“Only for today,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
I reread it, making sure that’s all it holds me to. After a long moment, I ask Casey for a pen. I hesitate before signing my name on the dotted line.
Gloria Denham.
“Thank you.” Casey tucks the paper away. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
She pulls out of the lot and into traffic. I swallow hard and look at my hands.
“You don’t drive, do you?” she asks me.
“Sometimes I do.” Patty forced me to learn. I don’t care if you ever get behind the wheel after this, you should know how if you need to. “Just try not to make a habit of it.”
“That’s fascinating. Because of the accident, I presume?”
I don’t answer her.
“You were a passenger, though,” she says.
I still don’t answer her.
As often as I can stand it, I glance out the window. Chapman is one of the smaller cities in the valley. Has that pretentiously artisanal vibe, the kind of place made for professional Instagrammers, but if you drive long enough that part of it slowly fades away, stretching into wilderness. That’s where you’ll find The Unity Project’s Chapman House, far removed from the world’s main feed.
There are fewer and fewer cars the farther we drive. A sparsity of houses dot either side of the highway, eventually giving way to no houses, to forest, to rougher road. It begins to snow. After some time, Casey turns onto a road I can only assume leads to our destination, judging by the small smile that lights her face. And then:
“Chapman House.”
It’s not a house. It’s a lodge. Two stories and wide enough to stretch beyond the view of the windshield. It’s beautiful and its beauty is something I hate about it because it’s impossible to ignore. The trim and roof are a deep, forest green. Its angles, modern and pleasing.
The large, timber frame entrance is illuminated by the inviting glow of a light overhead. Narrow windows on either side of the door hint at what’s beyond, though from here, it’s too far to see. Casey parks alongside a handful of snow-covered cars.
“How many live here?” I ask.
“Here in Chapman, or here in Chapman House?”
“Both, I guess.”
“We’re at a little over three hundred members in Chapman. They’re spread out across Project residencies in and just outside of the city. We have fifty members living here—staff. We develop and oversee Project initiatives, tend to members’ needs individually and as a whole. Depending on what’s happening within The Unity Project, we can have upwards of a hundred members in and out at one time. The house also serves a similar function as the farm; we host gatherings, meetings and sermons here, particularly when the weather’s nice. Past the house there’s a lake. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Who paid for this?”
“My father donated this property. He used to hold company retreats here,” Casey answers. “He’s a huge proponent of our work. It cost The Unity Project nothing.”
“He’s a member?”
Jerry Byers is the CEO of NuCola—the best-tasting zero-calorie soda on the market—and he’s swimming in cash. Whenever Casey’s in the news for Project work, they don’t leave the fact of her parentage too far behind. But I’ve never heard Jerry Byers identified as a member, or even a fan, and I’d remember something like that.
“No. Not officially.” Casey pulls the keys out of the ignition. “Come on.”
She exits the car.
I stare at the house, knowing Bea won’t be there, and letting myself imagine her there anyway, imagine her keeping herself from me somewhere inside.
My cell phone rings. I take it out of my bag.
I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” The slow, familiar sound of breathing reaches my ear at the same time Casey turns to me expectantly. My blood goes cold. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
Nothing. Casey’s expression turns impatient and I disconnect, try to shake it off. I get out of the car and make my way to the front door. She pushes it open and gestures me in ahead of her. After I step over the threshold, she takes the lead again and we enter a wide-open living space.
“This is the Great Room,” she says, her voice echoing slightly.
It’s huge. The opposite side of it is a wall of windows, a door tucked neatly at the heart of them, and the view beyond is breathtaking, like a Bob Ross painting. Snow swirls through and around the magnificent pine trees and the lawn extends toward them, an expanse of pure white. All the furniture in the room points toward the scene and all the furniture looks expensive. No doubt it came with the place. The ceiling is tall, beautiful wooden beams and hanging lights. I turn around and stare at the second-floor balcony above us, facing the windows. On either side of the room are heavy wooden doors shut tight, leading to parts unknown.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“It’s the middle of a workday, Lo.”
I know, I want to snap. I took one of my sick days to be here.
It’s hot, reminding me of the suffocating tent on the Garrett Farm. I pull at my collar, feeling Casey’s eyes on me as I absorb my surroundings. I move slowly around the room, tracing my fingers along the edge of a sofa, a mahogany chair. I come to stop at the windows. The snow falls harder now.
“You can’t see it at the moment,” Casey says, joining me, “but there’s a path between those trees leading to the lake. In the summer, the sky out there looks like it goes on forever. I love it out here. It’s so peaceful. Quiet enough to gather your thoughts and be truly alone with yourself. To be truly alone with God. Like a place at the end of the world.”
“Looks it,” I say. “Where’s Lev?”
She stares out at the trees before moving to a small table in the corner, where a pitcher of infused water sits next to some glasses. She pours one for me. For a moment, it seems she’s awaiting my thanks but I never give it to her and it’s times like these I wonder what my mother would have made of me. If she would have been disappointed in how bitter and obstinate I’ve become. I’m less afraid than I used to be but I’m not sure it was worth the cost. I take a drink of the water. It tastes citrusy, clean.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Casey says, “and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She leaves, disappearing behind the door at the far left side of the room. She closes it gently, then there’s a telltale click. I wait a minute and then I trace her path out until I reach the door. I test it and find it locked. The same holds true for the door at the right side of the room. I face the windows and I have that same thought I had at the sermon—that if I died out here no one would know.
* * *
I wait a long time. I expect to. Lev Warren has made a compromise for me and the cost of it will be whatever The Unity Project believes they can make me pay. I sit in one of the chairs and what remains of the light surrenders itself to the later afternoon. Every so often, I hear the sound of movement upstairs but its source never reveals itself to me. I take my phone out. NO SIGNAL. Really? I get to my feet and move slowly around the room, my arm held up, watching the bars. I’ve just about done a full circle when a couple finally appear. Good to know if this whole thing goes horror movie, all I’ve got to do is make sure I’m standing exactly in this spot to call 911.