His easy defeat forces more puzzle pieces into place.
“It’s like you don’t even want them to figure out what happened to you,” I say. “Every time I ask, you shut down. I know you told Sloane and Aisha not to talk to me about it, too.” Finn opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, I press forward. “And you didn’t tell me about Ingrid. It’s like you’re actively fighting any investigation I try.”
“You’re not a cop, Jo. It’s hardly an investigation,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry for giving a shit about what happened to you. Would you rather I pretend you’re not here? Let you be the runaway everyone has decided you are?”
Finn narrows his eyes.“Why are you trying so damn hard to save us?”
“Because I couldn’t save her,” I reply without meaning to. It’s a truth that burrowed deep into my belly and has been rotting since. I’ve gotten so good at not looking at it, I can pretend it isn’t there most of the time.
Finn makes it a lot harder.
“Harper.”He speaks gently, as if I’m a wild animal about to bolt.
I avert his gaze and lie back on the grass, folding my hands over my stomach and exhaling sharply.
Finn hesitates only a moment before joining me. He’s close enough that our elbows should brush.
“I was still conscious after the car flipped,” I say. “I don’t know how long I stayed awake, but I remember climbing out of the car. Pulling myself out of the ditch and to the roadside. The last thing I remember is punching 911 into my phone.”
I clamp my eyes shut against the tears burning at the backs of them. The memories are clear as crystal and slick as ice. The doctors said it was a miracle I was able to get out of my seat belt, let alone drag myself through the broken window and out of the car.
“I passed out before I hit call.” I open my eyes, and a traitorous tear slips down my cheek, falling into the grass. “Harper didn’t die on impact. They put her time of death an hour or two before the ambulance got there.”
“Jo,” Finn says, like he already knows where I’m going with this.
“If I’d pressed one more damn button, maybe she—”
“Stop,” he says. He sits up, and I do the same, peering over at him.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing. That I’m running into those woods blind, searching for ghosts. And maybe I am,” I say. “But I’m not going to stop.”
Twenty
Margot wanders into the kitchenat midnight, where I’m washing the dishes I was supposed to do hours ago.
I shut off the tap. Margot doesn’t meet my eyes as she makes for the fridge and pops it open. As she reaches for a Tupperware full of leftover lasagna that I have dibs on, I nudge her arm out of the way and shut the refrigerator door.
She’s sleepwalking, something she hasn’t done in years.
“You can eat anything but my pasta,” I murmur, taking her arms and guiding her away from the fridge. I’m a little shocked she made it this far without falling—the old apartment was too small for ample opportunities to hurt herself, and there were no stairs to tumble down.
Margot pulls out of my grip. She approaches the sink, staring intently out the back window and into the dark forest past the rusting swing set and the edge of our yard.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” I say.
A cold breeze drifts over the back of my neck, and I hear Ingrid’s whisper.
Find me.
I spin around, scanning the dim kitchen.
Find me.
It’s coming from the hallway across from the kitchen. I take a few hesitant steps away from Margot.
“Hello?” I ask. “Ingrid?”
