Bend, Oregon
December 13, present day
My buzzing phone yanks me from a dream of tiny graves, small holes and huge mounds of earth next to them, row after row and a shovel in my hand. My throat is tight with grief. Blinking back tears, I check my screen. It’s almost nine, and Miles is calling, which is good. I forgot what I was supposed to tell him last night.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did I wake you up?”
“I don’t usually sleep this late.”
“You’re usually out running, right? Did the doctor say when you’d be able to get at it again?”
“Hopefully soon.” Maybe never again. Depressed at the thought, I sit up. “What are you up to?”
“Headed into my meeting with the sheriff. But I wanted to tell you—I heard from Noah Perry. He said you were editing a story for him? He said it’s taking you a while to get to it and asked if I was willing to read it. Claims it’s big. The balls on this kid, right?”
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. Honestly, I thought that child-survivor angle was unique—are you sure that’s not where you want to focus?”
From the rush of background noise, I can tell he’s driving. “They’ve formed this little club, which is great. But two of three known adult survivors have been murdered, and if I’m right, it’s this ritualistic thing, you know? Driven by resentment a mile deep. I don’t see how those kids would be real suspects.” He makes an annoyed sound. “Honestly, I’m not sure authorities have any idea what they’re dealing with here. But if I’m right, they need to find Shari Redmond and warn her, because she’s next.”
A chill runs down my spine. She might be next…but I seem to be on the killer’s list too. And I can’t tell anyone unless I want to out myself. Suddenly I feel trapped, at the bottom of one of those graves with dirt pouring down.
“You still there?” Miles asks.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Have you tried to locate Shari Redmond?”
“No luck so far.” Because she’d tell him. I know she would. Unless I can convince her not to, and maybe we could protect ourselves together. “I’ll keep trying. But in the meantime, the child survivors—”
“Valentina said I need to drill down, not cast a wider net. That guy Maxwell Jennings—I finally got around to calling him. And it’s the funniest thing. I spoke to him just now, and he told me he met with you in person yesterday.”
“I meant to mention that,” I babble. “He had some written records, and I wanted to vet the stuff for you first.”
“You could have told me he had contemporaneous records—that’s huge.”
“You know, with my wrist and everything—”
“I get it,” he says. “I’m just under some pressure here, and we know there are two missing bodies that could well be missing survivors, and Max told me he has records for all of them. Stuff he never shared with authorities. If we can convince him to make this stuff public, it’s huge. I’ve got a videoconference with him later today.”
And Max has figured out that I’ve got some of his records. “Are you sure he’s legit, Miles? I mean, why would he have held on to this stuff for so long?”
“Dora…you literally just met with him.”
“And he’s a total drunk. Went through three double IPAs in about an hour, and—”
“I hit that mark a few days ago at Deschutes Brewery,” he says with a laugh. “I already like this guy.”
“But he’d probably been at it for a while before I even got there,” I continue. “He’s got a stack of old papers with a bunch of scribbles on them, and for all I know, half of it is made up. He seemed a little…I don’t know. Shady.”
“Like Arnie’s girlfriend, Gina?”
I hear the suspicion in his voice, and it scares me to death. “Different flavor of crazy,” I mutter.
“I guess I’ll see for myself in a few hours. I’ll check in later. Let me know if you find Shari.”
He ends the call, and I sit there, gazing down at my phone. Something’s different, and it’s my own stupid fault. I’ve been careless.
I pull Max’s page of notes from my bag. The page that could end me. Handwritten more than twenty years ago, lying dormant and deadly this entire time. Slowly, I tear the page into strips, separating flesh from bone, numbers from words, before names from after names, the living and the dead. Like a zombie, I shuffle over to the bathroom, still ripping the page into smaller pieces. Then I stand over the toilet and let the fragments of my past flutter into the water. I flush it, watch the ink and paper swirl, and know I’ve done something unforgivable.
But it’s just one more unforgivable thing in a mountain of them.
Still in a trance, I take a shower, thinking about Noah. Miles has shut down the child-survivor angle, but I have my own reasons for wanting to know more. I recall those children, some more than others. One in particular. I remember what I did to him, in those final hours, in that final moment. It’s something I’ve tried not to think about for twenty years, but now it’s coming back. Maybe, out of this horrific mess, I can get a tiny serving of peace. Maybe Noah can give me answers he doesn’t even realize he has. I text him and tell him I’ll meet him for lunch. His response is lightning fast. Awesome! Root Down in half an hour?
After showering, popping a small handful of vitamin I, and checking my email and texts—nothing from Hailey or Martin; maybe they’ve finally given up on me, which is exactly what I deserve—I drive to the café to meet Noah.
To my surprise, he’s not alone. As I slowly get out of my car, he and Arman are standing in the parking lot, waiting for me.
“Hey,” says Noah. “Did you read my story yet?”
“Sorry. I’ve been superbusy.”
A flash of anger crosses his face and is gone so quickly that I almost wonder if I imagined it. He smiles. Glances at Arman. “I guess you’ll get to it when you get to it. But I’m serious, it’s big. Anyway, I’m starving. How about you?”
“I could eat,” I say cautiously, giving Arman a questioning look.
He gives me a baby-faced smile. “I asked Noah if I could tag along.”
Noah leads us inside, snags us a table, and flirts with the young woman behind the counter while Arman and I peruse the menu. I order a chickpea salad, and Noah orders a bulgogi tofu sandwich. Arman orders the tofu yakisoba. The young woman, beaming at Noah, gives us our order number, and we sit down to wait. “Arman’s actually the reason I’m in Bend,” Noah says. “One guess why.”
Arman blushes. I peer at him, realizing once again there is something strangely familiar in the shape of his eyes, the narrow bridge of his nose. My heart lurches. “On my god,” I whisper. “Are you…?”
“A child of Darius,” Noah says, even as Arman opens his mouth to answer for himself. He lowers his voice as the young woman sets our food in front of us; this time, Noah is oblivious to her charms. “Arman’s my contact for the group.”
Which one is he? Which one? I focus on Arman. “How long have you known?”
Arman glances at Noah, who nods. As if giving permission. “My mother told me when I was twelve maybe?”
“Whoa,” I say, still looking at him greedily, still trying to imagine which tiny kid he might have been. “That’s young to discover that kind of heritage.”
His smooth forehead puckers as his brows draw together. “It just came up one day, and I guess I asked the right questions. She adopted me when I was about two.”
“Do you have any idea who your birth mother was?” My brain is churning as I try to place him. Could he be Kyra’s baby? Or maybe Roya’s? The longer I look at him, the more familiar he seems.
He shakes his head, focusing on his noodles.
I poke at my chickpea salad. “How did you find the Children of Darius group?” I ask.
Noah is practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh, he didn’t find the group. He created it.”
Arman nods, looking shy but gratified. “It was a few years ago. For a while, I was all alone,” he says. “I felt like a loser.”
My heart goes out to him. “How did you find others?”
He fidgets with his napkin, tearing off a strip. “Just on some genealogy sites. Not an advertisement, but I put out a notification for anyone who might be part of my extended genetic family.”
“Which sites?” I ask. “I didn’t know you could do something like that.”
“I mentioned one in my story,” Noah says. He’s polished off his sandwich and still looks hungry. Then again, he always looks a little like that.
“Do any of the other children of Darius live in Bend?” I ask.
Arman shakes his head. “They’re all over now.”
Memories of those babies and toddlers are rushing back, their chubby cheeks and soft hair, their shrieks of delight when Basir would blow soap bubbles for them outside the dining hall on summer days. “They’re all grown up,” I murmur.
“We’re still trying to get them all together, maybe next month,” Noah says.
“How did you two meet?” I ask. Because it suddenly occurs to me that they’ve never said. Their relationship seems more than journalist-source. Noah’s clearly the boss, and Arman seems like the puppy dog, tagging along. “You’re said you’re not in school together.”
“We met as I was researching the story,” Noah says. “He’s on the custodial crew over at Mount Bachelor. A local, born and raised. You too, right, Dora? Miles said something about you staying with your folks.”
“I’m at a hotel,” I say. “It’s actually really close to this place. You picked the perfect spot.”
“Bend’s not very big,” says Arman.
“It’s amazing how such a small place can be home to such a grisly history, right?” Noah’s eyes meet mine, bright blue and intense. “And I’m constantly finding new angles to this story, like this anniversary. It’s drawing people out of the woodwork, you know?” He looks over at Arman. “Wouldn’t you say? I mean, this is your past.”
Arman smiles. “You’re right,” he says, turning to me. “Would you like to come with us to get ice cream?” He glances at my cast. “We can all drive together.”
“Great idea,” says Noah, slapping Arman on the back. “We can take this conversation on the road. A moveable feast. Where’s the best place in town to get the creamy goodness?”
“Lots of good places,” says Arman, ripping another strip from his napkin. His meal is only half-eaten, but he’s still done better than I have.
“Yeah, but which is your favorite?” Noah asks.
“I don’t know,” says Arman. “I don’t really have one. Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.” He gets up and heads for the unisex at the back.
“Alone at last,” says Noah. “Any idea when you’ll get to the new story?”
I force down a bite of my chickpea salad. It tastes okay; I’m just not hungry, even though I know I need to eat. “This afternoon, I promise,” I say. “It’s been a lot.” I lift my casted arm.
Noah looks a little crestfallen. “I thought you might really want to read it.” Another piercing gaze. “Or that Miles might if you didn’t.”
“I know it feels really urgent,” I tell him. “But if it’s as good as you think, it’s going to be big no matter when we read it. This anniversary isn’t the deadline, Noah. Good material is timeless.
“I really should go,” I add. Essie might be at the hospital by now, assuming she’s working today.
“You don’t want to get ice cream with us?”
“I have to get back to work,” I tell him. “Maybe even squeeze in a few minutes to read your story. I’ll get back to you soon, okay?”
My phone pings. It’s Miles, and the message turns me as cold as the open graves from my nightmare.
I found Shari—actually, she found me. She’s in Bend, and she’s willing to talk! I’ll have a new interview for you to fact-check tomorrow night!