10. Lincoln
10
LINCOLN
The urge to run after her was strong. So damn strong it took everything I had to keep myself in place, feet in the freezing water, sandwich on my lap. Arden had left her drink behind. That would be the perfect excuse. I could bring it to her guesthouse or studio.
But I knew she wouldn’t welcome me there. I mulled over the events of the past twenty minutes. What had sent her running?
I played back snippets of our conversation. We’d been talking about her art when she stiffened, her spine going ramrod straight. I frowned at that. Maybe it was simply because she’d shared a little of what happened behind the curtain, what inspired her art.
The conversation and Arden’s reaction swirled round and round in my brain, and then everything stilled. I’d said I had looked up everything I could find about her.
I was moving before I’d even consciously given my body the order. I wrapped up my sandwich and grabbed both drinks. I wanted to go straight to Cope’s office, the one he’d let me take over for the duration of my stay, but I knew he wouldn’t be pleased with me if I ruined his desk chair with wet swim trunks.
No longer hungry, I ditched the food in the kitchen and went straight for my room. I made quick work of grabbing a shower and changing into some joggers and a tee, then headed right for the office.
My fingers itched to be at the keyboard, figuring out what the hell had Arden so damn spooked. I slid behind the desk and flipped open my laptop. I ignored the staggering number of emails in my inbox and opened a search engine.
I typed in her name. Arden Waverly.
It was interesting to me that some of Cope’s siblings had taken the Colson last name, and others hadn’t. I was sure that was a complicated thing to contend with—whether or not to change a fundamental part of yourself.
It fit that Arden hadn’t. She seemed to set herself apart from her siblings. From everyone, really.
A few dozen search results popped up, all having to do with Arden’s art. There was her website and another local site I’d seen before but hadn’t dove into called The Collective.
I clicked on that link. The homepage was artfully done, and the site read, A home for the arts in Sparrow Falls where all are welcome .
Something about those words hit. They landed in a way that made me long for that kind of sense of belonging. There were countless photos of gallery showings and classes, even what looked like a mural project in downtown Sparrow Falls.
I clicked on the tab that read Artists in Residence . There were four. Hannah Farley, Isaiah Reynolds, Arden Waverly, and Farah Whitman. It looked like they all showed there, and some had studio space at The Collective, as well.
It looked like an amazing community center of sorts, but one specializing in art. A banner on the site caught my eye. Save the Date. A Fundraiser for Youth Programming at The Collective .
I clicked on that next. It looked like they were planning a show and auction to raise money for expanding their programming for young artists. I quickly typed the date into my phone and made a mental note to stop by the gallery and check it out.
Exiting out of The Collective’s home page, I moved on to the next hit. There was article after article about Arden’s creations, but they were all eerily similar. None had a photo of her or even an interview. They called her a reclusive artist who refused every interview request.
I went through about two dozen of the same sorts of articles before my eyes started to burn. I leaned back in my chair and glared at the screen. It wasn’t as if Arden had Banksy-level fame, but her art was getting picked up by bigger and bigger galleries, even some important collectors. I recognized the names from my mom’s involvement with the art world.
Just thinking it had a burn flaring in my sternum. She would’ve loved Arden—her talent and her fire.
But Arden’s art wouldn’t give me the answers I needed. I tried to think back to what Cope had shared about his siblings over the years. He’d walked me through how they’d all come to be with the Colsons: he and Fallon by birth, Shep by adoption, and Rhodes, Arden, Kye, and Trace, through fostering. I knew Arden had come to live with them at a fairly young age.
Twelve. I was almost positive that was how old she’d been. I plugged in new search parameters, setting the years to a few before and after that twelve-year mark.
Endless results popped up, but none of them were my Arden. Mine. It was such a ridiculous thought. She could barely spend fifteen minutes with me.
I combed through the search results a second time. Nothing. I tried slightly different terms. Still nothing.
Finally, I broadened the search window and found an article in the Sparrow Falls Gazette . Art Show by Local Youth Phenom . I clicked it, quickly reading the piece. It talked about the local gallery that was putting on a show for fifteen-year-old Arden Waverly. But again, there was no picture, no interview, and barely any identifying information about her .
I sank against the leather chair. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing about Arden Waverly before this article.
She was a ghost.
And that begged one question.
Why had she needed to disappear?