I didn’t need her to tell me that. I was no stranger to booze. Plus, I’d recognized the bottle in his hand. It had been my father’s favorite whisky—a rare Orkney scotch. I’d ordered a bottle just like it and had it sent to James on the day of his second wedding. My mother screamed bloody murder when her assistant flagged the eight-thousand-dollar charge on her credit card. But I didn’t give a damn. I’d wanted James to know that, even though I couldn’t be at his wedding, he was still on my mind. I knew he’d agree—it was the thought that counted.
“Where was he just now?” I asked.
“Dahlia’s mausoleum,” Miriam said. “He doesn’t sleep much. He goes there at night to be with her.”
“So he really loved her,” I said.
“Yes,” Miriam told me. “I think he really did.”
I went back to the rose room and closed the door, but I didn’t lock it. I curled up under the covers with my knees tucked to my chest and my arms wrapped around my shins.
The next time I woke up, the sun was rising. I hadn’t closed the curtains, and the wind had blown one of the balcony doors open. The room wasn’t frigid yet, though it was well on its way. I crawled out of bed to close the door. Just as the latch clicked into place, I caught a glimpse of a figure moving toward the edge of the woods, and I pressed my forehead to the glass. She was dressed in white, which made it difficult to see her against the snow. But it was the same girl. There was no doubt about it. I threw on my boots and coat and went after her.
I wasn’t hallucinating, but I wasn’t thinking straight, either. I was so fed up with mysteries that I was willing to risk everything for a clue. By the time I reached the tree line, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Still, I plunged into the forest, deeper and deeper until I couldn’t tell where I was. I wandered until sheer exhaustion finally brought me to a halt. I stopped under a tree to catch my breath, and I felt the cold overtake me. My limbs were numb, and my mind began to drift, but I was too tired to move. I slumped down against the tree trunk, my knees tucked against my chest. Time passed, and then something seemed to ignite inside me, and warmth spread throughout my body. My mind left the forest, and I found myself back in my bedroom in Manhattan, getting ready for Daniel’s party. Everything seemed right in the world. For the first time since the incident, I felt at peace. I could have stayed in the moment forever.
The next thing I knew, I was staring up at a moldy ceiling. I felt no fear at first, just a crushing sadness. I knew, the moment I opened my eyes, that I hadn’t died and gone to heaven, though I wasn’t so sure about hell. I was hot—too hot, and I was lying on a ratty old sofa. A fire was crackling somewhere nearby, and the room reeked of animal hair and old grease.
I tried to sit up, and discovered I could barely move. I was wrapped in blankets, my arms pinned to my sides. The panic set in, and I flailed like a fish in a net, arching my back and kicking my legs to break free.
“Don’t struggle. You’ll hurt yourself,” a man ordered, and I froze. I didn’t recognize the voice. It was deep and emotionless—classic serial killer. For a few unpleasant seconds, I imagined the worst. I waited to hear the rev of a chain saw or the whetting of a knife.
Then I felt him lift my shoulders from behind and push me up into a sitting position, and I almost wet myself in terror when I got a good look at the house. There was no way any normal person could possibly live like that. The wood-paneled walls were lined with teetering towers of books, and at least one of the stacks had fallen, scattering books across the floor. At the far end of the room, on a table made from two sawhorses and an old door, the head of a dead buck sat facing me, two dark holes where its eyes should have been. Dirty dishes were stacked up beside the head, and several cases’ worth of beer cans had been tossed into the nearest corner. Aside from the worktable, everything in the room was covered with a layer of soot, and the floorboards were black with grime.
“They’re clearing the drive to the house right now so the ambulance can get through,” the man said.
I latched on to the word “ambulance” like it was a life preserver. I was so relieved that he wasn’t going to kill me that it took a few moments to realize that I might be hurt.
“Why do I need an ambulance?” I managed to croak as he walked around the sofa.
“You don’t, as far as I can tell, but I figured I’d let the EMTs make that call.” He sat down across from me in one of those leather recliners you see on old TV shows. I suppose at some point in the past he’d been handsome. But it looked like it had been a while since he’d showered or shaved. The bags under his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping much, and the state of his work pants told me that laundry wasn’t exactly a priority, either. But he didn’t look homicidal. He didn’t even seem dangerous. If I’d had to pick one word to describe the man, I probably would have said he looked haunted.
“Are you Ruben Bellinger?” I guessed.
“I am indeed, and you must be Miss Howland,” he replied politely. Then Lark’s father glanced over his shoulder. “I apologize. I should have thrown a sheet over my workbench. Taxidermy isn’t for everyone.”
The voice that had terrified me now sounded tired. And as my eyes passed over the books all around us, I picked up a few of the titles. There were a few taxidermy manuals mixed in, but there didn’t seem to be a subject that wasn’t of interest to Ruben. If he’d gotten through even a third of his library, there was no doubt he was the best-read man in town. I’m sure the Unabomber’s cabin had a few interesting titles, too, but it’s hard to be frightened of someone with a Budweiser, a bag of Cheetos, and a copy of The Life of the Buddha on their coffee table.
There was something else there. A black hair tie. Nothing fancy—just a rubber band that you’d use to put your hair into a ponytail. It must have been Lark’s. I had no idea how long it had been sitting there, but the sight of it made my heart ache. I could only imagine how bad things must have been if Dahlia had been willing to force Lark to live here.
“How do you know who I am?” I asked Lark’s father.
“It’s a small town,” he told me. “Everyone knows everyone.”
By then I was thoroughly sick of that answer, and Ruben Bellinger didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who dabbled in small-town gossip. I remembered Nolan saying that my uncle thought Ruben used to watch the manor at night. I wondered if it could be true—and if my host might still enjoy peeking in windows.
“How did I get here?”
“I carried you. I found you halfway between this place and the manor. I don’t know how you got as far as you did without snowshoes. Might ask your uncle to buy you a pair. And next time you take a walk in the woods, consider wearing a hat and changing out of your pajamas.”