Tag: original thriller

I’m restless. The hammock isn’t doing it for me today. I don’t want to drive anywhere, but I don’t really want to stay here, either. I don’t know what I want, which I guess is pretty par for the course, but it’s really the first time I’ve felt so out of sorts at Loon Lake. Mostly it’s fine, if not good, but this? I don’t even know.

I don’t really want to think that I just need to catch a glimpse of Truman and then I’ll feel better, but it’s also occurred to me, so it’s the lodge. I’ll head up to the lodge, and pick up some lunch instead of staying in here, and maybe look for another book. Hercule Poirot’s starting to wear on me.

I just don’t know what’s up with me. Maybe it’s Truman. Truman coming over again last night and the two of us kissing, finally kissing, until he said he really should go and not rush things. Like we’re rushing things. I told him I don’t feel like we are, but he shook his head and then kissed my forehead. I don’t know if he escaped or slunk out or what. He left when I thought he could’ve stayed, but if he didn’t want to stay …

Pulling on a hoodie, I head out of my cabin and up the path toward the lodge. I’m off-duty, but habit is habit, and that means glancing up the little trails toward each cabin as I pass them in case I need to greet a resident or something. Jane’s door is ajar. It’s not open all the way, and it shouldn’t be, anyway, because there’s no screen door to cover the opening. The front door has a screen, but not this one.

I stop and look up and down the path, but there’s nobody. Henry’s cabin is back there, behind me, and Edgar’s is up ahead, but Edgar’s probably still out on the water and Henry should be knitting in his rocking chair. Jane hasn’t really shown a regular sort of schedule, but she also doesn’t strike me as the sort of person to be casual about her possessions. The doors have locks for a reason, and those locks mean only the cabin’s resident can get in.

Well. Unless someone lets them in. I look around again, more of a hesitation than making sure, and go up to knock on the door. “Jane?”

I tilt my head and listen, not opening the door any further just yet. I don’t really know why. I just wait, and straighten up a little when I think I might hear something. The sound someone makes when just awakened from a heavy sleep? “Jane?”

It’s a little louder this time, almost a moan, or the stifled sort of noise you might make if someone had a hand pressed over your mouth, either consensually or non. If it’s consensually, then I feel like I’d also hear other noises.

I put my thumb on the scanner on Jane’s cabin door and check my watch. I have ten minutes to thumb it again and stop the alert from going off at the lodge, which could be an eternity if something’s really wrong, but it’s supposed to give us enough time to check on the resident and be able to decide on an all-clear.

The light on the lock flashes yellow, so it’s logged, and I push the door open slowly.

It’s dark in the cabin. The lights aren’t on, and the blinds are down across the front windows. The noise comes again, and a squeak that’s almost what I half-expect, but the bedroom door’s mostly shut and it’s not a repeated creaking. I knock, because it’s a delay, and say her name again: “Jane?”

There’s that same muffled sound, but it’s not words. No go away, and no come in, but I push open the door and drop back half a step, because okay, this doesn’t look consensual. “Shit, just …” I’m in the main room before I can say anything else, reaching for the phone and one of the buttons, but my brain doesn’t have to pick between the lodge and 911 because the phone cord’s been cut.

My heart slams into my throat as implications jam up along my neural pathways, because that’s not going to help right now. Am I going to help right now? Hell if I know. I make sure the front door’s locked, and do a quick sweep of the big front room, and go back to close the back door and check the bathroom and the bedroom, but it’s just Jane on her side, eyes huge above the duct tape over her mouth, awkwardly bent because her hands and feet are tied to each other and secured to something that’s kept her from sliding off the bed.

“We’re alone,” I tell her. We are, but God, I’m useless. “I can’t call the lodge because the phone cord’s cut. I don’t want to just rip that off your mouth”—I have visions of it coming away with her lips attached, leaving her teeth bare and gleaming—“so I need a knife.” Except I don’t have a knife. It’s not something I carry with me.

Jane’s not struggling, and she waits for me to catch her eyes before twitching.

“The bathroom?” I guess, because it looks like she’s trying to gesture that way, and she nods. Okay, looking for a knife in the bathroom.

I check the medicine cabinet first, then the drawer under the sink, and bingo: not a knife, but some wicked-looking shears she probably brought in case she wanted to give herself bangs. I’d guess, at any rate, because why else would you have scissors in the bathroom? It doesn’t matter, because they’re sharp, and now it also doesn’t matter that she’s been struggling and the knots in the rope—who brought all this rope with them?—have tightened, because I can cut through it.

First I get the part somehow tied to the bed frame, and then the part keeping her ankles and her wrists close together. It’s digging into the flesh around her wrists, but thank God she actually seems calm. “Hang on,” I tell her, or maybe tell myself. “It’s really tight.”

She might chuckle. I probably didn’t have to tell her that part.

It occurs to me that this is seriously awkward and personal, but Jane’s not thinking about how I’m bent over her or any of the rest. I get the scissors between her wrists enough to snip through a strand of the rope, and she groans, pulling her wrists apart so she can roll onto her back. She holds up her right hand, which still has rope around it, and starts gently working at a corner of the duct tape with her left hand.

Once her wrist is free, albeit red and puffy, with marks of the rope on it, she uses both hands and I get the rope off her ankles, too. They maybe fared better than her wrists, but she’s in shorts so it’s still bare skin.

“Percy,” Jane manages, duct tape still clinging to her upper lip like a mustache, but she steels herself and slowly peels the rest of it off. She flings it onto the floor and wipes her mouth on her forearm, because she must’ve been drooling into the duct tape for a while and her chin’s shiny with spit. “It’s Percy.”

“Percy.” I realize I’m still holding the scary shiny scissors and put them on the nightstand. “When? Any idea?”

She nods at the bedside clock. “Just after nine.”

And it’s almost noon. “Okay.” It’s not okay. “Your phone wire’s been cut.”

“My phone wire?”

“We can’t call the lodge, but they should try to call us in …” I check my watch. “Three minutes. When they can’t, someone—Jonathan or Truman—will come down here.”

Jane blinks. “Why would someone try to call us?”

“I thumbed your lock,” I explain. “The system won’t let me in, but it sets up an alert at the main desk, and if I don’t thumb it again in ten minutes, they come check.”

She has to blink a couple more times. “That seems oddly specific. Do they expect you to get hurt?”

“Truman’s had to start giving a resident CPR.” I shrug, because he said it so offhandedly and I didn’t ask for many details.

Now she’s fully into a frown. “How in the world did he know …?”

“The resident wasn’t answering his phone, so he went down to do a wellness check.” Is this really what we should be concentrating on right now?

Shivering, she crosses her arms and quickly looks away from the rope. “And how did you know …?”

“Your door was left open.” No, I guess she wouldn’t know that, but it still feels like a delay.

Jane swallows. It looks painful. “I think he went to Henry’s next.”

“Henry’s?” I look in that direction.

“Yeah.”  Her cheeks flush and she stares at the floor. “I told him Henry overheard your conversation. On the phone. With the person after our names.”

Now it’s mine turn to blink, because I didn’t say anything that would’ve told him who the person was, or who he was after.

Jane keeps sneaking looks at me. “Was it someone calling for Percy?” I shake my head, because it’s the truth, but now there’s this new part. Percy went over to Henry’s. How much could Henry have overheard? And why, exactly, is Percy so paranoid that it was someone calling for him?

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Henry (2), coming August 6

Dear Diary,

Things are oddly quiet today. I went up to the lodge to see if there was anything going on, or just to see, I guess, and it was kind of a ghost town. Edgar and Truman were out on the water, and Alyssa’s off again, but I didn’t see Jane, and Henry wasn’t knitting in his rocking chair. Actually, I didn’t see anybody, but I wasn’t really hoping to see Emily or Henry.

Or Percy. I kind of forget about him. He looks like the sort of guy who works on Wall Street, only maybe that’s just because I don’t know what people actually look like when they work on Wall Street. Something that means you wear a suit in a city, maybe. Accountant, or lawyer, or I don’t know. The kind of guy who doesn’t even have a pair of jeans for weekend grubs, and who didn’t think of buying any for this summer. A clueless sort of guy out of touch with the real world, I guess.

And seriously, nobody’s seen Mary since the 1st? Assuming, of course, that Jonathan saw Mary and this isn’t some sort of fake. Could that happen? Is there any reason why a man would pay Jonathan to pretend he had a wife?

Is there any reason Jonathan would agree?

He values our privacy. And he values privacy enough to have bought this place, and to run it, and keep it up year after year after year. People come for a month, learn to answer to the name he gives them, and go away again. Maybe he doesn’t even know if he actually helped any of them.

I’d say “Maybe he never helps anyone” but I don’t think that’s true. At the very least, Edgar looks like he’s doing better. One in six, huh, Agatha? Well, one in seven, if Mary’s both real and not dead.

Do you know what Loon Lake’s done for me so far? Made me both incredibly creative and paranoid.

Seriously, it’s dead around here. That’s not the best word, but it’s the right word. There’s just nobody, and it’s the first time I’ve really kind of wished there’d be somebody. Is that healing or boredom?

I guess I could call someone, because even if there’s nobody at the desk, it would have to be routed through to Jonathan or Lydia or someone, right? But it’s not Monday. He calls on Monday, and I’ll be damned if I call him twice before then. Once right after the whole panic, okay, maybe, but twice? This time because I just want to talk to someone?

Not even him. It could be anyone. Jane or Percy, whatever. Even Henry or Emily. Probably not Truman, because we both look at each other a little sideways, but if that’s my only shot …

Truman’s figured out who I am. I’m not sure how, because I really don’t look like any of the public photographs of myself anymore, or maybe I just don’t see it. But Alyssa told him her name, and he realized who I am, so he knows our connection. Why I’d be a little skeptical, or protective, or something. Why it matters how I look at him, I guess.

Alyssa’s a grown up. She’s not all that much younger than I am. She finished college and did her paid internship and opted for this, or maybe felt like she was forced into this, because the internship people didn’t offer her a job and her other applications didn’t pan out. Not that she ever really told me that much herself, but I got it second-hand. Which is why the Truman thing is so awkward, because first I’m not someone she’d tell, but I’m connected to someone she probably should tell, if it’s the real deal.

Jonathan talked about a wedding in May, but I’m not sure if Truman’s thinking that far ahead yet. Hell, I don’t even know Alyssa well enough to say if she’s the sort of person to jump with her whole heart or if the idea’s ridiculous, and I’m not going to ask someone who does know. We knew July had the potential to be awkward, but I told her we’d stick to professional during her working hours, and if I really needed her for something personal, I’d come by her cabin after 8.

How long has Truman been coming to her cabin after 8? Does he wake up there, too?

He’s almost got a California surfer dude vibe about him. It’s not just the kayaks and always being on the water. He’s tanned, and blonde, and lean, and easy-going. He’s not my type, but he’s definitely a type. A yeah I’m kind of surprised he’s single type.

Except he’s not single. He’s with Alyssa. Okay, I need to get out of my own head. I’ll do another circuit up to the lodge and pick up a book and take it out onto the porch if it’s not too bright to read. I’ll stay inside if it is, but I’ll at least be out in a public space. See if anyone comes to me.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Alyssa (1)

The pounding on Henry’s door jerked him out of a sound sleep five minutes before his alarm went off. Instead of the little jazzy tune from his phone, there was that insistent banging. He sat up in bed, the covers twisted around his legs, and tried to figure out where he was and what he was supposed to do. It didn’t stop, a constant thump, thump, thump that was just out of sync enough not to be a metronome.

Loon Lake Retreat. The cabin. And the pounding meant he should get up and go see who it was.

Henry looked down because he honestly couldn’t remember what he usually wore to bed: a T-shirt and boxers. Hell. The knocking meant he didn’t have time to put anything else on, so if Emily wanted to talk to him so damn badly—

The door swung into him as soon as he turned the knob enough for the tongue of the latch to clear, and Henry swore as the bottom caught his foot and tore one of his toenails. At first he didn’t even notice that he’d been shoved back against the wall, even though his head rebounded off the sheetrock, and there was a hand balled around the front of his T-shirt. “Who the fuck called here on Tuesday?” someone snarled.

Henry tried blinking. “Percy?”

The fist pushed into his chest, not a punch, but then only because the knuckles were already digging into his sternum. “Who … the fuck … called here … on Tuesday?”

The question didn’t make sense.

Percy took a slow breath through flared nostrils. “Jane heard you tell Truman you overheard the call. Alyssa’s not here for me to ask, so who the fuck called here on Tuesday?”

Tuesday? Was that Tuesday? And wait, Jane heard him say that? What, lurked outside the linen closet? And why hadn’t he seen her?

Well, okay, that last one was answerable: he’d stormed his way out of there without looking around. Maybe he could’ve bowled her over, or pushed her into the wall the way Percy—

Percy drew his arm back this time, pulling Henry up so he could slam him into the wall again. “Do I really need to repeat the question?”

Um. Okay. The phone with its two buttons, either of which might help him out, was in the main room. The two of them were in the little hallway separating the bathroom from the bedroom. The cabin door hadn’t closed all the way, but it wasn’t like Henry could make a run for it. At this point he was up on his tiptoes, and one of those toes felt like it was on fire. “I don’t know who Alyssa was talking to.”

Percy sighed and dropped his head, shaking it regretfully, but the pressure on Henry’s chest didn’t change. “Listen, Henry. Buddy.”

“I was in the chair by the fireplace, the thing was roaring, and I couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the phone,” Henry insisted, forcing himself to speak slowly not because he sounded more confident but because this conversation needed to be brought down a peg. “I know she kept saying ‘sir,’ and I think she said the resident he was trying to contact was also a guy, but mostly she just kept saying sir, leave me your contact information and she’d pass it on so the resident could correct the pass phrase.”

Percy’s eyebrow—why hadn’t he noticed before that Percy only had one eyebrow?—lowered in a scowl. “Then why did you tell Truman you knew who it was?”

“I didn’t tell Truman I knew who it was. I told him Alyssa knew who it was, but I don’t think he knew even that much. He said …” Henry shook his head a little. “He said she shouldn’t tell him. But.”

There wasn’t much space between them, but Percy leaned in all the same. “But?”

“Jonathan took the call.” Henry cleared his throat. “Alyssa told him it was a number, some sort of code, and he took it on the phone in the kitchen.”

Percy blinked and his eyes unfocused slightly, going to one side. “In the kitchen.”

“Yes.” Why was that the part that mattered? Jonathan knew who was on the other end of the phone. And hey, they didn’t actually have any proof that the whole revealing of their real names thing was because of that phone call. It came after, and honestly right now Henry couldn’t think of any other explanation for it.

Slowly Percy’s eyes came back to Henry’s face. “What did Alyssa say?”

“What—?”

Percy slammed him back again. “What did Alyssa say?”

“She didn’t have a chance to say much! She said hello, and asked for the pass phrase, and tried to tell the guy it was the wrong pass phrase so she’d have to give his name to the resident so he could get the right pass phrase, and she picked up a sticky note or something, but she never wrote anything down. I guess the guy raised a stink, because that’s when—no, wait.” Henry shook his head again, hating how he recoiled in anticipation of another blow. “The guy, the caller, probably asked to talk to a manager, because she said something like certainly, sir, and put him on hold, and then Jonathan came out and she told him the code and he took the call in the kitchen.”

Even though he wasn’t moving, Percy’s chest heaved like he couldn’t catch his breath. “What happened then?”

“Then?” Henry blinked, but that wasn’t him being stupid or stalling. It was his brain struggling to keep up, and that brain was going to suffer another collision if Percy thought otherwise. “Then you came in.”

“I came in?” Percy repeated, and he really should’ve brushed his teeth this morning.

“Wait, no—Jonathan called Alyssa into the kitchen. That’s when you came in. To get your email,” Henry explained, trying not to babble.

“To get my email.” He echoed the words slowly, like he wanted to give Henry a chance to correct them.

So it was fine when Percy was the one repeating everything? “You came in, and told me they usually leave a radio at the desk when it’s empty, and that’s when Jonathan came out and got you your email. And you left again.”

Percy’s breath came in little gasps. “I left again.”

“And then Jonathan left, and Alyssa went back to the desk,” Henry rushed.

“Right after I left again,” he mused.

“Yes.” That was it. That was all he knew. If he relaxed even slightly, it would be into Percy, and he really, really didn’t want that.

This time his eyes drifted to the other side. “And they called us all together … hours later.”

“Yes.” Hours later. Hours in which something else might’ve happened to make Jonathan call them together and tell them the news. Or hours in which Jonathan might’ve been contacting his lawyer and figuring out if he needed to call them together.

This time Percy looked down and, after trying to figure out if this was a bad idea, Henry did, too. The nail seemed to be completely gone from the big toe on his right foot. If there was any of it left, it was under all that blood. Percy shifted his own foot back, away from the chance of getting it wet, and took a steadying breath that seemed to pull in more evenly. “Okay.”

This was not exactly a situation that seemed to be okay.

“Okay.” Percy’s other hand—why hadn’t Henry realized that he hadn’t seen Percy’s other hand?—came out from behind his back and pointed a gun at Henry’s head. “Okay.” Yeah, this was very much not okay.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Agatha (1)

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)

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