The air was cool verging on cold, with a snap to it, and after the relative warmth of the house, my glasses fogged. Or maybe that was my breath, because it certainly felt like I was overheated, like I was drawing in lungfuls of the mist as I tried to bring my body temperature down. I wiped my hands on my jeans when I got to his Pilot, and as I opened the door, I thought, What am I doing?
Before I could consider that question more carefully, I grabbed the backpack from the passenger seat and hurried back inside.
Deputy Bobby was standing where I’d left him, a silhouette in the murky vestibule.
“Sure you don’t want anything to eat?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Come on,” I said.
I had to touch his arm to get him moving, but after that, I was careful to keep my hands to myself. We moved through the house in the dark, heading for the central staircase. I kept to the rugs. I went slowly on the stairs. The sounds of our steps were muffled, but they seemed magnified in the house’s silence. I felt like I’d gone back in time, like I was sixteen and sneaking Justin Anderson into my bedroom to make out. In the thick shadows, every shape became Indira, and a flash fire went through my face. Not because she would think badly of me. Not because she would even care. But because of what she’d said earlier. Because a part of me was still running away from that conversation.
And look, a part of my brain pointed out, how well that’s going.
I led Deputy Bobby down the hall and into one of Hemlock House’s many bedrooms. The house was so quiet that I could hear every noise: the rattle of the door’s old hardware, the ancient latch squeaking back, Deputy Bobby’s ragged breathing. The bedroom itself looked like all the others in Hemlock House: the damask wallpaper, the four-poster bed, the cavernous fireplace, a gilt candelabra that looked like something straight out of Castle Dracula (perfect for holding dramatically while standing on a staircase). The mirror above the dressing table caught us, and for a strange moment, everything was reversed.
Shaking off the sensation, I carried Deputy Bobby’s bag to the bed. He trailed after me into the room, his steps soft and scuffing. “Welcome to Dashiell Dawson Dane’s bed-and-breakfast. Bathroom is through there—it’s a Jack-and-Jill, so we share it, which means remember to lock the door. We have some very important house rules, so I’m going to ask you to pay attention. First, we have a strict policy about not getting out of bed before noon. We put the bed in bed-and-breakfast.”
Apparently, even in the depths of despair, Deputy Bobby could still roll his eyes.
“Second, breakfast is whatever Indira is gracious enough to make. And if she decides not to make anything, we’re going to Chipper, and you’re buying me the Dash Special.”
“It’s not really a special, you know.” His voice sounded like he was fighting for normal. “And I don’t see why you have to have all four breakfast sandwiches at the same time.”
“Wait, someone told you about the Dash Special?”
“Millie put it on the menu board.”
“Oh my God.” I drew a deep breath. “Third, if you’re going to search for hidden treasure, please don’t break anything.”
“What was it this time?”
“Keme tried to climb a downspout.”
Deputy Bobby rubbed his eyes, but he looked like he was trying not to smile.
“And fourth, if you need anything—anything—please tell me.” I put my hands on my hips and said in my sternest voice, “Please.”
He nodded.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” I said.
He nodded. Whatever animation had filled his face was draining away again, and he looked around the room as though still trying to take it in, his expression dull.
“Or,” I said, “I could stay.”
I got another nod.
There aren’t a lot of times in my life I’ve been brave, but I think maybe this one counted. Black spots flecked my vision. It felt like somebody else was breathing through my mouth. My guts had collapsed into that black hole of whirling, sharp objects. But somehow, I managed to say, “Bobby?”
He looked at me.
“I’m going to stay. Just until I’m sure you’re okay.”
Nothing. But I saw in his eyes—what? That plea again, maybe, although I didn’t know what he was asking for. A hint of panic. He began to pace, moving his way back and forth across the room. I sank onto a chaise. Springs compressed under me, groaning. The scrolled wood of the back felt cold, and my hand was slick and oily. Deputy Bobby moved from the dressing table and the backwards world inside the mirror to the fireplace. He studied the porcelain figure of a woman there. He touched the tortoiseshell lid of a trinket box. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and even now, the vee of his body was strong and straight.
“What’s going on with your parents?” he asked as he moved to study a massive oil painting of a—I want to say a stallion. (And again, I have to emphasize in Millie style: MASSIVE.)
“What’s going on with them?” I asked. “I don’t know. I guess the usual. They don’t talk to each other. Then they talk about writing. Dad cleans his guns. Or he shoots his guns. Or he goes down to the gunsmith and talks to the guys and buys a new gun. Mom reads court transcripts or books about psychopaths or medical journals. She gets the eggs from the chickens. She checks herself into a residential treatment program.”
Deputy Bobby jerked his gaze toward me.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She does it almost every year. She thinks she’s going to get some dramatic inside scoop, you know? Like, uncover abuse, or meet someone who will inspire a character. That kind of thing.”
“Does it work?”
“God, no. The places she picks are practically spas.”
Deputy Bobby laughed, but it faded quickly. “I meant what about your story?”
“What?”
“Your story. For the anthology.”
“You already asked me about that.”
“I know.”
