“Yes, like that,” she said. “Sweet but always in trouble.”
His hand rested on her bare waist. The heat hummed to life again and warm air blew through the ceiling vent.
“I’m trying to be a better man, Fin,” he said. “You see that, right?”
She
did
see that, but it was more complicated than even he knew.
“You
are
good, Rain,” she said, feeling guilty for no reason.
“Then what?” he said. “What do you need me to do?”
She didn’t answer. It wasn’t about him, or not just about him. It was about her, how he made her want to go to dark places. She’d
come here to learn about herself, to absorb the things that Eloise could teach her about what she was and how to control it. She had so much to learn about herself. She couldn’t do that if she was lost in Rainer and all the drama that always seemed to crop up around them, between them: the fight in the bar when Rainer thought she was flirting (she wasn’t); the day she missed an exam because she was sleeping off a high in his bed; the girl in love with Rainer who tried to cause trouble by constantly calling and hanging up on Finley’s cell phone; the argument he’d gotten in with her mother where he’d called her a controlling bully. (Not a deal breaker, but still.)
“He’s wearing jeans and a striped tee-shirt,” she said. “He loves trains.”
He rubbed her shoulder, kneading it with two strong hands. “What about The Three Sisters?” he asked.
There was an uncompleted tattoo on her inner right arm, an image of Patience, Sarah, and Abigail. It was the black outline of their faces, hair wild, eyes bright, all leaning in together with no space between their bodies. Rainer had started it for her before Eloise even told her who they were.
A few months after he’d done the initial outline, her grandmother showed her a drawing that was identical to the tattoo, something Eloise had found in The Hollows Historical Society archives. Eloise told Finley their dark history then—that The Three Sisters were tried and burned at the stake as witches in the 1600s. They were only girls when they died—twelve, fourteen, and sixteen. Faith never got over it. Centuries later, poor Faith was still hovering, trying and failing to keep bad things from happening.
Rainer had started some shading on Abigail—her dress, her hair. But the other two were still just outlines, waiting. As Finley understood them better, they would get their colors, their details, their shading.
“Not tonight,” Finley said.
If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. She knew he was dying to continue his work on The Three Sisters, Abigail especially. In
stead, he took out a sketchbook and charcoal pencil. She waited, her eyes closing, the exhaustion of the day pulling at her. The sound had quieted, which must mean she was on the right track with her research. She found herself thinking of the rose-breasted grosbeak, its pretty black and white and red body, its sweet and joyful song.
Little Bird
. The phrase stuck in her head, repeated itself—a loving term of endearment, a nickname. Yes, that was it.
“How’s this?” he asked. He walked around in front of her and held up the sketch. It was nearly perfect, almost exactly as she’d seen the little boy—from the glint in his eye to the train in his hand.
“His face could be a little chubbier,” she said. “But yeah. You’re amazing.”
He gave her a deferential bow and then went over to the copier to make the stencil. She liked him best in the shop, where he was focused and knowing. He was less wild in here, less dangerous. She flashed on that moment in the bar when Rainer came out of nowhere to punch the guy she was talking to in the face. Blood gushed from his nose and he’d cried like a girl. That was the first time she glimpsed Rainer’s dark side, the anger deep inside him. Once she’d seen it, she couldn’t forget it. She couldn’t even remember what the guy had said to her. He pressed charges, though, and Rainer went to court, paid a fine for drunk and disorderly.
“Hold still,” he said now.
As he spoke, the hint of movement in the dark corner of the shop caught her eye. She wasn’t surprised to see Abigail leaning against the wall. Rainer pulled his cart over, unwrapped a new needle, put on surgical gloves. He was a professional; he did things right even when it was just the two of them. He arranged the pile of gauze, which he’d use to mop away the blood and ink. Abigail walked over until she was standing behind Rainer, who held the tattoo gun.
“How about here?” he asked, laying a hand on her lower back, close to her hip.
“That’s fine,” she said. He pressed the paper there with a crinkle, then peeled it back. She knew it was just a starting point, all the magic would happen with his freehand work.
Rainer pressed his foot on the round pedal, making the machine hum with its electric sizzle. Finley breathed deep in anticipation of the needle, the heat, the pain. It was a hurt that brought with it a kind of relief. Eloise had expressed concern that Finley’s “tattoo addiction” was a form of masochism. Maybe.
She released a low moan as the needle pierced her skin, close to the hipbone. The closer to the bone, the worse the pain. There was no denying that it hurt, but Finley could sink into the pain, embrace it. Fighting, bracing against it only made it worse.
Rainer had his head bent over, totally focused on the task before him. Abigail walked across the room and stood beside Rainer. To Finley, Abigail had real substance—the fall of her hair, the swoosh of her dress, the sound of her shoes on the floor. Finley watched Abigail watching Rainer. She looked at him with such naked longing that Finley finally averted her eyes.
FOUR
M
erri let herself into the apartment. Wolf had insisted she take the key.
If it’s Jackson’s home, it’s your home, too
, he’d said. He wasn’t ready to end the marriage.
“We can’t split up,” he’d urged. “Not now, not like this. Think about Jackson, Merri. How much more can a kid take?”
She wasn’t one of those people who subscribed to the idea that kids were better off in a miserable but intact marriage than they were in a broken one. Not anymore. In fact, if she’d left Wolf years ago when she first knew it was over, none of the horrible things that came later ever would have happened. Why do people cling to these old ideas about family and marriage? Why do they stagnate, forcing the universe to deliver ever more severe lessons? Fear. It was fear of change that had kept her marriage together. Now that the worst possible thing had happened, Merri found that she was free from fear. She was untethered from what people thought, her terror of failure, the desire for stability. Rather than the joyous release she had always imagined, instead she had a sense of being unmoored in her life. She was drifting, unable to settle, emotionally homeless.
She dropped her coat and bag by the door. The lights were low, the big (enormous, a truly ridiculous sixty-five inches; God, he was such a child) screen television tuned to a soccer game. Wolf was hunched over his keyboard, his eternal posture. The tall windows of the TriBeCa loft looked out onto a field of lights. There was money. His. Hers. Not a fortune, but enough. That had never been one of their problems. They had never struggled to make ends meet.
They’d always fucked like rock stars. No, it wasn’t one of the big three—money, sex, infidelity (though he’d never been faithful)—that split them apart. What was it then—other than the enormous, unthinkable tragedy that ultimately blew them to smithereens? Nothing. Everything. She still wasn’t sure. The worst part about it was that she’d never stopped loving him. Even after everything, the sight of him still thrilled her.
“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Jackson.
He leapt up as if she’d Tasered him, then put a hand over his heart.
“Merri,” he said. “Christ.”
His relief, his happiness at seeing her was palpable. She glanced at the screen out of habit. She didn’t see any images of enormous breasts, or girls kissing, or wild porn sex—just an open Word document. She knew he was on deadline.
Not that she cared about his deviant sexual appetites anymore.
Porn isn’t so bad,
he’d childishly insisted more than once.
Lots of guys look at porn. It doesn’t mean anything.
It means you’re a man-baby. That’s what it means. And no working mother wants a man-baby as a partner in her life, just FYI.
She sank into the plush couch they’d purchased together at Jensen-Lewis. She remembered paying for it and thinking that people who didn’t love each other anymore had no business buying furniture together. Now she felt comforted by its butter-soft leather, by the solidity of the thing. It wasn’t going anywhere. Everything had changed around it, but it was still there.
“Where have you been?” Wolf asked.
“I talked to Jackson before bed,” she said, a little defensive. She was unhinged, obsessed, yes. But she was still there for Jackson; she hadn’t abandoned him in her grief. In fact, he was the only thing keeping her from going over the edge completely.
“He said you FaceTimed from your car,” said Wolf. “Helped with his essay.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Where were you?” he asked again.
She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject, how he was going to take it.
“I found some help,” she said.
He walked over to the enormous kitchen island—open plan, great room, of course, fifteen-foot ceilings, miles of bookshelves, spare amounts of furniture and décor. Wolf took a box of peppermint tea from the cupboard and brewed her a cup with the instant boiling water from the Hot Shot.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thanks,” she lied. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything. A protein bar this morning? Or was that last night? She really did need to manage her blood sugar better. HALT, was it? Never let yourself get too hungry, too angry, too lonely, too tired? She’d gleaned that much from her brush with addiction therapy. It seemed like a good rule of thumb, in general, that one should manage the conditions of hunger, loneliness, anger, fatigue. If you could manage those things, you were in good shape. But she was way too far gone on all counts. She hardly even recognized her own reflection anymore. Who
was
that middle-aged, gray, drawn-looking woman in the mirror?
“What kind of help?” he asked, coming to sit across from her. Wolf kept his distance lately; he knew that she didn’t want him to touch her. Even though she really did. She wanted him to wrap her up. She wanted to disappear into his arms the way she used to when she was younger. Then, back when she’d first loved him, he was the safest place she’d ever found in her life. Now, he was quicksand.
“What kind of help?” he repeated.
Still, she didn’t answer him right away. She didn’t want him to shit all over it, which he was almost guaranteed to do.
“A private detective—” she started carefully, only to be interrupted.
“Merri—” Exasperated, hand to forehead.
“This one’s different.”
“Different
how
?”
How much money had they spent in the year that Abbey went
missing? When the Amber Alert yielded nothing. When the news conferences and manhunts had ceased. When the volunteers had gone back to their families, and the fliers weathered away on the trees to which they’d been tacked. When calls stopped coming into the tip line—even the crackpots and voyeurs and sadists got bored eventually. When the police stopped looking them in the eyes. How much money had they spent trying to find someone,
anyone
who wouldn’t give up on their child?
“He—uh—works with a psychic.”
Stunned silence, jaw dropping—actually this was worse than raging, which she had expected. Wolf had a hell of a temper; he could really throw down. And she was ready to go to the mat with him. But his silence deflated her. She braced herself for the barrage of questions: What are you thinking? Are you high? How long before you accept that our daughter is gone? These stories you see on the newsmagazine shows, about the people held captive for months and years are statistical anomalies. She’s gone. She was gone probably within hours of losing her.
Instead: “A psychic.” The word was flat with fatigue, disbelief.
“That’s kind of a weird word,” Merri acknowledged, not liking the sound of it from his mouth. “They’re partners—sort of. She’s solved cases, a lot of them. You can search her: Eloise Montgomery. And the detective is Jones Cooper. He used to work for The Hollows PD, retired now.”
Wolf was slowly shaking his head, mouth open, at a rare loss for words.
“I’m doing this,” she said finally. “It’s our last chance.”
He put his face into his palms.
The thing was, she didn’t blame Wolf for any of this. She blamed herself. She blamed herself for taking a nap (or trying to) while he took the kids hiking. She had just wanted a couple of hours of silence; that was it. He’d promised her that on this trip, she’d get a little bit of time to herself—to read, to watch television, to nap. She wasn’t one of those women who took trips with “the girls,” leaving husband and kids behind. She didn’t take spa days. She didn’t go
out with her pals for drinks, unless it was work related. Merri was a mother and wife first. She worked. She worked out (obsessively, religiously)—or used to before her knee injury. That was it. She wasn’t sure that it was the right way to be, or healthy at all. That’s just how she was hardwired—for better or worse. Sometimes it took its toll; she got frayed, impatient with everyone. Her mother always said,
You have to find some time for yourself, sweetheart. Just for you
. But Merri didn’t even know what that meant anymore.
The irony was that she hadn’t even slept that afternoon, though the air was cool and sunlight danced hypnotically on the floor of the cabin. The windows were open, and everything smelled
fresh
—the flowers outside the window, wood still burning in the outdoor fireplace where they’d made s’mores after lunch.
But a niggle of guilt kept her from relaxing: she
should
have gone with them.
“Take the time,” Wolf had insisted. “Just chill for a bit. We won’t be long.”
She wanted to hike; lunch feeling heavy in her belly. They
should
be together as a family. Did he bring enough water? Abbey got dehydrated so easily.
All Merri’s lists of should haves and must do’s were an endless parade. So, in the end she neither relaxed nor hiked. She wound up sitting down with a book; which was okay and a bit of a luxury in and of itself.
But part of her was keeping vigil, just waiting for them to come back. She could envision them coming through the door. One of them would almost certainly have skinned a knee or have incurred some other minor injury. There would have been some kind of drama; Wolf would be out of sorts that the outing had been nothing like he’d imagined it. Perhaps because he always treated the kids like they were twenty-year-olds who didn’t need his assistance in any way—when they needed his assistance in almost
every
way. Jackson maybe less so. But Abbey was a little drama queen—no event could occur without some theater from their girl.
Merri read awhile, did some crunches. Then she walked over to
the refrigerator, thinking she could whip up something great for dinner. But they needed another trip to the store. Maybe she’d take the car into town. She tried not to think about the bottle of little blue pills in her bag, the one she’d promised not to bring with her. She’d taken too many already,
couldn’t
take more. She waited as the shadows started to grow long. The light had taken on a particular pretty golden quality when she started to worry a little.
* * *
“Fine,” Wolf said now. “If you think it will help.”
He stopped short of saying “help
you
.” Wolf had given up on Abbey. No, that wasn’t true and wasn’t fair. He’d closed off the part of himself that was alternately raging and catatonic with grief. Part of him had died; she could see it in his eyes, which grew haunted in the evenings. The other part had slipped into survival mode. He’d slowed his life down to one day at a time—home and family. As far as she could see, he did nothing but work and take care of Jackson, try to take care of Merri.
He’d forced them all to move out of the Upper West Side building that had been their home for fifteen years and into this loft.
Too many memories, stagnation, clinging to a past that was gone, one way or another.
She’d raged at him. How could they leave their home, pack up her room? The only solid thing left in their lives. The callousness of it rocked her. What would Abbey think when she came back and found that they’d moved her things to another home, put her iPod Touch, her first teddy bear, her endless rows of books, her school uniforms, her dresses—into a room that she’d never seen.
“None of that matters,” said Wolf. “Can’t you see how worthless it all is? Without her
energy
, it’s just junk. If—when—she comes home, no matter what, we’ll all need a fresh start. Especially Abbey.”
Wolf had been adamant; even Jackson seemed eager to move on. But their son had always been desperate to please his father. He’d do anything Wolf wanted; the man could do no wrong.
That’s when she left—not left, exactly. She didn’t have another place to live. She was homeless; when she didn’t sleep here, she
slept in her car somewhere up by the cabin. How could she have a home, a life, when her daughter was missing, when every moment she wasn’t
in motion
,
doing something
, she was imagining every possible horror?
“I want to go up there for a couple of weeks,” she said.
This was it; this was her life. Gone were the normal routines that once seemed as immutable as the rising and setting of the sun—make breakfast, take the kids to school, hit the gym, work till lunch, eat, get the kids, run around to various after school activities, work again after the kids went to sleep. How hectic it all seemed, such a grind sometimes—dishes, laundry, homework, clean your room, did you remember to do this or that or the other thing. The task list only grew, as soon as one thing was accomplished, three other things were added. Holidays and school events, birthday parties, and parent-teacher conferences. How beautiful and distant it all seemed now, like a village you saw from a cliff, far below and nestled in rolling green hills. She wanted to go back there, but it was too far.
“What about Jackson?” Wolf said.
She bit back the rise of sadness, helpless rage, that feeling of constantly being pulled apart. “I need to do this,” she said. “For her.”
He blew out a big breath, sad and hopeless, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes. His thick curls fell in a careless tousle. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. She liked him best like this—rumpled, tired. This was the real Wolf. The one who didn’t feel like he had to put on a show of himself—adventurer, travel writer, Ivy League–educated man of the world.
“And if nothing?” he asked. Just a whisper, like they were speaking to each other in church.
She’d anticipated that question, had thought about making grand promises, that she’d try to move forward, that she wouldn’t spend so much time up there, that she’d start therapy again, doctor of his choice. But she didn’t have the energy to make promises she didn’t mean.
“I don’t know,” she said.
He came to sit beside her, and she didn’t shift away from him,
turned to face him instead. He put his arms around her and she held her body stiff, then let go, wrapped her arms around him, too. He buried his face in her hair; then he was shaking. It took her a second to realize he was crying. She held him tighter, feeling less alone in this thing. He was whispering; she couldn’t understand what he was saying at first.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Over and over again like a prayer.