is your friend.
You have until sunset on the third day.
Don’t be late.
The same scrolling flourish is drawn at the bottom.
The verse sends an involuntary shiver of revulsion down my back. There was a story Dara once told me, a rhyme the kids at her school used to chant about my grandmother.Goldenrod grows beneath the sun, but locked up it comes undone. When its glory ceases to be, toss the petals into the sea.I asked her what it meant, but she only shrugged.
When I was five, shortly after we arrived at the estate, I wandered into the dining room while my grandfather was having breakfast. A look of disgust curled his lip. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”
I was too scared to respond.
“Nina!” he called as if I were a spider he’d spotted on the carpet. “Niiina! Confound that woman…” He glared at me. “I suppose you want something from me.”
I briskly shook my head.
His eyes narrowed. “They all want something from me. Why should you be any different?” When I didn’t speak, he went on. “Tell you what. There’s an old garden shed at the back of the property. You can make it a playhouse if you like.”
The sudden shift in his mood confused me, but I couldn’t resist such a delight. I didn’t have Dara’s company then, or anyone else’s. My father had passed only months before, and my mother was suddenly and strikingly less available to me than she’d ever been. In our life in San Francisco, I could never have imagined something as grand as my own playhouse. And the old man’s brazen smile fed my curiosity.
“It’s just out that door,” he said, pointing to one of the French doors that stood open to let the fresh air in. “Straight back all the way. You’ll see a narrow trail through the trees—follow it.”
Grinning, I bolted from the room and followed his direction to the decrepit building which, when I got close, had several broken windows and was buzzing with a strange noise I’d never heard before. I remember looking back with uncertainty, the gabled roof no longer visible behind a wall of spruce. A concerned voice sounded in my head like a chime—No. But the eager smile I remembered on my grandfather’s face convinced me to ignore it. Surely this gesture was a gift.
When I opened the door and stepped inside, I found the shed empty of anything but an enormous hive of bees which had taken over the back right corner. Their drone drowned out the voice. It drowned out all thought as they grew to a frenzy, streaking in my direction. I ran, tearing through the trees and brush until I stumbled into the clearing near the house, stung more than fifteen times in my flight. I was lucky I wasn’t allergic. By the time I made it inside, my face was swollen and streaked with angry, humiliated tears. Nina pressed tobacco and oil into my skin for days to draw out the burn. I never confessed who told me about the shed. I struggled to believe he’d done it on purpose. At that time, I still didn’t understand the hell my mother had brought me to. I still didn’t understand who we were.
I began hearing the voice all the time after that. And the next time, I listened.
I’m no different now than I was that day when I was five years old, only I don’t have the voice to guide me. I can hear the humming, feel the stirring of something with power beneath my feet. I know that whatever lies behind this door won’t be what I expect. That it may very well harm me in the end. I know the beguiling face smiling at me and beckoning me forward can’t be trusted. But what waits in the darkness is calling, and I’ve never been able to resist the devil’s offering.
I feel the envelope buzz as I slide the note card back inside.This can only lead to trouble,I tell myself. But I’m a Cole woman through and through.Troubleis our birthright.
I could just ignore the note. Pretend the whole sordid mess didn’t happen, that last night’s run-in with Bettie Mage and her minions was nothing more than a bad dream. But like last night, I know I’ll go. I’ll try toshadows bend, though I’ve no idea where or how.
Maybe then they’ll deem me worthy.
I haven’t been able to stop seeing the woman from the park since I left, the waves of her dark hair shining in the moonlight, the dangerous curl of her smile. More than that, I haven’t been able to forget the things shesaid—And I know about Solidago.Does she mean the night I fled? Or everything that came before? Solidago was a house built on secrets—how many has she learned?
More importantly, where did she hear them?
I google sunset times for Seattle. Three days from now it falls at 7:33P.M.I have until then to figure this out.
I glance to the side and spyThe Bell Jarlying on my nightstand. I know exactly where to begin.
4NO GOOD DEED
Walking into work late is enough to give me hives. I hate being the center of attention. Long years skirting my grandfather at the estate, sneaking around to avoid detection and punishment, followed by navigating two foster placements has taught me that the safest place to be is always in the shadows. As an adult, I’ve focused on blending in, discreetly edging my way through life so as not to be noticed. At least not for long.
Roger was an anomaly. A mistake, if I’m honest. He stood behind me in line at a coffee shop, a David Foster Wallace book in hand. When I ordered a long macchiato, he tapped me on the shoulder, said it was his favorite drink, that this must be some kind of sign. I can still hear his astonishment—Nobody ever orders it!Then he asked for my number and simply wouldn’t give up until I gave it to him.
I didn’t really expect him to call, but he did. I never anticipated a second date after the disastrous first, where I sat mutely sipping chardonnay while he prattled on about cold plunge and tech shares, but there was. In that mulish fashion, he wormed his way into my life, if not my heart. And then suddenly, he was justthere—showering in my bathroom, turning up for lunch at my work, spooning me in the early hours of the morning.
I keep my head down as I glide into the office, darting towardmy desk in a back corner. This open floor plan is a dumpster fire of an idea, with all the vaulted, echoey sounds and everyone breathing everyone else’s air, desks crammed up against each other like a traffic jam. Management believes it enhances collaboration. I’m just grateful for my corner where at least I can’t be sneaked up on from two sides. But I’ve barely put my bag down when I hear my name.
“Juuude,” Aaron drawls as he sidles up next to my desk, bending toward me. He’s a tall stroke of a man punctuated by warm eyes, a bright smile, and perfectly trimmed dark hair. “Late night?” he whispers. Then, “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to rebound after what’s his face, Mr. Blundstone himself.”
“Roger,” I supply. Aaron saw him turn up here for lunch enough over the course of our relationship to pick up on Roger’s love for pull-on boots of ankle-high suede.
