Bend, Oregon
December 10, present day
I park at the curb. The house looks familiar but different, same as a friend who ages visibly visit to visit, temporal snapshots that always make me keenly aware of weeks and hours and seconds, things I was trained to ignore until they became everything.
The blue paint is peeling in spots; the front gutter is rusting in places. Blades of gray-green grass poke up from the cracks in the driveway. But warm light glows from behind the curtains of the front window.
Twenty years ago, I saw this house for the first time. Martin and Hailey Rodriguez saved my life. They took me in and treated me like family. They gave me space and accepted my half-truths about the abusive family I’d run from. While the embers at the Oracles compound were still smoldering, while the bodies were still being recovered from the ashes, I watched the evening news with Hailey and Martin, acting as shocked as they were that the local cult had turned out to be even crazier than everyone thought. They gave me the new beginning I needed, and I’ve repaid them with a few texts and birthday cards, a lot of unanswered phone calls, and silence for years at a time.
I’m going to have to tell them about the name at some point, sooner rather than later. I’ll have to come clean, about that one thing at least. I’m not sure how big of a deal it’ll be; it could go either way. Hailey sounded weird on the phone, not that I blame her. This is a big ask. But everything between us since the moment we met has been that way, and she and Martin never seemed to hold it against me.
With a deep breath, I get out of my car, wincing at the pain in my back after six hours on the road. My suitcase, packed for a week, feels like it’s filled with concrete. I pull it from my trunk as the pain snakes down my legs. My run tomorrow morning is going to be a bear; I can already tell. But I need it—I didn’t move enough today, and despite the pain, I’m restless as a shaken soda.
I pull my roller bag along the walk and clumsily tug it up the two front steps to the little porch. The mat reads “Welcome! Did you bring snacks?” and it makes me smile. I ring the doorbell, and my heart begins to race. I have to remind myself of who I am, who I’ve always been, even though those two things are different. My details, my story, my memories. Sometimes it’s hard to shuffle it all together into one deck.
The door opens, and Hailey greets me with wide eyes. Her white hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she’s gained a few pounds. Her look of shock is one I’m familiar with, as are her first blurted words to me: “You’re even thinner than the last time I saw you!”
“Hi, Hailey,” I say. “It’s really nice to see you.”
She shakes off her surprise at my appearance and opens the door wider, allowing me to drag my suitcase inside. The air is laced with the scent of garlic and onions. My “adoptive” mother opens her arms to me, enfolds me in a hesitant, careful embrace. Like she thinks I might break. “It’s been so long,” she says, her voice tight with feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have come down to visit as soon as I moved back to the West Coast.”
“When I got your message that you were moving to Seattle, I was so excited, but after you said you were too busy to come down, Martin told me to give you some space. I’ve thought about you every day. But you never called!”
“I texted at Thanksgiving,” I mutter sheepishly. “I really was busy.”
She laughs. “I know I sound like a nag.”
“It’s nice to know one is missed,” I say, letting her take my bag and roll it down the hall to my old room, where I spent three terrible, wonderful years climbing out of an emotional pit as deep as the Mariana Trench. I stand in the doorway and breathe. This is the place where I put myself back together, piece by jagged piece.
I might have missed a few shards.
“It looks the same.”
“You didn’t leave much behind,” she says as she wheels my bag over to the closet.
The walls are eggshell white, the floor hardwood, the curtains blue. There’s a picture of a rocky coastline and gray, choppy sea on the wall over the bed, which is covered with a quilt Hailey made herself. “Still busy at the hospital?” I ask.
“Oh, no, I started a private practice a year or so ago, and I’ve got a ridiculous wait list! I think the population’s almost doubled since you moved away. Property value’s up too. We’re booming!” She looks around. “Do you want to unpack before lunch?”
“I’m not that hungry—”
She gives me a stern look. “Don’t give me that. Martin’s coming home from the plant and everything. And it’s all vegan. I remember, you know.”
I grimace. “Me too.” How I gagged the first time she put a plate of steak in front of me. How I couldn’t stand the smell of milk. “I appreciate it.”
She squeezes my arm, frowns at the sight of her fingers, wrapped nearly all the way around my biceps. “Are you okay, Christy? I know this is a work trip, but—”
“I’m great. And I’ll be out in a few minutes. I just need to let my colleague and my boss know I’m here.”
As soon as she goes, I text Miles: I made it. Settling in.
He responds almost instantly. Thank god. So many leads that I’ll need your help tracking everything down. Meet me for a drink tonight?
Sure—what time?
9 at Dogwood Cocktail Cabin?
I’ll see you then.
I send Valentina a text letting her know I’m safe in Bend, and she tells me I’ve got three articles to copyedit by tomorrow at noon. I sigh and promise her it’ll be done, but it means I’ll have to get up before sunrise to run so I can spend the afternoon trying to figure out my game plan.
And making sure this thing stays far away from me.
With that thought, I head to the bathroom, wash my hands, and peer at myself in the mirror. Am I that different than I was? Hailey knew about my hair—we talked about it years ago. She gave me tips for makeup, since our hair was now the same color.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Martin is sitting at the breakfast bar. He’s got serious hat hair and is wearing his coveralls, and I’m struck by how he, at least, hasn’t changed much. “Hi,” I say as he turns in my direction.
He slides off his stool and envelops me in a brief, gentle hug. “Welcome home,” he says. His clothes carry the faint scent of bitter chemicals, and suddenly I remember the first time I experienced that scent, my skin clammy with sweat. You look like you’re runnin’ from a ghost, he’d said with a laugh.
He had no idea how right he was.
“Thanks,” I whisper, guilt seeping into my chest, turning me cold. “How’s life at the tire plant?”
“Well, I guess we’re hiring,” he says ruefully. “Hail told me you’re in town to report on a suspicious death—that was one of my guys.”
My stomach drops. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” And I can’t tell if it’s dangerous or helpful.
Hailey looks up from the pot she’s stirring, steam billowing up to fog her glasses. “Arnie was such a nice man. Quiet, but you could just tell there was a sweetness under there, you know? He came to a few of the summer picnics, and we’d had him and his girlfriend over at Thanksgiving a few times, including just a few weeks ago.”
Martin gives Hailey an affectionate look. “Always taking people in when they’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I know,” I murmur, nearly drowning in relief. If I’d come down for Thanksgiving and ended up face-to-face with Arnie…
Martin reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. “Arnie worked for us for ten good years. The brass gave me crap for making the hire—someone figured out he’d served some time and why—but he was a solid worker. Never missed a day.”
The table is set for three, and Hailey pulls the pot off the stove, her hands encased in holey, faded bear-paw oven mitts. She smiles when she sees me noticing them. “Remember when you gave these to me?”
“My first Christmas here,” I say quietly.
“I think of you every time I put them on.” She sets the pot on a fish-shaped trivet on the table, one I gave her my second Christmas with them. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Just water. I can get it.”
“I guess you know where things are,” Martin says gruffly, settling himself at the table. “We haven’t rearranged in twenty years.”
I grab myself a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and sink into the same seat I occupied at every meal for the three years I lived here. “You guys are really kind to let me stay.”
Martin waves me away and settles in, letting Hailey shovel a generous portion of pasta primavera onto his plate. “So you’re a reporter now?”
“No, still just a copy editor and fact-checker,” I tell him. “I’m helping out the journalist who’s working this story.”
“Do you travel a lot?” asks Hailey as she holds out her hand for my plate.
“Almost never,” I admit, nodding toward the serving spoon. “I ate a big snack on the way.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, putting way too much food on my plate and handing it back to me.
“I’m still so impressed that you became an editor,” Martin says. “Wow.”
“A copy editor,” I say. “A bit lower on the totem pole.”
He fixes me with his pale-gray eyes. “When you came to us, you didn’t even have a high school diploma.”
Thanks to them, I moved away with my GED and a semester’s worth of credits from Central Oregon Community College. “I’ve only had the job for a few months,” I say. “The site is growing, but it’s a pretty competitive industry…”
“Your boss must love you, willing to go the extra mile.”
I shrug and push my food around the plate. “So how are you guys? I know I’ve been terrible about keeping in touch.”
Their eyes meet across the table, and then Hailey turns to me. “Nothing much new,” she says, glancing at the big, framed picture in the living room, a little girl with brown curls and a huge grin. “We funded one of those memorial benches on the River Trail in her honor, finally saved up enough money.” She gives me a pained smile. “There’s a playground nearby.”
“She’d have turned forty this year,” Martin says hoarsely.
“That’s a wonderful way to remember her,” I murmur. “But I know it’s still painful.”
The loss of their only daughter is a sorrow that shaped them long before they rescued me. It may have been why they rescued me. Why they helped me for so long. Why they would have kept on helping me if I’d let them.
And it tells me one thing: I can’t tell them what I stole. Not today.
“So who’s this journalist you’re helping?” Hailey asks, her tone brightening.
“His name is Miles Connover,” I tell them. “He was at the Seattle Times for years, so he knows his craft.” It reminds me that I should have made sure he wasn’t planning to go to the library this afternoon to check the archives. The thought of what he might find is enough to make me reach for my phone.
“You said you don’t usually travel,” Hailey says, looking pointedly at my hand holding my phone. I tuck it back into my pocket. A few more minutes won’t kill me. “Why this time?”
I take a quick bite of my food to give myself a second to think. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten today. “I’ve been meaning to get down here ever since I moved back, and this was my chance. Hey—you said Arnie had a girlfriend? Do you think she’d be willing to let me interview her?” Miles is so fixated on his whole “bad math” lead, and I desperately need to offer him a shiny, new object.
Martin rolls his eyes. “Her name’s Gina,” he says. “She’s a piece of work.”
Hailey gives Martin’s arm a little slap. “Don’t be like that. She really loved him.”
“She’s convinced he was killed because of the Oracles,” Martin tells me. “Been spouting about it in our local Facebook group.”
“Can you text me her contact info?” I ask, my heart kicking.
“Will do. Maybe it’ll help her blow off some steam.”
“If you have any other leads, let me know. I’d be really grateful.”
“She should talk to Ben Ransom,” Hailey says to Martin.
Martin sips his water and glances at me. “You remember him? About your height, with the crooked nose? Came to the block party each year, a few times with his uniform on?”
Hailey lets out a bark of laughter. “I forgot about that.” She winks at me. “I think he wanted to look important.”
“I think he mighta even had a little crush on you,” Martin says to me with a smirk.
I force a smile. I always hated the way Ben looked at me. Like he wanted something but would never come out and say what it was. “I think Miles is already talking with him.”
“I’m not sure he’s too crazy about talking to the media,” Hailey says gently. “He told me that someone leaked info to some reporter about Arnie’s death report. He was not pleased. At all.”
“Oh,” I say. “Miles was probably the one it was leaked to, full disclosure.” It’s almost laughable that I, of all people, would use that phrase.
“Well, he’s gonna have to field press requests, like it or not. We don’t get a lot of murders around here. This is a big deal,” Martin says, pushing his empty plate away. “Especially if Gina’s right about the Oracles link.”
“Yeah,” I say, dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. “Especially then.”
I sit on the bed, gazing down at the contact info for Arnold Moore’s girlfriend. I’ve already texted Miles that I found her through my folks and that I’m going to reach out to see if she might have any useful info. Much to my relief, he quickly accepts my offer, telling me he’s totally swamped. I dial her number, wincing at the metallic taste on my tongue.
“This is Gina,” she answers in a raspy voice, like she smokes a pack a day. Or maybe like she’s been crying for a week.
“Hi, Gina,” I say, clearing my throat. “My name’s Dora—I’m from the Hatchet. We’re an online news magazine, and I’m calling about Arnold Moore.”
I explain how we heard about Arnold’s death and how he was an ex-member of the Oracles of Innocence.
That’s when she perks up. “I was trying to tell Chief Ransom all about it! It’s that cult for sure. I could tell he thought I was crazy.”
“Why would he think that?”
She laughs. “Oh, honey. Why wouldn’t he think that? Chief and I go way back. He breaks up my solstice UFO-watching party every single year, just to be an asshole.”
“Ah. But you have information you think is useful to the investigation?”
“I know it’s useful,” she says. She’s drinking something; the wet smack of her lips startles me just before she speaks again. “You see, Arnie told me stuff. About that night.”
“The night of the fire on the compound?”
“Mm-hmm. I’d say I know more than anyone alive, but I guess that’s not right.”
My stomach drops—please please please don’t start talking about bad math. “What do you mean?”
“Arnie never liked to talk about this stuff, see. He loved those people. Every single one of them. And he loved that place. You had to know him—he never would have hurt a fly. He should never have been in jail!”
“It sounds like you really loved him.”
“He wasn’t perfect—drank too much, for one, but who doesn’t every once in a while, you know?” She pauses, and I hear the slosh of something near the phone, then a stifled belch. “He was too good for this world. And they took him.”
Hope pokes its way to the surface of my mind, like a fragile pea tendril seeking the sun. “Who took him?”
She sighs, long and unsteady. Takes another swig. “It’s all connected, you know? All coming back around. The visitors, the agents. You know.”
“The visitors and the…agents?”
“No one believes in the visitors, but they’re real. And those Oracles? I think some of them were the agents.”
“I’m not following. Like, government agents?”
“No. I’m saying those three weren’t the only ones there that night!” she barks. “See, Arnie knew all of them. And he didn’t like to talk about all of it, but one night, he loosened up while we were watching the stars, and he told me: there weren’t enough bodies.”
Saliva pools on my tongue. “I’m sorry?”
“In that barn that burned. Arnie knew everyone on that compound. Every living soul. And they only pulled thirty-three bodies out of that place. Or maybe thirty-four? Something close to that.”
Oh god. “But it was a fire. Everything burned. Isn’t it possible—”
“That’s what everyone says, but come on! They found everyone else, even those they couldn’t identify, charred bodies, whatever. That’s why Arnie never knew who exactly got out. But he’d narrowed it down to a few names.”
“Which names?” I murmur, wishing I hadn’t eaten anything earlier.
“Oh, I wrote it down somewhere a few days ago, just what I could remember. I’ll find it for you. The six who were never identified. It’s two of them who got out.”
“That would be great,” I choke out. Miles cannot be allowed to talk to this woman. Nutty as she is, she’ll just confirm what he already suspects, which will make him more determined to figure it all out. I feel like I’m breathing in the smoke of that night, all over again. “And that’s a really interesting theory, that someone escaped the fire, especially because the door was barred.”
“Arnie told me it wasn’t the only door!”
“But the other door was always locked,” I blurt out.
“How do you know that?” she demands.
My watch chirps, warning me of an irregular heart rhythm. “I think I read it in that book about what happened?”
“Yeah, that lady had no idea,” Gina grumbles. “I’m telling you, the visitors got a few out of that fire. And now they’re agents, working for the aliens. They’re coming for anyone who could out them to the rest of us. That’s why they got Arnie.”
My hope springs back to life. Martin did call her a piece of work. “I see.”
“Are you gonna print what I’m saying in your paper?”
“We have a lot of other people to talk to,” I say quickly. “If I’m authorized to get a full quote, you’ll hear from me again. I’m just not sure which direction the story’s taking right now.”
“This is the direction,” she yells. “This is the story! The agents are here, and they got Arnie!” She begins to sob. “They got him. And he never hurt anybody.”
“Thank you for taking the time to speak to me. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I end the call and lean against the wall. My heart rate is nearly 130, and it’s not because I just spent ten minutes talking to a grieving, unstable woman.
No.
It’s because buried in all that crazy, she does know something. And if that something gets to Miles, it’s one step closer to me.
I desperately need to find Miles another lead.