Ash
and West Harbor) when I notice a group of girls who look to be about Emma’s age sitting in a row near the door. A couple of
them are wearing Equinox in the Square T-shirts.
Square at New York City’s celebration of the autumnal equinox. If you want to find a witch, this is the place to do it.
But the sun has finally set, the festivities are over, and I still haven’t seen Emma.
So I’m checking trains from the city back to Connecticut in the hope that maybe, just maybe, she’s on one.
I have my phone out, ready to show the girls Emma’s photo, when a pack of teenage boys climbs onto the train, full of beer
and self-importance. They’re probably only looking for a row of empty seats so they can continue their party.
But then their gazes fall upon the girls.
“Hey,” a boy with a Mets cap says to the closest of the young women. “Are you a library book? Because I’d like to check you
out.”
I’m embarrassed for the kid, even as his friends smirk behind him. This line is even older and more tired than Don’t I know you from somewhere?
I feel worse for the girls, though.
“Get lost, loser,” the young woman says, and returns to her chat with her friends.
Mets Hat doesn’t like this. He flushes angrily and leans over the girls’ seats, hissing, “I wouldn’t be so stuck up if I was
you, bitch. You ain’t even that hot.”
All the oxygen is sucked out of the train. Or at least that’s what it feels like to me. Everyone in the crowded car is staring
at the group of kids, wondering what’s going to happen next. The girls look a little frightened. Mets Hat is a big kid, and
he’s looming over them intimidatingly while his friends have all pulled out phones to film the interaction.
This isn’t my business, but I’m not going to leave it alone. I’ve never been able to. I come up behind the boys and clear
my throat.
“Ooooh,” hoots one of Mets Hat’s friends, turning his camera toward me. “Look out, Dylan. Here comes Chewbacca.”
Dylan (aka Mets Hat) sneers, although truthfully, I am significantly taller—and hairier—than he is. I can tell the bravado is only bluster to impress his friends—and the girls.
I see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as I approach.
“Hey, back off, dickcheese,” Dylan says, showing admirable pluck. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I reach into my pocket. “But this does.”
All of their gazes lock onto what I’m holding in my outstretched hand. It’s that easy.
“Did one of you drop this?” I ask, holding up the baseball card.
It’s in a protective plastic sheath, but it’s still easy to make out the face of the smiling player on it, as well as his
name. Dylan’s gaze fastens onto it, and I see his jaw drop.
“That’s a . . . a . . .” Dylan glances from the card to my face and then back again, flushing. “Where did you—”
“I found it over there on the floor.” I point vaguely in the opposite direction. Dylan and his friends don’t notice. They’re
too busy staring. “And since you appear to be Mets fans, I assumed it’s yours.”
“No, man.” The kid is too astonished to bluff. He’s forgotten his dislike of me and his embarrassment over the girl’s rejection.
He’s forgotten everything except what I’m holding in my hand. “I never . . . I mean, I wish it was mine—”
Pleased that I have his attention—and the attention of nearly everyone in the car—I hold the card higher so Dylan has to tilt
his chin a little to see it. I’d wondered when I purchased it three weeks ago at my neighborhood flea market why I’d suddenly felt such a burning desire to own it. I don’t follow the Mets. I don’t collect baseball cards. I don’t care
about sports at all (to my dad’s utter disappointment).
But I’d bought it anyway because this is how my “gift” works. The reason I bought the baseball card is written all over Dylan’s
face. He’s the one who wants it . . . wants it more than anything in the world.
And I’ve found it for him. Because that’s what I do.
I find lost things—or rather, lost things find me.
All I have to do is make myself available to be found—like here, tonight, on the various trains Emma might take to get back to West Harbor if she’s been in the city for the equinox celebration.
Then I return the item to whoever was searching for it.
“Looks to me like a Luisangel Acuna rookie card.” I glance down at the card and shrug. “Not sure who that is, but it says
Mets on it, and judging by your gear, you appear to be a fan, so I assumed—”
“It’s his.” One of Dylan’s friends leans forward and plucks the card from my hands. “Right, Dyl?”
“Yeah.” Dylan still looks stunned, but plays along with his friend. “It’s mine. I dropped it.”
Behind him, his posse snickers. They think they’ve gotten one over on me, which is exactly what I want them to think.
“Well,” I say. “Glad I could help.”
One of Dylan’s friends grips him by the shirt. “Yo, isn’t that card shop on Fifty-First and Second?”
One of the others replies, “Oh, yeah! Let’s go!”
As a group, they’re already shoving Dylan out the door and onto the station platform. His jaw, however, is set. “I’m not selling,”
he tells his friends. “No way I’m selling!”
“Naw, man. If we get there before they close, we can just ask the guy how much it’s—”
Their voices fade as they move away from the train. The mood in the car has lifted, the previous unpleasantness forgotten.
Everyone is smiling . . . everyone except for the girls.
“What was that?” the one Dylan had been hitting on asks me, her eyes narrowed.
“Uh . . .” I glance at her friends. They’re wearing similar looks of disapproval. How did I screw up this time?
“You didn’t find that card. I saw you take it out of your pocket. Am I supposed to thank you, or something, for rewarding that guy for his terrible behavior?” the girl demands. “Because I didn’t need your help. I could have handled that idiot all by myself.”
Busted.
“Well,” I begin. Explaining my special skill is always awkward. What am I supposed to say, that sometimes I’m seized with
a longing to buy something or go somewhere, a longing I can’t explain? That it can happen anywhere, over anything, and sometimes
I don’t even realize it’s happening, let alone why, for years? That it’s why I’m a homeowner, even though I don’t need a house?
I especially don’t need a house in West Harbor, Connecticut. I like my apartment here in the city. I have no desire to live anywhere else.
But the minute I saw that lake house, I knew I had to have it, just like I knew I had to have that baseball card.
At least now I know why I had to have the baseball card. The house, I worry I’ll never understand.
“It’s true I bought it,” I try explaining to the girls. “But it was only a dollar—”
“I suppose you’re going to ask her to give you her number,” one of the girl’s pissed off–looking friends interrupts. “Out
of gratitude for you saving her.”
“Like he’s some kind of chivalrous knight,” another of the girls sneers. “In jeans instead of shining armor.”
What the hell? “No! That’s not—that isn’t—”
They all start laughing, and I realize they’re kidding. Sort of.
“I am going to ask all of you for something,” I admit. “But it’s only to please look at this photo and tell me if you’ve seen this
girl recently.”
All of their gazes lock instantly onto my phone screen.
“Her name’s Emma Bridle,” I say. “She’s eighteen years old. She’s been missing for a few months now. Have any of you seen her?” I turn the phone so each girl can get a good look. “She might have been at the equinox festival in Times Square. She likes that stuff.”
“Like” isn’t the right word. According to her parents, in the past year, Emma grew obsessed with all things supernatural and
occult.
But the kids are shaking their heads.
“She’s pretty,” says the girl Dylan insulted. “I love her hair, so long and shiny. But I haven’t seen her. Have you guys?”
She glances at her friends, all of whom shake their heads and murmur, “No, sorry.”
Oh, well. It was worth a shot.
“Thanks,” I say, putting my phone away again. “If you do run into her, tell her to call her parents, okay? They’re worried
about her.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for her,” one of the girls calls as I head back to the platform. I have more trains to check, and this
one is about to move. “Don’t worry! I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Thanks,” I say.
But I’m not sure Emma is fine. That’s why I have to find her. . . and also get my boss off my back. If I have to hear the
words, “Just find her . . . before it’s too late,” one more time from Guy’s mouth, I’m going to lose my shit, especially since,
when I ask, “Too late for what?” Guy only looks at me and repeats, “Just find her.”
So that’s what I’m going to do . . . even if it’s looking more and more like I’m going to have to move my base of operations
to the last place Emma was seen—West Harbor.
I guess I should be happy about what happened to Mrs. Baumgarten. At least now I have a place to stay while I search, since she and her husband moved out.
But of all people, why did Mrs. Baumgarten have to ask for help from Francesca Giovanni?