Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Me,too, Evie girl.
The door to my apartment clicks closed, but I’m frozen in place. My heartbeat takes off in a race, creating a heaviness in my chest. My breath goes shallow, and my mind hazes with a dizziness I haven’t felt in years. I’m back there, lost in my past, fighting against the thoughts that scream into an abyss of my own creation.
Evie girl.
I don’t believe in coincidences. There have only been two people in my life who have ever used that nickname. Patrick and…
Foster Pruitt.
Just thinking his name catapults my heart rate into a rapid flutter. I can’t stop it. I want to ignore the panic working its way through every nerve ending. Breathing is hard, like sipping air through a straw. I can’t get enough. My eyesight begins to darken.
Fuck.Not this feeling again. Panic attacks are my past. But suddenly I feel like a teenager again, unable to sleep through a single night without seeing a dead body in the woods.
Somehow, I force my legs to move. I find my way to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet, and I search for my anxiety meds, finding only expired cyclobenzaprine, but I’m desperate. I swallow one down dry, then I slip back into bed, wrap myself in the covers, and focus on one slow breath at a time.
I try to ignore the scent of Lincoln’s pillow as I squeeze my eyelids closed. While usually every reminder of Lincoln is welcome, it only worsens my anxiety now. Because I realize, as my heart begins to crumble, that I’ve fallen in love with a man I may not know at all.
Twenty-four hours. That’s how long I allow myself to stay in the darkness of my thoughts before finally throwing clothes on and heading downstairs. The bar stayed closed on Sunday, and I had nowhere I needed to be. Lincoln tried calling and texting late that night, but I simply told him I was exhausted and was heading to bed.
That wasn’t a lie. I woke up only to go to the bathroom and grab water. Otherwise, I let myself slip back into a sleep that I knew would turn into a nightmare before jolting me back awake. Another familiar pattern I remember from my teen years. After Carley’s death, nothing ever felt normal, steady, okay. I was on edge, riddled with anxiety, and alone.
At some point in the middle of the night, I allow myself to think about what produced my panic attack. Not that anything needs to cause an attack—they can come at random moments in the day—but this time, there was a clear trigger.
Evie girl.
The way Lincoln let that nickname slip out… It was like he had used it before, and now I’m certain that he has. Over time, I piece together every memory I have of Lincoln since his arrival in Bryson City and to try to understand how he could possibly be Foster Pruitt.
Did he change his name?
Did he stop talking to his family after Carley’s death?
Did he write that poem?
My questions just keep coming, spiraling out of control to the point that they threaten to kick off another anxiety attack. But at the same time as I accept the fact that all the answers could be yes, I’m also finding reasons why all the answers could be no.
Every time my combative thoughts reject the notion that Lincoln is Foster, I picture Lincoln’s face, specifically his eyes. Those forest-green irises with the golden swirl. While I had only been up close and personal once when we were in the dark woods of Deep Creek, I’ll never forget the safety I found in his gaze. It’s the same sense of safety I’ve felt with Lincoln. How did I not see the connection before?
Is there a connection?
I’m still hesitant to accept it, which is why I need to just confront Lincoln.
I rush down the staircase and out the door, locking it behind me. Then I march down the street, and I don’t stop until I’m standing at the front door of Lincoln’s office building.
Doreen is typing something on her computer, so she doesn’t see me right away. When she does, she freezes completely then her brows bunch with confusion. “Evelyn, I don’t believe we’re expecting you this morning.”
“I didn’t make an appointment,” I blurt. “I’m not a client of Doctor Reed’s. I’m here for… personal matters. I need to talk to him.”
Doreen’s forehead smooths a bit, but she looks more disturbed now than confused. Lincoln has told me about the women who have made appointments to see him for less-than-honest reasons, and I know Doreen has taken notice of that as well, judging from what she told me in the face-painting booth. She probably thinks I’m one of them.
“I’m sorry, dear, but his first appointment isn’t until ten o’clock, so he stepped out to run some errands.”
Frustrated, I debate my next move. Do I try to track him down or stay here? “I can just wait in his office,” I suggest. “He won’t mind, I promise.” I cringe when she hesitates. “Call him if you’re not sure.”
Her hesitation lingers a few moments longer before she sighs and picks up the phone. I listen closely, trying to make out his voice on the other end, but it’s just a deep murmur.
Once she hangs up, she gestures to Lincoln’s office. “Doctor Reed will be back shortly. You may go in.”
I exhale my relief and enter his office, lightly closing the door behind me. At first, I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s one big, empty room without Lincoln in it. The shades are pulled up, revealing the view of the river and the morning foot traffic.
Looking around the familiar space, it’s like I’m seeing everything for the first time, trying to place the boy I knew long ago behind the big gray desk, typing away on his sturdy laptop.
As hard as I try, I just can’t see it, probably because I didn’t really know that boy. Foster was just a crush, a stranger with gorgeous eyes and a love for his sister that made me completely obsess over him for one week. One week. That was the length of our time together, and it all ended so tragically. How could I have possibly known he was the man who was supposed to be my new therapist?
And the timing of it all…
My stomach knots when I think about J.D. and his sudden disappearance. His wife won’t even talk about his whereabouts. Why? Is any of this connected at all? My thoughts churn, and my spine tingles. Nothing makes any sense, but I’m scared to learn what it all might mean.
Unable to sit still, I peruse his bookshelf, this time looking for anything and everything that can tell me who Dr. Lincoln Reed really is. So far, there’s one thing that begins to coalesce—a connection that drives me closer to an answer I’m still not sure I want to accept.
Foster Pruitt seems to have disappeared at the exact same time that Lincoln Reed came into being—at least, as far as anything I could find online.
His bookshelf brings me no answers. Frustrated, I pull out the chair to his desk and sit. When I see his laptop sitting there, temptation overwhelms me. It seems he’s always typing something on that thing. Maybe that’s where I can find answers.
I don’t even hesitate to open the laptop, though I get to the password screen and know it’s a dead end. Sure, I could try to hack it by stringing together likely passwords, but that just feels like a waste of time.
More determined than ever, I yank open the center drawer, instantly scouring it for hidden passwords. Nothing. I move to the large drawer to my right that’s labeled “Patients.” Lo and behold, there’s a stack of patient files. They’re alphabetized by last name, but after Thornefield, the next file is Zimmerman. Vaughn is nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or frustrated by him not having a file on me. I guess that makes sense, considering I was never technically his patient. Still, it’s frustrating to come up with nothing. I’m beginning to feel like a complete psychopath, rooting around his things.
That doesn’t stop me from moving to the next drawer on the opposite side of his desk, but it’s completely empty. Not even a speck of dust. I shut the door with more force than I mean to, causing it to slam. Cringing with guilt, I hear the rattle of books then the thud of something falling to the floor.
Panic squeezes my chest, and I look down to find the source of the sound, though it’s deathly quiet now. Opening the drawer again, I look but see nothing—until I notice the back wall is shorter than the length of the drawer.
“What the?—”
My heart begins to quicken as I push against the back wall of the drawer. It moves slightly, but I have to peer down to see if there’s a way to remove it. At the very top, I find a small hole. I stick my pinky through it and pull, revealing a variety of spiral notebooks and a black hard case.
My hand shakes as I reach for the items, knowing whatever I’m about to see will change my entire life. After a long, deep breath, I let it out slowly and open the notebook that sits at the top of the pile. I don’t expect the first thing I see to smack me right in the face.
It’s my name scribbled in Lincoln’s handwriting.
Evelyn Vaughn was always entranced by the synchronized fireflies.
What the fuck?The notebook shakes in my hands.
She believed their light to be something magical in her normally mundane existence. She looked at the fireflies as a symbol of hope—hope that she would one day escape the glass jar that contained her past, present, and future. At least that’s what it felt like, living with parents who cared more about their social status than their daughter’s existence.
The night her jar of fireflies broke in the dark woods of Deep Creek Campground, Evelyn watched how the fireflies escaped one by one into the night—and she knew that’s what it would take for her to escape as well. She too felt trapped.
For a millisecond, I consider closing the notebook. It feels… personal, like a journal of some sort, but it has nothing to do with Lincoln. It’s about me. It’s everything I’ve told him about why I moved here. Like watching a train wreck, I can’t look away.
After that tragic night at the campground, Evelyn became haunted with what she witnessed as well as the mystery that remained. Someone murdered Carley Pruitt in those woods. Experts said the body was still warm when they got to her. Rumors pointed to her brother as the main suspect, but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict, which meant a murderer was still on the loose. Because of this, Evelyn couldn’t seem to get a grip on her anxiety. Panic attacks and paranoia led to her unleashing on a bully in high school.
That was all it took to finally crack the jar.
I’m riveted by the story—my story—told through Lincoln’s perspective. The question is why is he writing it? Maybe it’s habit for him to write every little detail down. Maybe he’s just trying to make sense of the traumatic chaos that brought me here.
My eyes slam shut, and I shake my head, chastising myself for giving Lincoln excuses when I know now he’s hiding so much from me. I keep reading.
Evelyn was expelled from school, alienated from friends, and kicked out of her house. She was sent to live with Uncle Patrick, the only adult who had ever seen any good in her. Under the care of a therapist, Jenkins Wright, she took a job at her uncle’s bar, finished high school online, and found solace in her new life.
I pause to take a breath. It’s like he’s writing a synopsis of my life in all its highlights. Is this why he came to Bryson City in the first place? Because he’s Foster, and he’s trying to find his sister’s killer? He did mention that he became obsessed with the murders in college. Maybe there’s much more to it than that. I focus back on the notebook.
Fourteen years later, Evelyn Vaughn is now a woman driven by routine, casual relationships, and a thirst for knowledge she can never seem to quench. She doesn’t like change, and she’s wary of strangers, yet she dreams of a life she’s been conditioned to believe she will never have.
My knuckles whiten as my grip tightens on the notebook. What am I supposed to make of any of this? He’s been studying me and summarizing my life like I’m the synopsis of his next fucking book.
Firefly Effect.
A gasp escapes at the realization. He had mentioned something about being inspired by his old mentor at Duke, Dr. Rohls, and how he wanted to take his dissertation and expand it to write something similar, based on the Firefly Man serial murders.
Setting the notebook aside with shaky hands, I reach for the rectangular black case. My chest is still heavy, making it hard to pull in a deep breath. That’s all I want—for my lungs to expand so I can release some of this built-up tension. I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.
And it does.
Sitting in the open case is a stack of newspaper articles paperclipped together. Articles that detail each Firefly Man killing. Beneath that are police reports from every incident, a map pinpointing each location, but it’s the photos of the crime scenes that have me immediately slamming the case closed as tears begin to stream down my face.
What the fuck is going on?This can’t all be from Lincoln’s college research. Why would he have it stored in his desk? There are too many coincidences—too many flashing lights.
And with fireflies, the lights they carry aren’t always used to find a mate.
Sometimes, they’re used to send warning signals… in case of a threat.