Lilah had already finished eating breakfast when Stanley stumbled into the kitchen at eight o’clock, fumbling with the mismatched buttons on his blue flannel shirt. Eyelids still heavy from sleep, he squinted at the clock over the stove, muttering a curse at the blurry digits.
“There’s a Pop-Tart and hard-boiled egg on the counter,” Lilah said, glancing up from her book.
Her father jumped at the sound of her voice. “Jesus, I didn’t see you sitting there,” he grunted, scrubbing a hand through his unbrushed hair. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he added. He let out a jaw-cracking yawn as he fetched a black shaker from the spice cabinet, then trudged over to the plate she had set out for him. Eyes still half-shut, he began peppering his egg before remembering that it needed to be peeled first.
“Bad night?” Lilah asked from the table.
“Bad dreams,” Stanley muttered, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He took a long swig without waiting for it to cool, glancing at Lilah through the steam. He noted, with more than a hint of surprise, that she was already dressed, her hair done up in a tidy ponytail with a bow. “How come you’re up so early? Did you sleep okay?”
“I slept fine,” she lied. “I just felt like getting a head start on my reading assignment today.”
“I see,” Stanley replied. “Have you taken your—”
“Taking it now,” Lilah interjected, tossing a pill into her mouth. She feigned a big swig of orange juice, letting the tart liquid carry the medicine back into the full glass, then stuck out her empty tongue for her father to see. “Happy?” She made sure to be extra careful when she set the juice back on the table, not wanting to draw attention to the bright blue tablet settling to the bottom of it.
“Thank you,” her father said, taking his plate and mug in his hands as he sat down at the table. Resting his elbows in front of him, he sighed. “And no, I’m not ‘happy.’ I’m sorry you’re dealing with all of this. I’m sorry I’m doing such a lousy job helping you through it. I’m sorry—”
Stanley stopped himself mid-sentence, chomping off a mouthful of pastry to halt the words his tired mind had almost let escape: I’m sorry I didn’t die in her place. I’m sorry you had to be stuck with an oaf like me for a parent. We both know how much better at this she would have been. But Lilah couldn’t know the demons he struggled with; the lamentation that gnawed at the back of his mind daily – how his brilliant, sensitive, caring wife could be taken from the world when he offered so little in her place. He took another burning gulp of coffee, trying to stall for time. When he finally cleared his throat a few moments later, Lilah was back to reading her book.
“I’d better get going,” Stanley said, pushing his chair away from the table. “I have three new volunteers to train this week and they’re probably already at the station waiting. You have enough to entertain yourself with until I’m back this evening?”
“Yep,” she replied, holding up her book. “I’m good.”
“What about lunch?”
“What about your lunch?” Lilah retorted, glancing at his empty lunch sack on the counter.
“Crap.” He bolted over to the refrigerator and stuck his head inside. “All we have is a little bit of casserole from the other night. I’ll leave that for you and stop at the deli on the way to the station.”
“No, you take it,” she said. “I’ll, uh – I’ll just make myself a peanut butter sandwich.”
“You sure?” he asked, glancing at the clock again.
“Yeah, no problem.”
Stanley stuffed the Tupperware in his frayed lunch sack, poured the rest of the coffee pot into a thermos, and made his way for the back door. He hesitated there for a moment, his hand floating over the doorknob, before walking back over to Lilah and kissing the top of her head. “I love you. Okay? Don’t forget that.”
Before she could reply, he was out the door.
A knot of guilt rippled through her stomach as she watched him drive away. But she could feel Willow’s eyes watching her again, and she knew that there was only one thing that would make them go away: tracking down Mike Hastings.
After counting down the minutes until nine o’clock – a suitably late hour for a morning phone call, she reasoned to herself – Lilah took the little slip of paper with Jace’s number scrawled on it, feeling her heart race at the sight of his handwriting. As she dialed his number on the kitchen phone, her fingers were trembling so badly, she had to hang up and try again. Once she’d finally punched in all the digits in their proper order, she held her breath, waiting for the line to connect.
A gruff-sounding voice answered on the second ring. “Wainwright residence, Frank speaking.”
“H-Hi. Can I speak to Jace, please?”
“Hang on.” A loud clack let Lilah know that Frank had plunked down the receiver. Still, she had to hold the phone away from her ear as he shouted, “Jace! Jace! Damnit, Mara, where is that boy of yours?”
Jace’s mother said something in response, but her voice was too soft for Lilah to make out the words.
“Do I look like a damned messenger?” the man snapped. “I’m not looking all over the house for him.” A moment later, he picked up the phone again. “I don’t know where he is. You’ll have to call back.”
“Okay, but could you just—” Lilah started, but the dial tone was already trilling in her ear. She hung up the phone, chewing on her lip. She thought about calling back, but she worried about getting Jace in further trouble if she did. Luckily, her own phone rang less than a minute later, interrupting her internal debate.
“Hello?” she answered breathlessly.
“Hey,” came the sound of Jace’s voice. It sent a shiver of elation down her back. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s okay! How did you know it was me?”
“A hunch.” Lilah thought she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, well, good hunch…” she replied, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Um, I’m sorry if I annoyed your stepdad. He seemed a little grumpy when he answered the phone.”
“It wasn’t you. He’s always like that. So… how are you?”
“Fine,” she said, hoisting herself up on the counter. “I was just wondering if you were still free today? My dad said we could go track down that information on Mike Hastings, and maybe even pay him a visit – that is, if you’re still up for it?” She held her breath, hoping he hadn’t heard her voice crack. She’d never been very good at lying, and today she’d told not one, but three lies. She could feel breakfast churning around in her stomach.
“Absolutely,” Jace replied.
“Really?” Lilah asked, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. She bit her knuckle to keep herself from squeaking.
“I can be there in twenty minutes. Is that okay?”
“Yes!” Suddenly a thought occurred to her. “Wait – don’t you have to check with your parents first? We might have to drive pretty far.”
“Nah, they won’t care. Frank will just be glad to have me out of the house. Anyway, I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay,” she replied, biting her lip as she did. “See you soon.”
She felt a pang of sadness as she hung up the phone. Her father’s constant hovering and worrying had been a source of countless arguments between them. But hearing Jace say that his parents just wanted him out of the house made her realize that there were, perhaps, worse things than an overprotective father. And that made her feel even worse about lying to her own father.
He hovers because he cares, she thought, feeling more than a hint of chagrin. It’s the only way he knows how to show it. She hopped down from the counter, feeling somewhat less resolute about her plan than she had a few minutes ago. I’ll make Dad a pot roast tonight, she told herself. He’ll love that. I can even ask Jace to stop at the grocery store on the way home. And after today, no more lying.
She really did mean it, and she felt slightly better for having settled on that last part in particular.
With a quick glance at her watch, she hurried to her room where she emptied the contents of her school bag onto her unmade bed. In place of a pile of textbooks and a crumpled-up lunch sack, she added a spiral notebook, her library card, a handful of sparkly gel pens, a fold-up map of Montana that she’d borrowed from her father’s glove box, the newspaper clippings from beside her bed, a flashlight (unnecessary, perhaps, since they’d be home by dinner, but it added a nice touch of “sleuthery”), the torn phonebook page with home addresses for all eight Mike Hastings, and two different kinds of lip balm – just in case she lost one. She also double-checked to make sure her lucky penny was still safely tucked in its secret inside pocket. With all that, she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way to the front door, where she waited nervously for Jace to arrive.
As she tapped her foot impatiently, a flutter of movement next to her eye made her gasp. A furry gray moth landed on the wall a few inches away. Lilah took a shuddering breath; moths had always frightened her for some reason, and this one was big, with strange black markings on its wings. They reminded her of eyes. Gray, wistful eyes. As Lilah continued to stare at the moth, its wings became very still, almost frozen. After a moment, the wings drooped and the insect tumbled to the ground.
“Oh!” Lilah exclaimed, taking a step backwards. The moth was lying on its back beside the front door, its unmoving legs frozen in the air.
Did I do that? she wondered. As she knelt beside the moth, as close as her mounting dread would allow, she tried to focus her concentration on it, the way she had with the dried flowers. But as she did, the moth’s body and papery wings abruptly crumbled apart, leaving behind a tiny pile of gray dust that vaguely reminded her of Marie’s ashes.
“Oh no!” she began to lament, just as a sharp pain cut through her head. As she cried out, her breath scattered the dust across the floor.
Clutching her forehead with one hand, she tried to scoop the powder back into a small pile, but the more flustered she got, the grainier and rougher the surface of the hardwood floor became. Within moments, the polished floor had become dry and craggy, and the moth dust had disappeared into the deep grooves of the wood grain. She stared as the rickety planks beneath the crumbling welcome mat began to splinter and crack, feeling panic creep into her chest. She looked around her helplessly; the hallway was covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust; the wallpaper was peeling away from the crumbling drywall, exposing hundreds of beady-eyed termites underneath. The checkered drapes in the front window were raining down upon the deteriorating floor in tatters.
The sound of heavy tires driving over snow made Lilah’s head snap up. All at once, the throbbing in her forehead stopped, and the hallway returned to normal. She let out a sharp gasp as a furry, gray moth fluttered past her face, landing on the unspoiled, checkered drapes that hung from the window. It slowly opened and closed its wings in the narrow stripe of yellow sunlight that spilled across the fabric. The vehicle – a white moving truck – made a wide U-turn in the cul-de-sac, passing by the house without stopping.
Meanwhile, Lilah sat on the floor, feet splayed out in front of her, doing everything she could to get her shallow, raspy breathing back to normal.
Still, when Jace’s rust-colored truck appeared in the driveway ten minutes later, her heart felt as though it might leap out of her chest. With one final glance at the moth, which was still sunning its gray wings in the windowsill, she zipped up her powder-blue down jacket and stepped into the cold, crisp air outside. The sun was low on the flat, icy horizon, but bright, and even though the blue sky was cloudless, the wind was frigid and warned of impending snow. She hugged her body as she jogged over to Jace’s truck, glad that the heat was already on full-blast when she hoisted herself into the cabin.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly.
“Hey,” he smiled. “You ready for our big library adventure?”
“Definitely.”
“Alright,” he said, putting the truck in gear. “Let’s go.”
Lilah watched her shrinking house in the sideview mirror as they pulled away, trying her best not to think about what had just happened inside. It was hard enough to stay calm, sitting less than a foot away from the boy she’d caught herself fantasizing about on far too many occasions. But as she settled into the seat of Jace’s truck, thereby fulfilling the start of every fantasy she’d ever had while staring at the back of his head in homeroom, she was filled not with elation, but worry. She could feel Willow’s ashen eyes watching her from inside her backpack, urging her to hurry. If only she knew where it was that she was hurrying to. And what she would find when she got there.