Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Emery
Ah, nothing like the familiar, comforting scent of burnt coffee and warm electronics to welcome me home.
It’s a few days after I left Crowsbridge Hollow and Wren and I are back in the studio, editing my videos.
The big screen in front of her shows footage from my camera, paused on the cemetery gates caught in early-morning light.
A crow flying through the gray sky.
“These are great shots,” Wren murmurs as she flicks the controller back and forth, searching for the perfect place to trim the footage to insert a photo.
I did that.
Finally. I documented something strange and true. Why’d I have to experience it firsthand and almost get myself killed, to turn into a believer?
Well, I still don’t believe in psychics, so at least there’s that.
Wren leans back in her chair, arms lifted over her head in a lazy stretch. “Okay. This went in a different direction than I expected but I’ll admit, it’s good. Like, really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” She nods toward the screen. “You didn’t turn it into a sensationalized ghost story for clicks.”
I scrunch my face into a frown and stare at the image of the cemetery on the screen. “You don’t think I lost my objectivity and drifted into an opinion piece?”
Wren mirrors my frowny face, then quickly shakes her head.
“Not at all.” Her lips curve in a soft, sympathetic way—the warning sign she’s about to say something prickly.
“It’s subject matter you have personal familiarity with.
But you didn’t abandon your ethics. You make a compelling case for why now, more than ever, it’s important for us to know history.
That it’s the only way to recognize the same harmful patterns of behavior today and prevent future generational trauma. ”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. I can live with that. “Good. That was the goal.”
She glances at the timeline again, scrubbing back a few seconds, watching the way the light shifts across the ironwork. The Widow’s silhouette is barely visible in the background.
Wren slows the footage, eyes narrowing. “Don’t be mad, but can I ask you something kind of awful?”
I let out an aggrieved sigh. “I mean, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”
“I’m serious. Do you think that’s how they chose?” She nods at the screen. “The women and girls the Rider took. Were they unable to have kids?”
My stomach twists. “I’ve thought about that,” I admit. “The Widow thought she was sparing them her fate.”
“That’s fucked up,” Wren says. “And not very girl’s girl of her. Damn.”
I nod slowly.
“Seriously, it makes the whole story even crueler if it’s true.”
“I doubt there’s a way to know for sure. But I want this to be respectful. Of her story and so many others like her throughout history.”
Wren slowly turns her head and studies me. “It is. This is solid work. You back it up with facts and documents.”
I shrug. “Like any good journalist.”
She nods quickly, then returns to studying the screen. “What do you think happened to them?”
I’ve thought about that over and over. The way Declan stared into the forest as if he expected his sister to come walking out.
But she didn’t. None of them did.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. I make a few notes and adjustments while Wren tweaks audio levels. She asks me to record a few voice-overs. It feels good to focus on something that has a beginning and an end. A mystery that I actually solved.
“Do you want to talk about the tattooed elephant in the room?” Wren asks after we’ve completed a good chunk of work.
“Nope,” I reply, keeping my eyes on my notepad.
She waits.
I don’t offer anything else.
I’d given her the barest of details about my time with Declan. Leaving him still hurts too much to discuss.
She reaches over and nudges my foot with hers. A small, wordless check-in.
When we finish a few hours later, we have a four-part series on Crowsbridge Hollow. My longest videos yet.
“I think these are going to be huge,” Wren says, excitement bubbling up in her voice. “We need to release them strategically. Maybe one week apart? Give each episode time to land, gain some buzz, then drop the next one.”
I nod quickly. Wren’s my numbers expert. “Sounds good to me.”
We wrap up, sign out of the studio, and head for the parking lot.
Night’s fallen, but the lot is bright. I parked close to the door like I always do.
Tonight, a large black truck blocks my path.
“Who the hell parked like such a jackass?” Wren mutters, glaring at the truck.
Excitement flips my stomach, but I remain calm on the outside. It can’t be. Dozens of trucks exactly like this one pass me every day on the road.
My gaze drops to the New York plate on the front.
Hope swells inside me.
The driver’s side door opens.
Declan steps out.
Serious expression in place. Dark winter coat pulled tight across his shoulders. His gaze locks on me instantly. My entire word narrows down to his face.
Wow, I didn’t hallucinate how handsome…how big…how everything Declan is.
“Em, should I call 911?” Wren whispers, nudging me with her elbow.
“What?” I break my stare-off with Declan and frown at her. “No, why?”
“Uh, the big, serial-killer-looking dude blocking your car and staring at us like he wants to mount us on his wall as trophies.” Wren gestures wildly. “That’s why.”
The thought’s so absurd, I snort, then let out a louder laugh. “No. That’s Declan,” I whisper.
“You…the…Declan? He looks different in person. Wow,” she breathes out, still staring at him. “You raced back here to edit that footage when you could’ve been banging that terrifyingly sexy man harder than a barn door the last few days?”
“I don’t have the brain cells to unpack all that,” I mutter.
“Emery?” Declan pulls his shoulders back and slowly approaches, stopping a few feet away from us. His gaze slips to Wren and he dips his chin. “You must be Wren? The woman who works her magic editing all of Emery’s videos?”
Wren’s eyes widen and her lips part, but no words tumble out of her mouth. Huh. Who knew there was a way to tie her tongue.
“That’s me,” Wren finally answers. She swivels her head between Declan and me, finally landing on me. “My girl’s the one with the talent. I just stitch it all together.”
“Editing is a talent,” I mutter even though Wren’s laser focused on Declan.
He holds out his hand to her. “Declan Sterling.”
“Good evening, Declan,” she says in the most gracious tone I’ve ever heard Wren use. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” She runs her gaze over him. “But it seems Emery kept many details to herself.”
He ducks his head and laughs.
I elbow Wren in the side.
“How’d you find me?” I ask.
He straightens and his expression settles into a more serious one. “You list the studio you use in your videos—”
“In very tiny print,” Wren adds. “All the way at the bottom.”
Declan lets out another smooth chuckle. “Yup. I figured you had lots of footage to go through, so I might find you here.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Can we talk?” he says to me.
“I’ll wait in the car,” Wren offers, holding out her hand for my keys. “We rode here together,” she explains to Declan.
Disappointment or maybe embarrassment flashes in his eyes but he covers quickly with a smile. “Sorry to intrude like this.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
Why is he here? I gave him the easiest out ever. He’s going to make me spell it out for him, isn’t he? That’s a conversation that doesn’t need witnesses.
“Here.” I hold out my keys to Wren. “Go ahead. Take my car. I’ll grab the keys from you later.”
She reaches for the keys, then hesitates. “Are you sure?” She casts another quick glance at Declan, sizing him up for more than just his hotness now.
“Do you mind dropping me off at my place?” I ask Declan. “It’s not far.”
He holds his hands out at his sides palms up as if he’s trying to show Wren he’s not a threat to me. “I’ll take you anywhere you ask me to.”
Satisfied with his answer, Wren grabs the keys from my hand. “Just so you know, I live right upstairs, so try not to make too much noise when you drop her off.” The emphasis she puts on the last three words makes it sound more like fuck her silly.
Declan keeps a straight face. “Noted.”
I blow out an irritated breath. “Bye, Wren.”
Neither of us say anything until she’s honked the horn, waved, and turned the car onto the main road.
Declan steps closer.
Up close he seems tired or wary. “Got your letter.”
“That’s good.” I jam my hands deeper into my pockets and try to look anywhere but his handsome face.
“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want to sit in the truck?”
It’s a roomy bench seat. We could probably…maybe a farewell frolic will make this hurt less?
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I might end up in your lap.” I can’t believe I said that out loud!
He blinks, then understanding seems to spread over his face. “I won’t stop you. But I’d like to talk first.”
“Oh.” That’s all my brain to mouth function can manage. My pulse kicks up. Suddenly my body’s very aware of how much it’d like to be close to Declan’s.
“I read the letter,” he says.
A slow quiver of embarrassment thrums through me. I cross my arms over my chest to keep myself from falling apart. “And?”
Declan studies my face, his jaw tight, eyes searching like he’s trying to read between my lines and find all the things I left unwritten. “And for someone who’s such a good writer, it’s bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
Declan exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. The motion pulls my attention to his shoulders. The place where one of the Rider’s marks used to live. Has he noticed a difference? Have any regrets? Do I have the right to even ask?
“You should’ve talked to me first,” he says.
I clear my throat and try to remain calm. “I thought it was better this way.”
“Better for who?”
I glance past him, toward the street. Toward anything that isn’t his face. “Both of us.”
“Get in the truck,” he says.