“You don’t think I should try to publish it,” he says. “To protect her, right?”
“What you have to ask yourself”—Penelope sips her tea—“is whether or not there is a cost to publishing this story that you’re not willing to pay.”
James has never considered the possibility that his book could harm Nelle. But if anyone found out, her life could be over. If word leaked that Nelle isn’t a human, what would the government do? Sweet Jesus, what would the media do?
“I wouldneverreveal to the world what Nelle is,” he admits. Which means he may never publish this book. Like Penelope said, some writing is just for wringing out the soul.
“And if she wasn’t here to be harmed by your honesty, if your story could really be considered fantasy?”
“Then yeah, technically,” James says, “but I don’t want that.”
Penelope grunts and stands, shuffles into the kitchen, and returns with two more cups of tea. James takes his mug with both hands. It’s painted blue, with the faces of two palm-size fairies bulging out with little noses and lips. Jessie would obsess over it.
The floorboard creaks, and James snaps up from his tea.
Nelle steps out of the library, a satchel full of books hung from her shoulder.
“Take me,” she says to Penelope. “Take me to the cottage.”
James sets down his cup. “It burned down, we saw it—”
“No.” Nelle doesn’t break her stare. “Take me to the cottage. Now.”
“Write it down for her,” Penelope says.
The words don’t register in James’s head, too befuddled by Nelle’s sudden entrance and insane demand.
“Write itdownfor her,” Penelope repeats, and this time he catches her urgency.
He scribbles in the journal,Nelle rides in the car.
Penelope takes Nelle’s hand, and together they disappear out the front door. James stares in disbelief at the rectangle of night. Insects vibrate. A wet chill splices the air.
Then he snatches up the blue backpack and races out the door after them.
Chapter 24
The vacation cottage is carpeted in dust. Every corner hosts dried-up insects strung wall to wall by thoughtful spiders. James’s flashlight swings onto a tattered couch facing a brick fireplace and a slanted bookshelf. In the adjoining room, there is a gas stove, an empty refrigerator, and a stained coffeepot.
The first bedroom was, without a doubt, Wallace and his brother Sam’s. Two twin beds, a shelf sagging with books, and an oak desk. A wooden castle and a collection of untidy toys are half hidden beneath one of the unmade beds. James feels a pang, imagining Midi ripped from his life in some violent, sudden way. He would never touch her room again.
Already well past 3:00 a.m., Penelope advised them to spend the night at the cottage before she left, so James votes to sleep in the master bedroom. Unlike the kids’ room, it doesn’t have the uneasy energy of a morgue. A California king bed fills the space, leaving a few feet for the dresser, the vanity, and a beautiful armoire, its doors carved with the outlines of woodland creatures.
After they probe the house, James sits on the sofa, years of cigarette smoke wafting out of the cushions. Nelle has been quiet since they got in Penelope’s car, steeped in concentration. She weaves in and out of the cottage’s rooms, opening cabinets, rummaging through drawers. James doesn’t know what she is trying to find, and he is starting to doubt that evensheknows. But she must have learned something important aboutthis place from the books in Penelope’s house. Something Penelope must know, too. He drums his fingers together, perturbed to be out of the loop.
“Aha!” Nelle rings out from the room with the twin beds.
James jumps up and barrels in, only to find her sitting on the floor, prying at the boards with her fingertips, sweating as she pulls to no avail.
He drops beside her. “What did the floor do to offend you?”
“It’s hollow.” She grits her teeth. “Help me get it open.”
James digs in the gap between boards, but his fingers are bigger than Nelle’s, so the attempt is futile.
He sighs. “Still got that letter opener?”
She passes it, polished wood handle out, from her jacket pocket. He presses the blade between the floorboards. Breaking a sweat himself, he jiggles the board free and wrenches it up, victorious.
