Rebecca Frost

Aloysuis Manoah Truman was eight years older than his younger brother, Absalom Moses Truman. The older brother went by Al; Truman’s used his last name since he was old enough to talk. And I’m pretty sure Truman idolized Al. Basically everyone idolized Al, until suddenly they couldn’t.

The articles I Google wallow in the details because of the stark contrast: Eagle Scout, church volunteer, worked at a non-profit … and then one day, for apparently no reason, killed his wife and her twin sons.

It doesn’t make for an easy read. Even his Wikipedia page sinks to yellow journalism. The bare facts alone are bad enough. The two boys were bled dry, cleaned and swaddled and placed together in the same bed. Crystal had far more wounds because she fought back, and she was left in a heap on the kitchen floor with a red-checkered tablecloth thrown indifferently over her body.

There’s a tablecloth like that here. Emily’s borrowed it for lunch.

The story Al told the police, without a lawyer present, was that one of the twins was the antichrist, because their father was the devil, and Crystal was the devil’s whore. No, he didn’t know that when he married her, but such things always came out. There were ways of telling.

Al told them he knew that they thought what he did was wrong, even though he knew it was right. He was ready to accept the punishment man’s law set forth for him.

I scroll a little further, wanting at least the full overview if not the specifics, because the more I know, the less I have to ask Truman. He told me his full name, and how he’s never used it, and his brother’s name, and that’s enough. That’s plenty. I’m at the library Googling it and not exactly working up an appetite for lunch.

The speculation is that, if Al hadn’t killed himself, he would’ve been found not guilty by reason of insanity and then confined to an institution for the rest of his life. He very calmly laid out what he did and why, and told the police that he knew they wouldn’t understand. There are recordings, because police tape statements so they can catch you in a lie later. I ignore them.

Once I’ve read to the bottom of Al Truman’s Wikipedia article, I click the address and do a search for Annabeth Deschain instead. I don’t want the Wikipedia article this time, so I opt for the news.

There’s nothing within the past couple weeks, which is good. They tried to drag it out after it was announced she wasn’t going to trial, but there aren’t even any photos of her, so they couldn’t keep posting those and writing new things around them. She’s disappeared from the public eye, and maybe a couple reporters tried to get interest back up again by saying we have no idea if it’s her decision or if something’s happened to her, but nobody really cares if something happens to Annabeth Deschain. There wasn’t enough evidence for a trial, but the public court totally returned a verdict of guilty.

It’s not time to think about lunch yet, so I sit here wondering if there’s anything else to Google. Not even necessarily something more uplifting. I’d take anything. Something to tie me to the real world, except I’ve been drifting for a while, thanks. I don’t even have Snapchat, and it seems like everyone my age has Snapchat.

Or maybe we’re just a little too old for Snapchat. Too young for Facebook. Heaven forbid we exchange phone numbers.

I Google Absalom Moses Truman because I don’t know what name he uses for his art, and I get nothing. Well, nothing that directs me to his work, or tells me what medium I’m looking for. Oil paintings? Ceramics? I don’t even know what they sell around here.

I know he’s in that one gallery up in Calumet, on fifth street, so I search that instead and learn it’s called Gallery on Fifth. Excellent. It’s actually right near a coffee shop so I might as well start a slow trek back up the Keweenaw, hitting up the gallery and Keweenaw Coffee Works, and there’s a cat at the florist a block or so over, so I can stop in and pet her, too.

The weird part about these days off is how long they seem to stretch. Am I bored? Have I gotten in most of my relaxation already, even being on call behind that desk? Or is it because it’s a whole day without Truman?

Mondays and Tuesdays are pretty bad, too, come to think of it. And not even for the usual Monday reason, since Saturday’s really my Monday. It’s the lack of Truman.

Okay, Alyssa, be smart, I lecture myself as I sign out of the computer and get up to head to my car. You meet someone in a stressful yet isolated situation, who seems to be going through his own stress, and you form connections simply because it’s the only connection there for you to form.

Except Truman’s been at Loon Lake for years, and it’s not entirely a joke about Jonathan and Lydia trying to fix him up with a coworker. For most people, one season’s all they can take … which probably at least partly explains why Truman’s never latched on to any of them. Tiny house in the U.P. year-round, huh? I can’t say I’m entirely surprised, from what I know of him. Wait, how much do I know of him?

More than I’ve known of other coworkers, honestly. You do the banter at work, maybe talk about meeting up for drinks, and never actually do. Then they’re relieved because it’s just something you say without having to follow up on it, like when they ask How are you? and you have to say something like Fine, even when you’re obviously not fine.

Truman calls me out on pretending to be fine around him. Around the residents it’s a different story, because you do the act: the customer is always right, in all matters, forever and ever amen. But when it’s just the two of us he stresses honesty, in emotion if not full-on confession of the past. Like the residents, we can choose to share as much as we please. Apparently this is the first summer Truman’s ever actually wanted to share anything.

He walked me back to my cabin the first night after orientation, and we sat on the stoop because it was pretty nice out, and I really didn’t know anything about this guy, and there weren’t any residents to walk by and see us. Conversation was easy, and I wasn’t used to how late the sun set, so it went on for a while. The next evening he suggested we grab a game, and that really set the tone for the whole summer: the two of us, hanging out and talking about almost everything. Now we’ve shared our names, and while that’s not everything, it’s pretty darn close. Our names come with recognizable backstories, and those backstories are full of trauma, and maybe we’ve Googled each other now but he still comes by and I’m not going to turn him away tonight. I’m going to kiss him tonight. The thought makes me smile and blush like I’m back in middle school and it’s my first kiss, and that’s probably a good sign, because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had something to really make me smile.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Henry (1), coming August 3

Dear Diary,

I think Emily has a drinking problem.

Isn’t that something you’re supposed to see sooner than this, especially if it’s chronic? And, if she does have a drinking problem, shouldn’t she have picked a retreat that limits her access to alcohol? Here any of us can walk in at any hour of the day and take what we want. Hell, we started by requesting what we wanted, with the understanding that Jonathan will buy us more and top up the supplies as needed. It’s not like she’s driving, and I’ve never seen her out in a boat, but …

She’s upset today. She’s having a bad one, and we all know it, so it means any of the rest of us not having such a good time can’t break down and try to take some of it for ourselves. Do you think I’m being cynical, diary? Because that’s a large part of how this past year or so has made me feel: first one to cry claims the day. Maybe that’s also how Aaron feels. He’s just never the first one to cry.

Loon Lake is definitely not set up to run an intervention on a resident who could really use one. We all just met eleven days ago, so we’re not going to be able to convince each other to put the bottle down or any of the other things people need interventions for. Seriously, has she been drunk all this time?

Aaron would call me naïve, I think, for being this shocked. He’d say I have a sheltered view of alcoholics. They’re all old people, probably homeless, and definitely in need of a shower and a laundromat. They think they’re hiding a bottle when everyone can see it and ignores it. And they’re also probably white male writers, while I’m at it. My only exposure to alcoholism has been the college classroom, and how’s that for naïve?

The age gap isn’t always a big deal, but when it is, it’s the Grand Canyon. He used to joke that nothing bad had ever happened to me, so I didn’t have to grow up, but … well. The entire world knows how that ended.

I’m not sure that Aaron really had anything bad happen in his life until Eileen died. They met young (when they were both young) and married young and she worked to support his MBA so then of course it was fine for her to quit when he made enough to support all of them (they had kids young, too) because she’d been there from the beginning. She did the whole “believing in him when no one else would” thing, so it was fine. Eileen never got accused of gold-digging.

They didn’t have a nanny when their three were young, either. By the time they could’ve afforded one, the last kid was already in school, and Eileen quit so she was there for them over the summers.

I’ve often wondered how much those kids saw their dad when they were little. They had to juggle them between Aaron and Eileen when one was working or studying or whatnot, but there were babysitters and church summer camps. Aaron said it gave them time, but not always time to be together. So that’s one thing he wanted to change: making sure we had time to be together, as grownups, so we could refresh and refuel.

Does that sound cruel? Like he didn’t want to be in Dani Jay’s life any more than he’d been in the other three? They’re all adults now (Ken’s older than I am) and they seem to have an okay relationship with him, but he’s always put down any gaps to Eileen’s death. The cancer. The guys are married, starting their own families and all, but his youngest …

I’ve wandered far off the point because I don’t really want to stay on the point. I tried mentioning it to Jane, but she’s done with Emily. Snubbed for the last time, I guess. And I can’t just say something to Henry, because I’m pretty sure something weird happened with Henry. The sort of thing that means she drank, what, even more than usual?

You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. It’s cruel to force yourself on people who don’t want any part of you. That’s the gospel according to Aaron, but hey, I’ve already wondered if maybe he didn’t offer himself enough at first, so his kids weren’t used to having a dad-shaped space in their lives, anyway.

Maybe I’ll tell Jonathan. About my concerns, not about the rest of this. Heaven knows I can’t even keep my own life together so, what, now I’m trying to keep Emily’s together? God help me, I need a drink.

---

Cold Comfort: Thursday, July 11, 2024 – Alyssa

Henry hadn’t had a chance to put his necklace back on at any point yesterday, but at least it was in his cabin, and that’s where he and Emily went. He got it off the charger before she saw it while the two of them were still discussing Stephen King. Man, he’d faked his way through that conversation like a gold medalist. He’d hit the button to start recording, and she hadn’t asked what he was doing.

The problem, of course, was that they’d moved far past Pet Sematary and exhausted Emily’s recitation of dead kids. He couldn’t exactly ask her to repeat the gems, so all he got was useless. After she’d left—after she’d found the vodka, laughed at him for not drinking any of the orange juice, had a strong drink, started making out with him, and suddenly turned embarrassed and excused herself—he listened to it, anyway, but there was nothing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had an interview subject’s tongue in his mouth, but it was the first time when she didn’t know she was an interview subject. And … well. It wasn’t good. He had to wonder if maybe she should be in AA, and how much she’d been drinking before she made it to his cabin, and if she’d remember any of that when she woke up this morning.

Her voice wasn’t slurred. That was part of what had him going. She seemed in control, and witty, and basically the same sort of Emily he’d seen every other time, whether or not she admitted there was alcohol in her cup. But maybe that was a mask, and it cracked, and she fled.

Henry didn’t exactly feel good about things just now. He’d made her crack, at least a little, but he didn’t have enough yet. He had to keep going. Keep pushing. Even what she’d said, the things he hadn’t gotten recorded, weren’t enough, so there was at least that small consolation. He didn’t have to try to recreate something that was perfect, and maybe he knew a few more buttons to push, and he’d be better prepared to stop her from fleeing.

Nobody knew why he was here. He hadn’t told a soul what he was after. He didn’t want anyone to get in ahead of him and get the scoop, but that also meant he hadn’t actually run the idea by anyone, either to see if it sounded like a good idea or for another point of view as far as ethics. Henry didn’t want to think about ethics.

Look, once you decided to drown a toddler, the ethics skewed. Just because the court couldn’t get enough evidence to put you on trial didn’t change your actual guilt. There was a dead child, not one of Stephen King’s fictional children but one with flesh and blood, and once you decided to murder, you didn’t deserve the same care and consideration of someone who’d never killed a child.

None of his other interview subjects had committed murder. And none of the ones who’d kissed him had stopped until the deed was done, sometimes more than once. Usually, by the time the make-out session started, he was through with them.

He’d opted to pick up a sandwich before normal dinner time, not because he wanted to avoid Emily in case she showed, he reminded himself, but just because he wanted a nice, calm evening without worrying about timing or leaving his cabin. Now it was morning. It wasn’t raining. And this was the latest he’d stayed in his cabin since coming to Loon Lake. Was he in too deep? Not deep enough? How much did Emily want from him before she gave anything back?

He was almost out of coffee. If he went to the lodge to knit some more, like usual, he could also pick some up. When Henry found himself eyeballing how much was left and trying to argue that he really didn’t need any more for tomorrow, he grabbed his knitting bag and stalked out of the cabin, leaning into a wind that didn’t exist and stomping his way up toward the lodge.

Alyssa wasn’t at the desk, and it threw him. She should be there, and maybe she wouldn’t comment on his general attitude, but he could try to start up a conversation or at least mention the coffee or just engage with a human being, instead of looking at one half of a walkie-talkie set like he’d never seen one before.

It was Thursday. Alyssa didn’t work Thursdays and Fridays. Truman did, but it was still morning, so he was probably out on the water with Edgar, even though Edgar knew his way around the lake already and didn’t really need a guide anymore. If he needed a lifeguard, then fine, but the weather was clear, the lake was glass, and there was a walkie-talkie instead of a human being at the desk.

Why did that bother him so much? Of course she needed a weekend. The residents didn’t get weekends, because the whole month was supposed to be a weekend.

“Henry.” Jonathan came out of the laundry room, wiping his hands on a towel. At Henry’s frown, he nodded at the webcam above the door. “You have mail. Anything else I can help you with?”

“Mail?” His brother wouldn’t email him. There was just no way—

The paper Jonathan handed him was torn from a notebook, folded over, and handwritten. It wasn’t an email that was printed out. It was, he learned as he opened it and looked at the end of the short message, from Emily.

Jonathan waited with a slight smile on his face and it took Henry a moment to realize there was a second part to what he’d said. “Coffee. For my cabin. I’m almost out.”

With a nod Jonathan gestured to the linen closet. “Right in here.”

That was how Henry found himself alone in the linen closet, next to the shelf with the coffee, reading Emily’s note. Henry: I really must apologize for how I acted yesterday. I don’t think we should see each other again in any capacity. I hope you understand. Emily

That was it. Short and sweet. It wasn’t quite the long-term girlfriend who broke up with him in a text message, but what else could he expect? There wasn’t going to be any sort of explanation for her behavior, because an explanation would involve her past and the kinds of things she came here to hide. His scoop.

If she stopped talking to him, he had nothing. But, if he kept trying to get her to talk, he’d be a predator. He didn’t have enough. That’s why Henry stood here in the freaking linen closet, next to the coffee, with Emily’s note in his hand: he didn’t have enough. He was close, so close, but he might as well have nothing. He might as well have saved his money and stayed home.

The door opened and a startled Truman stepped back. “Oh, sorry,” he said automatically, before frowning, because Henry stood in a freaking linen closet by himself.

“Did Alyssa tell you who called right before we got told someone’s after our real names?” It was out before Henry meant to ask it.

Truman blinked.

“She answered the phone,” Henry continued, “all professional, and she kept repeating something about how the caller had the pass phrase wrong, so if she could just have his name she’d let the resident know to tell him the correct one, but then Jonathan took the call and then we’re all being summoned because someone’s after our real names.”

Truman licked his lips.

“And I figured she told you,” he added, trying to make it offhand, but he’d seen them together even before the kiss he figured he’d interrupted. Although until now Henry just assumed they were keeping it cool and distant in front of the residents, and not that it was new and tenuous.

Truman shook his head. “I don’t think you understand how seriously we take our responsibilities here.”

“You’re just the summer help!” he protested.

“And Loon Lake is a summer retreat.” God, that was just flat and calm.

“That’s not …” Henry slashed one hand through the air. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“And maybe we hold ourselves to higher standards than you do,” he said quietly.

Well, that was a given.

Sighing, Truman reached past him to grab two clean towels. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“You didn’t help me with anything,” Henry pouted before he could stop himself.

Truman paused, cocking his head. “Have you tried helping yourself first?” Henry stuffed the note from Emily in his pocket and grabbed for a package of his coffee before shoving his way out, ignoring whatever Jonathan tried to say to him as he left the lodge and headed straight back to his cabin.

---

Cold Comfort: Thursday, July 11, 2024 – Agatha

I swear the thunder’s the only reason Truman’s not out on the water. I don’t know if Edgar would go, but if it’s just rain, Truman shrugs it off. He’ll head back to his cabin for a hot shower and a change of clothes before coming to the lodge for hot food, but he’ll go. As it is, I can’t tell if it’s the thunder making him antsy or something else.

I’m behind the desk, with one of the Agatha Christies—one of his mother’s Agatha Christies—and he could pull out the checkers here or go find a different game from the library, but he doesn’t. He could also start up a conversation, but he doesn’t. He prowls, going from a chair by the window to a spot on my desk to the laundry room to check on his clothes and into the dining room in case something suddenly appeals to him, then back again.

I don’t ask. At this point it’s mostly habit not to ask, although I’m also pretty sure he’d tell me. We’ve spent enough time together, enough that even Lydia winked at me this morning, so I’m pretty sure we know where this could go. Agatha needed a single glance to figure out where this could go.

Truman comes back around to sit on the desk again, one leg swinging. “Do you want kids?”

I blink. “Uh.”

“I know, but—okay, not just but. There’s a lot of ands, I guess, but also …” He sighs and crosses his arms, which is very much not a Truman pose. It’s defensive, and distancing, and he doesn’t block himself off like that. “Lyss, I can’t do a summer fling, but if we’re not a summer fling, then we’re long-term, and I need to figure out exactly how much I need to figure out if we’re not.” He closes his eyes. “A fling.”

I take a slow breath and chew on my lip.

“I know.” His eyes are open, but he looks away. “Zero to sixty.”

Okay, but we were up here before the first guests arrived, so it’s zero to sixty in what, two months? And it’s not so much the whole are we a summer fling or what question, but the kids thing.

I’ve crossed my arms before I realize it, and my eyes are unfocused on the outside door. “If you never have kids, you never have to outlive them.”

Truman sucks in a breath.

“So, like, if you’d asked me earlier, I would’ve said yeah, sure. Doesn’t everyone?” I tilt my head. “But even that isn’t really a yes, you know?”

He nods slowly.

“Like, if I was with someone who really wanted kids, then sure. But, if I never have any …” I shrug and slouch a little. “You don’t get all the joys, I guess, but you also miss all the risks.”

This sigh means Truman’s shoulders relax back to normal. “Okay.” If he doesn’t have kids, then he can’t snap and kill them. Not sure what that means for me, but clearly it was bothering him.

Truman looks at me, searching my face for something, then nods because he’s decided I don’t need us to keep on this subject. “Anyone give you any clues today about what yesterday was all about?”

“Henry showed up earlier than usual.” I shrug. “He got into a long, involved conversation with Emily.”

“About?” he prods.

I wince. “Dead kids in Stephen King.”

“Ah.” Tru winces. “How’d that end?”

“They left together.” But the angle isn’t right for me to know how far they went together, or if they parted ways when they reached the main path.

He hesitates, but apparently it’s too clever to remain unsaid: “Dead kids is an aphrodisiac to some people?”

I shudder. “Ew. I think they both get off on the verbal sparring thing.”

“Yeah, see, I don’t really understand that part, either. Fighting all the time. Two people who always have to be right, but they can’t both be.” This is more of a grimace than a wince.

I mean, I don’t get it, either, but Truman probably knows that already. When we hang out, sure, we talk, but nothing like I’ve heard from Henry and Emily. And we also frequently sit in silence, playing a board game or not. I don’t know if we can really call those dates. Is it a date when you’re just chilling? There’s no place to go that’s close by, and one of us is always working until 8.

The door opens, and it’s Jonathan, but right now I don’t know if that’s a reason to relax or brace.

“No updates,” he says quickly, because apparently I haven’t kept my face its customer service best. “Nilo’s on it and ready to pounce, or whatever lawyers do, so no news.” He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Unless you two have news?”

“He tries this every summer,” Truman murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. “I think he only hires people he wants to hook me up with.”

“Right, but it hasn’t worked until this summer,” Lydia agrees from behind us, making me jump. My face burns—was she listening?—but she winks, so maybe not.

Jonathan laughs. “I’m just trying to make things easier for myself. One phone call to restaff for next summer. Get married in May. We’ll give you good rates.”

“Uh.” That’s Agatha, because of course it would be Agatha, and Jonathan’s got such a dry sense of humor that even I’m not sure he’s entirely joking.

“Agatha!” He turns and steps aside, almost bowing as he fishes in his messenger bag. “I have an email for you.”

“Oh, good. Thank you. Um.” She takes the envelope, because Jonathan always brings them back sealed, and looks at me.

I’ve got nothing. There’s no saving grace here. If I start to protest, I’ll hurt Truman’s feelings, even though I’d end up protesting too much. Then I blink, because, God, everyone in this room knows. “That’s not a firm date,” I tell her, blushing furiously, because I’m making it sound like there will be a firm date. “Don’t pass that on.”

She looks up at Jonathan, then over to Lydia, but Agatha can’t quite seem to bring herself to look at either Truman or me. “You’re an adult,” she finally says. “You can do as you please.”

Truman’s foot nudges my chair. “Whom you please,” he adds behind his hand, so quietly I almost miss it.

“Right, well. I … yeah.” She holds up the envelope and all but slinks out. I hope she tucks that away for the short walk back to her cabin. It’s really coming down out there.

“Do you have my eggs?” Lydia wants to know, which at least explains why she came out of the kitchen.

“Eggs and more, my love,” Jonathan reassures her. “It didn’t all fit in the small cart, so I came for the big one.”

She sighs. “You could have brought the eggs now and gone back with the cart.”

He laughs and gestures for her to go back into the kitchen as he follows. “You knew I wasn’t perfect when you married me.”

“No man is.” Lydia winks at me as she retreats, calling over her shoulder, “I need those eggs!”

Truman slides closer on the desk once we’re alone again. “For the record, I’m not perfect, either.”

I have to grin up at him. “I kind of knew that already.” He starts to lean down, and I tilt my face up, but before we can close the distance the door blows open and Henry calls “Whoo, some weather we’re having!” and I have to put on my customer service smile and not look for something I can use to run him through.

---

Cold Comfort: Thursday, July 11, 2024 – Henry

Dear Diary,

The last thing I thought I’d have to deal with this month is walking into an animated discussion of dead children. All the children in question today were killed by Stephen King, so they were also created by Stephen King, but Emily and Henry were working on a spreadsheet, for heaven’s sake. A freaking spreadsheet.

Alyssa was talking to Percy when I came in, and she gave me wide eyes and a head shake, but I barely saw that. I definitely didn’t stop to wonder what she meant by it. Percy was talking her ear off and demanding her attention, so she didn’t get to say something, but what could she have said? We don’t fill anything out that lists our triggers or sensitive subjects.

So I walked right into Emily jabbing her finger at a book and talking about a child dying slowly and gruesomely by the side of the road. I’m lucky I didn’t freeze, because then I would’ve been there for more of it. As it was, I got enough of an idea of the spreadsheet while I gathered my bagel and peanut butter and juice, and honestly, I need to just stock a bunch of this back at my place and keep a closer eye on my supplies. I’d wanted to stay, to get out of the cabin for a bit, but instead I walked right back out, past jabbering Percy and ignoring Alyssa’s face.

I could’ve taken it to a different room. Maybe even the library. There are tables there, and it’s not like I’m going to smear peanut butter on a book. But I froze, and my brain shut down, and I’m back here trying to process it on my own because I sure as hell can’t process it in front of anyone.

That topic is theoretical to most people and they have no idea how lucky they are. Death itself is separate these days, and do you know why, dear diary? Because of the Civil War.

People would prepare their own dead back in the day, leaving them lying in the parlor for long enough to make sure they weren’t just comatose and weren’t going to suddenly come back to life. You washed your own and buried your own, without undertakers, because there weren’t really any undertakers until suddenly there were giant piles of bodies, far from home, and then there was a need to preserve people for long enough that they could make it home. I’ve literally made a study of death, diary. It hasn’t helped much, but the podcasts have been fascinating.

Each state has different rules about what can happen after death and how far a body can be transported if it’s not embalmed. Diary, did you know there are multiple body farms across the country where you can decompose undisturbed as scientists track your progress? They put you in any number of situations (sprawl you out naked in the woods or wrap you in a tarp or dump you in a river) and track how long it takes you to rot away to just bones so that, when they find a body naked in the woods or wrapped in a tarp or dumped in a river, they can be more accurate in guessing how long ago that person was put there. You help catch criminals after you’re dead.

Aaron thinks I’m morbid. Shoot, there’s his name, but I’ll be burning this anyway. He thinks I’m death-obsessed and that some facts just aren’t worth learning. He’s the one who opted for cremation, and I was too far out of myself to have any say at the time, although now I’d argue about the environmental impact. I don’t think I could’ve talked him into much else aside from a casket and her favorite dress, anyway, and he couldn’t have stood that. Dead people in caskets look even more dead, and he’s haunted enough by her face already. He never would’ve stood for a viewing or an open-casket ceremony.

The thing is, I love Stephen King. Before all this I would’ve joined in on that conversation and made sure they remembered all of his dead kids, including short stories and side characters. We could have sorted them into how they died, or where they died, and all the rest, because it was just academic to me. Thank God I read Pet Sematary years before I met Aaron. He liked picking them up after me and seeing what got me so into them.

These days I don’t think I could even do an Agatha Christie, no matter how much of a badass she was in real life. Disappearing for over a week after her husband was a jerk? Badass. Although also a lot easier than disappearing these days. Now we have photo IDs and the internet, and you can find out everything about everyone if you just have a name. Which is the entire point here, isn’t it? Look at how neatly I’ve circled back around.

Is it avoiding if I’ve already written it, or would it be dwelling if I go back to it? Seriously they need a therapist on staff. Or at least a single computer where you can Zoom with your own therapist. I’m supposed to be fine to go for a month without a session, but I don’t particularly think I’m fine.

That’s also the point, I guess. Me admitting it. The fact that, all this time later, I’m still not fine. Owning that, so I can take control of the situation and figure out how I want to get better. That sounds like a lot of work. I need a nap.

---

Cold Comfort: Wednesday, July 10, 2024 – Alyssa

Henry spent most of the night tossing and turning, trying to avoid running all the possible scenarios through his head but unable to stop searching for ones he might have missed: they all get identified, it gets out, he loses the Annabeth Deschain scoop, and he’s outed for his true intentions. Only some of them get identified, and only half of the above happens, but then the world discovered where Annabeth Deschain was or she’d learn he’d been trying to come after her and he lost his real chance. None of it gets out, but they all spend the rest of the month suspicious of each other, locked into their own bubbles, and he never got anything truly damning on the record.

There was nothing he could do about any of it. Things were so completely out of his control. He couldn’t even march right up to Emily and try some sort of I know scenario, because she was hot and cold and he had no idea how she’d take it. A slap across the face was suggestive, but not conclusive.

His best shot, the one he’d finally settled on around 3 a.m., was that everyone would be grumpy and out of sorts and want to gather to complain. He could handle complaints. Hell, he could even handle it if Jane never spoke to him again. She wasn’t in the middle of the Deschain-Gladieux affair, so she didn’t matter. She also wasn’t the sort of person Emily would confide in, so let her get all high and mighty and flounce off, nose in the air. Prima ballerina, that was Jane.

And seriously, it was raining again, so Henry ignored his coffee pot, threw on his rain coat, and tromped over to the lodge with his cuffs unfashionably rolled up this time.

He’d never gone there for breakfast, and at first he frowned at the empty desk chair. It was just after eight, and Alyssa seemed punctual. But, once he took off his raincoat and put his pants back to normal, he went into the dining room and saw Alyssa at the espresso machine, talking to Edgar. He was bent down to hear her over the noise of the steamer wand, but then he threw back his head and laughed.

Maybe Edgar didn’t care about his name getting out. Hell, maybe this month was helping him prep for one of his next roles.

As Alyssa turned off the steam and cleaned the wand, she asked “What am I going for today?” Clearly she spoke to Edgar, but she glanced at Henry and nodded to show that yes, she knew he was here, too.

“A teddy bear,” Edgar answered, and he looked over his shoulder at Henry but didn’t return his nod.

It felt a bit like Alyssa had only greeted him to warn Edgar that someone else was in the room. That was a paranoid thing to think. Henry took himself over to the hot food to see what was available, mostly ignoring the intense concentration, followed by laughter and a high-five, coming from the espresso corner. Edgar said something else to Alyssa that he didn’t catch—that he was pretty sure Edgar didn’t want him to catch—before he left.

Alyssa flipped some more switches on the machine, which growled momentarily. “Can I make you one?”

Henry could really use the caffeine, but he generally avoided coffee shops. “Sure, thanks. A latte?” Ugh, it came out like he didn’t even know what a latte was.

“Whole milk?” She already had the little fridge open.

“Yeah.” Seriously, he drank his coffee black.

“Any flavor?” Because of course there were three rows of syrups, just waiting to be requested.

“No, thanks.” See, this was why he didn’t even go into a Starbucks. You couldn’t ever just order one thing. There were always follow-up questions you were supposed to care about, too.

Alyssa nodded, so apparently that was the end of the inquisition, and started the complicated process that instant coffee really helped you avoid. Henry supposed a lot of people in a place like this would want their fancy coffees, because they would be used to and might even depend on their fancy coffees, but the machine in the cabin was more than enough for him. He’d just hoped that some of the others might be out this early, reaching for eggs and bacon or using the waffle machine and just talking.

Henry decided on scrambled eggs and bacon, because he normally didn’t have anything for breakfast but needed a reason to stay. Although, shoot, he’d left so suddenly that he hadn’t brought his knitting, and of course he didn’t have his phone, so he debated briefly before leaving his food at a table and heading up to the library, grabbing the first Stephen King book he saw.

When he got back down, Alyssa had put his latte at his table, and he checked the top: a sort of leaf design. “Thanks,” he told her, even though she was most of the way across the room, cleaning the machine.

She nodded. “Let me know if you need another one.”

What was it with people being unable to say You’re welcome these days? It bothered Henry, and probably made him old fashioned, but he picked up his fork and opened the book and grimly started tackling page one.

His plate was empty and his latte mostly gone when Emily came in, pulling a clear bonnet thing from her hair, and frowned at the sight of him. She narrowed her eyes and looked skeptically at him for a long moment, long enough that he had to notice, before striding over and flipping up the book cover enough to see what he was reading. “That’s not one of his best.”

Henry had actually gotten into Cell enough to be a little annoyed at the interruption. “Which one do you think is his best?”

Emily set the hood thing down and took off her jacket to put it over the back of the chair across from him. “The Stand.”

“Everybody likes The Stand.” He barely had any idea what it was about. A plague, sure, but King didn’t write a giant brick of people just dying.

“Because it’s the best,” she countered, going to collect her own breakfast: orange juice, sans vodka this time, with yogurt and a banana. “Why, what’s your favorite?”

“Pet Sematary.” It was the only one he’d read.

Emily snorted as she pulled the foil off her yogurt and started mixing it vigorously. “It’s boring.”

“Bringing your dead kid back to life is boring?” he challenged, hoping he didn’t need to give any more details, because it had been a while.

“He takes forever to get to that point.” She dismissed Pet Sematary with a flick of her wrist. “Even to get to the cat. It’s only a slow burn if the fire actually starts.”

He was pretty sure that term was usually associated with romance novels.

“And it’s like cheating,” Emily continued. “Animals and kids: of course they’re sad. Boohoo. You only care about them being killed because everyone cares about animals and kids. Get me to care about an adult being killed, now …”

Shit, he hadn’t even realized how apt a title Pet Sematary was. “You didn’t care about Gage?”

“Louis barely even cares about Gage. He’ll interact with Ellie because she can talk, but he had, what, the one single memory of flying a kite with Gage before the truck creamed him? And then he freaks out that much?” Widening her eyes, she slowly shook her head.

Gold. This was pure gold. He resisted the urge to touch his pendant … and realized he’d forgotten to put it on. Are you freaking kidding me.

Emily caught his look and tossed her head, thinking it was a reaction to what she’d said. “Everyone says it’s different when it’s your own kid, but I don’t really feel like finding out. It’s sad when Gage dies because toddlers aren’t supposed to die, and Rachel’s clearly all torn up about it, but she’s also a mess because her parents traumatized her when she was a kid. If he’d just let Gage go, they would’ve gotten over it.”

Henry cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s kind of the point of tragedy. Not letting go.”

“It’s horror,” she informed him like maybe he was a toddler.

“Horror is tragedy.” Like this moment right now. Damn it, how could he have forgotten the pendant?

“Don’t go all English teacher on me, or I’ll have to tell you that killing kids in books is an abuse of pathos,” she threatened loftily.

Henry tried to smile but, considering the topic, it was all right if it came across as strained. “Actually I’d love to hear how killing kids in books is an abuse of pathos.” Emily raised an eyebrow, but then her smile grew as she readied herself for the challenge.

---

Cold Comfort: Wednesday, July 10, 2024 – Agatha

I’ve got a fire going in my fireplace but the lights off. I sit on a cushion on the floor in front of the flames, blanket wrapped around my shoulders and mug of cocoa cupped in both hands. Cold rain is my least favorite weather, and I don’t know how to feel about what all happened today. Truman will be delayed, if he comes at all, because Jonathan’s left a message on his cabin door in case he goes there before the lodge.

I don’t know if I want him to come over tonight. He told me his, and he’s Googled mine, but I’m not sure he’s fully internalized the full extent of mine. And I think maybe he’s spent too much time alone in his head with his.

Lydia passed me half a bag of marshmallows before she left, and now I carefully put another one in my mug. You can’t drop it too hard because then the cocoa splashes, but I like my marshmallows melted a bit on all sides, so I rotate it like a little rotisserie chicken and then use my spoon to get it into my mouth. That way the cocoa stays at a high enough level to properly melt the marshmallows and my fingers don’t get all sticky from properly melted marshmallows.

If my mother were here, she’d yell at me for playing with my food, but she’s been gone for a long time. It’s just me, alone in my cabin, until the knock on the door that’s not Truman. It’s loud enough I don’t hesitate and wonder if I imagined it, but it’s not Truman. I’m in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, with a blanket around my shoulders, but whoever’s knocking this late will just have to deal with it. I’m off duty.

First I flick on the outdoor light, and then I open the door, and I wonder why I ever wondered who it could be. I step back, letting Agatha come in. “Grab a cushion. Cocoa?”

“Don’t tell me you started with a full bag of marshmallows.” It’s indulgent instead of a critique, at least.

“Nah, half.” She didn’t say yes or no to the cocoa, but the water in the kettle’s still hot, so I mix up a packet and hand her a mug. Agatha won’t steal any of my marshmallows. I’m safe.

“Thanks.” She takes her mug and holds it like I did, just getting the crouch and the warmth. “I want to call him.”

“So call him.” That’s it?

She shakes her head a little. “I can’t just run to him with all my problems.”

“Why not?” Okay, look, I’m not the best one to go to for relationship advice.

Agatha snorts. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be arguing this side.”

“And yet …” Here we sit.

Silence. I sit down and pick up another marshmallow. She takes a sip.

I’d say this feels like two teenagers talking about a boyfriend, but I never really did that as a teenager. There was other stuff going on in my life that made me miss out on that, except I’m not really sure it’s something I missed so much as avoided. And it’s weird, because it’s like the boyfriend we’re talking about is my brother, and I never talked to my brothers’ girlfriends about their relationships.

“If I call him, it means I can’t handle it myself,” she finally blurts.

“Someone’s threatening to get everyone’s name.” I shake my head. “That’s a reason to call him.”

“We said once a week.” It’s like she wants it to be a firm protest.

“Did you put ‘someone’s trying to get everyone’s name’ into your little contingency matrix?” I press.

She sighs and closes her eyes. “He told you about the contingency matrix.”

“Don’t make me use your full name,” I threaten. “Call him.”

Her dark eyes actually show a spark of interest. “What sort of full name are you going to fling at me?”

“Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie Mallowan.” I recite it carefully. Why do British people have two middle names?

Agatha blinks. “Her last name wasn’t Christie?”

I shake my head and decide it’s time to start slurping my own cocoa. “That’s her first husband’s name, so she started publishing under it, but she changed it when she married the good one.”

“The first one wasn’t a good one?” Now she’s frowning.

I clear my throat and look over at her, then back at the fire. “He asked for a divorce like right after her mom died, and that’s when she disappeared for eleven days.”

“Agatha Christie disappeared for eleven days?” Agatha blinks and sits up a little straighter. “Okay, I’m kind of liking being named after her.”

“She, uh.” Well, I’m the one who brought this up. “She ran off, and registered herself using the husband’s mistress’ name, and the news fell all over her disappearance and thought she was dead.”

“Like Mary Shelley,” Agatha concludes.

I tilt my head. “Arthur Conan Doyle went to a medium to contact Christie’s spirit.”

“Not like Mary Shelley.” She says it in the exact same tone.

“I’m pretty sure the Shelleys had sex on someone’s grave,” I tell her, just to see if I can get her to mix it up.

Agatha shivers. “Glad I’m not a Shelley. Did you research authors in preparation for this job?”

“Believe it or not, sometimes I’m at a computer and bored and I’ve got time to fill.” Even now, when I’m so rarely at a computer with Internet.

“Poe married his cousin,” she offers. “His child cousin.”

“There’s no proof the marriage was ever consummated.” Edgar hasn’t brought that up yet, but Jonathan made that point when Lydia tried to argue.

That makes her snort. “Let’s get a medium and ask the child bride.”

“I feel like we’re in enough trouble without getting out a Ouija board,” I murmur, except oops, now I’ve got her thinking about something else.

The firelight doesn’t extend all that far into the room, but she nods to my little bookshelf of games. “Who plays all those with you?”

My hands wrap around my cocoa mug. “Truman.”

“Ah.” She licks her lips. “Does he do that with all of his coworkers?”

“No.” I wait a beat. “You should call him.”

Agatha starts to open her mouth, but there’s a knock on the door, and she jumps.

“It’s Truman,” I tell her, either reassuring or warning as I get up.

“You know it’s Truman by the way he knocks?” she calls after me.

Well, yes, but she doesn’t have to tell me she’s reading into it. I open the door and tilt my head to get him to glance over before he says anything, and Agatha’s twisted around and the light’s still on out there so she sees the frown turn into a nod of recognition. Then she whirls on me, eyes narrowed, because the only way he’d not be surprised at seeing her here was if …

“I almost used your full name,” Agatha sniffs, getting to her feet. “I’ll return the mug. Truman.”

He steps aside to let her leave and turns raised eyebrows to me. “You okay?”

“She came here asking for advice and didn’t like me disagreeing with her.” Yeah, I know that’s not really an answer.

“Okay.” He closes the door and bends down to start unlacing his boots.

“I told her to call him.” And why do my arms cross?

“She doesn’t want to call him?” He’s ready to tiptoe around this.

I sigh and get out his tea mug. “I don’t think Agatha entirely knows what she wants.”

“Do any of us?” he asks philosophically, emptying whatever’s left in the electric kettle and getting it going again so he at least knows how long the water’s been off the boil.

“Yeah, a bunch of us don’t want someone coming in and learning our names, thanks,” I grumble.

“Mood. Jonathan didn’t tell you anything else?” It’s a casual question, and he’s still facing the kettle.

I shake my head. I’m not sure if Jonathan told him I took the call that started this, so I know which guest was being asked for. He probably didn’t, because he wouldn’t want Truman to try to get that information out of me, and I’m pretty sure Jonathan knows how much time Truman and I spend together.

I’m pretty sure he’s almost as much of a matchmaker as Hercule Poirot.

Truman glances over his shoulder. “Do you want to play something, or just stare at the fire like cavemen?”

“If ‘cavemen’ is a catch-all term, did all cavemen have fire?” Good job not being defensive there. Gold star.

Truman sighs. “You can tell I’m tired because of my inexact language. Yes, Alyssa, I think all cavemen had fire, because they were men, and fire separated us from the monkeys. Do I need to pick a game to distract you from the cavemen?”

I take a slow breath and hold it a moment before letting it out. “What I need is someone to tell me that, no matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.”

Truman takes both my hands and looks me directly in the eye. “No matter what happens, you’re going to be okay.” I don’t believe him, but it’s really sweet of him to say.

---

Cold Comfort: Wednesday, July 10, 2024 – Henry

Dear Diary,

The comforting fact of the day is that Jonathan Meyer has a lawyer on call. Everything else is downhill from there.

He brought us all together in the lodge late this afternoon, except we weren’t all there. It’s Truman’s day off, and Percy made excuses for Mary. I think Jonathan didn’t want to accuse Percy of maybe keeping things from his wife, so he basically made Percy promise to tell her what’s up and have her call him if she needed something clarified.

“What’s up” is the threat of a warrant for our identities.

I don’t know if Jonathan doesn’t have any more information, or if he’s just not sharing any more information. Or if he’ll contact someone privately later and tell them hey, it’s actually about you. But even though he got us all there, which has never happened before, he didn’t have much to tell us: “I want you to know that I’ve already contacted my lawyer, and nothing will be done, no information released, unless he says that it would be illegal for me to withhold it.”

Jonathan’s not much of a public speaker. There’s burying the lede, and then there’s … what would that be? Slamming you with something so horrific you can’t pay attention to the rest of what he says. Although really, what more do you need? Someone out there, someone who’s not one of us, wants to know who’s up here.

It doesn’t make any sense. Emily started arguing (loudly) that it doesn’t make any sense. For one thing, if they’re after a man, then the women are safe. Right? That didn’t win her any love from the guys.

So I thought, but didn’t say, that if they’re looking for a couple, then it’s just Percy and Mary’s info they need. Their real names. Then it’s either yep, here’s the arrest warrant, or nope, not you, sorry. And Jonathan already knows their names, and they wouldn’t have to reveal that to anyone else, right? So …

So I’m debating making a phone call. I haven’t yet because I have no solid information, and it’s not even a threat right now, anyway. It’s just Jonathan telling us he can’t be bullied into sharing our private information. Except it’s also Jonathan telling us that someone’s coming after our private information.

I want to protect my private information simply because it’s mine. Jane tried saying “Well, if we haven’t done anything wrong …” and Emily about bit her head off. That of course made Jane snap back that clearly if Emily didn’t want to say something, then she shouldn’t have done illegal things.

It’s not about doing or not doing illegal things. It’s about how your private doesn’t get to become public just because someone else suddenly decides it. If I want someone to know my not-Agatha name, then I’ll introduce myself with it, thank you very much. Here, I’m Agatha, and the police (if that’s who it is, because Jonathan didn’t actually say) don’t get to know anything else just because they think it would be helpful.

Henry sided with Emily. Literally moved to put himself on her side. And the problem was how I was already standing closer to Emily, just because of the room, and I wasn’t going to move toward Jane after she said something I don’t believe in. Jane’s probably the kind of person who takes pictures of strangers at Walmart and posts them to mock their outfit choices. Jane needs to reconsider her ideas about consent.

But the thing is, Jonathan’s all about privacy. My own lawyer looked into his practices. He wants to know as little about you as possible, and he makes you sign things saying you won’t tell anything you find out about other people, and it’s legit. I mean, I guess I knew Jonathan had a lawyer because of the back and forth, just making sure that it was watertight.

And apparently Jonathan got the news and immediately went to call his lawyer, which is the best move, too. You do nothing involving the law without a lawyer. The police try to make you feel guilty for wanting one, for not saying something, but no. They start talking to you, you get a lawyer. Jane hasn’t learned that one yet.

I guess Jonathan wanted us all together so we all heard the exact same thing out of his mouth, but it’s not like he’s preventing rumors. He got us together, and Alyssa went back to the desk and Lydia into the kitchen and Jonathan who knows where, but for the first time most of the rest of us clumped together in the dining room. Edgar left, because hey, he didn’t come here for the drama, but Percy went to the alcohol fridge and we pushed tables together.

Jane didn’t go off right away, but she left when she got sick of the way Emily and Henry formed this saucy united front. It was awkward, because it was nearly six by then, and I think all of us were keeping half an eye out for her to come back and get dinner, but she didn’t. Alyssa came in and put together a carryout box after Lydia laid it out, and after we all grabbed something, but Jane didn’t come back.

I’m guessing Alyssa delivered Jane’s dinner tonight. The way Percy made up a plate, and went back for seconds, and then made up his own box (well, presumably Mary’s box) before he departed, weaving a little but with more beer on hand. If Alyssa came back to get her own dinner, it was after the rest of us left.

Emily went off toward Henry’s cabin with him rather than coming toward hers, which is of course next to mine. I’m not sure she’s fine, but I’m sure it’s none of my business.

I’m not sure Jane’s fine, either, but first it’s not like we have each other’s cabins on speed dial, and second, I’m not here to look after someone else’s mental health. I can barely handle my own.

If I reach out about what’s happening, I’m making a phone call. I’m not putting things in a message that Jonathan himself has to type up, even if it’s not anything against him. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he does it this way. If we call, Alyssa or Truman knows the frequency, if not the length of the call. If we email, Jonathan knows the entire contents of that email.

It’s supposed to make us reconsider whether we really need to reach out, and I get it, I do, but once again I have to question whether Loon Lake is the right choice for my situation. If we’re trying, as he says, to figure out whether we still want each other, and putting ourselves into positions where we can’t easily communicate with each other …

I’m going to sit here wondering if I want to call him until it’s too late to call him, and then I’m going to convince myself that I really don’t need to call him, and then I’ll tell myself I’m good on my own. Diary, I don’t want things the way they were in June, but I don’t like things the way they are right now, either.

---

Cold Comfort: Tuesday, July 9, 2024 – Alyssa

Rain again, seriously? Emily wasn’t going to do her risky/risqué bikini routine in this weather, even if she’d decided that she’d left him hanging long enough. Teases might walk away, but they never stayed away.

The problem was, holing up in his cabin meant staying away. Henry wasn’t sure he could afford to stay away. He was very aware of the date. They were almost a third of the way through the month, and he had his suspicions, but suspicions couldn’t go to print. He had transcripts, but Emily hadn’t said anything truly damning … yet.

The recorder pendant was waterproof, and under his shirt and raincoat, anyway, so that was probably fine. He switched his knitting to a different bag, which was water-resistant, so that was probably fine, too. He wasn’t sure his mood was fine, but damn, he couldn’t sit in his cabin and listen to the rain on the roof all day. The only time Emily came by was early, so if she hadn’t shown up by now … Henry sighed and pulled his hood lower and made sure the cabin door locked behind him.

It was a trudge to the lodge. The path was gravel, which helped, but it was also scuffed through in places, leaving muddy puddles open to soak the cuffs of his jeans. With the hood, he probably would’ve plowed into anyone else if he hadn’t been alone on the path, and then had whatever argument came out of that. He was tired, he was cold, he wasn’t sleeping well, and he hadn’t gotten his scoop yet. Woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Inside the lodge he flipped his hood back, noticed Jonathan was leaning on the high counter talking to Alyssa, and it seemed to hit a button in his brain. He didn’t feel any better, exactly, but details popped into view, and he wiped his feet on the mat and carefully removed his raincoat to hang it on one of the hooks by the door so at least he wouldn’t track water in. If he’d thought ahead, he could’ve brought a spare pair of pants and thrown these in one of the dryers.

Jonathan nodded when he turned back and gestured behind him. “Grab a coffee and take a chair by the fire.” Because there was a fireplace, and it was large, and it was roaring.

Plus it was in the main room, so Henry nodded his thanks, detoured for the hot drink, and brought it to one of the armchairs by the flames.

It didn’t seem early enough for Jonathan to have made a trip to town and back again, but Henry watched as he handed envelopes over to Alyssa before going into a door that must have led to the kitchen, reusable grocery bags in hand. Alyssa wheeled her chair over to the cubbies and put the envelopes—printed emails, Henry realized—into the proper spaces. He hadn’t gotten any yet, and didn’t expect any, so his mailbox was empty.

Honestly Alyssa’s job seemed cushy AF: sit behind a desk and maybe deliver a meal to someone, right? Eat the same meals they ate. Maybe the tiny cabin thing was annoying, but it was a roof over her head. And on top of that … sort mail? Cushy.

The phone rang and Alyssa wheeled back to answer it: “Loon Lake Retreat. This is Alyssa. How can I help you?”

And she was young. Clearly young. Probably not fresh out of high school young, but young. She had long straight hair that was just a shade darker than strawberry blonde and, unlike the other women here, she always seemed to wear it down. She wore jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers, and he wasn’t sure if the Michigan Tech hoodie was because she was local or if she’d picked it up for the summer, which just added to the fresh-out-of-high-school impression. Her voice was professional, though, and he didn’t mean to listen, exactly, but it wasn’t a normal phone call.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not the correct pass phrase.” Her voice was still carefully modulated, but there was something to her words. Henry couldn’t help looking up. “No, sir, I can’t patch you through without the pass phrase. What I can—”

Silence. Alyssa tilted her head to hold the phone to her shoulder and reached for a scratch pad, apparently waiting the caller out.

“What I can do, sir, is take your name and pass on the message that the resident should email you the correct pass phrase.” It was like a line she had ready to pull out when needed, the way some females memorized fake phone numbers to give out at the bar.

More silence. She wasn’t writing anything, though, so whatever the caller said, it apparently wasn’t a name and a word of thanks.

Without changing her posture or tone, Alyssa said, “Absolutely, sir. Let me put you on hold.”

The squawk from the phone indicated that the caller was not, perhaps, ready to be put on hold, but Jonathan came out of the kitchen and Alyssa turned to him. “Oh three.”

“Oh three,” he repeated, sighing and hooking a thumb back over his shoulder. “I’ll take it in there.”

Oh three, Henry assumed, was an irate caller who flubbed someone’s pass phrase. He further assumed that there was a phone in the kitchen, which was closer than a phone in the Meyers’ cabin, since he didn’t think Jonathan had an office.

Interesting. A caller for Edgar? Or Percy. The only person who knew Henry was here had his pass phrase. It was amusing to think that maybe some hotshot L.A. director was on the other end of that line, trying to chew someone out because he couldn’t reach Edgar exactly when he wanted. Although, considering time zones, the Hollywood director had to be an early riser.

But wait. Alyssa said sir, but she very specifically didn’t indicate the gender of the resident. So maybe it was just an annoyed friend or absent-minded family member who’d scrawled the pass phrase and couldn’t read his own handwriting. It wasn’t as interesting, but it was a facet of Alyssa’s job he hadn’t considered.

The kitchen door opened just enough for Jonathan to say her name. Henry thought there was something not quite smooth about the way she first straightened and then got up to join him, like maybe she wasn’t often asked to come into the kitchen to talk to Jonathan where no guests could hear them. Which, of course, made Henry’s ears try to swivel and activate some sort of superpower.

There wasn’t a keyhole to peep through or listen at, but if he thought he’d have enough time to get away from a door and, say, hide the glass he’d been holding up to it with his ear at the bottom … Did that even work? There were glasses, actual glasses, in the dining room, but he wouldn’t have time to go and get one and listen at the door. Plus it opened outward, which could be a safety hazard, and would probably drive the glass into his head. Even without breaking, that would be painful.

Most of his coffee was gone, so he got out his knitting, still on high alert.

The porch door banged open, making him jump, but of course he’d picked the chair that didn’t face it so he had to twist around awkwardly to see who, exactly, had just blown in.

Percy’s raincoat looked expensive but not very waterproof, and it didn’t have a hood. Burberry or London Fog or whatever brand that was hadn’t been made for the north woods. “Phew!” he announced with a broad grin. “I guess we’ve been lucky with the weather so far!”

“I guess so,” Henry agreed, cursing to himself when he saw he’d pulled some of the stitches off his needle. He focused on that, mostly so he didn’t have to keep looking at Percy, who just rubbed him the wrong way. That had to be at least in part because Percy acted like the kind of guy who was fawned over everywhere he went.

“So, uh.” It was like Percy thought Henry should be able to read his mind. “Alyssa’s not …?”

“Just stepped out. Jonathan …” Henry’s hands were busy, so he made a vague gesture with his head.

“Ah. Okay. Um.” Percy came in a little further and gestured at their mailboxes. “I’m probably not supposed to just reach over and grab that, huh?”

What, an urgent email sent during his month at Loon Lake? “I would guess not.”

Percy couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t stand still, either. “Usually, if they leave the desk, they put a radio up so you can call them.”

When they leave the desk? Henry had never seen the chair empty. What time of day was Percy going after his apparently dire emails? “They’re just in the kitchen.” All three of the staff currently on call, even.

The blood drained out of Henry’s face when he realized that the call could’ve been Aaron Gladieux, trying to warn Annabeth Deschain that someone had found her, or was ready to find her. Because if it was just someone calling for a resident and messing up the pass phrase, then it wouldn’t be a major issue, but if that person then said Well, the police are on their way …

There was no reason for the police to be on the way. There wasn’t enough evidence to proceed with a trial, so there was no reason to send the police after Annabeth Deschain now. Right?

The kitchen door opened and Percy whirled on one heel, but he was knocked back a step by the expression on Jonathan’s face. It was only there for a flicker, before he realized he had guests, but Henry saw it.

Jonathan told Henry to take a seat here, but he came out of the kitchen looking drawn and worried. He morphed it into a smile. “Percy. How may I be of service?”

Alyssa, coming out of the kitchen behind him, at least emerged with her pleasant customer service face already in place. That didn’t mean much, though. Henry couldn’t say his stomach settled any as Jonathan saw to Percy’s mail and excused himself, grabbing a bright yellow rain slicker before heading out again. And it wasn’t much comfort when Alyssa didn’t look at Henry as she went back to her seat, either, because it just made him suspect that a longer look would have meant she’d give something away.

---

Cold Comfort: Tuesday, July 9, 2024 – Agatha

Jonathan merely nods when he comes in, so apparently there’s no information to pass on before I’m off for the night. I gather my stuff and leave the desk, since he’s here to take over in case anyone needs anything. I don’t know how often during the night people want things, but he’ll be here from eight until about three, and then Lydia comes in and starts her work, and honestly I’m not sure how much they see each other in the summer. Apparently it works for them, but that’s not the sort of marriage I want in my own future.

That is maybe not exactly the thought to have when I find there’s someone waiting for me at my cabin. Truman doesn’t have a phone or even a book. He just sits on the stoop, leaning back against the building and smiling a little as he looks up at the trees, breaking into a grin when he sees me. “Here, try this,” he orders as he pops to his feet, pulling something green from his foraging bag and holding it out.

There’s no use in asking if he’s washed it, because that just makes him frown, so I take the green thing and ask him what it is instead.

“Lambsquarter.” He sees means nothing to me, so he adds, “Wild spinach.”

Okay, that’s probably why he started with the other name, since I’m not much of a spinach person. I eat it all the same, putting it in my mouth so I can hit the lock with my thumb and wait for the light to turn green. Truman follows me in, partly because it’s still damp outside but mostly because the stoop faces the path, and any residents walking by can see us together.

I start the electric kettle for my decaf coffee and Truman’s tea, which he brought by because he’s picky about that kind of thing. Well, he refills the tin when it’s empty, and I don’t know for sure if it’s the same tea each time. I just boil the water and he sighs because my kettle can’t be set to specific temperatures, and he fills the tea ball and times it.

He pulls the mancala board off the little bookshelf without asking. There are other games that take more thought and attention, but mancala’s the go-to when we just want something to pass the time and let us decompress after a day of being ever at the ready. Yeah, it’s one of Truman’s days off, but I guess he needs to decompress after those, too.

He gets his mug ready and drops the tea ball in before sitting down in his chair and nodding for me to take the first move. “I Googled you.”

I’m not sure if I laugh or snort, or if I should joke about how I didn’t even know he could use technology.

“At least, I’m pretty sure it’s you,” he adds. “I couldn’t find any photos.”

“I’ve never been on the socials.” There are probably photos of me out there, maybe even with my name attached, but there’s no account to tag.

“So.” It trails off.

So. He told me why he’s here, and he knows why I’m here. I gesture for him to make his move.

Truman nods. “I went down to Houghton, hit up the co-op, looked for agates, and still had time for a little forage walk. I’m thinking of asking Jonathan if I can do a garden here next year. It’s been too long since I had one, but moving every May means it kind of pointless.”

I make a bad choice and have a short run. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life starting in October.”

“Yeah?” He almost steals a look at my face. “Thoughts?”

I shake my head. “Option A, move back home.”

His eyebrows jump. “They don’t want you?”

“They’d take me. I just …” Time to admit it out loud, I guess. “I don’t want to go.”

Truman nods. “Option B?”

“Still working on that one.” I slouch back, since he’s having a nice long run of luck. “I didn’t really ever picture myself in this situation. I was supposed to be …”

“Married by now?” he suggests. “Baby planning?”

“Doesn’t everyone around this age?” Good job on not sounding defensive, Lyssa.

Truman nods once. “Sure, and then in a few years half of them get divorced and fight over the kids.”

I wrinkle my nose. It’s not happening the Disney dream way, anyway.

Truman lands in an empty space and sighs, flapping a hand to pass over control of the board. “I heard plans make God laugh, anyway.”

“Says the guy looking ahead to a garden next year.” I raise an eyebrow in challenge.

“I mean.” He tilts his head. “I don’t actually believe in God anymore, but I think the universe could owe me a garden. I don’t ask for much, you know?”

Maybe I ask for too much.

“Hey.” Truman leans in, elbows on his knees, to get a better angle for catching my eye. “You want to be alone, I can leave you alone, but I figure, you should know I know, and I think you think it should change things, but it doesn’t. I still want to hang out with you.”

I haven’t had a chance to Google him yet, even though I have his full name now. I’m pretty sure he’s projecting. “Do you think it’s possible to ever really know someone?” It bursts out of me, apropos of … well, not nothing, but it’s sudden.

“You mean in this specific situation where everyone’s going around under assumed names, ignoring past identities, and we’re on call with our customer service act for twelve hours a day, or just in general?” It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow.

“In general. Anyone. Or even …” I gesture sort of vaguely. “Yourself. Do we ever really know ourselves?”

“Well, I think some people certainly get closer than others.” Sitting up again and reaching for his tea, he shrugs. “Some people don’t even try.” Then he smiles, the little lopsided one that doesn’t show his teeth.

“What?” I prod, because he’s hiding something.

“No, I just … before this month, I would’ve said anyone who comes up here at least tries.” He removes the tea ball and places it on the waiting saucer. “That was before Henry.”

It’s my turn, so I grab for a section of glass pebbles. “Everyone’s obsessed with Henry.”

“I thought it was just Emily, Jane, and Henry obsessed with Henry,” he nitpicks.

I wave a hand. “Everyone loud.”

“Fair.” He tilts his head. “You make it up to Curtain yet?”

“Did …?” I look at the cabin windows, but those are blinds, not curtains.

“Curtain,” he repeats. “The last Poirot case.”

“Oh.” Where’s he going with this? “No. I know he dies, though.”

Truman sips his tea and carefully sets the mug down on a coaster before making his move. “How much do you care about spoilers?”

“I just told you I already know Poirot dies. Speak.” I wave my hand grandly.

“Poirot’s after someone who’s associated with a bunch of murders, except it’s not a serial killer,” he explains. “It’s someone who likes provoking murder.”

I frown and gesture for him to go on.

“This person blends into the background. And no, I’m not telling you who it is,” he interrupts himself to protest, laughing. “This character knows exactly where to poke to get people who normally wouldn’t commit murder to go ahead and do it.”

I’m still having trouble following everything. “You brought this up because of Henry?”

“Because of Henry,” he agrees, mulling it over. “Edgar called him a vulture, and I think that fits. He’s looking for the … I don’t know, the raw meat, and circling, and that’s what Emily is to him, right? A piece of meat?”

“Jane thinks Emily’s making herself a juicy piece of meat, except she doesn’t think he’s as passive as a vulture.” At least vultures wait until you’re dead. They don’t want the fight.

Truman shrugs and tilts his head. “But we all agree there’s something about him that isn’t the same as the rest of us.”

I blink. “You’ve been here for years, right?”

He nods.

“And you seriously see something in Henry you’ve never seen in any other resident before?” I press.

He nods again.

“And now you’re referencing Agatha Christie, who likes to bring strangers together and end up with one of them murdered.” And of course Loon Lake is all about bringing strangers together.

“Sometimes more than one,” he adds helpfully. “Or at least more than one attempt.”

I roll my eyes. “Do they have the entire Christie collection at the lodge because you requested it?”

Truman shakes his head. “It was my mom’s. Our local library already had a set, so I carted it up here.”

And he’s been watching me carry one around all summer. His mom’s books. “Oh.” Wait, is that good or bad?

He smiles, this one with a sparkle in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have brought them here if I never wanted to see someone enjoy them again.” The sparkle might actually be tears. I try not to let myself have second thoughts as I reach over and give his hand a squeeze before picking up my next group of pebbles.

---

Cold Comfort: Tuesday, July 9, 2024 – Henry