies, Hayden Bellatrix.” She matches my exasperated tone. “Secrets and lies are why my family can’t tolerate being in the same room with one another for long—you know they only come together to video chat with me to create an illusion of getting along, for my sake as well as theirs! And it’s also the reason I left France and came to study here, so I could build a life for myself where everything and everyone is transparent and logical.”
I laugh and then my words come out harsher than planned. “‘Transparent and logical’? Life’s never that. More like messy and twisted. If you want everyone in your life to be transparent and logical, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Del is silent foll
owing my dramatic outburst, and I count breaths till she nods slowly. That’s when some of the old hardened resistance in me breaks and I tell her: “I thought I came here to say good-bye to my mom, to close this case I built up in my mind over the years. But I may have jumped the gun on that, Del. Something’s not right with this town, and Mom was involved in … I don’t know what it was, but in her codicil she asked me to finish what she couldn’t.”
“And you think you owe it to her?” Del looks at me without blinking, her face telling me everything I need to know—she understands this is important to me. “But do you even have any idea what she wanted you to do?”
“Not really. But I think only I can do it—whatever it is. I also think she was afraid of something, of someone. Like maybe she was under someone’s control or blackmailed or forced to do stuff she didn’t want to. Something bad. Maybe…” I don’t say the rest, but I know Del can read it in my silence: Maybe that’s why Mom had to die. “Del … I don’t think I can leave Promise behind till I know what happened to her.” Saying it out loud only solidifies my determination.
Del nods, her expression changing, her face becoming the physical embodiment of my resolve. She says, “You came here to look for something, so you do whatever it is you need to do, Hayden. You just need to figure out what it is. I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Pushing back unexpected tears, I go and lean over her. The one-armed hug I give her is superawkward, but, as I bury my face in her curls, my restless brain quiets down a little. Del smells of adventures, but also of home—not a particular place, but a sense of belonging, of comfort.
When I let go, she looks up at me, her smile tainted by uncertainty and maybe sadness. She’s right. I came here to look for something. It’s about time I start looking.
* * *
Later that morning, when we step out on the porch, the skies are clear but for a few dark cloud clusters moving toward Promise from far north. Thankfully, there are no more birds. Once more, I scan the Manor’s grounds, searching for that dead white raven. No sign of it. Probably a wild animal took it. Or it was some elaborate hallucination brought on by the combination of insufficient sleep and rich imagination.
I contemplate telling Del about the white raven but decide against it. Without evidence (namely, the dead bird itself), there’s no point. Besides, even if I haven’t yet reached Del’s weirdness acceptance threshold (okay, I am starting to wonder if she’s even got one), now would not be a good time to test it.
I pull my jacket tighter around my small frame and make my way to the car. Pensive in her step, Del follows me. Despite the consensus we’ve reached, our agreement sealed with a hug, the morning exchange leaves a shadow over our moods.
I volunteer to drive. Del doesn’t mind: She’s just painted her nails a vivid shade of green and doesn’t want to smear her creation. In the car, we take a much-needed break from talking about my mom and her secrets.
The blood drive poster comes with a rudimentary map and directions: The Blue Haven blood collection point is in the woodland area just off Pilger Road, Promise’s main street that slices the town into halves before stretching out to merge with a highway. This means we have to go through the town’s center before going back into the woods again.
It starts to drizzle just as we exit the forest and, through the flimsy veil of rain and mist, the first signs of the town coalesce into view: the clock tower’s spire and its twin, the steeple of Promise’s only church. Looking up at its two immobile guardians, the township is nestled in a shallow ravine, surrounded by the forest.
When we enter a civilization of paved roads and clean-swept sidewalks, I cast my eyes over the weathered storefronts: a vintage clothing boutique (that gets Del excited), a two-story shop entirely dedicated to clocks, a beat-up computer repairs establishment, and a teeny-tiny grocer. Also, a restaurant (cuisine indeterminate), a pretentious-looking diner, something called “Tea Salon,” a dry cleaners, and Angie’s Shop of Curiosities, which has its windows curtained and dark.
What bothers me is that every time we stop at a light, we catch these not-so-subtle glances from passersby. The streets are not completely empty—actually, quite a few cars are out and about—but somehow our modest rental stands out enough to catch looks. While I’m doing my best to pay the staring no attention, the uncomfortable feeling in my gut grows. I know I look like a younger copy of Mom—my encounter at the gas station revealed as much—so if someone knew my mother, it’d be no stretch to identify me as her offspring. And considering my theories about Mom being in some kind of trouble leading up to her disappearance, maybe I should be wary. A ridiculous idea of disguising myself passes through my mind, and I’m already imagining Del’s reaction if I at last come crawling to her, begging her to give me a makeover. I supress a grin at the thought.
We’re driving by a bookshop called Diamonds & Co. when I see it: that car.
The silver Volvo. The very same one I saw in my dream-memory of the dangerous woman on the Manor’s porch.
I slow down as my eyes search for the WE WILL NOT GO SILENTLY INTO THE NIGHT bumper sticker. It’s there! Okay, not quite, but if you know where to look, you can see it—faint, mostly peeled off, but there. The memory, the jagged piece of a riddle, rises from the primordial soup of my Promise childhood recollections. All neurons firing at once, I make a drastic U-turn and park the car by the bookshop, brakes squealing in protest. My rushed move comes off more elegantly than I should be given credit for, but Del’s not impressed; her French swearing sounds offensive even if I don’t quite grasp the meaning. I don’t blame her. I’d be pissed off, too. Can’t stand reckless driving. “Sorry! I swear I had a reason to do that,” I blurt out, already unfastening my seatbelt. Pulling too fast and too strong, I get trapped in my seat. I go slack, calming my body while my heart’s about to jump out of my chest. “I need to ask the people in that shop something.”
“Let me guess. It’s about your mom.” Del smiles faintly, her annoyed expression softening. I nod, release myself from the seatbelt’s death grip, and rush for the bookshop.
A gasp of cool wind makes me shiver, and the skin at the back of my neck prickles. I’m starting to learn from these sensations, listening to what they’re telling me. I think (I hope) it means I’m on the right track, but I’ve yet to test that theory properly.
I linger on the shop’s threshold. Behind me a car door slams, and I turn to catch Del walking in the direction of the vintage clothing boutique. I pull open the door.
The shop’s inner space is small but used smartly, so it doesn’t appear crowded with people or clumped with merchandise. Lulled by Susanne Sundfør’s hypnotic singing wafting from overhead speakers, a few dazed-looking customers wander rows of books. Somewhere, an espresso machine lets off steam. I take a greedy inhale. After drinking our chintzy homemade coffee, this place smells divine. Paper, ink, caffeine.
But also there’s a weird aftertaste, like a concentrated ozone imprinted on the air, thickening as I progress deeper into the shop. It defies logic, but I’m 85 percent certain I’m in the right place.
19
DIAMONDS & CO.
“Anything I can help you with, darling?”
I flinch at the sound, then come face-to-face with a silver-haired, gray-eyed man holding a stack of books. The magnetic nameplate on his blazer says GABRIEL.
He might be in his sixties, but it’s difficult to ascertain his exact age: The bookshop’s subtle lighting imbues the man’s features with mercurial qualities, their shape dependent on slants of light. I blink and his face settles, taking on a kind, almost grandfatherly expression. I can’t stop gaping at him, zeroing in on a long, precise scar that runs across the left side of his face, barely touching his lips. It’s not a messy, unplanned kind of scar left by an accident but a deliberate one, suggesting the cut was delivered slowly, meeting no resistance. The stranger studies me back, unfazed by my silence. Then he does a double take and for a fleeting second his eyes open a little wider,
as if he’d just had a private eureka moment and figured something out.
He puts the books down without taking his eyes off me. His mouth twisting into a smile, Gabriel reminds me of someone, but the connection is short-lived.
“Hi,” I say, then point toward the shop’s entrance. “Would you please tell me who owns that car? The silver one?”
Gabriel grins, showing a perfect set of teeth, his eyes sparkling like I’m the most delightful thing since indoor plumbing. “If you mean poor old Silverfish—that would be mine.”
“You named your car … Silverfish? Do you know who had it before you? Was it by any chance a woman with short dark hair? I’m looking for her.”
If Gabriel is at all surprised by my impromptu interrogation, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks genuinely happy to be interacting with me, which, in my book, is not bad, considering I give most people the Vibe or whatever it is that makes their pupils shrink in fear and their mouths mutter nonsense.
“That sounds like my daughter, Elspeth. Elspeth Diamond,” he offers. “She named that car. Something to do with it being repulsive but resilient. It looks like my Elspeth’s the person you’re looking for. I’m Gabriel, by the way. I own this shop.” He extends a hand toward me and I shake it, the brief contact leaving me with a prickling warmth that lingers in my fingertips—the same sensation I had after touching the box from the basement.
“Elspeth,” I repeat, savoring the rare name and finding it somewhat bitter on my tongue. No doubt my earlier menace- filled dream-memory of the strange woman on the Manor’s porch is to blame for my reaction. What’s peculiar is that, aside from this one random memory resurfacing after ten years of exile in my psyche’s darkest corner, I have no recollections of Elspeth. Not a single one. To Gabriel I say, “I’d like to meet her. Is she around?”
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