Lucy shrugs. “Not like she’s the first tourist to?—”
“Don’t,” I warn her. “It’s not like that at all.”
Her forehead wrinkles in a pitying expression that agitates me even more. “Maybe she’s embarrassed? She came here to prove the legends were fake, then got jacked by a sadistic ghost and his horse.”
Lucy’s ability to distill major events into a few absurd words never stops surprising me. Today, her talent isn’t as amusing.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to do a long-distance relationship?” Lucy shrugs.
No, that doesn’t feel right, either.
Your future is yours now.What does that even mean? My future’s always been mine. I never expected it to feel this empty without her.
Lucy’s still watching me, arms crossed like she’s waiting for a big revelation. “Maybe she’s handing you an out? If she thought it was just a fling?—”
“It wasn’t a fling,” I snap. I grab my keys off the desk. “And if that’s what she thinks, she can say it to my face.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Emery
Ah,nothing like the familiar, comforting scent of burnt coffee and warm electronics to welcome me home. It’s a few days after I left Crowsbridge Hollow and Wren and I are back in the studio, editing my videos. The big screen in front of her shows footage from my camera, paused on the cemetery gates caught in early-morning light.
A crow flying through the gray sky.
“These are great shots,” Wren murmurs as she flicks the controller back and forth, searching for the perfect place to trim the footage to insert a photo.
I did that.
Finally. I documented something strange and true. Why’d I have to experience it firsthand and almost get myself killed, to turn into a believer?
Well, I still don’t believe in psychics, so at least there’s that.
Wren leans back in her chair, arms lifted over her head in a lazy stretch. “Okay. This went in a different direction than I expected but I’ll admit, it’s good. Like, really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” She nods toward the screen. “You didn’t turn it into a sensationalized ghost story for clicks.”
I scrunch my face into a frown and stare at the image of the cemetery on the screen. “You don’t think I lost my objectivity and drifted into an opinion piece?”
Wren mirrors my frowny face, then quickly shakes her head. “Not at all.” Her lips curve in a soft, sympathetic way—the warning sign she’s about to say something prickly. “It’s subject matter you have personal familiarity with. But you didn’t abandon your ethics. You make a compelling case for why now, more than ever, it’s important for us to know history. That it’s the only way to recognize the same harmful patterns of behavior today and prevent future generational trauma.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. I can live with that. “Good. That was the goal.”
She glances at the timeline again, scrubbing back a few seconds, watching the way the light shifts across the ironwork. The Widow’s silhouette is barely visible in the background.
Wren slows the footage, eyes narrowing. “Don’t be mad, but can I ask you something kind of awful?”
I let out an aggrieved sigh. “I mean, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”
“I’m serious. Do you think that’s how they chose?” She nods at the screen. “The women and girls the Rider took. Were they unable to have kids?”
My stomach twists. “I’ve thought about that,” I admit. “The Widow thought she was sparing them her fate.”
“That’s fucked up,” Wren says. “And not very girl’s girl of her. Damn.”
I nod slowly.
