“Who is . . . ?”
“He’s this cartoon pink panther who was in the opening credits of these old movies about an incompetent detective.” He shook his head. “This whole time she’s been here, she’s been mocking me for not seeing it.”
“I’m really sorry.”
According to Chambers her identity was entirely faked. She only started to exist a few years ago. But with the combination of the photo Lucas had flagged—and ones that the others had, with the same man also in the distance, or reflected in mirrors or hidden in plain sight—they’d found the name of the man in the photo and identified him as Louis Immerso. He’d published a few papers in obscure journals years ago, about his success erasing his young daughter Lola’s memories of abuse by an uncle, but then he’d gone off the grid.
Chambers was now in touch with Orlean’s daughter-in-law, hoping for evidence that would connect Immerso with Orlean, confident Immerso fell under the category of obsessed fan.
Hoping, still, to find him.
Hoping he’d lead them to whatever organization had orchestrated it all.
Hoping, of course, to shut it down.
Kristen’s diary had been similarly unhelpful. A chilling tale but not the best record of what had happened.
Ryan shook his head. “I feel like such an idiot for being so duped.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much,” Lucas said. “How could you even imagine that someone would do that?”
“Still.” Ryan picked up his Coke—in a large red frosted plastic cup—and drained about half of it in one long pull off the straw.
“Onward and upward!” Lucas ate a french fry. He was going to have to learn to cook ASAP.
“Yes, indeed.” Ryan attacked his sandwich, then, while chewing, said, “College for me. Senior year for you.”
“Will I be able to stand it?”
Avery would be there, one year behind him. That would help.
“It’s just one year,” Ryan said. “It’s better than, you know, getting a job.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know, man. But you can meet girls and make friends and get drunk and do something dumb like be in a marching band and go to football games and pep rallies and prom and live it up a little, right?”
“What do I do? Just walk into the office and ask to register?”
“I’m pretty sure they’ll know who you are.” Ryan looked at his phone. “Break’s up. I’ve got to go.” He took one last huge bite of his sandwich and stood. “So we’re good, then. This weekend?”
It felt right to scatter Will’s ashes at Opus 6; even if Immerso hadn’t been caught, the mystery had been solved.
“We’re good,” Lucas said.
Men with know-how were coming to move the stone in the morning.
AVERY
Spring breaks across the country ended, and town emptied out. Her flip-flops arrived in a beat-up box, and things got back to normal. Emma got the lead and grew instantly obsessed with the school play; the media stopped being obsessed with the returned kids and were now focused, instead, on Louis Immerso, who was alternately a monster and a genius. Photos had been released of him and his daughter, Lola, but so far . . . nothing.
Avery’s mother had had a breakdown after the funeral and was now in an outpatient grief management program. Her father had taken the week off to drive her mom there and back daily in order to guarantee she was actually going, and her mother had actually asked her about the school play auditions, while straightening papers on the fridge.
“Oh,” Avery said. “I missed the auditions.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” her mom said. “I always enjoy the plays.”
This, Avery decided to take as progress.
Casseroles had, in fact, started arriving—even Sam had brought one. “Sorry,” he’d said, “my mom insisted.”
“What is it with moms and casseroles?” she’d asked.
“I have no idea,” he’d said, holding it over the trash with eyebrows raised in question.
“Is it plastic? The dish?” she asked.
“No.” He laughed. “Do you really care? I doubt she’s going to come ask for it back.”
She’d stepped on the lid pedal and opened it. He’d slid it in.
She was pretty sure he’d gone on a date with Emma and was pretty sure she didn’t care.
Lucas had asked her to come today for the scattering of Will’s ashes. So she put on a dark-gray dress and nice sandals and walked down by the bay, then past the fish market and psychic—again—and arrived at Opus 6.
Something was different.
It felt . . . complete.
Now, at the very apex, at the dead center, stood a tall stone with a long, flat face. It was vaguely head-shaped, in that Easter Island kind of way, and she wondered whether she’d ever go there, or anywhere—Stonehenge?—and whether she’d ever see anything as bizarre and spectacular made from rocks as Opus 6.