“Lucy!”
She didn’t answer, and he didn’t see her. The fir trees dotting the hillside kept her hidden. He stopped to listen for the noise of her footsteps as she moved higher toward the tower, but he didn’t hear her. Instead, in the quiet, he heard something else. Music. Sweet, horrifying music. Somewhere close by, among the trees, he heard the gentle notes of a piano solo. He recognized the song.
It was a killing song.
“Lucy, don’t!” he called.
He ran toward the sound, hearing it get louder, but he was too late to stop the music. The piano solo gave way to Carole King’s perfect voice trilling about the night bird, about the sailor seeking rest, about the nightingale singing out the theme to a stranger’s lonely life. His eyes tried to find Lucy among the trees, and all the while, he expected to hear her scream, like the others. Scream. Run. Die.
A pinpoint glow shined thirty feet away. It was the white light of a phone screen. His phone.
He skidded across the slope from tree to tree and found her with her back against one of the evergreens. In the glow of the phone, her brown eyes were scared. Her hair was messy. He closed the distance between them in a second and gathered her up in his arms, and she buried herself against him. He could feel the pounding up-and-down swell of her chest. He tried to pull the phone from her hand, but she struggled, and the song kept playing, tinny and loud. It was deep into the second verse before he realized something.
Nothing was happening to her.
Carole King sang, and the piano played, and Lucy’s mind didn’t break into little pieces. Not like Monica Farr. Or Brynn Lansing. Or Christie Parke.
Lucy realized it, too, and her eyes opened wide with relief.
“It didn’t work,” she murmured. “Right? It didn’t work!”
“I guess not,” he whispered, but he wasn’t so sure. He almost wished she’d lost control right here, where he could hold her and keep her safe. Then, at least, he’d know what the Night Bird had done to her.
The song drifted to an end and left them in silence. They didn’t move. He could feel her holding on to him, and in the darkness of the hillside, she was soft and warm. Her body relaxed, as if a storm had passed. She had a faint smell of perfume in his arms. Finally, she let go and stared at him, just inches away. Her face was filled with yearning and confusion.
“Do you think I’m really okay?” she asked.
“I hope so. Let’s get you to the hospital and make sure.”
“Frost, don’t let anything happen to me,” Lucy said, taking his hand.
“I won’t,” he told her. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
37
Pam dressed to make sure everyone was looking at her. She wore a knee-length bodycon dress in a bold orange color, with black buttons making an S from her neck to her hips. Her blond hair framed her face and hung in layers halfway down her back. Her lipstick was baby pink. She wore a tiny crooked smile, as if the world were a joke and she knew the punch line.
For Frankie, staring at Pam was like looking at a mirror that transformed her into a younger, more erotic version of herself. She felt jealous of Pam, and Pam felt jealous of her. The war never ended.
She sat down opposite Pam at the Zingari window table. Virgil, whose dark eyes looked hungover, swooped in with iced tea, and Pam already had a martini in front of her. Her sister pointedly studied her phone without looking up. Frankie ordered a prosciutto pizza for lunch.
“So all this time, you knew,” Frankie said after the silence had gone on too long.
Her sister didn’t stop texting. “That Daddy took a dive? Yes.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
Pam put down the phone and laced her long fingers together. Her fingernails matched her dress. “What part do you mean, Sis? The part where our father kills himself? Or the part where my delicate flower of a sister can’t handle it and decides to forget the whole thing?”
Frankie thought, Missile launched. She wanted to fire back in kind, but she didn’t even remember enough to explain herself. She didn’t know why she’d felt the need to wipe away what she saw. She’d always thought of herself as strong, but maybe Pam was right. Maybe Frankie was afraid of feeling anything. Love. Hate. Desire. Grief.
God knows Pam would never let emotion get in the way of doing what she wanted.
“You’ve been playing with me, haven’t you?” Frankie asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The things you’ve said about Dad lately. It was a game to you. You wanted to see if I remembered anything.”
Pam sipped her martini and shrugged. “I’ve always wondered if your shrink biz is just a big scam. Can you really change someone’s memory? Or if you poke and prod, does it all come rushing back?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
Virgil returned to the table. He put a caprese salad in front of Pam and glanced between the sisters. “If you’re going to have a girl fight, ladies, at least give me time to sell tickets.”
“No fight,” Pam said with a cool stare at Frankie. “She knows I’d win.”
“I’m sure you would,” Frankie replied.
Pam examined the bags under Virgil’s eyes and the limp swoop in his lavish hair. “Bad night, V? You look all hangdog.”
“When I look like this, it was a good night,” Virgil replied.
Pam smirked. Frankie waited until they had the table to themselves again. She didn’t know why she wanted to torture herself with the details when it was too late to change anything.
“When did Jason tell you?” Frankie asked. “Before or after?”
“Before. He thought I should know what you were going to do. Not that I had a say in it. You do what’s best for Frankie. You always have.”
Frankie’s lips pressed tighter together, and she didn’t reply. Pam leaned across the table and whispered, “Why, does it piss you off that Jason told me? At least someone in the family cares enough to include me.”
“That’s a cheap shot,” Frankie replied.
“Really? You’ve been MIA for the past year. You’re off in Frankie world, and some of us are back here in the real world.”
“That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve never lived a day in the real world.”
“At least I don’t run away from it,” Pam snapped.
Frankie’s brow furrowed as she felt the emptiness in her brain again, the place where something was missing that she couldn’t get back. Now that it was gone, she wanted to remember.
Virgil set Frankie’s pizza in front of her. He’d overheard most of their conversation. “Tickets, ladies. Remember, tickets.”
“Not now, Virgil, please,” Frankie murmured.
“You’re right, a thousand apologies to both of you. Write it off to last night’s party.” Virgil leaned down and whispered in Frankie’s ear. “Truly, darling, I’m sorry to intrude. You know I can’t stop myself. With everything going on, though, I thought you should know. Somebody outside the restaurant is watching you.”
Frankie’s eyes shot to the window.
Todd Ferris stood on Post Street. His eyes had the same intense, faraway sadness they always did. As if, in his young life, he’d already given up on the future. She could see him mouthing three words.
It happened again.
She persuaded Todd to go with her to her Union Square office by promising no notes and no recordings. He refused to go into her treatment room, and she struggled even to get him to sit down. He paced repeatedly on his long legs, twisting his navy wool cap between his fingers.
“The last thing I remember is Monday night,” he murmured in his low voice, making her struggle to hear him. “I had a tech job over at the planetarium. I help them with their videography sometimes. The job went late. But that’s it. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the street. In Dogpatch again. The other side of the city.”
“Where in Dogpatch?” Frankie asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. One of the abandoned buildings around there. I hiked a couple blocks and caught a bus.”
“Has it been the same place every time?” she asked.
“No. The same area, but not the same place.”