Chapter 25
Penelope walks through the door, alone.
James’s heart falls. Why hasn’t she brought an ambulance, first responders, anyone who can help Nelle, who can heal her?
Penelope drapes her coat on the rack in the corner as if she has all the time in the world. Paper grocery bags hang from her arms, a head of broccoli peeking out of one, carrots another.
“Take the underwear off her, dear.” Penelope blows on the kitchen counter and winces at the ensuing puff of dust. Flipping on the overhead light, she assesses the kitchen and living room with one hand on her hip, the other tucked thoughtfully beneath her chin. “Then go get dressed.”
James peels the ink-crusted briefs from Nelle’s chest, and a spurt of hope shoots through him. Beneath the shirt, her skin is smooth, like the bullet never touched her. Her breathing has evened, too, though she is still unconscious.
“She healed.”
Penelope unfolds a rag and wipes down the counter. “They’re fast like that.”
He leaves Nelle sleeping against the wall to dig through his backpack on the master bed, pulling on loose jeans and a black sweater. The color will help to hide the ink stains across his torso, but it’s all over his hands and face, too.
Nelle stirs when he returns. He guides her to the sofa, resting her head on his shoulder.
“In the interest of candor, Lily tried to end her own life forty-seven times,” Penelope says from the kitchen. “She was brutally creative in her attempts. But as you’ve seen, those who are written into life can’t die naturally. They’re bound to their innate selves. Characters at heart, imitations of humans, with clear wants and desires and a persistence to achieve them. My husband, Samford, wrote Lily in a time of despair, and that always showed in her personality. I’m sure you witnessed her fury echoed in her son, Wallace.”
“I’d argue it was more than an echo.” James remembers Nelle’s torture. The burning cabin. The gunshot.
Penelope wipes down the fridge handle. “When she wakes, I’ll tell the full story.”
While he waits, James strokes Nelle’s cheek and gruffly sings. Eventually, she grumbles and blinks at him.
“Am I dead?” She touches her chest. “I heard angels singing.”
“Just me,” he says, relieved. “No angels.”
Nelle scrabbles to her feet, ready to bolt or attack. “Where’s Quill?”
“Gone.”
Penelope comes around the kitchen corner, wringing a rag.
The anger-torn seams of Nelle’s face split at the sight of her great-grandmother. “Youliedto me.”
Penelope sets a kettle on the gas stove, crosses to the living room, and sits in a Victorian armchair. Teacups already wait on the counter, strings hanging out.
“Likewise,” she counters. “You lied about your identity the day we met.”
“That was so different.” James crosses his legs. “We had no malicious intent. Can you say the same? We know you’ve been talking to Quill.”
“So you did hear yesterday.”
“I’m trying to understand why you’d do this, but I can’t.” Nelle shrugs helplessly. “Did you know he would show up here?”
“No, I did not,” Penelope says. “I’ll admit, I’ve never cut off communication with my grandson. We talk often. Every couple ofweeks or so. Throughout this summer we’ve spoken, but he never gave any impression that something was wrong. Didn’t mention the house fire, nor you running away.”
“But you knew aboutme?” Nelle asks.
James reaches for her hand.
Penelope’s lips set into a grim line. “I’m sorry, Nelle, for not stepping in. I read and responded to your letters. I knew you were there, but I didn’t know about the abuse. I thought he was keeping you ... happily.”
Nelle forcibly swallows, either tears or disgust. “Hewasn’t.”
