Chapter 28 #2
It seemed like a good time to grab my laptop and work on a few ideas I’d sketched out, so I made my way down to the den.
I futzed around for a while. (Yes, I ended up on Crime Cats, and yes, there was a gorgeous British shorthair that was charged with hunting a moth, and she had the biggest, softest eyes.) I was digging into some serious reportage on a chonky loaf when the doorbell rang.
“I got it,” I shouted.
Nobody answered. (Fox, presumably, was still passing judgment on my underwear.)
“Nobody get up,” I shouted. “I got it.”
Still nothing.
The doorbell rang again.
I heaved myself out of my chair. Apparently, I had to do everything.
Charlie stood on the porch. Their color was much better than it had been the other day, and they wore a smaller bandage barely visible under their bowl cut.
The day was gray and cloudy, with diffuse light that made Charlie’s ultra-pale skin glow.
(Look who was talking.) Next to them, AJ had her arms folded across her chest. She’d added a new piercing since the last time I’d seen her, this one a barbell in her upper ear.
“We told Thatcher he couldn’t come,” AJ said.
“We’re so sorry, Mr. Dash,” Charlie said. “He lied!”
“He’s a Hemingway wannabe poseur jerk,” AJ said. (But she actually used a word that would have made Mr. Hemingway nod in an approving, masculine, but somehow still withholding way.)
(Is that a dad thing?)
(Oh my God, do I have daddy issues?)
“We didn’t know he was going to do that!” Charlie said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I never liked him,” AJ said.
Which was probably true, but mostly because I got the impression AJ didn’t like anyone—Charlie being the obvious exception.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It wasn’t ideal, obviously, but things worked out in the end. And you don’t have to apologize. If anything, I should apologize to you. I’m sorry you got caught up in this mess—and that you got hurt, Charlie. Not exactly what I wanted for your first experience at a conference.”
“Are you kidding?” AJ said. “It was dope.”
(Don’t worry; I checked to make sure Indira hadn’t heard.)
Charlie shook their head, but they were beaming. “I met Maggie McLaughlin! And she said she loved my worldbuilding! And she said she wanted to set the next book of Detectives and Dragons at a con, and she asked if I would help!”
“Wow, that’s amazing, Charlie. I’m so glad.”
“And AJ had a realization!” Charlie announced.
AJ actually blushed a little at that, ducking her head and shooting Charlie a sidelong glance.
But she said, “Yeah, well, maybe.” When I did some nonverbal prompting, she continued, “I was thinking…maybe I need to have some more experiences before I write a memoir, you know? What we went through this weekend—I guess I realized there’s still a lot of stuff that I haven’t experienced.
” With apparently zero self-awareness, she said, “Thank God I figured it out now before I finished my first draft.”
“Uh, right,” I said. (It wasn’t like her amazing writing instructor hadn’t said the exact same thing, oh, a hundred times.) “Well, that’s great.”
Because I’m an adult, I even managed not to add I guess at the end.
“And we’re ready to tell everyone about the conference in class tomorrow,” Charlie said. “I’m going to tell them how you solved the murders!”
“It’s a shame they couldn’t go,” AJ said, “because it was such a transformational experience for me.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
“And I’m going to tell them about meeting Maggie McLaughlin!”
“And we’re definitely going to tell them about Thatcher,” AJ said.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I like AJ.
When I shut the door, I was smiling. They were young. They were happy. They were still feeling out their connection to writing, and it still brought them so much uncomplicated joy. It was nice to see that. To be reminded of that again.
And for a moment, it was like a window opened in my mind, and I thought I knew what Vivienne had felt when we’d sat in her office. Some of it, anyway. Part of it. Enough, maybe, to understand her a little better.
Before I realized what was happening, I was in my favorite chair in the den, a blank doc open on the laptop, hammering out a sentence.
She had died badly.
I stopped. Erased.
She had died.
I stopped again.
She had been a problem from the beginning. And a problem for too many people. A problem someone had finally used a hammer to nail down. And she was dead now, and nobody cared.
My chest was tight. The world seemed to step back, and I seemed to step forward, falling through that page into a shabby office where a difficult, troubled woman had died, and a tired detective stood over her.
But I cared. I guess that made me a sucker.
No, too on the nose.
And I guess, now, I had to do something about it.
I sat back. Stared. Got up. Walked around. I stood at the fireplace, opening and closing my hands and looking in at the soot-stained stones.
It wasn’t perfect. But there was something there, the electricity that came sometimes. When I knew I’d touched something alive and powerful and true.
I hurried back to the laptop.
A rap at the door roused me from a frenzy of drafting-slash-brainstorming (a weird but fun combo that is a pure and total mess).
Bobby stood there, grinning. He must have already showered and changed because he was in his civvies—joggers and that old Oregon State sweatshirt—and his hair was damp.
“You look like you had an idea,” he said.
Then the smile turned wary. “Or is this another of those letters to the editor?”
“In the first place, letters to the editor are the lifeblood of American democracy. And in the second place, if you’re going to publish a hit piece on orange cats, you should expect reasonable, measured pushback—”
“He used that serial killer font when he sent it,” Fox said airily from the hallway. “I saw.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell!”
“Okay,” Bobby said. “You need to hit the road, or you’re going to miss your flight.”
I checked the time. Blinked. Checked it again.
Fortunately, Bobby had already loaded my suitcase into the Jeep, so all I had to do was throw my laptop in my backpack and say goodbye.
“Bye, Keme,” I said from the doorway to the billiard room.
Keme, perched on the chesterfield, was locked in life-or-death combat in another round of Fortnite.
“Bye,” I said again. More loudly.
Millie was on the floor next to him, working on her handmade, upcycled jewelry. Whatever this piece was, it involved a lot of beads.
“See you guys later,” I said.
Nothing.
Bobby looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“I’ll miss you,” I called.
“Oh, Dash,” Millie said without looking up from the beads. “Indira said she’s out of milk, so can you get some on your way home.”
My jaw dropped.
“Come on,” Bobby said.
Fox was asleep in the hall. On the floor. Snoring. With their mouth open.
At the door, Indira handed me a paper sack. “It’s a little something in case you get hungry,” she told me. Then she gave me a hug. “Be safe. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
And Bobby followed me outside. At the Jeep, he said, “You’ve got plenty of time, so please drive carefully.”
“Always.”
“And take a picture of where you park.”
I grinned.
“I know,” he said. “I can’t help it. And keep your wallet and phone in your front pockets until you get past security.”
“Believe it or not,” I said, “I have been let off the leash before.”
For a moment, that big, goofy grin unfurled. Then he kissed me.
When he let me come up for air, I said, “I think maybe I should stay. Phil can handle the meeting.”
Laughing, Bobby loaded me into the Jeep. He gave me a last peck on the lips, shut the door (like a gentleman), and waved as I started down the drive.
You probably know the feeling: that mixture of nerves and excitement, your whole body keyed up, but in a good way. This was real. This was happening. I was going to do this.
Under spruce and pine, I made my way along the state highway.
I hit the fog belt, and the air from the vents tasted damp and sweet and stinging.
The Jeep was noisy enough to swallow other sounds, and so, in spite of how loud it was, it felt like it was silent.
I’d done this drive dozens—maybe hundreds—of times.
I passed the spot where Keme had saved my life when someone tried to hit me with a car.
And I passed the spot where the old Jeep had broken down, and Bobby had arrived in time to scare off a killer.
Not much farther north was where I’d been run off the road, and Fox and Indira and Bobby and Keme and Millie had come to save me.
Moisture hung like jewel-drops in the dark green needles overhead.
And then I cleared the fog belt, and I glimpsed Hastings Rock.
It was still storybook perfect, its quaintly eccentric skyline a jumble of old Victorians and stately Queen Annes that made it look like what it was supposed to be: something from a postcard.
The first time I’d gone into town, I’d been lonely and disoriented and desperate for coffee, and I’d ended up at Chipper—and, much to my dismay, found myself being befriended by Millie against my will.
It was hard to summon up the memory of how unfamiliar this place had been, because now I knew it so well—every inch of it mapped with memories.
That first parking ticket from Bobby. Perfect fall afternoons with Indira at the farmer’s market.
The night Keme and I had gotten ice cream at Cold Stone because, after everything we’d been through, it seemed like the thing to do.
When I’d visited Fox’s gallery and seen how talented they were.
Trees rose up, cutting off the view, and I turned my attention back to the road.
It was going to be great. The TV show was going to be great.
Mr. Murder was going to be great. It was bad timing, kind of, because I’d come up with such a good idea for the next Will Gower book.
And I was excited about it, and it was the kind of excitement that, when it came, felt like a gift—the kind of thing, in the ancient world, they would have called a muse.
Inspiration. Something that came from somewhere else, some place I couldn’t always touch.
But it would be there when I came back to it. After I wrote the Mr. Murder books. Which, I guess, were supposed to be based on the TV show. Which seemed kind of backward, now that I thought about it, but maybe it would make the writing easier.
Not that I had to worry about it now. That was all in the future. For now, I had to get through twenty-four hours, and then I’d be back. I’d be home. With the people I loved.
Until the next time I had to fly out. To meet with the writers. Or to meet with the executives. Or if they wanted me on set for some reason (probably not). Or for a premiere. Or for the next deal, the next offer, the next opportunity.
Which was good. Which was very good. This was what every writer dreamed of.
This was what we all wanted. This kind of opportunity.
This kind of success. What I was building—what I was choosing—was the rest of my life.
And it was all mine, everything I wanted—and at such a small price.
All I had to do was leave. For twenty-four hours. Tops.
The shoulder widened into a pull-out ahead.
I slowed and eased the Jeep onto it. I sat there as an RV rolled past, and it made me think of my parents.
And then an aging Buick. And then a Honda Pilot with floral pink script in the rear window that said DOG MOM.
And I laughed because no matter what Bobby thought, the Pilot was totally a mom car.
And that was when I realized I was crying.
Traffic opened, and I swung around.
Maybe I was being an idiot. Maybe this was my one chance, and I was blowing it. Maybe L.A. was the right choice. For someone.
But if it was a mistake, it was mine. And this was my life, after all. And I only got one shot at it.
When I started up the drive to Hemlock House, the sun was setting behind it. It rendered the sprawling old mansion in silhouette: the dormer windows, the chimneys, the roof. And for a moment, as I drove into its shadow, I couldn’t see anything as my eyes adjusted.
And then I could.
I parked in front of the house.
I got out of the Jeep.
Bobby was on the veranda. The blue bicycle—my bike—was propped against the wall next to him, and he’d taken off the chain and laid it out on a piece of newspaper, and he was trying to do something with a can of WD-40.
He must have heard me coming up the drive (the Jeep isn’t exactly a stealth vehicle), but he kept working until I started up the steps.
And then he sat back on his heels and turned, wiping his hands with a rag. He smiled, that big, ridiculously goofy one that was the real Bobby Mai. And then, voice rough, he said, “Hi, babe.” He stopped. And somehow, his smile got even bigger. “Welcome home.”