Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Barret
I’ve been pacing grooves into the hall since sunrise, counting knots in the cedar like rosary beads.
Outside, the fog keeps pretending it might clear.
It’s the second day in a row with hardly any sun.
Inside, Cleo is taking another catnap. She’s had maybe eight of them since yesterday—falls asleep, then the screams come, and we end up hovering in her room, waiting for the small mercy of her opening her eyes.
She’s letting us get closer, but not close enough. So far, we’ve respected the space she needs. She’s learning to choose—the door open, ajar, or closed—and that choice is everything. Day two and I’m still circling the same question: did we do the right thing?
I want to bring the world to her in small, kind pieces.
Not everything at once. A handful of people, a few objects that quietly say the world still exists past this cabin.
Maybe Arlo—my nephew—because a baby’s laugh dissolves fear in a way nothing else will.
The smell of formula, baby powder, the way an innocent person can remind you that the present is kinder than you remember.
Maybe her brothers can visit . . . one at a time.
We could make something possible if we do it at her pace.
What if she prefers everyone here all at once?
This fucking mansion pretending to be a cabin could hold all of them. It has three floors of glass and cedar, filled with rooms we have never used before. We have a recording studio, a place to practice music—Eddie added that for me.
There’s also the nursery Eddie set up for Arlo in case he and his parents ever visit.
It’s a corner of softness on the second floor.
It’s the only place that doesn’t look like a magazine: soft blankets that aren’t perfectly folded, a mobile of tiny whales that turns with no effort, a rocking chair that creaks in a way that soothes instead of jerking the breath away.
It smells faintly of lavender and old cotton, and just standing there, the idea of normal feels possible.
I head toward Eddie’s office, idea thrumming through my entire body. I’m not sure how he’ll react.
He’ll probably say, Fuck no, Barret. We can’t. Which means I have to find a way to get the yes. I can already see his face when I say it, The Wilder brothers could come. We could even invite Dexter and Alec to have a little Dead Moth Parade reunion.
We’ll be bringing voices, stories, and people who remember who she was before all this twisted her into someone else.
Eddie is at his desk when I push the door open, papers spread like a map of everything he’s refusing to let slide. There’s acquisitions, sales, and things to cover.
This office is precisely under the main room where Cleo sleeps, so that grand window is also in here.
“Hey,” I greet him. “You have a minute?”
“For you, I have all the time,” he answers, obviously trying to assure me that I always come first.
Not sure when he got the idea that he has to do that, but I won’t argue with him.
Better to have his attention than to discourage him.
Maybe one of these days we’ll have to sit down and discuss us in depth.
The last four months have been a fight between: ‘Do you know what the fuck you’re talking about?
’ and ‘You can’t fix us until she’s safe. ’
It wasn’t that I need her to be a part of us, or this won’t work. It was more like I wanted him to place all his energy on figuring out a way to get her out of Dorian’s claws.
“What can I do for you?” The question is hopeful, and maybe he’s waiting for me to tell him that I’m ready to talk about us as a couple.
I’m not.
“Last night was hard, but I think we handled it,” I begin. “But . . . what if we start bringing more people to the cabin? Obviously, just family.”
He studies me, then the window, then the thin line of horizon.
“She’s only on day two,” he says. His voice is careful, like someone lowering a glass into a sink.
It could shatter if he settles it too hard.
“She’s still tired most of the time. We can’t throw a crowd at her.
That would be—” He stops. The words hang. “It would be wrong.”
My momentum stalls. “I know. But I’m talking small in here. One brother . . . maybe Kit and Arlo for an hour.”
Eddie runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Why don’t we take it one day at a time. Maybe—”
“I’m not saying let’s have them here tomorrow morning—all of them,” I cut him off because he was obviously not going to listen.
He took the therapist's advice to give her space and avoid people until she was ready to talk. How can she be prepared if we don’t have options?
“We plan it,” I say. “We make sure it’s safe and she’s ready. Even though you’re Edgar Reznor, sometimes people can’t just drop everything when you request their presence.”
“You think she’ll benefit from it, B?”
Honestly, I could also use someone to come and play with me for a couple of hours.
I’m fucking tired of using that new equipment he bought with the camera so I can connect with others online.
The connection lags and can’t do much when you can barely catch the riffs while trying to figure out what Alec is saying on the other side.
Don’t get me started with that asshole. He gets angry because the connection is shit. Which isn’t anything new. Alec gets angry for everything and anything.
Eddie exhales. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But first, we need to clear it with the therapist. We get a protocol. We do this by the rules of trauma care, not by how much we think old Cleo would love a reunion.”
He presses the speaker and then dials the number the therapist left—an off-hour line, for emergencies. The line rings, and I count under my breath. I pace in a small circle, restless and watchful. Eddie taps the desk.
A voice answers. “Dr. Stevens speaking.”
“Dr. Stevens,” Eddie says, voice clipped. “This is Eddie Reznor. My partner, Barret, is with me. We’re calling from the safehouse where Cleo is currently staying.”
I stare at the phone instead of at him when he says, ‘My partner, Barret.’
Are we partners? I don’t even know who I am, and he’s giving us a fucking title.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He does tend to skip a gazillion steps.
So far, he’s been doing his best not to pressure anyone, so I guess this is his first strike, and maybe I won’t count it.
He deserves a break just like everyone else.
I cut the pleasantries and tell the therapist about the past twenty-four hours. The moment we served breakfast to Cleo yesterday morning, up until all eight times she woke up screaming bloody murder after having a nightmare.
“We were thinking about arranging family visits. Try to offer her a new normal.”
“Is it safe?” Dr. Stevens asks.
I don’t wait for Eddie to say anything, just blurt, “Sure, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“We would have to check with the security team,” Eddie says in a calm way that says you’re lucky I don’t maim you.
If we’re not safe here . . . well, what the fuck?
There is a pause long enough for me to imagine a no, a dismissal.
Something that will slam the plans closed.
Instead, the therapist’s voice comes back, practical.
“I’d suggest you reach out to your security team.
See what that would look like for the visitors and Cleo.
Then, once you have more of a plan, you can check in with me before you schedule anything.
If she sleeps most of the time, let her sleep.
If she wants to take long walks, let her.
Be vigilant, but make sure she feels safe. ”
Eddie runs a hand down his face and, to my relief, nods. “We’ll do it your way. We’ll set a slow plan and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
When the call ends, I look at him. “Are we safe here?”
He meets my eyes. “Yes.”
“Then why call security?” I ask.
He presses a thumb against a paper on his desk. “We need to make sure nobody is tailing her brothers. Dorian could be watching everyone. He’s trying to find her.”
“What are we going to do to keep her safe?” The question sits like a stone in my throat.
“Arthur and I are making plans,” he says. “Until we know the safest way to move, we lie low.”
There should be relief—because there’s a plan. Instead, the waiting tastes bitter. Even with a green light, we don’t know if normal will ever be hers again.
“Call Roderick and Kit,” he says. “See if they can visit in the next couple of months.”
“Can we even tell them she’s here?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. But you can use Thanksgiving or Christmas as cover. See what their plans are and if they could come.”
I fumble for my phone, then remember this place runs on a corded line.
No wireless. The cellphone towers don’t make it all the way out here.
We could use the satellite, but that’s just for emergencies.
The corded phone in his office is. We live like it’s 1989 for a reason.
I put the handset to my ear and dial Rod’s main number.
Kit answers on the second ring, bright and immediate.
There’s a baby cooing in the background—Arlo.
“Bear?” she says. Her voice is sunlight through a window. “You’re finally back—where did you guys go this time?”
I glare at Eddie—fuck, when he makes up stories, he should at least warn me—then force a joke. “If Eddie didn’t tell you, sweetheart, I can’t. You know how secretive he is.”
She laughs. “Sometimes I swear he’s in some government thing. Other times I think he’s just full of bullshit.”
“It’s the bullshit, Kit. Never think otherwise,” I joke. “So . . . I was thinking. Could you two come for the holidays? Maybe Thanksgiving? We haven’t seen Arlo in a few weeks.”
There’s a hum and a groan and then, “We’re hoping to have everyone for Thanksgiving at the farm—including you two,” she says. “I just wish Cleo could be there.”
God, how I wish I could tell her Cleo is safe here, that she’s already among people who would move anything for her. I close my eyes for a beat. Then come up with something close to the truth but not a lie. “We’ll plan it right, Kitty Kat. Your place, ours . . . we can decide once we’re closer.”
“Okay,” Kit says. “Keep me posted.”
I hang up and tell Eddie, “She’s in. She wants us for Thanksgiving, but I told her we’ll make the decision on where we’ll meet later.”
He lets that sit between us, like a fragile thing. “It won’t be easy,” he says. “Bringing several people might increase the risk of getting caught.”
“I have faith you’ll fix it,” I say, not to butter him up, but because I believe in him.
When Eddie sets a goal, he moves like a man who knows how to make impossible things happen.
He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t tell Cleo yet, understood?”
I nod, then add because I’m tired of pretending. “And don’t introduce us like—‘my partner and I.’ I’m not ready for that.”
Eddie opens his mouth and hesitates. The truth hangs awkward between us. “We can wait on labels,” I say. “Right now it’s about her.”
“It’s so fucking hard,” he admits.
“I know,” I say. I shrug. The motion is small and brittle. “None of this is easy for any of us. If you had it your way, you would’ve fixed it yesterday morning and hope that we’d be walking toward the sunset. It’s hard, but maybe that makes it worth doing.”
We stand in his office, trying to create a new everything, including rules.
Learning how to move without tripping alarms, how to love without swallowing each other whole.
Outside, the fog keeps pretending it might clear.
That’s probably what we have to do: pretend everything will be fine and that’ll have to be enough for today.