“It’s her,” Theo says, watching her walk into the diner. Hannah looks around inside, then gets a booth at the end by the window.
“Looks good,” Necco says. “No sign of the boyfriend. You go in and I’ll be watching.”
“Back in ten minutes,” Theo says, tossing her still-burning cigarette to the ground.
Fake it till you make it.
She gets out of the car and crosses the street, enters the diner, and takes a deep breath of bacon- and coffee-scented air.
She remembers that first day with Hannah: You don’t look like a girl with a single bad habit.
She approaches the booth, and Hannah jumps up when she sees her, throws her arms around Theo. Theo fights with everything she’s got to remain rigid, to not hug her back or melt into her embrace. She remembers being in the closet, listening to Hannah and Jeremy kiss and roll around on the bed, the unmistakable sound of the zipper on Jeremy’s jeans being pulled down. She pulls back until Hannah lets go, and takes a seat on the vinyl bench opposite.
“I’ve been so worried,” Hannah says, sitting down, pushing hair out of her eyes.
Like hell you have, Theo thinks. She looks out the window with its kitschy curtains printed with salt and pepper shakers, finds Necco in the driver’s seat of Pru’s car.
“Coffee, ladies?” the waitress asks, holding a pot.
“I think we’re fine with just coffee,” Hannah says, and then gestures to Pru’s old bowler after the woman leaves. “Cute hat. It suits you.”
Theo ignores the compliment, reaches into her bag, and pulls out the brown paper lunch sack that has the pouch of snuff inside.
“Under the table,” Theo orders, and when Hannah takes it, their hands touch.
“This is it for real?” Hannah says, peering down.
“For real.”
“Jeremy’s going shit himself.” She smiles wide, excited.
“So no harassing me about the missing money? This makes us even?”
“Absolutely,” Hannah says. “I promise.”
Theo looks away; Hannah doesn’t realize how little her promises mean.
“You and I both know that this is worth more than two grand,” Hannah says.
“Yup. We’re good, then,” Theo says, and stands up to leave, but Hannah grabs her wrist.
“Wait,” she says. “Please.”
Her hand is warm, and the warmth radiates up Theo’s arm, all the way to her chest. Theo sits back down, knowing she shouldn’t, that she should pull away.
“I just wanted to say…” Hannah says before pausing. “I wanted to say how sorry I am. For how things turned out.”
Theo feels rage ripple through her. “How they turned out?” she snaps. “You’re sorry I found out about Jeremy. Sorry I lost the fucking money. But what about all the rest of it? How you set me up, pretended to give a shit, let me believe that what we had was the real deal. What about all of that, Hannah? Are you fucking sorry for any of that?”
Some of the other diners, hearing Theo’s raised voice, have turned to look. Theo feels a flash of shame. For a person of interest in a murder investigation, a person who’s supposed to be lying low, she’s doing a real shitty job.
Hannah presses her back into the seat, eyes teary. What a fucking great actress you are, Theo thinks. Academy Award material.
“No,” Hannah says, voice low. “I’m not sorry. Because everything between us, Theo, all that was real.”
“Bullshit,” Theo hisses, voice low now. “Tell me. Did you have the whole thing planned all along? You and Jeremy? Were you out hunting for some girl to use? Some idiot high schooler who didn’t know any better?”
“Theo, it wasn’t like that.”
“Right,” Theo says, shoving her untouched coffee away.
“Theo, once I give Jeremy this, I’m leaving him.”
It’s what a part of Theo longs to hear, but it’s too little, too late. It’s too late for any of this. She’s got to go. Got to get the fuck out of here before Hannah says any more.
“Whatever,” Theo says, standing again. “I don’t care what you do.”
Hannah takes her wrist again. “I love you,” she says. Theo tries to pull away, but she stops, looks Hannah in the eye. And in that one second, everything goes to hell. All her plans to stay strong, to be cold and tough and play it like she doesn’t give a shit. Hannah’s hand is on her wrist, her index finger gently caresses Theo’s pulse point, and Theo is about to say, Yes. Leave Jeremy. Take me back. Run away with me. We’ll take the snuff and sell it. We’ll go start over somewhere. That’s how it’s meant to be.
“Everything okay here?” Necco has come in, is standing over them, right next to Hannah.
“Fine,” Theo says, shaking herself back to reality enough to pull away from Hannah’s grip. “I was just leaving.”
“Who’s this?” Hannah asks.
Theo looks at Necco. She’s wearing her blond wig, the suede jacket, fresh makeup. She looks a good ten years older than she is, and everything about her face says, Don’t fuck with me. Theo knows that under her right pant leg, she’s got a knife strapped to her boot.
“A friend,” Theo says, right before she links arms with Necco and walks away, not looking back.
“That explains a lot!” Hannah calls. She’s crying now, and everyone in the diner is looking at her, at them. But Theo keeps her eyes on the ground until they are in the car.
Later, when she’s two blocks away, Theo pulls into the parking lot in front of Express Dry Cleaners.
“Fuck!” she howls, punching the wheel, letting herself cry. She cries and swears, and hits the wheel.
Necco sits beside her, silent, watching.
At last, Theo pulls her shit together. “Sorry,” she says, taking out a cigarette.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“It’s all so fucking hard, you know?” Theo says. “Loving people, trusting them, then having it all fall to shit.”
Necco nods. “I know.”
Theo looks at Necco, holding her unlit cigarette. The Fire Girl looks so calm, so pulled together. Two days ago she woke up with her boyfriend dead beside her. Theo has no fucking right to be sitting in this car, next to this girl, feeling sorry for herself. “God, I totally suck. You’re the one who’s lost everything, the one with a killer after you. I’ve just been screwed over by my stupid girlfriend. And now I’m sitting here about to breathe my secondhand smoke all over you and your baby again. I am such a selfish idiot.” She throws her cigarette out the window.
“No, you’re not,” Necco says. “You’re very brave. Facing Hannah like that, doing what you needed to do.”
“But I’m not brave at all. If you hadn’t been with me I’d never have done it.”
Necco considers this for a minute, says, “Maybe that’s what friends do, right? Make each other brave when we need it most. Me, I’m scared out of my mind to go back to my old house. But somehow knowing you’ll be with me makes it a little easier. A little less scary.”
Theo smiles, throws the rest of her pack of cigarettes out the window. She’s been meaning to quit forever and it seems like there’s no better time than right this second. “Let’s go see this house, then. You and me,” she says and starts the car.
Fred
Fred doesn’t know much about the women who live under the bridge. Just a few rumors he’s picked up over the years. They live in makeshift huts by the river. They’re all addicted to some sort of drug called the Devil’s Snuff. He doesn’t know much about the snuff either, just that it’s rarer than rare, but these women seem to be able to get it anytime they need. Maybe they’re the source. Fred doesn’t think much of drug addicts. He understands that addiction is an illness, but try as he might, he can’t help but see it as being weak willed. And he doesn’t get what would make someone try something like that to begin with, when they know it’s illegal and addictive. People make dumb-ass choices. That’s what it comes down to.
People go to the Devil’s Sn
uff women to learn their future. Give them some coins and they’ll tell you whether you should take that new job or if the boyfriend is going to ask you to marry him one day soon. Foolish stuff. Witches and fortune-tellers and a bunch of superstitious nonsense. But he’s hoping that there will be someone there who will talk to him about Lily Sandeski. Surely she didn’t just show up out of the blue and ask to become a Fire Eater? She must have had a story. Maybe one of the women could help him solve the mystery of how Lily, wife of a college professor and a mother, ended up living under a bridge. He’s brought cash with him. If these women will tell your future for coins, maybe they’ll also tell about someone else’s past. And maybe, just maybe, if he’s lucky, they might know where he can find Eva. He’s got to get to her before the kid and the man with the tattoo do.
He gets to the Blachly Bridge and stands on the edge, looking down. He can’t see anything—too much heavy vegetation, a thick curtain of leaves camouflaging whatever’s below. But he smells woodsmoke, and he thinks, if he holds still and listens hard, he hears the faint sound of talking and laughter down there. It’s eerie, the way the sound travels up, like voices from another world.
He walks to the end of the bridge and starts to search for a way down. Eventually, he finds a narrow, cleared path. It’s steep and the trees and saplings are right against its ragged edge. Thick stands of a tall plant—bamboo?—reach high over his head. Growing up along the trunks of these, as well as the trunks of other small trees, are bittersweet vines with yellow pods that have popped open, showing the bright red berries inside. There are bugs in here, and the air feels wet and murky. It’s like a goddamn jungle. He should have brought a machete.
His brother wants him to bring in information on the mystery kid. But what his brother wants most is the girl, the suspect in the murder of the governor’s son. There’s big money in it if they find her and bring her in. But Fred hasn’t told his brother about these new leads. He hasn’t told his brother because he thinks the girl is innocent, that maybe she was set up.
As if they’ve got some kind of psychic link and James knows his brother was just thinking about him, he calls.
“Hey,” Fred says, pausing under a bush, waving mosquitoes away.
“Want to tell me who the fuck Judith Tanner is?”
Fred pauses, thinking, Oh, shit.
“ ’Cause I just got a call from her wanting to follow up on our apparent conversation last night where I told her I knew how to find her niece. What the fuck is going on, Bro?”
“I can explain,” Fred says. “Not now, though. Give me a couple hours. In the meantime, see what you can find on a guy named Edward Tanner—I think—”
“Bullshit!” James cuts him off. “I don’t appreciate you running around town impersonating me. Get back to the office. I want a debriefing—now! If you’re not here in half an hour, you’re officially off the payroll.”
“Prick,” Fred says when James hangs up. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, continues down the path.
Last night, after he’d left Judith, he’d circled around to the back of the house, watched her through the kitchen window for a few minutes. She was on her phone, talking, voice raised, arms gesturing. The window was open a crack, and he was able to catch a few words: Private detective, questions, Eva, Miles, trouble, and I promise.
The ground levels out now and the path takes him along the edge of the river. Above him, the bridge looms like a big green cage, a hand waiting to grab him. He shakes the foolish thoughts from his head. The voices are clearer now, a group of women talking, laughing. He can make out the shapes of wooden shacks, and as he gets closer he sees they’re covered in roofing paper, cardboard, trash bags, and blue tarps.
There is an old woman dressed in colorful layers, scraggly white hair tied up in rags. She’s tending the fire. She looks up as he approaches. He sees three other women down by the river, gathering water in buckets, doing washing. They’re singing something, but stop when they hear him.
“Hello,” he calls. “I was hoping you could help me.”
The old woman stares at him, but says nothing. He’s almost to her now, so close he can feel the heat of the fire. She stirs at the coals with a long stick, sends sparks shooting up.
“Are you lost?” she asks him.
“No, I—”
“Mr. Marcelle?”
He turns.
Pru Small is coming out of one of the rickety wooden shacks. She has dirt smudged on her face and clothes. Her hair is in tangles. She looks like a woman who’s been lost in the wilderness for weeks.
“Pru?” he stammers, unable to hide his shock at finding her here, in this place. Just like he hadn’t expected her out at the old mill yesterday. Pru is full of surprises. “What the hell— Are you okay?”
“You know this man?” the old woman says to Pru.
“Yes. He’s a friend.” She turns to him. “Mr. Marcelle.” She smiles, her dirty face lighting up. “What brings you down here?”
He’s not sure just where to begin, but decides to cut to the chase.
“Eva Sandeski,” he says. “That’s what brings me here. Do either of you know where she is?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” the old woman says, and turns away from him, continues to poke at the fire. The other three women have approached now. They move in unison, silent, and form a rough circle around Fred, watching, waiting. One is young with a crazy punk haircut and tattoos; there’s an older, frumpy-looking woman with her hair in a bun, and a tiny, blond, wild-eyed woman with gritted, red-stained teeth. Despite his size and strength, he knows he’s outnumbered, that they have the upper hand here.
“But you knew her mother, Lily. She came to you about four years ago. Her husband, Miles Sandeski, was a professor at the college. For some reason, Lily took her daughter, Eva, and ran. And she ended up here. I want to know why. Please.”
“I don’t know anyone by those names,” the old woman says, still poking the fire, sending a stream of sparks flying up. The woman with the blond hair and wild eyes takes a step closer; the other two women do the same.
“Please,” he begs. “I’m just trying to help. I’m not sure about this, but I think that Miles Sandeski and Lily were murdered. And Matthew Stanton, the governor’s son; two days before he was killed, he asked his dad to reopen an old murder case.”
“What old case?” the old woman asks. He has her attention now.
“When Miles was ten, he watched his mother have her throat slit by a man in a mask. Somehow Matthew discovered something, some new information about who the killer was. And I think this got him killed. And I also think that now whoever murdered Matthew is looking for Eva. She’s in terrible danger. Please.”
“Miss Abigail?” Pru says to the old woman. “What do you think?”
Miss Abigail looks long and hard at Fred but says nothing.
“Please, Pru, where is Eva?” he asks. “She is supposed to meet a young man this afternoon, a man with a scar above his eye, but it’s a trap. There’s another man, a man with a tattoo, who will be waiting. They think she has something they want. Something they won’t leave without, whatever the cost.”
“Tattoo?” The old woman turns, looks worried. “What kind of tattoo?”
“A pair of dice on his wrist.”
“Snake Eyes,” the old woman hisses. She looks down into the flames, then turns to face Pru, eyes like glowing coals. “Pru, tell him what you know. Our Necco is in serious danger. Theo, too.”
Pru frowns. “Necco—Eva, I mean—she’s gone off with Theodora. They took my car. They went to meet Necco’s brother. He must be the boy with the scar.”
“Her brother?” Mr. Marcelle asks. “Are you sure?” He remembers the photo of the little boy on Judith Tanner’s mantel. Her son, Edward, who supposedly died years ago.
“Where are they meeting him?”
“At Eva’s old house. He’s supposed to be there at noon.”
Fred looks down at his watch. “It�
��s five of now.”
“Then we better hurry,” Pru says.
“We? Pru, it could be dangerous, I don’t think—”
“I’m coming with you,” she says, not a question but a loud and clear statement.
He nods. “I’ve got the address in my papers in the car. Let’s go.”
Necco
Necco holds her breath as they cross the Blachly Bridge. They’re heading southeast, into what Necco has come to think of as the Forbidden Zone. It’s all still here. Still the same as she remembers it: the market, the little cafés, the brightly colored bungalow houses.
Theo turns right on Old Route 3. As they move farther away from the heart of the city, the houses get farther apart. There are fields. A barn with horses, even.
“Pretty out here,” Theo says.
“Yeah,” Necco agrees. There’s so much green. Houses with swimming pools, big gardens. Theo makes two more turns and they’re on Birchwood Lane.
Now, Necco blinks her eyes helplessly, looks out the car window and knows just where she is. She’s bumping along the little lane they used to live on, the river running at her left side, just through the woods. She can see it sparkle like diamonds through the trees, like a treasure waiting to be discovered.
But she knows better. She knows that sometimes a thing masks its danger with beauty just to lure you closer, to lull you into believing you are safe. She reaches down, feels the outline of her blade strapped to her boot, which offers some comfort.
And just then, they come around the bend and the house comes into view and it takes the air right out of her chest. She can’t believe she’s seeing it: that it’s still there, that it looks just the same. There is her little house, complete with the swing set in the yard. Errol used to push her on it, give her underdogs and sing a silly little song while he did it. She’d forgotten that until just now—that there were things called underdogs and silly songs her brother sang.
The blue paint on the house is peeling, the yard is overgrown, and her mother’s garden is all choked out by weeds. (She’d forgotten this, too—how her mother loved to garden.) Off to the left, between the house and river, her father’s workshop—the old metal-sided shack—looks a little more rusted now, the windows cracked, but it’s still standing. Not swept away by the river.
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