Track 30

“Rooms On Fire”

Present Day

“Hello, Ms. Kingston. It’s Cassidy Roekiem again. I’m just following up on your email. I’d really love to talk to you about your time in the White House during the Flanagan Administration. Like I’ve said before, it’ll be totally off the record. Please call me.” Sitting down in the small room Hayden and I had commandeered at the office, I scroll through the list of songs on Mom’s playlist. If she really did add “The Whole of the Moon” because of the logo on the van, maybe some of the other songs had hidden clues.

Through headphones, I listen to the dreamy, psychedelic vocals on Siouxsie & the Banshees’ “Kiss Them for Me.”

“Who’s them, Siouxsie?” I wonder aloud while Googling the song’s meaning. I add “Jane Flanagan” to the search terms. Nothing about the president’s daughter comes up. But the song is sad enough in its own right. Turns out it’s about Jayne Mansfield, a sixties Hollywood bombshell who didn’t make it home to kiss her children good night because she was killed in a grisly accident.

Tears prickle my eyes as the song fades out. How utterly tragic. Does that mean Mom believed our Jane was dead, too?

Hayden strides in, and I hit pause on my playlist. He’s carrying three archive boxes as if they’re feathers. The boxes thud heavily on the desk opposite mine.

“No luck with the intern?” he asks, opening a lid. The box is jam-packed, and he frowns at dog-eared pages sticking out of folders. Seems whoever filed it was careless or in a hurry or not paid highly enough.

I grimace while I reconfigure my ponytail. “That’s the third time I’ve called her.”

“Maybe she’s spooked?” He stands at the desk and shifts papers aside. I kind of love that he ignored the casual dress code and came to work wearing suit pants and a business shirt—albeit without a tie.

“Last week she told me she’d love to answer my questions. She actually used the L-word.” I stare at my notes thoughtfully. “Something changed her mind.”

Hayden’s gaze flicks to an out-of-date calendar on the desk. “It’s coming up to the holidays, right? She’s probably busy.”

“They’re over a month away.” A pang hits me. The odds of busting Mom out of Eden before Thanksgiving are slim to none at the rate I’m going.

He pries a folder out, being careful not to disturb dust bunnies living in the box. “Who’s next on your list?”

“A retired reporter from The Washington Post, a gardener who worked at the park. Oh, and the FBI. You know, small fry.” I smirk. Honestly, I don’t think my chances of getting someone in a government agency to comment are super high, but I have to try. “Maybe you’re on to something. Anna really could be spooked. Which means I need to change my approach. Not tell people I’m investigating, per se. If I come across like a private eye, it might raise people’s hackles.”

“How about you tell them it’s just for a little ol’ school project? It’s nonthreatening, and if people underestimate you, you could fool them into giving more info.” He skim-reads a document before scanning it.

The scanner drones. Its bright light glides back and forth under the lid, sending the document to the cloud. The process takes ninety-five seconds. I’ve timed it. This project is going to take centuries unless Dad forks out for a machine that can scan multiple pages at once. But I’m not sure I’m in a position to beg for one now, not after begging him to hire Hayden…and then begging him to let me continue Mom’s research. That has to be my beg quota.

“You’re a genius,” I tell Hayden. “And for that, I’m going to make us both a toasted panini.”

In the kitchen down the hall, I stare absently at the sandwich press while trying to organize my thoughts. Like the archive boxes, my head is stuffed full. It’s hard to even pluck out the most mundane bits of data. I vow to draw up lists, charts, spreadsheets, and Pinterest boards. Anything to help me keep track.

Since our night at the lake, Hayden’s been reluctant to talk about aliens or anything even remotely sci-fi. He even declined an offer to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind with me. And when I suggested going to the next AAA support group meeting, he said he was busy that night. Which was weird because I didn’t tell him when exactly the meeting is.

But I guess I can’t blame him for wanting to remain tight-lipped about his experiences. Didn’t stop my curiosity from blazing, though.

A burning smell pulls me out of my thoughts. Melted cheese oozes out of the press. I open the lid and, for some brainless reason, use my bare hands to scoop the goo off the hot metal plates.

“Ow!”

In seconds, Hayden comes running. He sees me clutching my right hand—my best scanner hand—and blanches. “What happened?”

“I just burned myself. It’s all right.” I suck on my fingers.

“No, do this. For at least five minutes, okay?” Hayden firmly takes my hand and puts it under a cold running faucet. Which is exactly what I would have done had my brain been functioning at optimal levels.

My fingers throb under the streaming water. Hayden keeps his hand clasped on my wrist so I can’t move. Despite the pain, all I can think about is the fact that Hayden’s left side is pressed up against me. And I like it.

I steal a glance at him, but he’s laser-focused on my hand. Chances are he’s not thinking about what it feels like to be this up close and personal. Applying basic first aid—that’s all he’s doing. For five whole minutes that feels like a delicious eternity. After a while, he loosens his grip and turns my palm, studying it like it’s carved with ancient hieroglyphics.

Finally he looks up, our gazes locking. He flips off the tap. “Do you feel better now?”

My voice is MIA. I can only nod.

He checks my hand again. A deep purple streak stretches across the back of four fingers. They’re numb from the cold water. That is, numb until he hovers one shaking index finger just above the burgeoning scar.

My skin tingles with energy. The air between his finger and mine feels thick, like they’re separated by an invisible cushion. Before my eyes, the purple streak mellows into a light pink. Seconds later, it fades into nothing at all.

“Wha… Oh my God.” I breathe raggedly. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” He rips sheets of paper towel and dabs at my wet hands. Then he gets busy cleaning up what’s left of the paninis. The acrid smell of burnt cheese lingers.

I watch him closely. “You took away the burn, the scar. Like magic.”

His face reddens. He clears his throat but a sexy huskiness clings to his words. “I didn’t take it away. The magic is in the healing power of water, that’s all.”

“No, after the water. Y-you did something to make the scar disappear. What was that you did with your finger?”

He silences my lips with that same finger. Involuntarily, my eyes close as a dizzy feeling swirls over me. My body leans toward his, drawn by some invisible force. His warm lips hone in on mine, mold to mine. Our tongues meet for a split second and fireworks go off inside my brain. Better than anything I ever saw on the Fourth of July.

My hand, free of pain, reaches around his back. His muscles ripple under my touch. The slow, languid way Hayden’s rubbing my shoulder is sending me into a state of yogic bliss.

After a while, the crackling explosions turn to the sound of a phone ringing in the distance. Oh God. That’s right. We’re in an office. My dad’s office.

Reluctantly, I take a few steps back. Aunt Carole or Dad could come in any minute and catch us.

“Wow, uh…” Yeah, that’s about all I can say out loud. I want to add, “Can we do that again? Now?”

The pain of the burn is gone, nothing but a memory. Corny as it sounds, but it’s like he kissed it all away.

Hayden runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan that at all. Not like that anyway.”

“Oh?” I can’t help grinning. Something tells me I won’t stop grinning for the next three days. At least. “Has this kiss been in the planning stages for a while?”

He shrugs and smiles, making dimples in his cheeks. Very kissable dimples. “I’m not willing to go on the record for that.”

A door slams elsewhere in the office, bringing us back to reality.

“We can continue this line of questioning later? If you like?” I say in my least Judge Judy-like voice.

“If it pleases the court,” he murmurs.

A thrill races up my spine as he kisses me again. Shorter this time, but somehow sweeter. I murmur, “It does.”

But later that night, when I’m getting ready for bed, I check out the burn wound again. Or lack of it. Did Hayden really heal me? And if so…how?