I nodded vigorously so she knew I could be trusted. “Okay.”
The door slammed shut, but I could hear their giggles and Mr. Al’s low voice. And then all the sounds dropped away and I was left in the silence. I opened the book to one soft dog-eared page.
Everlane felt the heat and weight of Dex’s body pressing down on her, pressing her into wet sand. She felt the crush of his chest and pelvic bones and muscled thighs against her body, the rash of his rough beard against her face, and her mouth opened involuntarily. He took the opportunity to cover her mouth with his, and she wondered if she would be able to breathe or if she would be smothered. When his tongue entered her mouth, every cell of her body melted liquid, and she realized she didn’t care. “Let him crush me,” she thought. “Let him obliterate all I am so I will become one with him . . .
“Hey, little one,” Omega said and I looked up, startled. “You’re still here?”
It felt like it had been ages since they left, but it couldn’t have been longer than half an hour. Omega was standing in the open doorway, backlit by a halo of sunlight. She sauntered in, followed by Tré and Shellie. They brought with them a current of sweet-smelling smoke, and all three dropped cross-legged on the pillows scattered on the floor. They smiled and played with their hair and shirtsleeves—half-lidded, slo-mo princesses. I looked around expectantly, not really understanding but knowing something significant had changed about everyone but me.
“Ah, reading about Dex and Everlane?” Omega said.
“Did you get to the part where he does oral on her?” Tré asked. Omega swatted her. Mr. Al stuck his head in the door, took a gander around the dim room.
“All right, ladies,” he said, and then zeroed in on me. His face went slack for a second or two, then he blinked and broke into a sunny smile. “Well, my goodness. Hey there, Daphne Doodle Dandy,” he said. His voice was a warm, deep, twisting river, and it wound its way to me.
“Hey there,” I said.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said.
The Super Tramps all burst into laughter, which made no sense, since he hadn’t said anything funny.
“Hush up, ladies. I’m talking to Daphne here. Look here, Miss Doodle Dandy. I’m going to go up to the house and get to work on Bitsy’s doghouse. Maybe you could help me with the painting a little later on. How would you like that?”
I nodded wordlessly.
“All right, then. Good.” He flicked a glance down at the book in my hands. “And look here. If you want to go to the library sometime, I’ll take you.”
I set the book aside, a flush of shame creeping along my neck. I wanted him to approve of me. I wouldn’t read any more about Everlane and Dex. I wouldn’t read anything but books Mr. Al helped me pick out at the library.
He grinned at me and I grinned back. It was hard to explain, but, like Everlane, I felt the weight of him. Not his body, and not in any kind of a sexual way. It was instead the gentle, steady sound of his voice, his kindness, and the reassurance that he really and truly cared about me.
All of those things had weight to them. They could really mean something, something big and important, I thought, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if Mr. Al was my real father.
Chapter Fifteen
I pushed myself up the mountain, not pausing for rest or even a swig of water. On the level stretches of the path, I jogged, scrambling and leaping, mountain-goat-style, over the boulder outcroppings when it steepened.
A mountain hike wasn’t quite the same as a balls-out sprint around the track, but it would do in a pinch. And truthfully, my lungs felt like they were about to burst. Also, at some point, that elusive inner switch had flipped, kicking over the endlessly spinning hamster wheel and allowing my mind to settle into a quieter frequency. By the time I broke out onto the curved limestone cap that looked out over the mountain range below, my heart was thundering, my body bathed in sweat. But I felt better.
Glenys wasn’t there. After I got over my disappointment, I reasoned that she was probably having a session back at the house or had other assignments to complete for the doctor. When I’d headed out, I hadn’t thought of the schedule, only my claustrophobia and need to move—to get away from that creeping, oppressive house. I couldn’t get my mind around how the other patients—clients—were okay to hang out in their rooms, submitting to the watchful eyes of the doctor’s cameras. I wished I’d run into one of them, even snooty Donna McAdam. I’d welcome seeing another human face about now.
I planted my hands on my knees, waiting for my breath to slow. At the edge of the brow, wind gusted, and to my left, a bank of dark clouds heaped up and roiled, dumping rain on the distant mountains. The clouds were moving this way; even now I could feel the spit of raindrops. I would have to run if I wanted to make it back without getting soaked.
My sweat chilled by the wind, I started back down the path. By the time I was descending the final slope toward the house, I was shivering. And dreaming about a cup of scalding hot chocolate, with a splash of Baileys, preferably. Maybe I could pop in on Luca in the kitchen and make a special request. I was so caught up in my plan, I didn’t see the bird until I’d almost stepped on it.
It was a cuckoo—a female, I thought, a long, slim brown body with a white underside and a bright-yellow beak. Mr. Al had once pointed one out to me, sitting on the hitching post of the ranch office. He whispered that sometimes they laid their eggs in other nests. “Like us girls,” I had replied. “We live in other nests too.”
This bird lay in the grass, unmoving. I nudged it gently with my foot, but the body was limp. I squatted down and rolled the tiny body over gingerly. There were no puncture marks, no gashes from a cat’s claw or teeth, none that I could see, but I was no veterinarian. I wondered if something had happened to it down in the bird garden and it had flown up to the lawn to die.
I scooped it up and carried it to the patio, to the long, rickety potting bench against the house. I sifted around the plastic pots and nearly empty bags of soil until I found a trowel. Then I scanned the yard, looking for a good grave site. My gaze settled on the barn. It seemed an appropriate resting place, sheltered from the wind and rain.
On the far side of the barn, hidden from the view of the house, I laid the cuckoo down and went to work. In no time, I had a perfect little rectangle about six or seven inches deep. I hoped it was deep enough. I couldn’t stand the thought of a cat—or whoever the killer was—sniffing out the body and digging it up for more macabre fun.
I ripped a couple of strips of moss off the dirt, fashioning a makeshift burial shroud around the bird, then laid the pitiful package in the hole. With its head twisted to one side, it looked like it was sleeping. That was what people said about the dead, wasn’t it? That they looked so peaceful. It was what they had said about Chantal, when they filed past her casket.
“I’m sorry, little one,” I said, and immediately a grunting sob rose and tears sprang to my eyes. I clapped a hand over my mouth. Then both hands, even though they were crusted in dirt and dead-bird germs. What was my problem? It was just a bird, just one of a million birds who died every day. I was being dramatic.
I tamped down some loose dirt and tried to scatter some bits of grass and straw over it. Blotting the tears with my sleeve, I walked back to the house.
I paused in the middle of the yard and took a minute to suck in a lungful of cool, rain-tinged air. To brush my hands against my running tights, then gently press the swollen skin around my eyes. This place—it was making me crazy, playing on my frayed nerves, messing with my head. I didn’t know how much longer I could take being trapped on the mountain. I considered asking Luca if he had any whiskey.