Chapter 8

This is the weirdest day of my life, but I can't talk yet. I'll tell you everything tonight.

Now you're just being a tease.

Did you get fired?

Undecided. Prospects are murky.

Have you moved on from the Tarot to Magic 8 Balls?

"Soooo," Rex says as I pocket my phone. I hold back a sigh. He's a nice enough guy who looks to be my age, late twenties or early thirties, with hair that exists somewhere between red and brown, a handsome face, and a slight twang to his words. But I don't have much bandwidth left for a new person right now.

Declan barely said two words to me the whole way from the van to the airport. When we left him off, he saluted us and that was that. I would have felt bad about leaving him to deal with the rental agency alone if he hadn't been such a dick. It's hard not to feel a little resentful that he just passed the buck and made me someone else's problem, as if it was no big deal and we hadn't spent all day together.

Still, if he thinks his bad behavior is going to make me less curious about him, he doesn't understand much about women, especially women who have just developed a taste for trouble. I want to know what his deal is, and what happened to him that sent him running, because something obviously did.

At least it stopped raining. The sun came out about twenty minutes ago, right about when we left Declan off—as if he took his storm with him—and there are two rainbows arcing off in the distance. Two rainbows are supposed to mean good luck, right?

Rex gives me a sidelong look. "You knew Dick?"

"I will never not find it weird that there are men in this world who've asked people to call them Dick," I comment.

"Oh," he says with a laugh, as if caught off guard. "He didn't ask anyone to call him that, as such. He was kind of a dick, so people thought it was funny. It stuck. Same way the guy who owns the gas station goes by Billiard, because he's as bald as one. So, how'd you know Dick?"

"He was my father," I say.

The oh shit look on his face is so classic, I almost laugh.

"I'm so sorry," he gushes. "I say what I'm thinking most of the time, and at least half the time it's a mistake. You know, he might've been a dick, but there were plenty of people who liked him." He points one of his fingers back toward the airport, keeping his hands on the wheel. "Declan there was one of them." His face creases into a frown. "But maybe you didn't get the best impression of Dec."

I laugh, thinking of our wet clothes in the back of the van. I had to strain the water out of my bra and shirt before I put them in my carry-on bag with the shitty umbrella, which I saved from the trees that had claimed it. "He's nice enough," I say. "But he's too closed-off. I'm more of an open book."

There, that's true, although it's a pretty small thing to say—my feelings are more confusing. Declan claimed he didn't have any friends who asked questions, but this Rex doesn't strike me as Mr. Reserved, and he very willingly called him to come save the day. So what was his deal with me?

Rex nods. "Can't say that's not so. But he's a good guy, mostly. I'm sorry for what I said about your father. We were all really sorry to hear the news."

"You don't have to worry about saying bad things about Dick," I say, glancing at him. "I didn't know him personally. I didn't even know he existed until yesterday." It's only after I say the words that I realize I should probably be a little less of an open book. I'm used to living in a city that's so big you can break up with someone and never have the misfortune of seeing them again—but that's obviously not the case in Marshall.

"Ohhh," he says, "I see." From the way he says it, he doesn't, not totally, but the basics have fallen into place. There are probably a hundred words for what I am, but the one that comes to mind first is baseborn, probably because I've been reading a lot of romantasy for an escape from the tense atmosphere at Agnes Lewis's offices.

"Do you know how he died?" I ask. "All I know is that it was an accident."

He casts a quick glance at me, as if trying to judge whether I'm the squeamish type. I try to look like I'm not, but I'm guessing he can see right through me. People usually do. "It was," he says. "Fell down the stairs. The coroner figured it happened instantly. No suffering. One of those freak accidents that happen in the home."

I nod, but it makes me uneasy, partly because I'm going to be staying in that home, and partly because that kind of accident could happen to anyone, any time. Get distracted at the wrong second, and it could be your last.

"I'm guessing you've talked to Nicole?" Rex says her name warily, as if he's talking about some wild beast escaped from the zoo.

"What's she like?" I ask, because this man's the talker Declan's not, and if I can get him going, he might forget to stop.

"Well…she's an interesting woman. I met her a couple of times at the bluegrass bar."

"Is she…" I can't think of a polite way to ask him whether she's a psychopath, so I clear my throat to buy time. "Is she…easygoing?"

He laughs. "I wouldn't say so, no. But she is interesting. I can't say more. Don't know her well enough to consider myself a judge."

Damn it. He may be a talker, but he's obviously feeling overly cautious after he accidentally told me that my bio-dad's a dick.

For the rest of the ride, I ask Rex questions about Marshall. He answers me readily enough and then pulls off the highway. A few minutes later, he gestures out the windshield. We're moving slowly down a stretch of street lined with colorful buildings, most of them businesses with signs—I see a bookstore, a record shop, a flower shop, and a couple of bars and restaurants.

"Here it is," he says with a grin. "Downtown Marshall."

"Wow, this is so cute," I say, smiling out the window. It feels like a town hand-plucked from a holiday Christmas movie where the high-strung blonde lawyer learns what's really important in life—finding a man who's willing to wear a Christmas sweater.

A little voice in my head whispers that it might be easier to open a bakery in a place like this than it would be in New York, where food service businesses come and go so quickly, you can miss them if you walk a different direction from the subway station for two weeks. It's a ridiculous voice, of course, because I'm not staying. I can't. This place isn't home, and it never will be.

There's only three or four blocks worth of "stuff" before the buildings become nondescript and grey, no more storefronts. "Oh, that's it?" I blurt before I can think better of it.

I'd known Marshall was small, but you'd have to run around it five times to get a mile.

"It's not New York City," Rex says with a knowing grin, "but it does us just fine. And Asheville's only twenty minutes away."

"Sorry," I say, and this time I know I'm the one who put my foot in it. This is his home, and I just insulted it, however unintentionally.

"You're good," he says. "We're used to people from New York around here. It feels like Asheville is fifty percent people from New York these days."

"And the other?"

"California or Florida," he says with a snort. "There's only a handful of people who are actually from these parts anymore."

"It's like that in New York too," I say. "Only I am from there. Born and raised."

"Well, if you're Dick's kid, you're from here, too. Honorary. He may not have always lived here, but he was one of us." He taps the steering wheel again as he directs the truck up an ascending road. It's as if he's sending up a wish or adding to the mass of thoughts and prayers that must be gathered somewhere in the ether, like hopeful pink clouds.

We're leaving the little downtown area behind, the scenery around us becoming rural more quickly than I'd anticipated.

Shit. Will there be internet at the house? I'd assumed so, since Nicole emailed me, but I can already tell it's a mistake to make any kind of assumptions with that woman. Besides, pretty much everyone has data on their phones.

"Will there be internet at the house?" I ask, my voice coming out strangled.

My new friend Rex laughs. I'm relieved for thirty seconds—of course there's internet, Claire, how could there not be internet?—before he says, "No, ma'am. Your daddy was only the sociable type when he wanted to be, and he was a cheapskate, too. Proud of it. The one thing he wasted money on, besides gambling, was his long-shelf-life food. Always said he was planning to survive the apocalypse."

"He was some kind of prepper?" I ask, fascinated. Maybe a little a horrified too, because I already have one parent who's in a cult. Is this genetic? Will I wake up one day and start thinking some stranger on the internet is the reincarnation of God?

"Nah, not really. He never did set up a bunker. Said it would be too much work. Same reason he never accepted an invitation to go deer hunting with me."

I make a face that he hopefully doesn't see. What can I say? I watched Bambi when I was five, and it made an impression.

He gives me a sidelong look, probably misinterpreting my expression."He was a fun guy, but he didn't have much up and at 'em energy. Still, I bet you'll find some interesting stuff up there."

That sounds about right—one parent a cultist and the other too lazy to bother being much of anything. But I don't have time to overthink the genetic lottery and how it's probably shafted me, because he takes a turn and starts edging up a rolling peak. My breath gusts out because it's so beautiful. The mountains are a rolling blue expanse in either direction, and there are conifers and maples and poplars everywhere. I can't remember when I last saw so many trees—wild trees that weren't planted by city planners. Trees that don't give a damn about which way they go or about things like up and down, because some of these trees are growing partially sideways.

"I know, right?" Rex says with a grin. "They picked a good spot."

"Dick Ricci's house is up here?" I ask. I can't decide whether that's a good thing—it's beautiful, but there's no internet, and it's a bit secluded. How hard will it be to sell this place? Will I have to spend a few weeks here?

He turns a corner, and two cabins come into view on the right side of the road, built side by side on the edge of a large hill. They're both wood, and they look like the search results you'd get if you had access to the internet and Googled log cabin. I've never spent the night somewhere so rustic, and my heart beats faster in my chest. This is…well, it's exciting.

Rex slows the car, and even before he puts on his blinker, I can tell the cabin on the right is Declan's. For one thing, it's much nicer, and for another it has an expansive back deck, visible from the road, that looks out over the mountains. The other has a view partially blocked by trees. It also looks like it"s seen better years, or even decades, although it has more rustic charm than its partner. There are a couple of Adirondack chairs arranged on the front porch of Dick's place, plus a huge plate glass window that looks out on the road. When Rex pulls into the driveway, smiling broadly, I flinch—because there's a woman standing directly behind the window, watching us. She has short, neon-pink hair and is dressed all in black—like she dressed for a stealth mission but forgot to cover her hair.

Rex must catch my flinch, because he smiles at me again. He won't be winning any poker games, particularly not if he's playing against Declan, because it's a worried smile. "That's Nicole."

"Hey, will my cell phone work up here?" I ask, chewing on my lip. If you're going to be holed up in a house with a psychopath, it seems like the responsible thing to do to ensure you at least have a working phone.

"Should do, although you might need to find a few sweet spots in the house." He grabs a receipt and pen from the well beneath the dash and writes down a number. Handing it to me, he says, "Call or text if they give you any trouble. Or even if you just need someone to talk to."

"They?"

"She's up here with her husband, Damien. Nice guy." He glances at the car in the drive. "Don't see their vehicle, though, so he must be out doing something. The Jeep was Dick's."

It's an old red, rust-bucket Jeep—more tank than car.

I'm tempted to ask him to drive me back to Marshall, or maybe even Asheville, but I'm more curious than I am nervous. This whole situation is so far out of my comfort zone, it's in a different solar system, one that seems to be revolving around this house, or maybe the intimidating woman who's standing in that window. I could retreat. It's what I've done most of my life—stepping away from arguments, placating people, waiting. But the afternoon I spent with Declan made me realize how damn tired I am of nothing happening.

So I say goodbye to Rex, get out of the car, grab my carry-on, and head to the front door.

I'm suddenly deeply self-conscious of not having a bra on—as if a bra might protect me from Nicole—but it's better not to be wearing one than to have two boob-sized wet spots on my shirt.

The door opens before I knock, and the woman with bright pink hair stands in front of me. There's something familiar about her eyes, although I couldn't say what. I know I've never seen her before. She's not a person who'd be easily forgotten.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," she says with a sharp grin. "Welcome home, sis."