At eleven she rode down Main Street. Carved into a valley, the town of Monta Clare rose out and crept the low rise of the mountain, the roads neatly forged into acres of tilted green.
She coasted, then pedaled hard to meet the foot of the climb onto winding streets minted with Virginia bluebells and butterfly weed and bear’s breeches. So much fucking color. Sheaves of warmth ached from grand homes. When the trail grew too steep she dumped her bicycle in a flourish of bushes and hiked the last couple of hundred yards.
Where the hell are you, Patch?
Up the wind of a steep driveway toward the spread of stucco and leaded glass; turreted rooflines of blue slate above a porch of natural stone topped with reclaimed wood gnarled just deep enough to tell it had traveled to adorn something so beautiful. Saint turned and saw the town spark a long way beneath.
She had not seen the Meyer house up close before. But she knew it. Everyone in town knew it.
The door opened before she could knock. A man filled it, and she noticed his tired eyes and the pavilion trusses behind him, his bare feet on parquet floor.
She swallowed back nerves of different kinds. “Mr. Meyer.”
He fixed her with apathy like what had gone before had scooped out everything he thought he knew about their town and his daughter’s place in it.
“You’re Misty’s friend,” he said, like he knew nothing of his daughter’s life.
A lamp burned behind, her shadow spearing the glow.
“Is she—”
“She’s sleeping. You shouldn’t be out this late.”
Saint tried not to see everything the Meyer family had, instead how much they might have lost.
She glanced back and could just make out the tops of eastern white pine. Beneath them Patch Macauley had saved the life of his daughter. Saint blinked back her tears. “I have to talk with her.”
“She’ll speak with Chief Nix after she’s slept. Her mother…” He swallowed. “You go on home now.”
Saint knew that some people mistook money for class, anger for strength.
When he closed the door all she felt was his fear.