Page 37

“Why?” she asked.

I still wasn’t entirely sure. In the moment, it was a gut instinct—an inexplicable need to take it. But it could have simply been my irrational mind grasping at straws, hoping they would lead me to the answer of where the fuck Goldie had gone. “When I saw it, I knew it was important, and I wasn’t sure why. That police station is underfunded and overworked as it is; I won’t be shocked if they don’t take her disappearance seriously."

I was defending myself, but it was a worry nonetheless. They hadn’t found the Watcher in the last twenty years—the one who had been killing and abducting community members. Goldie was an outsider, not one of them. Those people only cared for their own.

And we—this dysfunctional group all tied to Fibonacci Files in some way—we cared about ours.

“Do you have any idea what that means?” I asked again as I motioned to the strange line again.

Oliver shook his head and turned to Theo. She looked between the two of us and shrugged. “Is Marigold a person?”

I nodded. “Her parents were the first victims of the Watcher. I’ve been trying to track her down, but haven’t been able to find her anywhere.”

“What about the names before the line?” Oliver interjected.

“I-I don’t know,” I confessed. I didn’t know anything, really, and was beating myself up over it. Maybe, just maybe, if I had tried a bit harder on the case, I would know more. Maybe if I hadn’t kissed her, I would have been with her.

“We’re going to find her,” Oliver insisted and handed the notebook back to me.

“We have to.”

I glanced through the pages in the notebook. She scribbled in this thing at the drop of a hat, based on the passages. There were notes about work, grocery lists, and even some passages that reminded me of a diary. I flipped a page and felt bile climb up my throat when I saw a few drops of blood. They looked fresh, and I couldn’t help but assume they were Goldie’s.

We didn’t have much to go on besides the names listed: Brooks Graves, Old Man Baker, and the Librarian Lavelle. I didn’t know their significance, but it was one of the last things Goldie wrote, and I needed to understand why. I closed the leather book and slid it back into my pocket. I shouldn’t have taken it from the crime scene, but it was the only connection I had to Goldie, and I wasn’t ready to let that go.

I was taking this too close to heart; I knew I was. Goldie wasn’t anything to me. She spent most days avoiding or glaring at me. But with her being gone, as the list of possibilities of what she was going through cycled through my mind, I couldn’t help the fear that coursed through my entire being. I needed her back. I needed her safe, and I was realizing I was only half a man without her.

Goldie

Ididn’t recognize myself.

I tried to wipe down the filthy mirror, but no amount of cleaning could fix the ruin captured in the glass. The reflection shared all my features—the same dark eyes, the same black hair, the same smooth skin beneath the layer of dirt.

But the creature looking back at me was a shadow. The spark behind my eyes was gone, quenched until only dull darkness remained. My skin was a lifeless, greyish mask, and my hair had been sheared so aggressively it felt like an insult to who I used to be. I didn't recognize myself. I was standing in front of a mirror, staring at a corpse that was somehow still breathing.

I gripped either side of the small sink in the makeshift bathroom and held back tears. In the last few days—what I thought had been days—I had managed to better center myself. My mind was still foggy, and I could tell I was missing information, but I wasn’t even sure what information I was missing. My mind was a leaking faucet, constantly losing more pieces of myself as time continued forward.

I knew my name, I knew I lived in Oregon, I knew I was twenty-seven, I knew what year it was, and I knew it was October. I knew how to drive a car; I knew how to do my taxes. But I didn’t know anything about who I was.

I couldn’t remember my home; I couldn’t remember my friends or my family. I couldn’t even remember why I was taken—if I had been taken—but I must have been. I couldn’t fathom coming here willingly. Silas wasn’t much help. While my memory loss was most likely from the concussion I had sustained, Silas seemed to have spent a lifetime here. He didn’t know of the world, of families, what states were, or what countries were. He was just as lost as I was, but he at least knew who he was.

Swallowing down a sob, I leaned forward and scooped up a handful of water, splashing my face to scrub off the sweat and dirt. One thing I had managed to learn: it was impossible to keep yourself clean in this place. While the rooms had concrete walls and the matching ceiling above us kept it all stable, the hallway and floor being dirt made it impossible to stay clean. Every morning, or the mornings that Silas followed, I had dirt under my fingernails and trailed on my face, revealing the path my tears had followed in my sleep. I could feel the fear, the heartache, and the longing for my life deep within, but I couldn’t remember what it was I missed.

“Goldie,” Silas called quietly from the doorway. I jumped at his voice and turned.

He had been my only friend in this place, but our conversations were stilted. I didn’t know what to say, and he had nothing to say. It was obvious he spent much of his time alone. He had a routine he followed to a T: wake up, eat breakfast, work out, clean, rest, eat dinner, clean himself, and finally sleep. And it was all done by a single lantern with a single flame. He had let me use it for the days I had been here, and it was impressive how easily he was able to navigate in the dark. He knew this place like the back of his hand, and I wondered just how much his eyes had adapted over the years.

I wondered if he even needed the light.

“Yeah?” I asked, my voice quiet.

“He’s coming today.”

I turned to him in surprise. “Who?”

He swallowed and glanced at his feet. “Father.”

“How do you know?” I asked.