She didn’t speak.
“Do you have any idea how totally fucked up this is? You’re obsessed. It’s a sick, unhealthy obsession. I think you need help. Seriously. And I don’t mean help from Dicky and his spiritualists. I think it might be time for therapy. For someone to help you figure out where this need you have for these things is coming from.”
She didn’t say anything, just stood, concentrating on trying to keep breathing.
“Your father wouldn’t have admired this. He would have been horrified.”
This was more than she could stand. She barked out a cold laugh. “You’re one to talk. You’ve got your own fucked-up little obsession, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw your nature journal, Nate. You’ve filled the entire fucking thing with notes on that deer. If that’s not an obsession, I don’t know what is.”
He opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but she kept going before he got a chance.
“Have you been keeping track somewhere in one of your little spreadsheets of how many hours you spend looking for your white deer? Of the money you’ve sunk into it—the top-of-the line infrared cameras, the cables, the bags of deer food and salt licks? While you bitch and moan about being over budget. And you haven’t even gotten a single clear picture yet, have you?”
“No, but I will. The deer isreal,Helen. An actual flesh-and-blood creature. Unlike these ghosts you’re apparently trying to summon.”
“You know what I can’t help but wonder? If maybe your need to do all this research and gather all this proof about the deer is because part of you worries that maybe, just maybe, Riley was right. Maybe that deer really is the ghost of Hattie Breckenridge. And you refuse to accept that possibility, so you’re determined to prove her wrong.”
“That’s absurd,” Nate said.
“You write about her like she’s a human being, Nate. Like she’s got magical abilities. Like you have some kind of special relationship. Like she’s your fucking mistress!”
He turned from her, reached down, grabbed the remaining three beers. “We’re done here.”
He walked away, down to the trailer, where he slammed the door so hard the whole sad little tin building seemed to shake.
CHAPTER 34
Olive
SEPTEMBER 11, 2015
“Dammit!” Helen said when she missed the nail, smashed her finger with the hammer.
“You okay?” Olive asked.
“Fine,” Helen said, shaking her finger. “I just need to take a break for a minute.”
Helen looked tired, worried, and, all of a sudden, way older. There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes and her skin was pale and pasty looking—Olive could see the blue traces of veins underneath.
They were in the house, putting up the trim around the last of the windows. Olive was holding the boards while Helen nailed them in place. Then she used a nail set to sink them, and Olive covered the holes with dabs of wood putty.
Nate had gone into town to pick up more caulk and primer. Olive was relieved he’d taken off because things were weird and awkward. Nate and Helen were barely speaking—just giving each other measurements and passing boards back and forth. Olive could tell they were really pissed off at each other. Maybe that was why Helen looked so worn out.
Olive imagined she didn’t look all that much better than Helen—she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. She’d tossed and turned in bed, thinking about her talk with Riley at breakfast and how frightened Riley had looked. About her promise to stop looking into things, to stay safe and leave things to Riley. And their plan to maybe go to the police.
When she did sleep, she dreamed it was her own hand ripping the necklace from her mother’s throat. Then choking her.
She woke up damp with sweat, heart thumping. She jumped out of bed, downed three cups of sweet, milky coffee, and skipped breakfast entirely—the idea of solid food turned her stomach. On her way to catch the school bus, she stopped by the hollow tree and thought about dumping the necklace back in there but found she just couldn’t part with it.
She’d come to Helen’s straight from school, not even heading home first to drop off her backpack. She didn’t want to be alone. Not even for a minute.
Olive looked at the stack of books on the kitchen counter:Ghosts and Hauntings; Witches in New England; A Guide to Haunted Vermont; Spells, Hexes, and Curses; A Witch’s Guide to Spell Casting.The one on top was calledCommunicating with the Spirit World.
She set down the tub of wood putty, reached up, touched the necklace under her shirt. Then she picked upCommunicating with the Spirit Worldand started flipping through it, not really reading, just skimming. She came to a passage that made her stop. She felt goose bumps form on her forearms and a chill on the nape of her neck. She read it out loud, slowly:
