Sheriff Flynn leads me through town in silence. I’m sure everyone knows about the fire, but no one cares enough to ask if I’m all right. People stare at me. They whisper. Mr. Lucas touches the magenta flower he’s still wearing, and his lips move silently, as if in prayer, when he sees me.
Is this what it was like for Kyra all those years? They feared her because she was different. They saw her as less because she was ill. Suddenly appreciating her art does not clear the stain of their silence. Especially if they never acknowledged her for who she was as a person.
We were here when it mattered most, Piper said at the memorial.
But she’s wrong. They were there for Kyra when it was profitable for them and they had something to gain. If they’d been there for her when it mattered, they’d have been with her long before she ventured out onto the ice. They would have been there when she struggled to adjust to new medication. When she cried herself to exhaustion because she hadn’t slept in days. When she was too scared to talk about the future because she was convinced she’d never escape the darkness—never escape Lost.
If the people of Lost had been with Kyra when it mattered most, they would’ve been there for her on those days between mania and depression, when she could step away from her art and her fear. They would’ve talked to her, they would’ve cared for her, not as the beneficent, bipolar daughter of the Hendersons, but as Kyra, one of their own.
That’s when it mattered most.
They weren’t here when it mattered most.
But I can’t help but think that neither was I. If I had been with Kyra when it mattered, I would’ve called, answered her letters. I would’ve been a safe haven when Lost turned her into a prophet, and I would’ve found a way to get her out. I would not be trying to understand how she died.
If any of us had been here when it mattered most, she would still be alive.
? ? ?
Sheriff Flynn leaves me on my own at Dr. Stevens’s house, but despite her insistence that I come see her, she is out, according to her assistant, Meghan. Meghan can only give me vague estimates and water and aspirin for the headache that’s taken up residence behind my eyes. From oxygen deprivation, maybe? Or anger?
“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you,” she says, while she sorts through medical charts, filing paperwork. She moves them from one stack to another, slowly, methodically. “You’re welcome to wait.” With a large manila envelope, she gestures at the double bench that functions as a waiting room.
“You don’t know how much longer Dr. Stevens will be?”
“No. It may be a while.”
Her tone reminds me of the one I used with Sheriff Flynn when I mentioned calling my mother this morning, and I’m almost certain that she’s lying. Maybe Dr. Stevens is only out for an errand. Maybe, despite what Meghan says, she’s in the building, though it’s hard to imagine Dr. Stevens sitting on the other side of the door, waiting for me to walk out. I’ve always known her as helpful and caring. But I can’t be sure if I’m safe to leave. I don’t want to risk my health.
“It’s okay.” I shake my head. “Thanks for the painkillers.”
I place the empty glass on Meghan’s desk. She casually drops a magenta flower into it.
I shiver. It makes no sense to bring me back to town, only to make me hang out in a waiting room—unless Sheriff Flynn, or any of the others, wanted me out of the spa.
Meghan smiles a crooked smile, and I think of the few times Mom brought me here. When I had bronchitis, Meghan brewed me tea with honey to help soothe my throat. When I was seven and sprained my ankle running with Kyra, she told me bad jokes to distract me from the pain.
But now she’s silent as I wait. And wait.
Meghan is still stacking and restacking folders, what feels like an hour later. It’s an endless process, and I don’t see how she’s changing anything. She’s just keeping busy and humming quietly to herself.
Finally, I give up and walk toward the door.
“Maybe you should spend some time at the hot springs,” she suggests without looking up. “They are said to cure all ills.” Then she resumes her humming, though louder.
Behind Meghan hangs a sketch that shows her alongside her two sons, both of whom left Lost years ago.
I laugh, and it’s painful in my lungs, but I can’t stop. At least not until I’m outside and sobs overtake my laughter. Her humming echoes in my ears. It’s the song I first heard at the airport. The song that now floats in the air all around me.
Come to steal your soul away.
Fear about Town
EXT. LOST CREEK—MAIN STREET—END OF DAY
Corey walks through Lost at a brisk pace, while everyone stares silently at her. The whole town falls still.
Corey (frustrated with the lack of help, in pain, to no one in particular):
Is this how you treat each other? Kyra was no oracle. She was sick, and she needed help. Does no one understand that?
Someone, out of sight, begins to hum. It’s the same song Corey hears everywhere, and it has an ominous tone. It’s loud, as if the sound comes from the stones and the trees around her, not just from the people of Lost.
Tobias barrels into Corey on the street. She stumbles. He doesn’t turn or apologize. He keeps walking.
Along Main, Corey sees Mr. Henderson and Sheriff Flynn at the edge of town. They’re deep in conversation. She can see their mouths move, but she can’t hear them.
Piper
Corey?
Corey turns to find Piper staring at her from across the street. Mud from Mrs. Robinson’s garden covers her clothes and her hair. She glances up and down the street, then walks over at a brisk pace.
Piper (reaching out to touch Corey’s arm):
I saw you stumble. Are you okay?
Corey
No.
She turns away from Piper, but Piper pulls her back. She is gentle, but insistent.
Piper
We’re all afraid in our own way.
In the distance, Roshan, who had started to make his way toward Corey, observes the conversation with a frown. With Piper around, he pushes his hands deep into his pockets and stalks away.
It begins to snow.
Empty Rooms, Lost Words
I would run back to the hot springs if I could breathe properly. Instead, I walk as fast as I can.
The falling snow is creating a thick, new carpet. When I enter the spa, I stomp my boots before closing the door behind me. I stare. The grand entrance is empty. The hall that resembled a shrine when I left a few hours ago is now nothing more than a hall. There are no paintings, no sketches, no candles, no salmonberry blossoms. The chairs and table still stand around the hearth, but that’s all that remains.
A thin layer of dust coats the hard surfaces, which makes it look like no one has been here for months.
What happened while I was gone? Am I hallucinating this? Is it a side effect of smoke inhalation?
I draw lines on the table, and my fingers come back dusty. It’s as if Kyra had never been here.
Far behind me, faint giggles echo through the building.
If someone was here, are they still here now?
If I’m going to survive two more nights in this place, I need to know I’m the only one in the spa. Even if that means checking every single room. So I start at the large reception area at the side of the entrance. This way no one can sneak up on me from rooms I haven’t cleared, and I can bolt if there is danger. No one will be between me and the exit. Though where I would go if I had to escape, I don’t know.
In the dining room, fresh salmonberry flowers are spread out over every windowsill. Dust reveals half-disappeared footprints on the floor. I seem to be alone, but what am I supposed to make of this?
I work my way through the old building. Most of the rooms remain untouched, exactly as I remember them from all my visits with Kyra.